by Mark Keating
Devlin looked down at his boots, the same boots he had taken off a dying Frenchman three years previously. These were the boots that had bequeathed him the map that had set his destiny. There was luck in their soles.
‘These boots are Cordova leather. A cordwainer’s masterpiece. Older than you or I, easy to suppose. The stitching is entwined with animal skin; it shrinks tight when wet. The heels are elm and the sole is buffalo hide. I’d be buried in them. As for my sword—’ He scraped it free, prompting a moment of epilepsy around the table save for the prince and the man still smirking behind his hand. ‘I wore it for your company and for the street. Fine for a parade but not much else. You can rest easy on that score.’ He ran it back; cracked more grapes in his mouth. ‘And, if you want to hear the word, I stole it from another man.’ His gaze roamed over all their eyes. ‘That’s what I’m doing here is it not?’
George grinned and slapped the table. ‘Just so! And I suppose the arrogance of a thief is exactly what we do so indeed require!’ Devlin briefly detected a trace of accent behind the ‘so’s and the ‘r’s.
Walpole riffled through his papers and hemmed. The prince’s amusement could never be subdued but to allow Devlin too much brevity at this time, in all probability the only conversation they would ever have on the matter, was not his plan. This would be it. Tomorrow Devlin would be gone to his task. This would be ten minutes that would affect the fate of the world and, if he had to, Walpole would speak over his prince.
‘Captain Devlin, if I may, my name is Robert Walpole. The gentleman you have availed yourself to be so familiar with is His Highness the Prince of Wales, heir to the throne of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and the dominion of the Americas.’ Walpole paused to watch Devlin pick a grape pip from his teeth. Walpole carried on.
‘To my right, Earl Stanhope, to my left Viscount Townshend. We three represent His Majesty’s Government in this matter.’ Walpole noticed Devlin stiffening as the final member of their party readied himself to be introduced. ‘This is Mister Albany Holmes. He represents certain business interests along with the patronage of George Lee, currently at Christchurch.’ Walpole waited for some recognition from Devlin. None came. Albany Holmes took the opportunity to reacquaint himself.
‘Surely you remember me, pirate? Surely you remember myself and George? Or has the rum finally rotted your brain?’
Devlin took a step closer, his manner threateningly personal.
‘Remind me.’
The prince slapped the table again and laughed. ‘Ho, this fellow is priceless! Forgive Albany, my boy. His own mind is too addled by his own vices, just so! Methinks he frequents his Sunday club at The Greyhound with far too much involvement!’
Albany bowed to the prince. ‘Your Highness,’ he acknowledged. ‘If the good Captain cannot recall then I shall remind him it was almost a full two years ago now that myself and George were his “guests” on one of his delightful cruises.’ He watched Devlin for a reaction but the pirate offered up nothing. ‘Where he abandoned us – or rather I believe they call it “marooned” – on an uninhabited island when we had no further use to him.’
‘That is not wholly true,’ Devlin raised a finger. ‘I never had any use for you at all.’
Walpole refused to countenance any retort from Albany. ‘Gentlemen! Now that we have reminisced and dried our sentimental tears may we proceed? Before the rug is pulled from underneath us all.’
Townshend and Stanhope had said nothing. They untied the leather folders that lay before them. They would speak when necessary. Between them they were two of the most powerful men in the land. Their speech mattered too much to waste.
Walpole continued once the prince had waved him on; the prince’s amused eyes never left the figure of the pirate.
‘Captain Devlin, my intelligence informs me that you are not a stupid man. Also that you are very capable and accomplished in your . . . field. Certainly if your actions last night are to be considered, that would seem to be a reasonable assumption at the very least.’ Intentionally, Walpole had maintained a standing presence, he and the pirate the only ones. The conversation was just for them. ‘Do you perchance have any designs on what we may have in mind for you?’
Devlin checked to the prince, whose grin had not abated. ‘A letter found me. You offer me two thousand pounds to attend. Letters of Marque and a pardon for my men – most generous, especially the part in which, if I refuse, your Navy would hound me to the ends of the earth.’
Walpole huffed away Devlin’s final statement. ‘An overzealous description, Captain. We merely wished for you to understand that you were not simply being invited to supper.’
‘Then I take it that my task – as it is a pirate you wish to engage – has an element of bible tearing attached to it?’
Walpole hemmed again. ‘Something like that, Captain. Certainly it is not one that His Majesty’s government can be seen to be embroiled in.’
Devlin leaned in, his fists on the table. ‘Then I name my own terms.’ The quintet leaned away from his glare. ‘You assume that a free man would want nothing more than to be chained by your Marque! I don’t need your pardon either.’
Walpole took his seat. ‘Then what do you want?’
Devlin straightened, now the only man standing. ‘I want an amnesty. For my whole ship. All our crimes forgotten. I’ll be measured for my new ones only. My past removed.’
Walpole feigned confusion. ‘Did you not just say you did not want a pardon, Captain?’
‘Not as you give it. A pardon means regret. A pardon means I’ll toe the line from now on, means I’m sorry to have picked your pockets in the past. I ain’t sorry. I don’t need your forgiveness. Just wipe my slate clean and I’ll go on and be hung for my future, not my past. Now tell me what shit you need stealing and I’ll be on my way.’
Prince George’s laughter burst the indignity like a champagne cork. The rest of the table sat aghast. Albany’s left hand was resting on his sword pommel.
The prince jumped from his chair and pumped Devlin’s hand. ‘Good God, sir, you shall have it! I wonder if I could not ask you for the moon and damn you if you would not bring it just so!’
Devlin felt awkward now. Despite his swaggering vigour there was still something uncomfortable about being so close and familiar with a man who would be king. He felt his head involuntarily nod a bow as George thumped his back. In other circumstances he was sure his outburst would condemn him, for these were men who would hang him as soon as think of him; but here he was a fool at court, able to say and do anything so long as it provoked laughter in the prince.
‘Show him, Stanhope!’ George commanded, and Stanhope obliged. His turn to speak was a rare event, for when he decided to speak his mind nations could fall. He paused for one more second before he slammed onto the middle of the table the largest diamond Devlin had ever seen. Stanhope waited to allow the pirate’s eyes to enlarge, transfix themselves and then melt into the gem’s infinite whiteness before he spoke again.
‘You should get to know it. That is if you are to steal it.’
Stanhope spun the diamond on its table, the flat part, its point, almost two inches high, danced a torrent of light as dazzling as the first sunrise across the rapt faces of its audience.
It was small enough to fit softly in the folds of one’s hand, gentle as a star and almost as ancient, and in its sparkle and its evocation of eternity even Devlin’s cynicism paled.
Stanhope sat back and smiled at the wonder on Devlin’s face. But not yet greed – there was no greed in the pirate’s eyes. That would need to change if they were to succeed.
Chapter Eleven
The First Diamond
It was the largest diamond in the world at its time of finding and like all great and valuable things that man lusts after its facets were tainted with blood. Even in its earliest age it had become legendary, its gathering of myth greatly enlarging its value.
It would be generations before Africa became the bear
er of the world’s greatest diamonds; for now that honour was bestowed upon the Indian continent, and even then the term ‘blood diamond’ referred as much to the diamond mines’ use of slavery as to the colour of some of the gems. The diamond that would become ‘the Pitt’ and finally ‘the Regent’ had its own share in that blood.
The slave who scraped it from the earth saw in the diamond’s immensity the opportunity to buy his freedom from the mines of Parteal. His desperation was so great that he gouged out a hole in his own calf to hide the enormous rough stone. Once buried in his flesh he wrapped his leg in a bandage torn from his clothes and thus hid his crime when his masters searched him at the end of the day. His injury was none of their concern. But the diamond had tasted its first tang of human blood. The nameless slave limped from the mouth of the mine into the light bearing infinite wealth. He saw in the diamond not beauty or eternity but the price of saving his petty life.
The mines were on the great Kistna river in Bengal on India’s east coast, and it was not far for the suffering slave to make his way to the merchant captains. The diamond which would become part of the crown jewels of France and be valued at 480,000 eighteenth-century pounds meant nothing more to the slave than a passage to Madras and liberty.
The captain of the ship also saw the promise of the young man’s burden but unfortunately saw no future in the slave’s knowledge of its origin. Once at sea, assured by the sea’s forgetfulness and drawing the veil of greed over his conscience, he slit the young man’s throat and tipped his body overboard – and the diamond had supped its second draught of blood.
Continuing to Madras, the treacherous captain sought out a diamond merchant of quality, the most famous in the East. He sold the diamond to Jamchund for one thousand pounds, a handsome price for a slave’s life.
The captain did not barter but sold on the diamond no more than a day after disembarking, ridding himself of the accusing stone as fast as he could before the taint of its acquisition bred regret in him. But it was for naught.
He had already spent too much time with the gem.
Drunk and remorseful he placed a noose around his neck, slung a rope over the roof-beams of a squalid hired room and kicked away a stool: a third meal for the white stone.
When word reached Jamchund that the captain had hung himself the night after he had released the diamond into his hands, the merchant too became uneasy about its future in his house and sought in turn to pass it on.
The governor and appointed president of Madras, Thomas Pitt, had already let it be known that he would entertain any merchant who had interesting diamonds for sale and Jamchund, having fruitfully dealt with Pitt before, made his way to Fort St George, the East India Company’s stronghold that protected their interests in the Malaccan straits.
Thus the diamond found its way into Thomas Pitt’s possession, and his destiny, but not as profitably as Jamchund would have liked. Pitt sensed an urgency in Jamchund to be relieved of the gem and refused to pay the original finder’s fee of eighty-five thousand pounds. Two months of bargaining later, Jamchund was almost begging for the largest diamond on earth – four hundred and ten carats in its uncut state – to be taken off his hands for twenty thousand pounds. Thus its path to the West, and to royalty and empires, began.
The diamond was cut in London to its present one hundred and thirty-six and three-quarter carats, the cleavage and dust of which alone netted Pitt almost eight thousand pounds. And thereafter London wits delighted in Pitt’s anxiety concerning his precious stone.
It may have been the diamond’s blood-red history or simply the fear of robbery, but when Pitt returned to London to sell the gem he took to disguising himself and developed the nervous habit of never sleeping twice under the same roof. No inn-keeper or hotelier knew of his destination in the evening until a surreptitious knocking on their door announced Pitt’s arrival. It was most ironic that the most exquisite gem on earth was hidden from the sun that it craved and that its owner was reduced to a skulking hermit, guarding the stone against the eyes of the world.
‘Diamond’ Pitt, for so he was mocked throughout the broadsheets, had found his own curse, but nonetheless one that would lay the foundations of his fortune and begin the ascent of his family to greatness.
‘Quite a story would you not say, pirate?’ Stanhope was watching for Devlin’s reaction to the tale.
Devlin came closer. ‘You want me to steal this diamond? That is it? That is all?’ He put out his hand to the stone. ‘Close your eyes.’
Stanhope covered the glittering gem with his palm, stealing its great light from the pirate’s eyes. ‘Not so simple, Captain. This is but a replica – a substantial one worth a small fortune on its own, but a replica only. It took Pitt two years to have it made. It is an “Irish diamond”. Paste. But do not mock it for all that. Its artistry is valued at five thousand pounds on its own. There is not a Jew in the world who could distinguish it I assure you. This is how much we trust in you, Captain.’
Devlin began to sniff the plot; a stagnant stench. ‘And where does the real one lie?’
Walpole and the others shared looks, mirth gone from the prince’s face. Walpole bid Stanhope to take back his stone. ‘The replica was used to enable Pitt to negotiate a somewhat “clandestine” sale to the Duke of Orleans, the regent Philippe, the representative of the French King on earth. Although apparently almost bankrupt after the war, Philippe managed to offer Pitt a king’s ransom over several payments. Something I’m sure his starving people very much appreciated.’
Devlin interrupted, fortune ever his abiding interest. ‘How much?’
Walpole ignored the vulgar query. ‘The regent had made acquaintance with the disgraced financier, John Law, and it was Law who introduced the replica to him, along with Pitt’s son who has managed his affairs since Pitt has gone abroad for seasoning.’ This was the word for acclimatising one’s bowels to the Caribbean. Pitt was now governor of Jamaica.
‘Philippe intends the jewel to be set into a crown for the young king at his coronation.’ Walpole paused and swallowed. ‘We would like it before that.’
‘And you want me to go and get it.’ He looked at them all. ‘Am I permitted to know why?’
Viscount Townshend, Secretary of State, cleared his throat. His turn to speak. ‘My brother-in-law has quite a verbose turn of phrase, Captain. We shall be here all day if we are to rely on him to give you your orders.’
Devlin’s manner shifted. Orders. The wrong word, spoken softly enough to be missed by powdered ears. He let it lie but would remember its utterance.
‘Do you know anything about “business”, boy?’ Townshend had perhaps fifteen years on Devlin, hardly enough to warrant the form of address. Again, these would be the things that Devlin would keep in his pocket for when the time came.
‘I know my own business,’ he said.
‘No doubt. However, in the earnest world, it is trade that feeds the people. And trade is the order of companies. And British companies rule the world.’ There was pride in his tone that did not match the worry in his eyes.
‘The design is a simple one. In a company no one man has the power. The responsibilities, and the profits, are spread to all those who have invested so. And, in order to maintain that companies operate appropriately, ministers are “invited” to accept shares, to have an interest in the company pursuing the King’s best interests and so on and so forth.’ He waved away the last statement as if it were superfluous to all.
‘You are aware of the South Sea Company, are you not Captain? I’m sure at some time – how is the phrase? – they have chanced across your bow?’ He did not wait for an answer.
‘Situations in Europe, for which the aforementioned Mister John Law is not wholly without blame, and developments in the Americas and Indies, have led to a collapse of several companies, and consequently the financial institutions that depended upon them. We are facing a similar problem in England.’
Walpole snorted under his breath. ‘Rather
more than a problem, Charles!’ He assigned a smirk with Stanhope.
Townshend affected not to hear. ‘You see, Captain, when one forms a company, the aim is to sell shares in said company in order to support its actions,’ he leaned back in his chair, patting his belly in concentration, wondering how far he would need to dilute his intelligence for the simple sailor. ‘The object being of course to return a profit for those who partook in such shares. Do you see, man?’
Devlin shifted his feet again but said nothing.
Townshend continued. ‘Now, we shall suppose that the company will do well, in fact it cannot fail, sir. The consequence of such confidence elevates the value of the shares to fantastical proportions. A man’s very estate can be paid for in the exchanging of his shares in the company. The success is so fully guaranteed that the company even buys the country’s war debts, so supreme is it in its confidence that its profits will be sufficiently gargantuan in the years to come.’ He raised his arms in mock salutation.
‘Hallelujah! The nation puts its faith in a single consortium! “A company has bought our national debt!” they cry. “We are free! And we are rich to boot! Let us invest more into these great things!”’ He slammed his hands on the table. ‘And then it bursts!’ Townshend slapped the table again. ‘All around us! The ships do not exist and no-one is planting any crop! Parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. The mountain will be in labour. And a ridiculous mouse will be brought forth.
‘The companies sell stocks that can never be returned on. The stocks are oversold. But as long as people believe the shares have value they are traded. First the Dutch companies begin to collapse. Then the French. All allies of the war, expecting great things to come. But alas, the Americas are not delivering the bounty they promised; Spain is still holding the cards she promised to throw! Then panic! Distrust! Disaffection . . .’ Townshend’s voice trailed off like a poor actor in a poorer tragedy.
