by Mark Keating
The prince giggled at the conspiracy and held his fingers to his mouth to cover his delight. ‘Oh, say you have something against this man! That he will charge across oceans to have his revenge! That he will die for his honour!’
Walpole blushed. ‘Something in that manner, Your Highness. It will cost us naught at least save a ship and some men I am sure.’
Townshend sat straighter. ‘How long will this take? It took months to find the pirate before?’
‘Not so long, brother, I assure you. Their world shrinks every day. And, once I have the right man, it will no longer exist at all.’
Epilogue
Boston. The Province of Massachusetts Bay.
January 1721.
From Long Wharf, where the countless brimful ships laden with oxen, wood, fish and furs titled Boston as the trading capital of New England, it is a stroll along King Street to Merchant’s Row where the finest importers and chandlers sell from proper shop-fronts to the citizens of God’s own city on the hill.
Dominating the row at its end is the wooden triangular warehouse where the Dutch India Company smuggles and sells tea for a third less than the British India and furnishes parcels of fine negroes in the summer.
Initially starting in trade as a sea chandler for rope and instruments to pick oakum or chart the stars, John Coxon had now passed into the purveying of general goods as the needs of his customers demanded. So it was that on a freezing January morning, former Post-Captain John Coxon RN helped Mrs Keyne decide between a blue or green toile roll for a spring dress.
‘I don’t know, Mr Coxon. I think I should prefer something in Madder Red if that was available?’
Coxon shoved back the green roll to its rack. ‘I have nothing in Madder, Mrs Keyne. I have what I have.’
Mrs Keyne was no matriarch with extravagant silk and bustle. She was of puritan stock through and through. A bonnet for modesty; black wool dress and Irish linen. A spring fancy was an important determination. She smiled gently. She liked John Coxon. He had good parson manners. A former sea-captain by rumour and gait but kept himself to himself – more’s the pity, for those families seeking a match that a striking lean gentleman in his forties would make for a good daughter. After all, there was certainly something of a lonely aspect about a man who spent his walks by the wharves, wistfully staring out to sea. Perhaps a tragedy there, a lost love. How wonderful that would be.
Mrs Keyne lowered her chin coyly. John Coxon was no simple shopkeeper. No apron, always smartly pressed in sombre cloth, but a man of means and guile she was sure, an experienced intelligence behind his eyes. ‘What about some other fabric, Mr Coxon? Something that might have only just come in and you haven’t had time to put out yet?’
Coxon pushed back the blue roll as well. ‘Madam?’
Mrs Keyne looked over her shoulder at the empty shop. ‘Maybe some “pirate” cotton, Mr Coxon? Just a few yards?’
Coxon’s lips thinned. ‘Indian cotton is illegal, Mrs Keyne. The crown wishes we support domestic textiles.’
‘Oh, I know, but I hear it shall be grown here soon enough and I have heard that there is trade of it along the post-road aways. Pirates do so love the Carolinas, don’t you know? And I’m sure I have seen some ladies hereabout with a dress or two, haven’t I?’
The bell rang above the door. Two gentlemen, heads low, shut back the door quietly and began to browse: they wore long black coats and white perukes under sharp dark tricornes. Coxon checked them once then looked back to the diminutive lady who wished to trade with pirates.
‘Not from my stock, Mrs Keyne. I’ll have no truck with pirates.’ He looked up as across the room one of the gentlemen began to toy with his brass scales. He picked up a price-list and handed it to Mrs Keyne. ‘If you’ll observe I have a fair bill for silk and calico if the toile is not of service. I’ll allow you a few moments to peruse whilst I serve these two gentlemen.’ He bowed and moved his way around the counter, his approach not turning the backs of the two black stripes of men.
‘Can I assist, Gentlemen?’
They swivelled round. ‘Captain Coxon?’ the taller of them questioned, his face expecting no denial. Mrs Keyne looked back at them demurely over her shoulder.
‘I am,’ Coxon did not even blink. ‘Who might you be to know me?’
A chin dipped respectfully. ‘We are from the Navy Board. Mr Duke and Mr King. We should like a private word.’ A smiling eye to Mrs Keyne.
Coxon spun on his heel but Mrs Keyne was already leaving, excusing herself with the list which she promised to return tomorrow once she had made up her mind and told everybody she knew of what she had just seen. Coxon locked the door behind her.
‘Mr Duke and Mr King? Is that what passes for imagination at the Board these days?’
The taller, Mr King, walked to the rear as he spoke, appraising the store, nodding in admiration. ‘You have done well, Captain Coxon. A fine business I’m sure. Impressive for a pension of say . . . thirty, forty pounds a year?’
Mr Duke agreed. ‘Started cheap no doubt. Worked your way up. Like the old days.’
Coxon looked from one to the other. King’s Letter boys. Officers at no more than sixteen, volunteered from families of better quality. Earls’ and knights’ offspring not a rector’s son like himself, shipped with an apple and a bible. Their kind was always envious of those who had earned their captaincy the hard way and, despite their purse, they would have to wait for men like him to die.
So, then, they should remember their place and not waste a captain’s time, however it was he had begun and ended.
‘Your business, Gentlemen? For any longer of your talk will start to impede on mine.’
‘You left New Providence almost two years ago now, Captain. Gave up your commission.’
‘I have papers to prove, if that is what you query.’
Mr King tapped at some crock jars, then left his study of the shelves. ‘No, no. That is all well. But your king would like for you to consider a few months’ service again.’
Coxon felt himself relax, unaware that he had been tense. ‘I am retired, sirs. I was well convinced I was never to make admiral I assure you.’ He went back behind his counter where his raised stage put him above them both. ‘You may thank His Majesty for me but I should like to decline.’
Mr King smiled sympathetically. ‘Tell me, John, how much coin does it take to purchase and set up such a shop? Where would you suppose a fellow gets enough gold . . . French gold perhaps, to buy a building outright as even the most briefest enquiries can discover?’
Coxon blinked.
In 1717 the pirate Devlin had stolen a chest of King Louis’s gold. Snatched it from French and English guard – from Coxon’s guard. Stolen from an unnamed island. The Island, as it had come to be known in his memory. A year later and the chest had turned up on New Providence, a pirate Bahama island where Devlin had left what remained, the dregs of the chest, with a young whore who died before he could return to collect it. She had bequeathed it to Coxon, the only one on Providence who had been on The Island, who had been there at its taking. He had buried it with her, knowing the pirate would be back, and would find Coxon waiting. That had been a long story and Devlin had bested them all. But he did not get the chest. Coxon was not a dishonest man and was well versed in his father’s scripture:
‘For nothing is secret that shall not be made manifest; neither any thing hid that shall not be known and come abroad.’
He knew when he dug up the gold and gave up his commission to Governor Woodes Rogers that this day would come. But he had deserved some reward. He felt so little guilt that he hadn’t even changed his name. He absently picked up a green coffee bean from its sack, rubbing it between calloused fingers.
‘I always thought of a store in Boston . . .’
Mr Duke stepped forward and removed his hat in a flurry of powder. ‘Understand, Captain, that our visit is not paid out of any intention to discredit you. Or to mark such an illustrious career with scanda
l.’ That was a sneer. Coxon’s ass of a dance at Devlin’s craic had made him a laughing stock over port and cards, he was certain.
‘We sincerely need your help. Your king has need of you. There is no crime other than your refusal, for which you will be judged. But should you refuse . . .’
Mr King sniffed the cinnamon and paper air of the shop, the smell of rope and brass. ‘It is such a pretty store. You must be very happy here, John. It would be a pity to—’.
Coxon threw the coffee bean to King’s buckled shoes and rushed down from his stage. ‘Do not threaten me, sir! I fought French and Spanish gods-of-men before you scuffed your first knee! Your implication belittles us both!’ He pointed to the black lines about his eyes. ‘That is powder, sir! Earned and paid for! Do not suppose—’
‘The pirate Devlin, Captain!’ Mr Duke shouted down Coxon’s tirade and Coxon stopped.
‘You say what now?’ A terrible recollection on his face.
‘Oh, you know the name?’ Duke put back on his hat. ‘That is the matter that brings us here. Whatever else you may fear, I pray it is not him.’
Coxon stepped back. ‘What of Devlin?’
King wiped a spot of Coxon’s spittle from his lip. ‘Patrick Devlin. Your former servant for several years. Irish traitor and once a sailor in the Marine Royale before you rescued him. Now a pirate captain. At least twice ducked away from you.’
‘The second time he had a white flag. He gave the king the secret of porcelain.’
‘Ah, yes. The price of which has dropped dramatically since. Thank you for that. I had several pieces that lost their value.’
Faces appeared at Coxon’s door, tried to push their way in. Coxon gave the empathetic look of the shopkeeper when it is time for him to close for dinner and drew the curtain across their indignation. He turned back to the black coats. Always black coats. The pawns of government standing in front of bishops, kings, queens and knights.
‘What about Devlin?’
Mr King seemed suddenly to age before his eyes. He crushed the bean beneath his heel. ‘He has committed his last deceit against his country. You could not conceive the harm he has done.’
Coxon sniffed. ‘I can imagine. If you were fool enough to trust him.’
King put his hands behind his back, spaced apart his feet. Mr Duke stifled his amusement at the pose of a ham upon the stage.
‘He must die, Captain. He will have no quarter, no card to pull from his sleeve, no purchase to buy his way out. Not even a noose. We are not interested. Just any death will satisfy, I promise. From the highest order, the very highest order, and you will have carte blanche to do whatever you deem necessary.’
Coxon too put his hands behind his back. The king himself was now standing on Coxon’s quarterdeck. ‘Are you sure? I take it that by your words you have already underestimated him once?’
‘We were wrong not to engage those who knew him best. But I have not travelled for more than a month to indulge your vanity, John. Your presence I’m sure will intrigue him, draw him out. You know him best. Knew him first. I’m sure you would like to know him last.’
Coxon looked about his small world full of Mrs Keyneses and streets that never moved and horizons that never changed. He contemplated both men and they looked back at him like birds of prey. A strong dislike was already in the air about them. The small fire in the shop spat embers from its weak sea-coal and January crept in at every window, under every gap of wood. Coxon stamped on the glowing ashes dancing on his floor.
So cold. The Caribbean so warm. He waited one minute to stoke the fire and flick at its ash then turned and tossed the poker away without a care. The violent clang and peal of it as it bounced and danced across the wooden floor made the two young officers flinch like surprised deer.
Coxon grinned. ‘If that can startle you, lads, we may have to rethink your passage into this.’ He brushed the smut off his hands. ‘I will need a week to set my affairs in order.’
Author’s Note
Diamonds. Whether a ring on your finger or the tool itself used to cut more of them from the earth, diamonds represent a portable power and wealth that has made the financial world turn since one man begged the ear of another and showed him these shining scrapings of the earth.
In the British Museum, after you’ve taken a breath at the beauty of the building outside and dropped a few pounds into those massive perspex drums, you must choose which of the hundreds of rooms to enter and survey the wonders of the world bequeathed to you.
In the ‘Enlightenment’ room, in a most inauspicious glass and wood case, you can see the replica of the Pitt diamond which features in this story and did indeed cost five thousand eighteenth-century pounds to create (approximate to £400,000 today). It is made of paste, which may make a modern reader scoff, although at the time paste diamonds were an artisan’s craft almost of equal intricateness and value to the lapidary’s art in cutting the ‘real thing’ – hence the price-tag. Interestingly enough, the diamond in the Louvre with the remaining French crown jewels is also a paste replica, as much as the one displayed beside it in the royal crown. The real diamond is locked safely away, mainly because the visitor may stand next to the display case, as opposed to straining for a distant glimpse of the Mona Lisa. And it would be unwise to openly exhibit a diamond valued at between £40–50 million.
Today the Regent diamond is largely a forgotten wonder, except to aficionados. Diamonds like everything else have their fashions, and coloured diamonds have been the favour in the collector of the twentieth century – a trend that appears to be continuing into the twenty-first.
But there is something intrinsically romantic about these gems and I do not know a single one of the great diamonds of the world that does not have a string of tales attached to it that are so full of sorrow and drama that one couldn’t imagine them more so.
But I did try.
As for the Pitt-Regent, it was indeed the ‘First Diamond of the World’ for almost two hundred years, when India was the place to find such stones and before the empires of the world began to exploit the African continent for raw materials instead of slaves.
The story of the Indian slave who gouged a hole in his leg to smuggle the diamond from the mine and buy his freedom is most likely true, as is the part in it of the sea-captain who hung himself in remorse. Also true is that Pitt never slept in the same bed twice and took to disguising himself until he was rid of the diamond; but after our story ends the diamond’s adventures continued.
Without the modern connotations of the emotive phrase ‘Blood Diamond’, its archaic reference is to the death and bad luck that often seemed to plague the owners of great gems. In addition to the death of the slave who originally took the Regent from the mine, and the death of the captain who murdered him, the luck of some of the principal characters of the diamond’s story was not good, either.
John Law, himself almost a victim of smallpox as a youth, watched his favourite son contract the disease shortly after negotiating the sale of the diamond to the French. His decision to remove his wife and family to one of his country estates at least saved his life. His luck, however, took a plunge after the fall of the French Bank Royale and the collapse of his American companies.
John Law died in poverty and alone (the worst word in any language) from pneumonia in a Venice hotel in 1729. Curiously, he had in his possession a brilliant cushion diamond which he had carried with him from France when he had fled the financial collapse. He had pawned the diamond many times but always redeemed it thanks to his skill in gambling, which floated him for his remaining years. Why he never sold the diamond is matter for his own unwritten memoirs. I had hoped that I might wrangle into my story that Law’s diamond was the original Regent, but that seemed just a little too far-fetched. I recall from my researches that Law’s smaller diamond turned up first in the Austrian crown jewels and later the Russian, Tzarist ones, where it remains today and has blood enough for its own story.
Law was pardoned
for the crime of murder under the grace of Robert Walpole and after the collapse – and after our story ends – he initially ran to England. There he stayed for nine months until disgrace and shame forced him to hide in the more forgiving realms of Europe.
Philippe, the French regent, suffered his own tragedies once he had taken possession of the diamond. He lost his beloved daughter and unborn grandson, as recorded in my story, but also almost lost France. As for the hints in the story that he may have had an incestuous affair with his daughter and was thus the father of her unborn child – this is, horribly, almost considered true by contemporary accounts. We do not have the Duchess of Berry’s or Philippe’s confession, but the supposition among both courtiers and commoners was widespread enough.
Philippe died in the arms of his eighteen-year-old mistress – an exemplary demise for a libertine – shortly after the ascension to the throne of the boy king in 1723, after which the diamond officially became part of the crown jewels. Half a century later, Marie Antoinette wore it in the crown of a black velvet hat; and Napoleon carried it in the pommel of his imperial sword from 1812 until 1814 and his exile to Elba. I doubt anyone would disagree that those years did not bring him much luck. In short, seven of the owners of the gem before Napoleon met their deaths on the guillotine.
At first glance it would seem that Thomas ‘Diamond’ Pitt himself escaped any unusually bad luck concerning the diamond, unless of course one considers financial and social ruin after the ‘South Sea Bubble’ burst in London.
In the months after the South Sea collapse his son-in-law Lord Stanhope died, followed by his daughter Lucy, Stanhope’s widow, in childbirth. His eldest son Robert, who smuggled the diamond from Madras to England in a hidden compartment in the heel of his shoe, passed in 1727. ‘Diamond’ Pitt himself died the year before.
His son Lord Londonderry, who features briefly in the story and who, with John Law, was a protagonist in selling the diamond, worked with Law consistently afterwards in trying to restore his family’s fortune. He died in 1729, in the same month as John Law.
