The Pirate Devlin

by Mark Keating

  Adorned with a new shirt and breeches, Devlin prepared himself. He stood in the cabin and stuck a small ebony-hilted dagger in his belt behind his back. Next, also tucked behind his back, a small Queen Anne turn-off pistol, patch-loaded, a small wad of linen to keep the ball and powder from falling out. Then his French left-locked pistol. The same one he had been allowed to choose from the weapons locker after he had signed the articles. He had rummaged until he had found a left-locked one. A preference that would matter several times in his life. The fast draw it provided was favoured by the French. It was a brute of a weapon with a hexagonal fourteen-inch iron barrel and iron nose, similarly patch- loaded, and placed on the right-hand side of his belt.

  He put on a square-tailed black twill greatcoat that must have belonged to a fine gentleman, so heavy was the cloth and so stout the fit. He pulled out the pleated linen cuffs of his shirt until they reached his knuckles, then picked up his crossbelt. No scabbard, the sword just hanging tight in its baldric, he placed it over his head and right shoulder. Although fashion now frowned on the crossbelt, Devlin welcomed the extra protection that a four-inch leather belt across his heart afforded.

  A few shifting adjustments and the hilt of the sword came just to his left wrist. He turned to see Toombs standing in the doorway, dressed almost identically, save for his baldric lying beneath his coat.

  'They're here, mate,' Toombs announced.

  Both men emerged to receive their guests as the last of the three took the final short step down onto the deck and joined his companions.

  Toombs introduced himself to the finest. The first two wore the breastplates and purple caps of guardsmen, sporting too the regulation moustaches. The third, however, wore fine red silk brocade, and had the longest black hair Devlin had ever seen on a man.

  Clean-shaven, with a benevolent face, he seemed the picture of a Portuguese gentleman. In his velvet belt he carried a graceful Spanish pistol. On the other side, a filigree hilt and a promise of his skill and wealth, hidden in a golden scabbard.

  'My name is Alvaro Contes, Captain. I speak for Valentim Mendes, who is the governor of Sao Nicolau. May I welcome you and ask what is the nature of your business here?'

  'If it should please His Grace, sir, we would like the opportunity to gather fresh water in the morn. And perhaps we could trade a little.' Toombs bowed. 'We have plenty of tobacco on board on its way back to England, and it wouldn't hurt now to miss a few twists for the right price, you see?'

  'Where have you sailed from, Captain?' Alvaro asked.

  'From Virginia, sir. We are mostly carrying post back to England, but find ourselves short on water and beer for the remainder of our journey, and as a sign of friendship we would like to extend the courtesy of inviting His Grace, the governor, to dine with me and my officers.'

  'That is very gracious of you, Captain. Would you also be so gracious as to allow my men to check the validation and worthiness of your vessel?'

  'Indeed, sir, and may I say they look like the perfect officers to fulfil such a task. May I introduce you to my men, sir?'

  Contes nodded humbly, casting his eyes over Devlin. 'This is Mister Patrick Devlin, our navigator. He has a rather fine lodestone that he would like to present to His Grace should he attend us.' Contes bowed and Devlin did likewise. 'Mister William Vernon, our sailing master and a fine Catholic. He keeps his eye on all of us, don't you, Will?'

  'That I do, Cap'n.' Black Bill tugged his prodigious forelock.

  'And this is Mister John Phillips, our bosun, and proud to have him we are. He'll gladly show your lads around, sir.' Phillips heartily agreed.

  'Thank you, Captain Toombs. You are gracious indeed.' Contes smiled with some constraint, then with a nod dismissed the soldiers to follow Phillips. 'Now, Captain, if it is not too much trouble, I should like to see some of your ship. It is so rare that I get to see life on a working merchant.'

  'Not much to see, to be truthful, sir,' Toombs confided. 'We live but humble lives. But we eats well. Which I'd like you to address to His Grace.'

  'Really?' Contes moved towards the cabin. 'One would have thought your food to be - how you may say - terrible. Is that correct?'

  Toombs and Devlin moved with him. Bill stayed by the bulwark, silent and watchful.

  'No, no. Not at all, sir.' Toombs walked ahead. 'As much cackle fruit as you could eat - that be eggs and chickens to you, sir. Pork, apples, sauces, dried beef. You see, we don't hold by familiarities you might see on a warship, sir. We have an oven, laid on a hearth here' - he gestured to the galley stove incongruously sitting amidships - 'with cauldrons to feed all the men. I always say you can't run a ship on a cold stomach! Don't I, Patrick?'

  'Indeed you do, Captain,' Devlin conceded.

  Contes turned towards him as they reached the cabin entrance. 'You are the navigator, Senor… Devlin?'

  'I am, sir.'

  'My master is most keen on navigation. Your English John Davies is a hero of his.'

  'We should have much to talk about. I have a small mounted lodestone that I would like to present to him as an English gift.'

  Contes moved into the cabin. 'I myself know nothing of such things.' As he looked around the cabin, his face filled with disdain. 'You have very little… of anything. Captain Toombs?'

  'Ah. Indeed, senor. Worms, you see. Rather than let them spread, I chose to throw all the wasted furniture over. Although don't you fret. We have enough left to entertain His Grace. My table should suffice for all the chickens I have planned!'

  'Quite. I do not doubt your veracity on that matter, Captain.'

  'I'm as veracious as they come, senor!'

  'I'm so glad to hear you say it, Captain!' A positive inflection from the Portuguese gentleman. 'Now I would be gladdened to hear you select any officers whom you may choose to join me back at His Grace's home to dine with us. We should like to commence in under an hour.'

  Toombs looked at Devlin, then back slowly at Contes. 'I had hoped that His Grace might favour us with his company, senor. What with our "veracity" an' all.'

  'No. That will not happen this evening,' Contes stated flatly.

  'Whose is that frigate in the bay, senor?' Devlin asked, as much to distract from the tension emanating from Toombs as anything.

  Contes's eyes glowed at Devlin. 'That is Governor Mendes's frigate, Mister Devlin. She is French-built, you may perceive. "A Sombra." How you may say? The Shadow. A fancy of His Grace's, I feel.'

  'She's beautiful.'

  'Again, I know very little of such things. Perhaps you may discuss it with Governor Mendes over dinner, senor? Ah, my men return!' Alvaro Contes swept past them. With his back to the pirates, he conferred with his men for only seconds in the doorway. Pleased, he turned and held out an outstretched black-gloved hand to Toombs. 'Come, it is only a sea stroll away to the finest fish you have ever eaten. Bring anyone you wish, Captain.'

  'I should stress, senor, that I had hoped that you would dine with us this evening.' Toombs's voice was less adamant than his words. 'As a visitor, that is. To show my own good favour.'

  'Oh, most certainly, Captain. But it is late, and you are unprepared, whereas His Grace has a fine meal that we are more than proud to present.' He bowed. 'It is required that you join us.'

  In Toombs's mind he saw Alvaro falling backwards into his men's arms, a quarter-inch hole where his nose should have been, a surprised look on the remainder of his face. Instead, he bowed also.

  'Of course. But tomorrow, whilst my men fetch water, you must allow His Grace to partake of my favours.' Toombs found it hard to smile.

  'I see no possible objection to that, Captain. However, tonight you are our guests.' Another affectation of a smile, this time aimed at Devlin, who smiled back.

  'With that being the case, Senor Contes,' Devlin said, 'allow me to fetch my hat.' He excused himself. Toombs picked up his own burgundy tricorne. His hand trembled as he held it against his thigh, his own plan now awry and following Devlin's lead.

&nb
sp; 'I would like, senor, if my bosun and his mate could be in my party?'

  'Naturally, Captain. The more company, the more conversation. We are so bereft of good conversation.'

  Below deck, aft of the ship where he had gained some small private quarter, Devlin pulled out from his belongings Lewis's old pocket compass and the lodestone to present as a gift.

  He patted his coat pocket for the reassurance of his cartridge box. It was apparent to him - and presumably Toombs as well - that the evening ahead might be dangerous.

  They were leaving the ship. A few hours out of their world and away from the security of their brethren. Seth Toombs's plan delayed. Dangerous or not, with Peter Sam's party already camped ashore there would be ten pirates abroad that night. Pity the governor if he should have designs other than supper.

  He picked up his own black tricorne and made his way back, grateful to leave the stifling heat behind, sparing a thought for the pirates sweltering in the bowels of the ship amongst the ballast and the stench of the well.

  Phillips and young Thomas had helped the two silent soldiers row the distance to the shore. Contes had passed pleasantries with an increasingly uncomfortable Toombs, and Devlin watched the Lucy shrink away. Her sidelights were lit now, a stark contrast to the black frigate sitting in darkness across from her.

  The narrow crescent beach was festooned with a dozen or more small fishing boats and the jetty was perfumed with the sweet kelp smell of lobster cages. Slowly they walked a dirt road upwards, through a cloud of moths and biting winged insects drawn by the soldiers' amber lanterns. Alvaro Contes seemed immune to them. Devlin guessed that he must have some local defence, as he glided along unaffected, whilst they brushed at their faces like fools.

  Devlin noticed that Toombs lost his footing for a step or two. It was either the lack of drink or the length of time at sea. He smiled as he recalled a time in Falmouth, after almost a year aboard, when he had stumbled carrying Coxon's bags. It was as if the ground shrank away from his feet and was the strangest sensation.

  He was woken from this reminiscence by a whispered swearing from Thomas at his side as they came to the house. He looked up, but saw nothing to curse at. There before them was rough stone wall, no taller than a man, with a single iron gate, behind which stood a narrow, two-storey stucco building.

  One large balcony window on the second floor glowed before them. The four windows either side were shuttered in darkness. The ground floor, barren of windows, had two crenels or gunloops, on either side of the arched oak door. Four pillars made up the entrance to the house, topped by the small balcony for the window above.

  The wall surrounding the garden was the same style as the redoubt that curved along the harbour, with a jagged top of pointed slate to hinder the curious. The alcove in which the double oak door sat shone orange from recessed oil lamps at its four pillars.

  As they walked into the small garden, mostly sand and rocks, Devlin could sense that the house was long, like some London homes he had frequented with Coxon on their rare social outings. This was confirmed as Alvaro guided them into a cold slate hall that was easily as long as the Lucy's deck; a narrow stone staircase spiralling to the floor above stood in the centre.

  'Welcome to the home of Valentim Mendes, gentlemen,' Alvaro flourished with a bow. 'Stay, and kindly leave some of the happiness that you bring.'

  They were left alone for a moment as Alvaro turned and walked to the stairs and Toombs caught Devlin's eye.

  'Keep a weather eye out,' he whispered.

  They followed Contes across the hall to the staircase. The guards remained at the closed outer door as the pirates trailed after Alvaro, up the narrow steps to a set of arched oak doors.

  Candlelight filled the stairs as he slowly pushed both oak doors open and ushered them in. Toombs never looked back. He strode into the room and removed his hat in the same step. The others followed.

  The long dining table and twelve high-backed chairs lay before them. On the table's surface was laid a generous spread of pewter plates, candelabra and silver, and a cornucopia of fruit, cold meats, carafes of wine and piles of seeded bread.

  The aroma of poached fish came to Devlin and he spied the array of covered platters on the other side of the room, and also the lithe, white-shirted form of Valentim Mendes looking through a wooden telescope perched between the open balcony windows.

  'I congratulate you, Captain,' the voice accentuated every syllable. 'She is a charming little ship.' He straightened up to reveal a dark, handsome face, a head of black, shoulder- length hair and an exuberant smile framed by an elegant beard. He was unarmed save for a glass of brandy. He wore black knee-length riding boots with black breeches and red sash, and cut a dashing silhouette.

  'I thank you, sir. We are all fond of her.'

  Valentim moved to greet his guests, who introduced themselves one by one. He bowed, holding his glass out to his side.

  'I am Valentim Mendes, the law on Sao Nicolas, and your servant this night.' He swooped upright. 'Please allow me to get you drinks.' From the right corner of the room came a black, bald giant of a servant, carrying a charger of goblets.

  The pirates took the generous glasses of red wine, passing uneasy looks between each other, aware that they were all still standing in front of the door.

  'Please come in, gentlemen. We should sit and talk over much food.' Valentim gestured to the table.

  'Too generous of you, Your Grace.' Toombs lowered his head politely. 'A noggin of small beer would have done the lads and me without a doubt.' Toombs sauntered to the left side of the table and sat down, choosing a chair that showed him the door, and almost at arm's-length from the table, pushing his hanger so it stuck straight behind him. His hand resting on its hilt.

  Valentim moved himself to the head of the table, facing the balcony, and the others followed. Devlin removed his hat, and took a seat at the corner along from Toombs. Little John Phillips and Thomas Deakins sat on Valentim's left. Devlin gave himself as much room as Toombs at the table, conscious of the need to have space to draw weapons if called upon.

  In the candlelight from the table, Valentim's face was obscured but Devlin could see his hands resting gently on the table.

  'Be welcome to help yourselves, gentlemen. In Portugal we favour eating with a knife' - he held up a delicately tapered blade - 'and our hands. I can bring you "forks" if you prefer?' The pirates declined the offer, each reaching for a jug of wine. Thomas and Little John's hands colliding on the same carafe brought a welcome laugh from them all.

  They settled in to eating the cold meats and seasoned potatoes, olives and wine-soaked sausage that Devlin for one had never tasted before. He noticed that Alvaro Contes occupied a comfortable chair beside the telescope, peeling off his velvet gloves and paying no attention to the table. The black servant stood by the lidded platters at the far wall. Devlin observed he held a small pistol in his belt. Even so, between them the pirates had at least five shots, maybe more hidden, and Valentim was clearly without a pistol.

  Devlin dragged himself closer to the table as his appetite brought on a more relaxed temperament. It was then that he spied a collection of navigational instruments resting on a merchant chest opposite the table. Standing next to the chest was an eye-level perch, on which sat a motionless white raven.

  'Ah, Senor Devlin.' Valentim stood, wiping his mouth as he walked over to the perch. 'You notice my unusual friend. He is a white raven. Rare indeed. And do you know where I found my little companion?'

  'In a head of flour no doubt?' Toombs laughed.

  Valentim smiled. 'In a cemetery. On this island there are surprisingly many. You see, it is two hundred years since we discovered these islands' - he stroked the bird, which responded with gentle pecks - 'but we soon discovered that others had been here before. There are many strange carvings we have found, markings on the rocks along the coast. We know not what they mean.' He addressed all of them as he spoke. 'Our first settlers soon found out that the islands we
re well known to pirates, however, and many deaths occurred. Gradually all our peoples moved inland in an attempt to hide from the raiders, but alas we are still prone to many, many assaults.'

  'It is a shame' - Toombs shook his head in sympathy - 'that men can be forced to be so cruel sometimes.'

  'Quite.' Valentim nodded gratefully. 'Many of our early colonists are buried in premature graves. It was in one of these places, paying my respects, that I found this little fellow. He was almost dead and very young.' The bird walked onto his hand and he placed it on his shoulder. 'You see, the other birds - his own kind, you understand - were attacking him. He was so weak he allowed me to pluck him from the bush from where he cowered. I have fed him from my own hand ever since.'

  'There is a storm coming,' Alvaro Contes spoke from his chair, gesturing to the open balcony window. 'I can smell it in the air,' he explained. All eyes were upon him and he continued, almost embarrassed, 'It comes from the African coast, gentlemen. A few hours and it will be upon us.'

  A silence followed Alvaro's statement, and he stiffened as Devlin rose. 'I see you have some tools there, Governor? May I see?'

  'But of course, Senor Devlin.' Mendes welcomed him to the chest. 'You are interested in navigation?'

  'Indeed, Your Grace.' Devlin said, as he looked over the various instruments, not daring to touch. There was a compass set in an ivory housing, a brass Persian astrolabe that must have been twenty inches across, a wooden volvelle, a series of plates that moved to follow the tides and phases of the moon, and an exquisite gold astronomical compendium, a marvellous small, beautiful box that held a compass, a sundial and even a wind vane. The compendium was too small to be practical, the compass probably could not guide one over a hill, but it was a truly delightful object. It reminded Devlin that beautiful things did still exist and were still being made, so long had he been from the world of ordinary men.