by Mark Keating
'You like, eh, senor?' Mendes eyed him warmly, a gentle play from his hand courting the bird on his shoulder.
'Truly, Your Grace. Which reminds me, I have something for you.' Devlin reached into his wide pocket. Alvaro's head sprang up at the movement. Devlin produced the lodestone with its brass-clasped housing. 'It's not much. Not much at all, sir. Just a lodestone.' He handed it to Valentim.
'No, Senor Devlin' - Mendes was genuinely pleased - 'it is a wonderful gift. Surely one of the most precious things in this world is to know where you are in it, is it not? If all else falls around me, and I have but this one thing, still I will have the means to know where I am in this world. I thank you very much, senor.'
Toombs spoke up, 'And truly, Your Grace, there is rather a precious thing of beauty sitting out there off your harbour. Is she yours? That frigate, that is?'
'She is ours, Captain. The Shadow. I named her myself, for she is very black.'
Devlin watched Mendes place the lodestone down amongst the collection. Both men walked back to the table.
'I had always thought,' Devlin said, sitting, 'that your navy preferred Dutch designs. Fluytes and suchlike.'
'Indeed. But the French is more built for war. I have spent many years trying to get some ship to defend our interests here. This one I crew myself. But she is not ready, still.' Mendes chewed through a piece of roast pork.
Toombs put down his glass. 'Is that so?' His eyes widened. 'In what sense be that, Governor?'
'I have but thirty men upon her, that is all. Good men, but I am having great difficulty now, without a war, to persuade my country to provide me with more.'
'Ah, well,' Toombs sighed. 'That is the problem that we all face, senor.' Then he held up a hand, a look of benefaction on his face. 'I'll tell you what, Your Grace, so I will. Tomorrow evening, you dines with us, and I'll get some of my men over to that ship of yours to teach your boys a thing or two about sailing short-handed. There's nothing them boys don't know about sailing light. Why, I had to sail all the way from Boston to Bristol with only ten men once, didn't I, Little John?'
Devlin closed his eyes at the pirate name. John Phillips, his chin shining with grease, winked at him. 'Aye, Cap'n. That we did.'
'Little John?' Mendes queried with a staccato accent. 'What a strange title to give one of your men, Captain, is that not?'
'Ah, well.' Toombs poured himself some more wine. 'I've known some of these lads for so long that I find myself often christening them with little affections, senor!'
'I see.' Valentim looked calmly around his company. 'You talked of dining on your ship, Captain Toombs?'
Alvaro cleared his throat. 'Yes, Your Grace. Captain Toombs was wondering if you might dine with him tomorrow night whilst his men gather water?'
'And perhaps trade a little, senor,' Toombs added. 'I have some fine tobacco on board. Straight from Virginia. Sweat still on it, so it is.'
'That sounds very interesting. But now I am ignorant with my manners.' Mendes sat up tall and spread out his hands in apology. 'I forget the pez! The fish! And a special dish for you, Captain.' He closed his eyes and lowered his head. 'In honour of your visiting our humble home. Leandro!' He waved his servant to the table.
Leandro picked up one of the covered dishes and placed it in front of Mendes. He walked back and brought another. Placing it in the centre of the table, it rang like a bell as he swept off the lid. Whatever the fish was, it was lost beneath a white sauce brimming with capers and lemons.
'Too kind, Governor. Too kind.' Toombs raised his palms in protest at the generosity.
'That is for your men, Captain.' Another dish swept in front of Toombs. 'This one is for you especially.' Mendes sat back, his fingers entwined as if in prayer.
Leandro stayed at Toombs's side, his hand on the domed lid. Devlin felt Alvaro Contes moving away from the balcony and towards the table, but his eyes were only watching Thomas pour more wine for himself and John Phillips.
Leandro lifted the lid from Toombs's platter with silent grace, and Toombs found himself staring at candlelight reflecting off the silver surface, the platter empty.
'I am not sure if I understand this, Your Grace. I have an empty dish, I see?' Toombs spoke nervously. The other guests looked at the empty charger and began to lower their wine glasses slowly to the table.
'Oh?' Mendes feigned concern. 'Did I not explain, Captain? That is my manners again, you must forgive me!'
He raised the lid of his own dish, placing it down to reveal two dragoon pistols lying side by side on folded green silk that had silenced their trip to the table.
There was a click as Leandro cocked his pistol, pushing its cold barrel against Toombs's temple before he could move.
'Ah,' was all Toombs said. Quietly.
'That dish, Captain,' Mendes spat, 'is where I will place your pirate head!' His arms snapped forward for the pistols as the pirates scraped back their chairs.
The albino bird, panicked by the sudden lurch, sprang from his shoulder, screeching straight into the candelabra, which rattled to the floor, shivering the table into darkness.
* * *
Chapter Five
Those who survived would struggle to recall what transpired after the raven sent the candelabra to the floor. It would be remembered only through a series of flashbacks, a cold recollection of frizzen sparks and muzzle flash.
There was still faint light in the room as the serene moon flowed in through the balcony window.
The instant the candles vanished and snapped the table into darkness the first pistol shot and a catlike wail came from Toombs's side. In the same moment, Devlin sent his chair flying backwards and reached across his body to his pistol. He turned instinctively to Alvaro, mirroring the same action, as smoke snaked in the moonlight between them.
And there was the difference.
Alvaro's pistol was a beautiful Spanish work of art with an ornate bulb grip, its dog-head and pan on the right-hand side of the gun.
To avoid the lock digging into his side all day, and catching his clothes as he drew, he placed the pistol in his velvet belt with the lock facing out, and hence also upside down to the left hand now reaching for it. The right hand was naturally for the sword. For most activities during the shooter's day this mattered little; however, at this precise moment a pirate faced him across the room, pulling his left-locked pistol. Surely it was only one more movement? Alvaro simply had to turn his wrist to grip the pistol and then again to cock it as it rose. He had done it dozens of times; it took the speed of thought to execute. But Devlin did not have to do it at all.
Before Devlin's barrel had cleared his frayed leather belt, the flint was locked. Alvaro cocked his weapon at about the same time that a small ball of lead thudded into his chest. He felt ribs crack like twigs within him. He fell back, forever, firing uselessly into the ceiling.
Three flashes so far. Three snaps of light that framed the action for a moment. The acrid smell of powder filled the dark. Devlin became aware of a struggle around the table. Now he held his pistol reversed like a club, and reached for the smaller one tucked behind his back.
Another flash and crack of air. He saw Valentim's snarling face lit for that instant. Someone cried out - a child's voice - then another shot followed from the right of the room.
Devlin crouched and fired low at the air where he had seen Valentim's head, then turned to the growl of Leandro bearing down on him like a bull, wielding a hatchet above his head, howling as he crashed into him.
The pair tumbled backwards to the balcony doors like playful lovers, sending the telescope crashing down. Devlin's dagger flew from his belt, scuffing along the floor. They rolled. The scalloped guard of Devlin's sword jabbed against his ribs.
Burdened by the axe, Leandro let it drop, preferring the power of his hands clasped round Devlin's coughing throat as he snarled through bared glowing teeth.
Devlin let go of the small gun and pulled uselessly at the giant's grip with his free hand. Lea
ndro shook his head and giggled at the futile effort, but the grip gave Devlin enough leverage to roll and hammer his massive iron club of a pistol into Leandro's head.
The blow was enough. Leandro yelped off. They stood panting as an English curse and a shot rang out behind them. Leandro shook off the blow in time to see Devlin scrape out his blade with a grin.
In more restful times, Devlin would tell of his surprise as Leandro ignored the sword, put his sweating bald pate down and charged again. Devlin's lungs exploded as the blow took them flying through the doors and into the night.
It was inevitable. It happened in a heartbeat. The two of them went over the balcony. Devlin threw his sword as they fell, twisting Leandro beneath him. The thud of the landing on the stone below winded Devlin. It killed Leandro.
Devlin rolled upwards and left the sleeping giant. Breathing hard, he ran to retrieve his sword, sticking his pistol in his belt. His back ran cold with sweat. He turned and looked up at the dark house. Suddenly the room above was bathed in light and shouts. The guards had mounted the stairs and burst into the fray. More shots. More yelling. It was over then. It had taken seconds.
Devlin spun round and made for the gate, almost pulling it from its hinge; then he was through it and running, off the path and bolting away from the house.
He ran only for a few minutes, wading through waist-tall grass and low trees; then he began to struggle as the land slanted uphill, his chest like a furnace. He had to rest. He glanced behind. The house was no longer visible.
Kneeling down, hidden in the grass, he checked the action on his pistol for damage from the fall. He reloaded methodically, finding comfort in the clicks and snaps from his weapon and its partners, the patch pouch and cartridge box.
The ammo was prepared. A paper-load of powder wrapped round each ball with a twist. Bite, prime, pour, load, ram.
The ramrod refused to find its way home through his trembling hands.
Crouching there, under the moon, brought him back to the Kilkenny fields and his poaching days, years from this place. Killing one thing was as good as another. Blood as a butcher's boy, blood as a poacher, blood as a fisherman, four years of it with Coxon, and Philippe Ducos's blood still staining his boots.
Devlin took out the compass. He would have to head north to find the shore where Peter Sam had landed, having already discounted the bay where his party had arrived since - even if he made it to the boat - a lone man rowing out to the Lucy would be a grand target. Besides, he was counting on any pursuers making that judgement and granting him escape time. He looked up at the volcanic hills. North, over those hills, avoiding the roads, was a hard passage. His crossbelt and sword now hung over his waistcoat, as he bundled the heavy coat in his arms and pressed on.
Valentim, still holding a French dragoon pistol in his right hand, looked over the balcony at Leandro's broken body. 'I want him found!' he yelled to the guards. 'He will make his way to the boat. Do so yourselves. If you cannot find him, if the boat is still there, return to me.' They bowed and ran from the room.
Valentim moved back inside. His foot kicked against something and his eyes fell to watch Devlin's ebony dagger spinning across the stone floor. As if woken from a dream, he picked it up and admired it before placing it cautiously in the sash round his waist. The white raven alighted on his shoulder and preened. He looked down at the dead Alvaro Contes, his friend, and crossed himself. The only breathing sound in the room was his own.
Slowly he turned back to his fallen telescope. Lying his pistol on the balcony chair, he re-erected the wood and brass instrument. A minute later he had sighted it on the Lucy. She sat still, a ship asleep, silhouetted against the moon. He swung left and beheld the Shadow on the other side of the bay.
It had not been a lie about the lack of men on board, although within a day he could maybe add thirty more from the townsfolk and slaves. Nevertheless, the Shadow's acting captain, overweight and indolent as he was, would have also recognised the brigantine for the pirate ship described in the recent correspondence from Cape Coast Castle. The captain doubtlessly had watched Alvaro escort the party to shore and surely would have maintained a cautious watch.
He had anticipated capturing the pirates and forcing the ship to surrender. The triumph would make him a legend amongst the islands, possibly gain him enough fame to sail his way off this slave rock and back home to Portugal.
He would have time yet before the crew began to miss their pirate brothers. Enough time to get to the Shadow and inform its feckless captain of what had occurred and then, with a single broadside, advise the pirates to kneel or suffer the fate of their brothers and the wrath of his frigate.
But there were plenty of dories around the island to steal. The man Devlin could get back to his ship, inform them that the Shadow had only thirty men, that the house had few defences and even fewer guards. The pirate Devlin must be found. Found and silenced.
Returning to the telescope, he could see the lanterns of his men by the shore. The boat was still there. Devlin had run inland. He would not escape. It was fortunate that the horses had not yet been stabled for the night.
Devlin made his way to the top of another hill. Covered in grass seeds and sweat, a raging thirst at his throat, he willed the black clouds to break. From up here he could discern a road, maybe some houses, and in the distance what might be the sea, or perhaps just more of the same bloody dirt that his boots were full of.
Six miles at most to reach Peter Sam on the northern shore - not a great distance by any reckoning, and certainly not when being pursued. He fumbled for the compass in his coat, its whalebone face glowing beneath the moon as its dial danced on his palm. NNE would take him away from Ribeira Brava, the largest town and the one best avoided, for if there was any garrison on the island it would be in Ribeira.
Readjusting the boulder that his coat had become, he moved down the hill. He plucked at the shirt, stuck to his back with sweat. He thought of abandoning the heavy woollen twill coat, but not only did its pockets hold all that he had to carry him through this night, it also had other advantages. He had noticed the ordinariness of Seth Toombs without his. A good coat and a fine hat would always mark one as a cut above the rabble. It was like a priest's vestments in as much as it could transform the simple into the sublime. He would hold on to it.
A crack of thunder directly above him made him cower and look to the clouds in awe. The earth seemed to join the sky all around him with the falling of the African rain. Blinded by the sudden wave of water, Devlin shook the coat on gratefully, but mourned the tricorne he had left behind on Valentim Mendes's table as its three corners would now be running the hammering rain away from his back. He trotted on, the warm rain seeming to laugh at him as he stumbled through its walls of water.
Black Bill, the rain clinging to his beard, leaned on the starboard gunwale to look to the black frigate across the bay, her shape cut out against the hills by the cascade of rain.
He had spent the last hour sheathing the guns from the downpour, aided by the drunken gunner captain, Robert Hartley, who cursed the mongrels of the gods for the rain they had decided to throw upon him and his guns.
Below him a neverending rum-laden chorus of 'Leave Her, Johnny' hailed up through the deck.
It was rotten meat and weevil bread,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her.
'You'll eat or starve,' the old man said, And it's time for us to leave her.
Soaked as he was, he remained, watching the whitecaps growing as the harbour seemed to boil. It would be a short rain, for he knew any fall was rare in the Verdes: the dust of the earth and the tinder branches of the dragon trees were testament to that. Nonetheless, it would no doubt delay the return of the men ashore.
He thought of Peter Sam's small encampment. They were probably huddled under their makeshift tents eating cold meats and drinking dry the seven jugs they had taken with them. They had enough supplies for two days, but now were no doubt swearing against the soul of Patrick De
vlin for suggesting such a course as they tried to keep their lanterns and, more importantly, their powder dry. He spat over the side and moved down to join his brethren and hoped no fool was trying to light a pipe below.
Devlin had found a nook in the black hillside to shelter and watch the forks of lightning rape the sky. He wore his coat over his head and had smothered his pistol inside his waistcoat to try and keep her dry. The slope was perhaps only thirty feet up from the dirt path, but he could see the snaking road from where he came, and to his left the passage that would take him to the rocky shore where Peter Sam lay as his rescuer.
He estimated that in less than an hour he could join them. Every moment of lightning showed him the sea in the distance all around him, the view blocked only by the mountain peaks that echoed the thunder like giants threatening to rise up and walk.
A movement from the path made him snap his head. A lightning flash revealed four crouching dogs lurching along the road to his right. No, not dogs. The blue crash of light was addling his brain, changing the creatures. Horses. They were horses, and upon them black oilskinned wraiths sniffing him out.
He watched as the rider in front wheeled his horse to face the others. The rider swung out his arm to indicate a direction and one of his companions pointed to another path in response. They moved closer together, and even through the rain Devlin could hear raised voices.
He drew his coat around his head, permitting himself a single eye to stare out through a hanging forelock, fearing his face would glow and reveal his presence if they turned towards him. Another flash of light and they vanished with it, riding to the east.
The time he had to make the remaining few miles grew ever shorter. He rose up and stumbled down to the north road, gasping at the rain as if drowning in it, throwing glances behind at every step, looking for the riders.
