The Pirate Devlin

by Mark Keating

April 1717

  For the great interest of all who hear or read the presents herein, Greeting,

  It is with a low heart that I must report attack upon our home by pirata vessel so benevolently warned upon us by your generous self. I must inform you of detail passed on me by the governor His Grace Valentim Mendes that assault has resulted in theft of ship Sombra of twenty-four cannon by the pirata Devlin and the death of Capitão. Mota of Sombra and several crew and guard of Sombra and São Nicolau.

  It is with much horror that I must also inform you of the grave injury caused upon His Grace by the pirata Devlin which unable him to write directly to yourself

  By all intervention I request on His Grace behalf to enable all communication between all our ally to require apprehension of the man the pirata Devlin.

  I draft letter to Lisbon in companion. I give herein blessed silk thread for your prayers.

  Father Carlos Barrios, Ribeira Brava

  May 1717, Portsmouth. The familiar sounds of hammer against wood, of hauling and singing came wafting across the harbour as the gangs worked away at the veritable garden of ships that nestled around the quay. The two-week sail from Africa to England was ending now with the promise of a beautiful day ahead, with the skies clear enough to make out the green shoulder of the Isle of Wight in the distance. Coxon, from almost a mile away, could observe through the clarity the colourful actions of drays, coaches and stevedores' cranes loading and unloading the gently bobbing barges along the quay.

  Without turning to the sound, he heard the patter of Captain William Guinneys' soft, elegant shoes joining him at the starboard bulwark. The young man with the ever- present grin and the long brown queue, without the neatness of a bag, just a single black bow, stepped into Coxon's peripheral vision.

  Guinneys breathed in deeply, tapping his knuckles on the rail as if entering his mistress's chambers. Behind them the calls and whistles of the bosun and the subsequent hue and cry of the men forced Guinneys to raise his voice unnaturally.

  'Fine day to arrive back home, wouldn't you say, there, Captain?' Then, 'Makes one wonder why we ever leaves.'

  'I was not aware that we do leave,' Coxon corrected. 'I have always been sent, Captain.'

  'Quite so, sir. Quite so.' Guinneys grinned the implacable white smile that had ground on Coxon from the moment he had been piped aboard the Starling.

  He had spent an insufferable fortnight with Guinneys and his young lieutenants, with their crude humour mixed with questionable discipline. He had surmised that months of journeying between England, Guangzhou and the India stations had softened them all. Had bred too much familiarity between decks.

  Coxon looked round to the smartly dressed crew running thither like mice in a galley. Two weeks ago he had barely listened to the lieutenants' and the midshipmen's names as he walked the line of introductions, rather he looked for the leather-necked, cracked, ruddy faces and grey sideburns of old hands rough as oakum. Instead he saw sinewy young men, blacks, even Indians, all of them shiny and bright.

  He recalled times when he had ruefully accepted invitations to ladies' parties and, before his cloak had been removed by his man, he would be scanning the hall for faces he knew: captains and post-captains, rear admirals, blushing lieutenants. Every year of the war the rooms grew thinner. The faces changed. Now he longed to see an old seaman's face. Just some old man knuckling a lined forehead and rushing past him, someone who might have tasted the same air of powder and smoke. Not these pups, these company men of saddle wax and silk.

  'Mister Howard!' Guinneys yelled to the fo'c'sle. 'What see you there?'

  Thomas Howard, sixteen, midshipman, a clergyman's son like Coxon, stood on the fo'c'sle deck, with the glass, surveying the port.

  'Yellow flag, Captain!' he yelled back. Guinneys and Coxon exchanged looks, broken only by the sudden approach of the dark-suited and somewhat short form of Edward Talton, the designated representative of the East India Company joining the group at the bulwark.

  'A yellow flag?' Talton's voice bounced between the two men. 'Yellow flag? What does it mean, gentlemen?' Fidgeting in his pockets, he took out his watch and brushed the moisture from its crystal surface.

  'Good morning, Mister Talton.' Guinneys beamed, looking down at the diminutive fellow. 'We're very well, thank you, sir.'

  'Pardon, Mister Guinneys? No, sir, you misheard me. What does the flag mean, sir?'

  Guinneys moved towards the fo'c'sle, stepping effortlessly around coils of ropes and the waisters amidships, his hands behind his back. Coxon and Talton followed.

  'Surely any sailor knows the significance of a yellow flag, sir? Or is it perhaps, like myself, that you appreciate the significance of very little before noon?'

  'I believe, Captain' - Talton rose almost a third of an inch - 'that it means quarantine. I was merely questioning whether it had some other meaning that I was not aware of.'

  'No, Mister Talton.' Guinneys stepped up to the deck. 'There is nothing I am aware of that is quite akin to your unawareness.' And he winked back to Coxon.

  Thomas Howard moved aside for the three men to look out over the rails. The telescope was unnecessary; the square yellow flag was ominously evident.

  'Does it refer to us, Captain?' Talton asked.

  'We shall see, Mister Talton.' Guinneys turned to Thomas Howard. 'Mister Howard, it is your watch. Would you be so kind as to lower the fore topgallant?'

  'Aye, Captain.' Thomas Howard ran off to summon the bosun. The lowering signal of the sail would warrant a response from the shore to confirm if the flag referred to the Starling, although Coxon and Guinneys were both silently agreed.

  Quarantine. Stay where you are. Await further orders.

  Five minutes later a single cannon blast from the port responded to the lowered sail, confirming the order related to the Starling.

  'That's that, then,' Guinneys affirmed. 'We're to wait. Damn shame.'

  Coxon looked across to the steely gaze of the crew. They also recognised the significance of the yellow flag and their hands slowed in their duty.

  'How long have your men been aboard, Captain Guinneys?' he asked.

  'No one's been ashore since Bengal, sir.'

  Coxon straightened, placed his hands on the rail and began to almost pull it from its nails. 'Drill your marines. In full view of the men. Loaded muskets.'

  'You may have a point there, indeed you may, Post-Captain, sir. What do you suppose the flag's about?'

  'It's about us not going ashore. The lads won't be happy. Muskets being rammed will quiet them. An hour or two will tell.'

  Guinneys nodded. He screwed his tricorne upon his head and strode down to order the stoic marines to drill and call his company to order. Coxon watched.

  'You fear mutiny, Captain Coxon?' Edward Talton asked.

  'I would probably not be alive today if I had never, Mister Talton. But mutiny is a little strong for the time of day. I would say nothing more than… discord,' Coxon said enigmatically, and followed Guinneys, leaving Talton on his own staring to the shore, his glasses misting.

  Coxon was not alone in disliking the prevalence of the Honourable John Company on board peacetime ships. Although the company had its own merchantmen, in peace it proved more economical to hire struggling naval vessels to pursue its dominance in the Indian continent. Now that the Mughal emperor had granted the company free trade, with the profitable exemption of any custom duties in Bengal, the sailings had increased, and Guinneys and his lieutenants had benefited from their own personal trade to all ports between China and Africa.

  The company turned a blind eye to individual captains' enterprises, as long as the tea, the saltpetre and the silks kept coming home, whilst the Dutch, the Portuguese and the pirates were kept at bay.

  Guinneys by his own account, after a third of port of an evening, had attested to his familiarity with the Hongs along the Chinese coast who had made returning to England more a curse than a blessing. An inconvenience to his private enterprises.


  Five bells brought Coxon and Guinneys to the quarterdeck, watching the longboat rowing towards them. Sailors at the oars, stern and bow, a selection of white wigs amid. Stiff and uncomfortable, holding on to the sides, weak at the thought that they had no power over the waves lapping at the vulnerable boat, they could be heard taking out their nerves with curses and chidings on the men who rowed them to the Starling and kept their eyes down.

  Coxon and Guinneys took the time of the approach to brush their salt-soaked coats and hats. Lieutenants Anderson and Scott readied the Great Cabin.

  The consensus on board was that they would not be going ashore but straight out again. The grumbling of the crew was audible. Men had families waiting for them, wages to spend, trinkets to sell.

  The display of the dozen marines, drilling to the drum of the small boy, resplendent in his toy-soldier perfection, reminded the crew of their position and the consequence of grievance. Yesterday, the officers smiled at the hands, familiar after months at sea. Today, their hats shadowed over their eyes; they barked the men's names.

  Before another bell had chimed from the belfry, a long two- tone whistle indicated that the first traverse of the bosun's chair was swinging aboard.

  Coxon looked on, amused as much as the whole watch, as the glowing white-stockinged legs of James Whitlock, Member of Parliament, swayed in an undignified arc over the deck.

  Coxon stood with Guinneys and his lieutenants. They watched the grey-wigged, red-faced man descend as gracefully as he could.

  'Two Whigs, I reckon.' Guinneys nodded to Coxon. 'Rear Admiral Land of the Blue is there as well, and some other fellow. Looks French to me. Bloody wine's going to be short, I know that much.'

  Coxon observed the leather satchel Whitlock carried, as the chair descended over the bulwark again. No doubt it held papers fresh from Whitehall. In order for these two Whigs to appear they must have been expecting the Starling. They had probably been down here for a few days. Rear Admiral Land was based in Portsmouth. Coxon had only met him once and he seemed a sound enough fellow.

  He watched the last of them remove himself from the chair, generalising from the elongated cuffs, the extravagant doublet and enormous plumed hat that he was indeed a French nobleman. At the sharp whistle, dismissing the chair and clearing the deck for space, Guinneys and Coxon stepped forward for the reception.

  James Whitlock was joined by his fellow parliamentary member Samuel Taylor-Woode. Both men bowed their heads at the line of officers with tight-lipped severity. Sir Clive Land, tall and gracious, was less solemn, but he seemed to take no pleasure in introducing the pale, brightly dressed French ambassador, Geffroi Cayeux.

  Preliminaries undertaken, officers and their mysterious guests withdrew to the comfort of the Great Cabin. Coxon's eyes followed Cayeux's back. This was the first time he had known a Frenchman aboard the same ship as himself who was not a prisoner. His world was getting larger.

  Inside the surprisingly spacious cabin, most of Guinneys' extravagances having been squared away, matters moved swiftly. Whilst there was no uniform to distinguish the navy officers from the politicians, they were as farmers to kings in terms of linen and attire. Coxon looked dourly at the wear on his coat, no longer having his own man brushing his clothes nightly and the black fading green in the coat's folds and across his back.

  James Whitlock spread out his ledgers and orders from his leather bag, uttering a small affirmation to each one. The lieutenants had prepared inkwells and quills in the centre of the table along with Guinneys' personal glassware, water, wine and some Indian sweets, which added some delicate colour to the white-walled cabin.

  Whitlock and Taylor-Woode seated themselves at the head of the table, with Rear Admiral Land at the opposite end. The French ambassador sat next to Taylor-Woode's elbow and cast his eyes over the bundles of yellow paper tied up with red ribbon. Coxon and Guinneys sat together, at Land's portion of the table, separating themselves from the politicians.

  Talton positioned himself on Cayeux's breadth of the table and brought out his spectacles, which he cleaned, fulminating against the dew that seemed to adhere to every glass surface he possessed, then Talton, without any knowledge of propriety, spoke first.

  'Would it be acceptable to breakfast at all, gentlemen, or am I expected to wait till luncheon?'

  Whitlock looked up, expressionless. 'Are you addressing me, sir?' he responded.

  'Indeed. Your presence was unexpected, sir, and I have not had time to eat this morning.' In truth he had simply ignored the call to partake at eight bells with the midshipmen and had been unable to find any hand who could bring him so much as an egg afterwards.

  'I breakfasted at dawn, Mister Talton.' Whitlock offered this information, as if by some process of osmosis Talton's hunger would be appeased. 'I would like to proceed, as time is an imperative to us all.'

  'Undoubtedly,' Guinneys confirmed, his words generating a small cough from Lieutenant Scott, with whom Guinneys had bet a crown that he would speak only in three-syllable words.

  Whitlock continued, 'Captain Coxon?'

  'Yes, Mister Whitlock?' Coxon rested his right arm on the table and leaned in.

  'You were captain of the Noble, were you not, sir?' He acknowledged Coxon's confirmation and carried on. 'And you have been made aware that the vessel was attacked by pirates near Gibraltar, have you not?'

  'I have been made aware that the Noble was subsequently set ablaze by my first lieutenant,' Coxon's voice grieved.'

  'Catastrophe,' Guinneys sighed.

  'Indeed,' Whitlock concurred. 'Although perhaps if Post- Captain Coxon had seen fit to allow the Noble to complete her passage, such a calamity would never have come to pass.' He saw Coxon open his mouth and raised a quietening palm to hold his tongue. 'However, we have reason to believe from the description of the pirate brigantine that two weeks ago these same rogues also attacked the governor of one of the Verde Islands, and subsequently made off with a twenty-six- gun frigate belonging to the Portuguese. Twenty-six including the swivels, of course.'

  'Good God, sir!' Rear Admiral Land exclaimed. 'Do you say that there's a band of brigands out there with a man-of-war?'

  'I do, sir,' Whitlock returned. 'And a brigantine. Over a hundred men according to witnesses from the Noble.''

  'Horrendous,' Guinneys murmured.

  Coxon interjected, 'Are men from the Noble still in Gibraltar, Mister Whitlock?'

  'The devil I know, sir. That is not my business.'

  'Then pray,' Admiral Land asserted his position, 'what exactly is your business, sir?'

  Whitlock motioned to Ambassador Cayeux. 'The ambassador of His Most Gracious Majesty, Monsieur Cayeux, has brought a rather important event to Whitehall's attention.'

  Cayeux bowed at the mention of his name. 'It is a pleasure to meet you all, gentlemen.' His chin lowered to his chest, his accent subdued.

  Whitlock carried on, 'My colleague, the Honourable Mister Samuel Taylor-Woode' - another bow - 'holds many positions in Whitehall. And his coat buttons up over a number of closely guarded secrets, one of which was related to him by Monsieur Cayeux. I will now hand the elaborations over to his good self.'

  'Pardon my interruption, Mister Whitlock,' Talton spoke up as the Whig started to rise from his seat. 'But I should like to know if we will be able to unload our cargo? I have duties to the company to perform at our house, don't you know?'

  Whitlock glared at him. 'No soul will leave this ship, Mister Talton. I am perfectly capable of dealing with your cargo. And you may pass your tally on to me consequently. What transpires here this morning must never leave this vessel. Do you understand me, sir?'

  Coxon feigned surprise. 'Are we to take it, then, Mister Whitlock, that none of your company will leave this ship also?' he asked.

  'The king trusts me, Post-Captain, to keep my silence.'

  'Indubitably,' Guinneys agreed. Lieutenant Scott sniffed hard, stifling a sneeze.

  'And do not hope to forget, Captain, that Whitehall
is most well aware you turned the Noble home rather than escort a "Blackbirder" of the South Sea Company. The subsequent consequence of which was the loss of a company man and a rather expensive king's frigate.' Whitlock took some water, eyeing Coxon over the glass.

  Coxon felt his face flushing as he spoke. 'My report to the board, which I will gladly address directly, indicated quite satisfactorily my concerns, sir, about sending an officer as inexperienced as Lieutenant Thorn to the Indies. A place the fellow had never been to, and certainly no place to send a man jumped up from a midshipman two weeks previous. Especially as my Irish steward could traverse with better reckoning!'

  Whitlock placed down his glass. 'I'm sure he could, Captain.'

  Land interceded. 'Let us address the matter at hand, Mister Whitlock. I would be most interested to listen to Mister Taylor-Woode's discourse.'

  'Your servant, Rear Admiral.' Taylor-Woode bowed to Land as he finally rose.

  He was young for a politician, perhaps thirty or so, with an unpleasant red rash above his collar, his face a day short of a shave. He touched some of the bound papers before him as if looking for a lost purpose.

  'I am in uncertain terms, gentlemen, as to what we are to achieve today.' He smiled uncomfortably. 'I have orders, but as to their value I am unsure to my utmost.' His ambiguity drew glances across the whole table. 'I will therefore simply put forward our situation and hope that it speaks for itself. I have some papers here…' He began to unravel his scripts, some shadow-marked with candle burns, some smeared with clumsy wax seals. 'Firstly, I must assure you that Monsieur Cayeux has our highest regard. You must take his word as well as I hope you may take my own.'

  'Absolutely,' Guinneys stated.

  'My gratitude. Without much distraction, I hope, I must establish a series of tragedies that necessitate my presence here today.' Taylor-Woode spoke with all the verbosity of a true politician.

  'Late last month, Monsieur Cayeux' - a bow to the ambassador - 'made aware to my council the failure of a certain sloop to arrive back at Calais. This sloop was returning from the Caribbean Sea after transporting a considerable gold fortune to a secret island location. An island unknown except to all but a handful of souls in possession of its map. The map is now believed lost with that sloop.'