by Mark Keating
Taylor-Woode raised a furled piece of paper in his right hand. 'This paper is the only other map in existence that reveals the location of the island itself.' The paper drew the eyes of the entire table. 'This ship, gentlemen, will have this map, signed by. Philippe the Second, with His Majesty's blessing. This ship will sail to the island with the purpose to hold its secret safe until such time that French forces can arrive.'
Samuel Taylor-Woode paused for the drama to sink in. Coxon and the other sailors, however, were corks in a turbulent sea daily, and simply waited for the Whig to continue, their eyes meeting briefly across the table.
'I am assured by Monsieur Cayeux that the vast majority of French warships are engaged with blockading the Spanish. Ever the enemy. And the only avenue of opportunity to address the vulnerability of this gold is to send an able British ally to safeguard and carry word to the French forces in the Caribbean, whereupon the Starling is our apt choice.'
Coxon shifted his seat. 'Why is the Starling so apt, Mister Taylor-Woode?'
Taylor-Woode's head craned towards Coxon. 'Why, you are on board of course, Captain,' he declared with almost insidious delight.
'I beg your pardon, sir?'
Taylor-Woode looked down to a correspondence in front of him. 'You are aware, no doubt, that in the loss' of the Noble, Captain, we also lost the ability and personage of one Alastair Lewis. His fate is unknown. Also amongst the sailors in Gibraltar there was one other soul who was absent from their company. His fate was unknown also, until the recent information regarding the theft of the Portuguese frigate from the Verdes. His importance would have passed us until we noticed in our inquiry that he drew rations with yourself, Captain.'
'I do not follow, sir?' Coxon felt the cold, unpleasant creep of his own skin, a tightness around his chest.
'Does the name "Devlin" mean anything to you, Captain Coxon?'
'It does, sir.'
Whitlock interrupted, turning his body to Coxon. 'In what sense, sir?'
'Some years ago, at the end of the war, I liberated a Patrick Devlin' - he looked coldly to the French ambassador - 'from a French sloop. A sloop of war. I took him as my manservant. He served me on the Noble.''
'He accompanied you on land, I take it, as well?' Whitlock asked.
'Of course.'
'Your Irishman who could reckon better than Lieutenant Thorn?' Whitlock leaned forward.
'Yes.'
'Taught him yourself, I'll warrant?'
'He was very observant, sir.'
'Catholic too presumably, sir?' Whitlock looked away to the stern windows with a satisfied smirk.
'Not that I noticed. What relevance is all of this, may I ask, sir?'
Taylor-Woode shook his head. 'According to our information, Captain Coxon, your man, Patrick Devlin, is the pirate leader of these ship thieves.'
Coxon's body turned to lead, all but his head, which had begun to swim.
'Would you mind' - he cleared his throat - 'reiterating that point, Mister Taylor-Woode?'
'Our information, Captain, is that Patrick Devlin is the pirate leader of over a hundred men, which affords you, as his former master, a unique opportunity to pull him to heel, as it were.'
'Astounding!' Guinneys gasped.
Coxon sat back. 'Devlin was a servant. It's only been a couple of months since he was shining my shoes. I'd find it remarkable that he could do such a thing.'
'Irishmen!' Whitlock snorted.
'Nevertheless, Captain, it seems he was able to convince the governor of St Nicholas that some other dog was the pirates' captain, whom he willingly sacrificed in order to trap the governor, murder several of his men and sail away with a prize warship. Hardly the abilities of a mere boot-wipe, would you say, Captain?'
Rear Admiral Land rapped the table. 'What has this to do with this gold that you mentioned, Mister Taylor-Woode?'
'Ah, Rear Admiral, what indeed.' Samuel Taylor-Woode sat down and drew more papers towards him, opening the sealed ones carefully. 'Shortly before Post-Captain Coxon left for the Guinea coast in January, he attended a social occasion, accompanied by Devlin, in London. The occasion was without importance other than that the Swedish ambassador was present. That same evening, the ambassador was arrested for conspiring with known Jacobite factions. The Noble sailed the next morning.'
There was an uncomfortable movement around the table. The movement was not unnoticed by the Whigs.
Taylor-Woode continued, 'We are in precarious times, gentlemen. It is only two years since Mar and his devils attempted to overthrow our noble king. The "old pretender" has fled to Rome since the death of his patron, Louis the Fourteenth, and we are assured by the regent Philippe, on the young king's behalf, that France has no desire to aid in his unlawful return to our United Kingdom.' Taylor-Woode paused to pour himself some wine, seemingly exhausted from a speech he had long prepared.
'It is the opinion, the comprehensive concern of Ambassador Cayeux, his government and ours that the knowledge of the location of this gold fortune, the passage of the sloop and its no doubt unfortunate brave sailors were revealed by some division of spies to these brigands.' He took a draught of wine. 'Jacobite spies.'
'Jacobites!' Guinneys hissed. Lieutenant Scott choked.
'It would not stretch incredulity, gentlemen,' the Whig continued, 'to presume that this gold may be used to fund some audacious attempt to return the "Stuart" to the throne. To rekindle some Jacobite spark amongst the Catholic peoples and misguided gentry!' Taylor-Woode slammed his fist down with barely enough fervour to rattle the inkwells.
The sound of Coxon laughing disturbed the atmosphere more.
Whitlock's voice raised itself above the laugh. 'You find this amusing, sir?'
'No, sir. Not at all.' Coxon calmed himself.
'Then why the mirth, sir?'
'I find the notion that there may be pirates who are interested in restoring a "Stuart" to the throne absurd, Mister Whitlock.'
'It is a well-known truth, Captain Coxon, that many of these devils do in fact ally themselves with Jacobite ideals as justification for their crimes! The ones we hang every day will attest to that, sir!' he retorted.
Samuel Taylor-Woode ignored the duel across the table. 'It is our belief that some rebellious faction has latched on to this pirate band and is directing their actions. To wit, the seizure of this gold and a warship to take it.'
Coxon listened, his arms crossed. He allowed two ticks of the clock on the writing desk to pass.
'As I have understood, gentlemen, you do not know what the fate of this sloop is. You are assuming this knowledge has fallen into pirate hands. Are you even sure this gold has arrived at this island?'
'That is precisely why we need a man-of-war to sail immediately: to affirm what we do and do not know, Post-Captain!' Whitlock snapped back, his face scarlet. 'And, God willing, give us some hope of keeping one step ahead of this Jacobite terror!'
Coxon bolted up. His chair danced away. 'I've had enough of this wash!'
'I beg your pardon,' Whitlock exhaled. 'Sir?' His eyes widened.
Coxon stood back from the table. 'This wash, sir! This wash! Ever since the war ended, with no common enemy, you slack-jawed philanderers have harped on about rebellion! Pirates! Jacobites! Trying to save your own hides and fortunes lest we question your worth at all!' Bile rose in his throat and he paused to swallow. His eyes were suddenly watering, clouding the table before him.
'How dare you, sir ' Whitlock hissed. His fists were white upon the table. 'Are you completely unaware of the events of the rebellion? Our worth, sir, is the security of this nation!'
'Oh, spare me your servitude,' Coxon mocked. 'Erskine's pitiful folly? I could pull a better attempt out of my arse, sir. And as for this pirate? Five years ago you'd be making him governor of his own bloody island for what he's done! I knew men who had chased Morgan for years only to watch your fathers give him the whole of bloody Jamaica at the end of it! And you'd have given me an honour for shooting this ba
g of shite!' He shot a finger at Ambassador Cayeux, whose jaw fell, aghast.
'You speak above your station, Captain Coxon!' Whitlock exclaimed.
'With respect, Mister Whitlock' - Coxon's hands were trembling - 'this is my station.'
'Steady now, John.' Land's calming voice returned order instantly. The clock ticked twice again. Lieutenant Scott was staring at its face to avoid looking at the table. 'No need for this. We're all together here.'
Coxon looked at Land and felt his face grow hot with blushing. He looked around the table. 'I apologise, gentlemen.'
The clock chimed twelve, a small bell like the gentle tap of a teaspoon on a plate. Coxon waited for it to finish. Talton checked his watch, wiping the surface with a tut.
Coxon continued, 'It has been a trying time these past few months.' He sat down, exhausted from his outburst. 'I must account that I almost died through disease in Africa, and some part of me in truth did die when my ship was lost. Now I hear that my own man has fallen in with pirates. It is all too much to comprehend.' He wiped a clammy hand across his forehead. He felt nauseous.
Taylor-Woode resumed his course. 'Be that as it may, Captain, I will take your irreverent outburst as a post- expression of your malady and the disappointing actions of your recent manservant. Our concern, I assure you, is for us all as a sovereign nation and for our allies. Your orders are contained within these sealed documents. Rear Admiral Land will decide who is to command the Starling. Mister Whitlock will discuss with Captain Guinneys and Mister Talton the supplying of the ship and any sale of goods, the processing of which must take no more than one day, gentlemen.'
'Impossible!' Guinneys protested. Lieutenant Scott coughed and begged pardon.
Taylor-Woode carried on. 'These pirates, who we believe are making their way west, have a two-week start on the
Starling. It is possible to catch them if you adopt a twenty- four-hour sail, for our studies indicate that pirates are unlikely to sail for more than fourteen hours at a time.'
'We can only hope that the pirates have studied the same perfect books as you, Mister Taylor-Woode,' Coxon said.
Taylor-Woode ignored the remark. 'The Starling will take the Azores route to the Caribbean. From the Verdes, the pirates should take just about thirty days to reach there. Via the Azores, the Starling will take under forty, at good speed. With luck the pirates may head for Providence Island for supplies or to careen, that will be your edge. It will be a close thing, gentlemen.'
'Close enough,' Land commented.
'I will leave the peculiar details to your orders, gentlemen. One batch each for Captains Guinneys and Coxon.' He slung the sealed papers to the officers' side of the table. 'Our prayers are that we are all wrong, that the gold is safe and the sloop merely lost. If not, then prepare to eradicate a formidable force that may well threaten the peace of our nation.'
Two hours later found Guinneys and Coxon on the quarterdeck watching a barge carrying some of their cargo to shore under the watchful eyes of Talton and Whitlock. The latter issued the transire, the customs warrant for the company's goods, though Talton palpitated with fury at the undervalued receipts with which Whitlock had furnished him.
The morale of the men improved with the vast assortment of hogsheads that were swung on board. For months they had loaded badly packed Indian goods from the factories along the Bengal coast. Now beer, rum, salted meats, sauerkraut and vegetables were stowed below, taking their minds from the English shore so tantalisingly close.
Guinneys tapped his forehead to Coxon and left the seemingly brooding post-captain, his five-guinea hat disappearing down the aft companion.
Coxon had been given command of the Starling for the mission, his rank of post-captain and his experience outweighing that of Guinneys, despite his foul humour in the Great Cabin.
Guinneys declined the quasi-rank of master and commander, and temporarily resigned himself to first lieutenant, immediately shuffling every other officer on board down a peg or two. A situation that made Coxon mildly uncomfortable.
Guinneys had merely smiled at the prospect of being yet another few months away from his creditors. He had even offered Coxon his valet, but Coxon had refused, asking for a volunteer amongst the men. The skinny form of Oscar Hodge had stepped up to the post gladly, although Coxon had found his permanently half-closed right eye, a remnant from a disorder of the nerves apparently, somewhat disconcerting.
The two men had not shared their orders. Coxon was unsure whether Guinneys had even bothered to open his, for he had accepted his demotion with a nod to Rear Admiral Land and a glass of wine to his lips, before removing his effects from the Great Cabin, even leaving the wine rack in the coach untouched.
Coxon's orders repeated the importance of ensuring the safety of the gold. The sloop had sailed with an escort. A French barque that had landed nine marines and one captain to protect the small outpost. She had then sailed on to Massachusetts and the sloop back to Calais. The barque would return to the island in late June, at which time the Starlings duty would cease. Easy words. Easily written and dusted by a fine hand.
The elaborate script confirmed the English interest: His Majesty was only concerned to establish whether the safety of the gold had been compromised by pirate action. If not, wait for the French barque and secure the island. If so, hunt down the pirates without hesitation or mercy.
Coxon scoffed at the idea of a gold depository. He had no doubt that such secret locations existed, the islands of the Caribbean as numerous as fleas on a dog and Europe ready to flare up again at any moment, but he doubted that it held such a noble purpose of wages for the forces of France and her colonial governors.
France was building. Fortifications had sprung up all over her American colonies since the end of the war. He rolled out the map before him and nodded to himself. Aye. The gold was nothing more than scrap metal for cannon, he could be sure of that. They would not be pleased to see an English warship.
All the officers had studied the paper that the island lay detailed on. She sat a few minutes north of the twentieth parallel, above the Caymans, close to the archipelago of the Cuban Jardines.
If the pirates had taken a route through the Bahamas, to make Providence, they could either turn south to Hispaniola and take the Windward Passage or sail west and around the long north coast of Cuba to reach the island, adding a week to their journey. It would be longer. But it would be safer.
Coxon would take the Windward Passage, then creep up through the Cayman Trench. He hoped the pirate captain would take the quieter route west around Cuba's northern shore. A safe pirate drag.
If luck and fate were with him, the two would approach the island from opposite compass points almost to the day.
Coming together like jousting knights across a battlefield, their lances now bowsprits. But the weather gauge would be with the Starling, not the pirates, for the trade winds blew from the south.
If the pirates did go through the Bahamas, of course. If they went to Providence. Too many unknowns. Too many maybes and second-guesses, and all the while there was the possibility that his own man was their leader.
How could it be Devlin? Coxon found it inconceivable that a man he had known, trusted, could willingly turn pirate.
The lure was there for any common man, no doubt, but surely not Devlin? Coxon himself had beaten many of the unsavoury aspects out of the man. He had shown him attitudes to raise himself from the gutter.
Perhaps he had been too kind. He had taken the magnanimous bearing of his father and shown respect to the Irishman, even taking the time to confer knowledge upon the man.
On discovering that the former butcher's boy could read, Coxon had loaned him his copy of Dampier's memoirs and bestowed him access to the logs on Sundays. Devlin was good company. A bright young man, born wrong.
If the assumption was true, there would come a day when he would stand before him. That day would end with Devlin cowering like an apologetic dog. One that had once slept on the fl
oor of Coxon's own cabin, now biting the hand that had given him a semblance of dignity beyond his birthright.
The unloading and loading would carry on into the night by lantern and sidelights. The Starling was a fine ship. A fifth- rate with thirty-four guns, going against, according to his orders, a twenty-six-gun frigate and a ten-gun brigantine. By the time he reached the Azores, his blond young men would be black with powder and firing three rounds per minute in their sleep. Her lines were weatherly enough to sail five and a half knots; laying five points from the wind, she would fairly fly to the Antilles. Aye, a good ship.
The whole Jacobite nonsense had incensed him. Whatever the politicians' true motives were, he had been given the opportunity to have some portion of revenge against at least some of the men who had attacked the Noble, attacked his ship.
And as for Devlin? A man who had stood behind Coxon for years, lurking in his shadow? Coxon stifled the thought and moved slowly down to the deck, watching all turn their heads away from his step. His world was getting larger.
* * *
Chapter Eight
Twenty-First Parallel, North Atlantic Ocean, May 1717
To the captain of Ter Meer it was the only course of action. They had come across the black smoked mirage of the two ships locked in combat shortly after one o'clock, two points off the starboard bow, two miles ESE.
At first the Dutch fluyte believed it to be a ship ablaze and intended to seek some 'waveson', the floating goods of a sinking ship - along with any survivors, naturally.
As they drew closer, Captain Claes Aarland perceived two ships crawling through a floating fog of battle, sailing abreast of one another, their sterns facing his spyglass. The escutcheon of one read Lucy, the rather innocent name besmirched by the black and white flag she clearly flew. The other, to his horror, nobly displayed the tricolour of his countrymen, her name plainly shot away, her sails in disarray, although his sailing master had insisted that the flag had not been visible moments before.
