The Pirate Devlin

by Mark Keating

  Nevertheless, Captain Aarland had given the order to close: to aid the black Dutch frigate, assured that there was no pirate who would stand against two allied ships. With their odds out of favour they would flee like the cowards they were.

  Ter Meer boasted only ten six-pounders and eighty souls, a merchant sailing home from Curaçao, but to the frigate she would be an angel, and the brigantine that through some lucky happenstance had surprised her would surely show her heels. Aarland pictured the celebratory meal that the two gallant captains would share and the gratitude that would be bestowed upon him.

  It was somewhat disappointing to Aarland, then, that he found himself now chained to his own foremast with the fearful cackling of the pirates ringing throughout his deck like the black pleasure of a crowd around a gallows.

  At first all had gone well. As Ter Meer approached, the brigantine had lowered her sails; the cannon stopped; she veered away. Cheers echoed across the Ter Meer as her anxious crew realised they would not fight this day and they could forget about their wages being lost along with their blood amongst the scuppers.

  There had been some mild concern that as they reached the frigate, the gun-crew still seemed engaged in frantic action, but this had been dismissed as wise caution as the pirate brigantine was still close by.

  On drawing level with the stationary frigate, Aarland scanned the ship for her captain and waved above his head, slow and high, to signal his presence.

  Instead of the salutations of a beholden compatriot, a deafening broadside of chainshot cracked from the deck and quivered over Aarland's head. There was a strange sensation of air being sucked away, of an alien heat against his face. Rigging and spars flew from their place. Men seemed to shrink, returned to wailing children as black smoke crept over the gunwale.

  The shouts of Baernt Corniel, his sailing master, spat into his face, and Aarland turned to see the travelling masts of the brigantine above their bow. She had turned, a formidable show of speed, heeling against the wind. Now her larboard guns faced Ter Meer, and on the up-roll released a broadside of chain into the foremast, tearing the course like paper.

  His wife would weep at an empty grave now, he was sure, no doubt baring her shoulders in a black dress to his brother. Such thoughts at such a time. Focus on the now. Concentrate on the black-haired pirate now wearing Aarland's tricorne, moving amongst the quelled crew, who sat with lowered heads and crowded the deck. He dared, audaciously, to make a speech to the men. His men. Some insistence that they would not be relieved of their personal belongings, that they were safe as long as they obeyed, for only the cargo held the pirates' interest, and the officers' wares of course.

  Now the pirate turned his attention to Aarland. He stepped carefully over the legs of the crew towards him, the deck mercifully free from blood due to their immediate surrender.

  Aarland was lashed uncomfortably to the mast, his coat long stolen and being worn by a scarlet-faced brigand, his grey wig slanted almost over one eye, sweat sticking his shirt to his narrow back. He was in this state, far removed from the one he awoke in, when a pirate spoke to him.

  'Captain Aarland.' The man's voice was soft, even cultured almost. 'The deception of the cannon was my own thought, designed to bring you gallantly to our rescue. My apologies if I have humiliated you, but you must admit that my plan caused the least harm to us both.'

  'Damn you, English! I will not have words with you! How dare you speak to me!' Aarland's Dutch accent was proud and Devlin let him have his moment of bravado.

  'My men will remove whatever you have in your hold that's of use to us. I myself require more trivial goods, namely your logs and any news you may have carried from the Indies of what goes on lately. If you'd be so kind.'

  'I will be kind enough to tell you to go to hell, dog!' Aarland's voice was shrill. His anger had grown from the moment that the man with the bald head and red beard lashed him to his own ship. He had watched helplessly as men ran from his cabin carrying his medicine chest, personal goods and sea charts. Now he was raging.

  Devlin winced. 'Now that attitude won't help any of us settle this matter quickly, will it, Captain?'

  'It is my dignity that forbids me from helping you, sir, not my humour!'

  'Ah! Is that it? I understand.' Devlin wheeled round to the Dutch sailors. He watched their curious faces staring at the two captains. He half turned back to Aarland. 'I can remove that obstacle from you, Captain, if it helps our discussion.'

  A few minutes standing naked in front of his crew and Claes Aarland found a new voice. With some encouragement, Devlin learned of the blizzards that had paralysed trade all along the northeast coast of the colonies at the end of February. Of the death of the infamous Sam Bellamy, former consort of Benjamin Hornigold, whose ship Whydah went down with all but two of its crew in a storm off Wellfleet, Massachusetts, barely a fortnight ago, the sinking of which had brought treasure hunters from all nations to drag the area. The world was rid of a notorious cut-throat.

  There was little news of consequence to cause any consternation in Devlin. He thanked the captain for the access to his logs as he leafed casually through the tome that Sam Fletcher had brought him.

  Devlin walked the waist of the ship as he tried to read the Dutch scrawl. Deciphering most of the words was strangely simple but he found himself hovering over the cargo list, until the scrawl became meaningless again. He was broken from his thoughts by the unfortunate sound of Hugh Harris singing drunkenly from the quarterdeck, a bottle of brandy in each hand, Aarland's wig now adorning his head, his pistols hanging from a red sling round his neck.

  Most of the rather frugal goods had been craned aloft or shouldered by the crew to the Lucy, now designated consort to the Shadow, the name he had properly christened the frigate.

  Molasses, rum, hogsheads of pork and indigo were all the hold of the Ter Meer seemed to have, but Devlin's eyes returned to the log.

  There were pages of figures. Scribblings, often written in double figures, that from their dimensions made no sense until it dawned that they could only be ages, and that the repetition of three words over and over were the Dutch words for woman, boy, girl, alongside the obvious 'man'.

  It was as the words on the page began to cohere that something else also fell into place: the smell.

  On coming aboard after the first few exciting minutes were over and the Dutch had been corralled, there had been amongst the customary scent of damp wood, pitch and oakum, an echo of something almost effluent, akin to all the obnoxious discharges that flow down London's streets and mingle with the vomit of the starving drunks outside the gin houses.

  Peter Sam appeared before him and Devlin looked up at the severe face and closed the book. Peter Sam held a small chest, the timbers of which were held together by black ironwork, the lock smashed.

  'I'd say there were about ten guineas' worth of Dutch tin in here. A poor haul by accounts.' He sighed his disappointment. 'Nothing but these notes is all else there is.' He passed a crumpled batch of papers into Devlin's left hand. Each slip was no larger than a note of credit.

  Devlin had not been below. Peter Sam had.

  'What's it like in the hold, Peter?' he asked.

  'Stinks like they swab with chamber lye, Cap'n.' He grinned.

  'Chamber lye?'

  'Piss, Cap'n. It stinks like they swab with piss. They got more irons down there than Newgate, I wouldn't doubt and all.'

  Devlin looked to the notes in his hand, then turned and walked back to Captain Aarland.

  Aarland's grey body was still lashed to the foremast. He was holding his gaze above the heads of his crew and watching his goods being swung over to the pirate vessel by pulleys rigged over the yardarms as makeshift derricks.

  'Aarland.' Devlin pushed Aarland's shoulder to force his attention. 'There were slaves aboard this ship. Where's the gold for them?'

  'I have no gold for them,' he sneered. 'What I have are those papers in your hand.'

  'What are these?'
<
br />   'Worthless to you, piraat.' Aarland spoke confidently, as if it did not matter about his exposed extremities. 'I had sixty Negroes from El Mina. They were diseased; over half died. Those papers are my insurance I must take back to reclaim my monies.'

  Devlin glanced at the notes. 'These chits are for all the Negroes. You said half died?'

  'Ignorant fool! I don't get insurance for half a cargo! They all go over the side! They are all chained together, it is easier, they fall like rosary beads!'

  Devlin had only ever met one slave. It had been outside a house in Chatham one freezing February night. Devlin had stood, tramping his feet, clenching his fists and hunching against the cold, waiting for Coxon to appear from the warmth within.

  Standing at one of the pillars of the house had been a black man, smartly dressed with fine buckled shoes and white stockings, but quite absurd in a white wig above his ebony face. Devlin had offered him some tobacco, which he had politely refused. Devlin had asked him his name.

  'Adam,' he had replied. Then, in a second breath, 'But my real name is Ehioze Omolara.' His eyes had glowed wistfully. 'It means "Born at the right time above the envy of others". May I ask what is your name, sir?'

  'Patrick Devlin.'

  'And what does that mean, "Patrick Devlin"?'

  'It means I'm stuck out here with you, Adam.'

  'We should leave, Cap'n,' Peter Sam stated. 'We should take some men with us.' This was true. The real motive when Sam Morwell had first spied the Dutch fluyte was to gain more hands. Splitting forces between the two ships, twenty-five on the Lucy, eighty on the Shadow, with Black Bill commanding the Lucy, left the pirates shorter-handed than they liked it. Devlin, however, was reluctant to press men into his service, but the Dutch sailors looked neither hungry nor desperate.

  'I’ll ask the question of them, Sam.' He looked over Peter's shoulder as he watched Dan Teague carrying a sack. A light load considering he held it away from him like a dead thing.

  'Take a look at this, Cap'n.' Dan presented the bag at the foot of the mast before Aarland. Devlin and Peter Sam both peered into its mouth at what appeared to be black clumps of coarse, wiry wool.

  'Hair.' Aarland nodded to the sack. 'For kussen, you know? Cushions. Cheaper than feather. Very good.'

  Devlin straightened himself. 'I'm confident of that, Aarland. I'm beginning to think that your mother raised you from afar.' His speech was muted. He felt a rising in his stomach and the smell of the ship became almost palpable. 'You say these sixty notes are for your insurance, then, Aarland'

  'Ja. No monies you will have from me, piraat.'

  'We'd best be putting them somewheres safe, then, eh?' He winked at Aarland, then shouted to Hugh Harris. 'Hugh! Be bringing me a bottle of that brandy fore!'

  'Time's a-wasting, Pat,' Peter Sam reminded him.

  'Long summer, Peter. Get back to the Shadow. I'll be along.' Peter Sam nodded and moved to ascend the boards that joined the ships.

  Hugh came up and slapped a bottle into Devlin's hand. 'Now, Kapitein' - he faced Aarland - 'I would be happy to see you eat the fruits of your labours.' He stuffed the first of the notes into Aarland's shocked mouth, then poured a swig of brandy into his face. Aarland sputtered a stream of soaked obscenities. Devlin answered by shoving more paper into his hole.

  He kicked Aarland's legs from under him and pushed him down the mast to sit awkwardly upon the deck. Aarland choked as the paper went down. Devlin poured more brandy down his throat, then passed the paper and brandy to Hugh.

  'Finish it, Hugh,' he said to the pirate. 'Make him eat them all.' He looked to Aarland, making sure he heard his words. 'Else stick a dagger in his ear and keep pushing till he dies.' From somewhere the dagger was already in Hugh's right hand.

  'Aye, Cap'n.' Hugh knelt down to Aarland and went merrily to his task.

  Devlin turned to the Dutch crew. 'I'll make this short,' he said, his hands on his broad belt. 'If you can understand me, I invite you to join us.' He looked at the blue eyes before him not knowing if they could read his intentions. 'I have only four rules.' He held up four fingers. 'Eat well, drink well, fight well and swear to leave me when you have a thousand pounds to your own account.' He cocked his head back to the naked, retching Aarland. 'Or stay and go home with this paper-eating dog who gave you up like a hand of cards.' He paused. There was little movement from the huddled crew.

  Then one stood up. Tall and white-haired. Young and broad- shouldered. Devlin guessed that he had some sway in the crew, for as he rose four others followed after him, each one in bold contrast to the skinny, liver-wrecked crew he had inherited. The remainder of the crew sunk their heads into their chests, forlorn but loyal. Devlin pointed to the Shadow.

  'Go ahead. Make yourself known by any name that you will. A doubloon greets your signing hand.' He bowed and motioned to his ship. A few men but honestly taken. It would do.

  An hour later and the Ter Meer was a memory to drink to. It was testimony to the fear the brotherhood could create that at the end only Hugh and Devlin remained on the ship, surrounded by almost eighty men and masters, who did nothing to oppose the will of two men.

  They hardly glanced when the body of their captain slumped awkwardly sideways, tied as he was, unconscious and drooling.

  They watched with half-lifted eyes as the boots tramped like giants past them, not one of them daring to look up. There was the solemn moment when the planks and hooks scraped off the gunwale at the fo'c'sle and the shadow of the frigate began to pass along the deck, its masts shrinking away across the boards like the fingers of a withdrawing hand.

  No one could remember hearing the sounds of a ship underway, the shouts, the chains, the reeving of ropes through blocks accompanied by the heaving calls of sailors.

  They were only awakened from their numbness by the flapping of their broken sails and yards and the dryness of their throats. Still sitting, talking in hushed voices, below the protection of the bulwarks, they tended to their captain, trying vainly to salvage some of the smeared notes that littered the deck. It was a considerable time before the bosun pulled himself up and raised his head above the side.

  The ocean was calm, as blue as the sky, empty, save for what appeared to be a white tablecloth floating slowly towards the hull. The bosun stood, safe now in their loneliness, and trained his eyes upon it. Obligingly, the ocean pulled the cloth tight. The sailor turned away, his eyes welling with anger or shame, and he brushed past his sailing master, who stepped up to the bulwark to see for himself the fallen flag of the red, the white and the blue that danced along beside them.

  The remnants of a boiled fowl lay pitifully across a silver platter in the Shadows Great Cabin, surrounded by several green bottles in varying states of emptiness. Devlin had kept the luxury of the cabin that occupied the rear of the upper deck, so he and Peter Sam sat pleasantly enough in the room, ruminating on plans afoot.

  Miles behind them, strewn across the ocean, were all the useless officers' quarters and bulkheads from the upper deck. Torn from place to afford more space. More space for men. More space to cut out gun ports. More space to fight.

  The two pirates sat smoking upon the window lockers, staring over the sea through the open slanting stern windows. The once-secret map lay stretched out, its corners weighted down with pistols upon the table.

  Peter Sam spoke through a blue cloud of smoke. 'If those peaks be accurate on that paper, there'll be no landing on the north side: that'll be sheer cliffs all the way round.'

  'Aye. The only landable shore is the windward one, which would not be our wisest.' Devlin sighed.

  The windward shore would not be hospitable to either ship. One could come in too fast and run aground on some hidden reef and, should any hostile action occur, the Shadow, for all her bluff lines, would be against the wind like a boot in mud. The Lucy would fare better with her fore-and-aft rigging, and Devlin suggested such to Peter Sam.

  'Proposition sure enough. Still risky getting her in.'

  The t
wo men stood, walked to the table and looked down at their future. The island stretched out like a miniature Cuba, probably no more than five miles across by three wide, but the simple diagram was littered with peaks and troughs; both men envisioned the black volcanic rock rising straight out of the bright blue sea, forbidding any landing from almost all sides. Only the southern side, the windward one, provided any sort of beach.

  'We could sit the Shadow two miles west' - Devlin placed his finger offshore - 'boat the men across to the Lucy and sail her into the beach.'

  'Aye. The problem I have' - Peter Sam picked up Devlin's hand and placed his finger on the west coast - 'is that if I were a small garrison I would have a lookout on either coast. I could see a ship from maybe twenty or thirty miles approaching me. You're clever, Devlin. But you can't make a ship invisible.'

  'I can try.' He took his hand away and reached for a bottle. Peter Sam smiled his rare grin. Devlin had grown on him sure enough.

  The men had voted Devlin captain unanimously, the day after leaving the Verdes. Peter Sam had no wish to be captain, and Devlin had a glamour about him without a doubt. He could navigate, he had a humour, and somehow his plans worked with no loss of life. Their lives at least.

  Toombs's plans had been desperate of late and the purse had been growing thin. With ease, Devlin had turned calamity into prospect. The wine stores of the Shadow had granted the men a heady passage, and Valentim Mendes's own personal fortune, luckily kept in the captain's cabin, had added almost a thousand doubloons to their coffers.

  Peter Sam still harboured one shred of misgiving: the abiding thought that if Devlin had brought the map to everyone's attention before Sao Nicolau, Seth might have forsaken his drunken plan. And Thomas Deakins would still be alive and not with his bones strewn amongst the dragon and marmulan trees of some godforsaken island spat out from Africa.