The Pirate Devlin

by Mark Keating

  'Enough,' Devlin said at last. 'To it. We'll fetch that soul's musket and check the barracks for any fair weapons.'

  He stood and tried to concentrate, his eyes still drawn to the chest of gold.

  'That bell will bring the guards from the cliffs if they are not here already. The Shadow will be presenting her feint attack on Lucy. No need for that now. Things have gone better than I had planned, Dandon. We need just get to the beach and tell our mates.'

  'And dispatch the remainder of the guards, of course. Assuming there is at least one on either cliff?'

  'We saw two men ordered off the beach. One I'm sure lies out there with the soul from the path. That leaves one, for sure. I would lay to it that there is another on the opposite side.'

  'May all your assumptions be correct, Captain: I prefer the odds.'

  'A handful of coin may persuade them to be less aggressive.' He straightened his waistcoat, tightened his sash, and checked the action on his pistol yet again. The musket outside would be welcome and there might be more pistols in the barracks.

  'Come.' He prised Dandon from the mesmerising sight of the gold, and pulled the outer door inwards.

  The door had opened less than halfway when a shot raked and whistled through the gap, its path actually visible to them through the dust in its wake; Bessette's body jerked as the ball struck him in the eye and exploded out the back of his head.

  Devlin slammed shut the door, his back upon it, holding back the world from his gold.

  Dandon bared his gold teeth, repulsed by the bloody end of Captain Bessette. 'So that's how long it takes to walk from the cliffs. I had wondered.'

  Dominic Duphot and Landri Fauche had met and hailed each other almost at the stockade's gate. Landri had been on his winding way from his watch on the eastern cliff when he had heard the bell, followed moments later by the fort's cannon, which had prompted him into a run.

  He had paused at the edge of the trees along the path to load his musket. It had taken two attempts; at first he only succeeded in pouring powder over his hand rather than down the barrel as his nerves rattled.

  Waiting there, lost as to what had occurred, he felt his heart leap on seeing Duphot running to the gate on the opposite path.

  Together they had pushed open the gate, each inch revealing more and more of the lifeless bodies of their comrades in the distance. They exchanged bold looks, drew back the locks on their muskets and stepped over the threshold.

  Duphot was drawn to the leather satchel of Favre Callier, abandoned, some of his sketches littering the ground, lifting weakly in the mild breeze. As they passed the fallen musket they began to hunch down, searching for an attack.

  They could see the door to their mess open and another of their men lying on his back, cutlass still in hand. Then they reached the bodies sprawled before the cannon, their peppered tunics testament to their fate.

  They ducked together and ran behind the barracks on their right, their backs to the wall, their muskets like shields across their chests.

  They whispered fearing enemy ears and eyes upon them, and began to creep along the rear of the barracks, between that and the stockade wall, to the bottom corner. Once there, down on one knee, Duphot could edge his head out and see the door to their captain's quarters past the cannon and, to his left, halfway up the wooden wall, the open mess door. For a moment Duphot imagined he could hear the lilt of a woman's voice; then he was distracted by the sound of Landri's weapon discharging next to his right ear.

  'I got one, Dominic!' Landri yelled. 'The door opened. Did you see?'

  'No, I did not see! Merde, and now I cannot hear, you fool!' Duphot readied his gun and trained it on the mess.

  'Ugly bastard sitting at the capitaine's table. Smiling, by God! I got him right in the head!'

  'Quiet! Look!'

  A woman had run to the doorway of the mess, a bottle of wine in her hand, her skirt removed, showing her undergarments, which did not distract Duphot as much as he might have thought it would. Her face was panicked, startled by the shot. Duphot took aim to her belly.

  'Halt! Do not move!'

  She screamed and vanished instantly stage right.

  'Merde!' Duphot lowered his musket. 'Did you see any others, Landri?'

  'Non. Only that bastard, but someone shut the door.'

  'They could be in the mess by now. Looking right at us, plotting against us. Those poor women.'

  'Cover me whilst I reload, Dominic.' Landri dropped back to the wall of the barracks, standing to begin the long fifteen seconds it would take to prime his musket.

  Duphot spied carefully on the gaping door of the mess. The doorway revealed nothing but darkness within. He remained kneeling in a ready pose, the butt of his weapon in the sand, its barrel skyward, the musket nestling into his body as he rested upon it. Nothing moved. The living sounds of the forest came gently over the stockade walls, mocking the tension Duphot felt within; he could not recall the relentless chorus of cicadas ever sounding so urgent and overpowering.

  Landri's heart beat once against his ribs as he slid the rod of his musket back into place, empowered again by the solid feeling of a loaded gun.

  'What shall we do, Dominic?' he asked, instantly promoting Duphot to his immediate commander.

  Dominic wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, momentarily taking his eyes off the doorway of the mess. 'I do not know,' he hissed. 'I am confused. Who is dead? Who is alive?' He returned his fixed stare to the door. 'I only know that I will kill whoever comes from that door.'

  'One is dead. How many are there?' Landri's voice was calmer than he felt.

  Dominic leafed through the short narrative in his head of what he did know. Two men had come to the island. Two men and one whore stood on the beach. An hour or so later he had heard the faint peal of the bell and the flat, sharp report of the nine-pounder.

  He had been lying flat outside the tent on the western post, his afternoon watch under way, idly tracking the sail moving slowly SSE towards them, his telescope constantly fogging, his thumb swiftly wiping it under cursed breath, turning the sail into a greasy smear as he re-sighted it. Somewhere inside the vellum tube, an aphid had found a home, and occasionally it leaped into view, appearing to devour the little ship creeping over the horizon. Favre had shown him the ship when they had slunk back to the cliff, when the women had arrived, when the afternoon had such possibilities. Together they had watched the ship as they sat ripping up tufts of grass like petulant schoolboys, slapping the insects on their faces, moaning how they were having none of the fun, and every now and then glancing up at the grey sail on the horizon.

  Favre's watch was over, anyhow. He would take lunch. Make sure there was plenty of stew left for Duphot, and they had bid au revoir to one another.

  Now Favre was dead. As Duphot trundled down the dusty path, summoned by the bell, he saw the brigantine and the other ship, in the offing, cruising past the breakers, the bluff lines and tight rigging of a man-of-war, a British pennant above. Two ships. Five months of nothing but gardening and drill, and then within hours a fleet descends on their little stronghold.

  He did not pause, or dwell on what he saw, but carried on wheeling downhill to the fort, when he saw Landri lurking by the edge of the trees holding his musket, as if surprised that it was in his hands at all.

  He related all this to Landri, ignoring the itching in his eyes from Landri's shot and keeping them fixed on the mess.

  'But the English, they will help, non? We are all allies now, oui?' Landri's politics were simple.

  'Ah, that is why those men have killed our comrades, non'? Because we are all friends now, oui? He sniffed derisively at Landri. 'Tell me, Landri, if I pissed down your back would you think that it was raining?'

  'Maybe there is only one left? You said there were two, Dominic. I have killed one. Bessette and Lieutenant Xavier would never let anyone else ashore: they would not take such a risk.'

  He was right, Duphot thought. No one else would
have come ashore. Ah, but Bessette's mind was addled by his abscess, his rotten jaw; he was not as he was. Then again,

  Lieutenant Xavier was as sharp as a shard of flint, was he not? Irrepressible. Constant.

  Yes. Two men. Some argument had occurred. Perhaps the gold discovered. Women coerced. Tempers unhinged.

  'Landri, I think there is only one man. You are right. We will hold out here. That English frigate will be-'

  Behind his head there came a click. Duphot knew the sound. He did not know the soft voice that followed it, laced with a layer of menace.

  'What English frigate?' Devlin asked.

  Dominic Duphot turned slowly, his fingers finding their grasp on the musket weakening. He saw the tall man from the beach standing a spit away from him, his pistol loosely aimed at Duphot's guts. Beside him, the sallow-eyed one in a yellow damask vest held a smaller gun to Landri's trembling neck and relieved him of his musket.

  'Carry on,' Devlin encouraged with a beckoning from his pistol. 'What English frigate?'

  Duphot stood, his knee cracking awkwardly as he did so, and gently, without request, let his musket rest against the wall of the barracks.

  'I will say no more, monsieur.' He spoke in English. Again he thumbed the pages of his mind back through all that must have happened, back to the point after Landri's shot. The two must have run from Bessette's anteroom to his bedchamber and out through the window, making their way up to the gate and around to come up behind them, probably actually following their footsteps.

  Duphot spoke dejectedly to his comrade, 'By any chance, Landri, did the soul that you shot have a short beard and a shiny bald head?'

  'Out. Bald. Some black hair? But it was just a glimpse.'

  Landri looked nervously between the two brigands.

  'It was for the best, mate.' Dandon allayed Landri's fears. 'His mouth was worse than a king's, I assure you.'

  Duphot continued, speaking slowly to Devlin, for all English were ignorant with gin, 'So there was only two of you, eh?' He smiled, almost chuckling. 'Do you have any idea what you have done, monsieur? What you have achieved this day?'

  'Some. And you do not have to die because of it. You can help us carry the chest to shore.' At word of the chest, Duphot s shoulders sank, his head became limp almost to his heart and he sighed deeply, shaking his head as Devlin spoke on. 'Those are my ships that look to the beach. Your position here has gone. But I'll grant you safe passage off this island. Or you can stay here with your three countrymen who still live.'

  Duphot raised his head. 'You are not a complete devil, then, monsieur, non› And these women that are all hiding in the mess are truly with you?'

  'They are. Now, what'll it be?' Devlin took a step back, squarely facing Duphot.

  He had not expected Duphot to laugh.

  'What sails does your ship have, monsieur?'

  'Why?'

  'And she would fly a British pennant, non? Her paint, yellow and black?'

  Devlin looked to Dandon. One small look away from Duphot.

  All Duphot required.

  In the same moment he went from a sluggish Breton to a Parisian lion, and Devlin was on his back, the blue sky framing Duphot's snarling, slavering head as he wrestled the pistol from Devlin's grasp. Prayers of hate spat out through Duphot's teeth. He was heavy, strong, his breath hot and foul. Devlin felt the pistol being dragged effortlessly from him. Then there was the crack of the small overcoat pistol and a look of surprise on Duphot's sagging face as he rolled off Devlin like a spent lover.

  Devlin pulled himself up to see Dandon's smoking gun in one hand, Landri flapping like a captured hen in the other.

  'Do I have to spend my entire life, Patrick, shooting men for you?' Dandon cursed, slapping Landri across the head to be still.

  Duphot was smiling, mumbling, the pistol in his right hand. Devlin stood over him, his left foot on his wrist, and bent to gain back the weapon, catching Duphot's final triumphant words.

  'Pity, Capitaine… you almost had it,' he coughed, choking on his own last breath. 'I have seen your ship… I have seen those grey sails. Far away… travelling south. These… this ship are Englishmen… come to kill you, non? Your own kind. Heh!' Then his head drifted back, with his last gasp mouthing reverently, 'Those poor, poor women… women.'

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  Letter from Edward Talton to the East India Trading Company

  To the Officers of Administration

  Leadenhall Street

  London

  14 May 1717

  To all who sees these presents, Greetings,

  I wish notice to be drawn to this letter so dated as displeasure as to the treatment of the Company concerns regarding our return from the Company factory placements in our allotted interest. Unsatisfactory relations have developed as direct interference of Whitehall concerns. Sir, our stock has been undervalued beyond our investment in the Board and my own personal involvement has increased beyond my role and reasonable fortitude.

  When this letter finds you I shall be in the Antilles as partner to a Board and Parliamentary mission that has no Company requirements as consequence of which I suggest removal of percentage of success from officers related to His Majesty's ship Starling. It has not been given outside my powers of office to mention most reluctantly that we pursue the adventurous nature of one known now to me as the pyrate Devlin.

  On my return, some months hence, I will gladly represent the Company interest in complaints and seizures of percentages.

  I note with concern the interest that has developed in my position since the appointment of Captain John Coxon has come to the fore.

  Several of the officers have visited of late in my own private quarters and shown unwarranted interest in my correspondence.

  Whether this is a consequence of the Board is not to my knowledge and I inform the Company in my own interest naturally.

  I find the ship to be in good order to the best of my scrutiny and query and suggest any funding to repairs and fitting to be denied.

  Your obedient servant,

  Edward James Talton.

  His Majesty's ship Starling.

  Captain John Coxon.

  'Tell me, Doctor, is there any means of testing for arsenic poisoning? Immediately, I mean?' Coxon had summoned Surgeon Wood to his cabin as he readied himself for shore, and was silently gratified that the Scotsman was the first person for quite some time to actually knock on his door for permission to enter.

  He had partially turned to face Doctor Wood, as he changed into a woollen shirt and a cambric steinkerke, and at such position kept the rising and falling anchorage of the Lucy constant through the larboard window of his cabin, never far from his eye.

  'Arsenic? Why do you ask, Captain?' Doctor Wood bowed under one of the overhead beams as he stepped into the room and closed the door.

  'Before we dispense with Mister Talton, I wondered if it would not be prudent to eliminate any foul play, 'tis all.' He flapped on his dark brown vest, ignoring the slightly damp odour it gave off, and began buttoning.

  'You suspect a murder?'

  Coxon took a small personal delight in the rolling resonance the Scotsman gave to the word 'murder'. He made the concept almost seductive.

  'I should eliminate the prospect. I find such a sudden death unusual at the very least.'

  'Aye, well, you could probably discard your arsenic concept, then, Captain.' Wood removed his pince-nez, habitually closing his eyes and squeezing the bridge of his nose. 'It's a painful way to go. Not half as romantic as history may have led you to believe.'

  'How so?' Coxon, his vest secured, crossed the cabin to select a sword from the three draped upon the sloping wall.

  'It would take almost an hour to actually kill, supposing you had ingested, say, a small ink-bottle's worth. And in that hour you'd be in such agony and all manner of sickness… you would not go quietly.'

  'I see.' Coxon decided on a short cutlass and narrow black crossbel
t. Once adorned, he made for his cot between the bulkheads, his private partition folded back. 'Is there any test you may be able to perform on Mister Talton to check for poison?'

  'I could gut him. Take a look at his organs. Most poisons rely on suffocation of the organs themselves… Are we actually contemplating this, Captain?'

  Coxon opened the baize-lined box that contained two simple, brassed English pistols. Not his own. His own commissioned pistols had gone down with the Noble, he hoped, rather than survive to be in the hands of some contemptible soul on the ship abreast of them.

  'Hmm?' He had been distracted by the implication of personal arms. 'Oh, not really. Not to concern yourself. But perhaps tomorrow, when this is over, I would appreciate a trip to the cockpit with you, before we commend Talton's body. Just for the sake of my log, you understand.'

  Wood nodded compliantly. 'If you wish, Captain. Aye.' He made a note to check his supply of sawdust, and begged if that was all that Coxon required of him.

  'Dismissed, Doctor Wood. But,' he added solemnly, 'do not tell anyone of what we have spoken, if you please, sir.'

  Wood grunted an accord, knuckled his head and removed himself quietly, silently affirming that all seamen were mad by nature.

  Coxon began unfolding from the baize inserts of the pistol box the small waxen folds of paper that held five prepared cartridges apiece. Each cartridge a small packet of powder and ball. Methodically, he patch-loaded and primed each pistol; his mind was elsewhere, however. Guangzhou, to be precise.

  Thoughts of China, Bombay, the delicate, deadly, strange Far East. Guinneys had spent three years back and forth throughout the factories and markets of those unholy lands. Guinneys had even attempted to entertain Coxon with tales of how poisoning was a capital punishment - reserved for nobility, no less. It would not take much for a curious man like Guinneys to be persuaded to purchase or even receive as a gift a small, elegant bottle of some substance.

  It was a possibility. Although for why, Coxon was at a loss. He stood, aware of how long he had left Guinneys alone, aware that Mister Howard would be counting his quarter bill for the umpteenth time. He picked his hat up off the cot, looked inside, ran a finger round the band, musing on the day ahead.