by Mark Keating
He would address Guinneys on the island. Informally. Off the ship. Implication now would cause a confusion of loyalties. He needed all behind him to secure the gold. There was one pirate ship. There might be another.
And why not just suppose that Devlin is with the pirates, not as their leader, but a conspirator. Once he reaches the island, he immediately joins the French troops - he can speak French; he would be convincing. A battle occurs. The pirates are beaten. The ship remains, too drunk to sail, more likely than not, and Devlin and the brave troops savour their victory. He and Guinneys would walk into the stockade; Guinneys would be forced to admit that Devlin had learned honour and decency from his master, that he had ideals he was not born to possess but had demonstrated them nonetheless. Virtue by proxy.
He planted his hat firmly in place. And if Devlin had turned to the damned, then his death would be just as redeeming. The island would settle all.
There is a moment, a fleeting moment, that occurs rarely for some, consistently for others, when rowing from a ship. It is a sense of limbo, of being not in one place or another.
You watch the ship from the confines of the longboat, the enormity of her stretching above your head. There are not enough bones in your neck to glance to the top of the mainmast. And then you glance over your shoulder to your destination, small, dwarfed by the sea and sky.
A few minutes later and your ship is smaller now, rising and falling almost urgently. You can no longer hear the wind strumming the shrouds, the flap of the courses against their buntlines, the lazy yawn of the oak all around. And then, just as you notice the absence of these sounds, you see the ship is nothing more than a large painting at the end of a great hall. You turn to the land behind. It seems no larger, only brighter.
And there is the moment.
At some point on your journey, the land gets no closer, the ship gets no smaller. You hang in a world that only exists on the sea. It goes on and on.
Nothing gets smaller. Nothing gets larger.
John Coxon was experiencing the moment profoundly. Too profoundly. He began to contemplate staying at this point. Here, he had responsibility for the eight others, and coxswain, in the longboat with him. Nothing else beyond the sides of the boat. Back there, to the Starling, was England. Duty. Taxes. Orders. A hundred mouths to feed and water. And forward there, a whole new world of different responsibilities again, as well as bringing all the old ones along for the tour.
But stay here, with just these few stoic souls to worry about, a canvas sack at your feet with two paltry days' worth of food and water. Two days just sitting here. I can hear no one from the ship. I can hear no one from the land. They can ask nothing of me. I would have all the peace of the dead, whilst still holding all the potential of the living. Belonging to neither, mocking them both.
'Are you feeling unwell, Captain?' Lieutenant Scott snatched him from his disembodied thoughts.
'Certainly not, Mister Scott.' Coxon sat up, shielding his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun. The moment had passed. The island crawled towards them, the longboat slamming through the breakers at each pass of the oars.
Coxon sat at the bow facing Guinneys and Scott, both wearing their boatcloaks, despite the warmth of the day, and both with two pistols and a cutlass apiece.
Behind them, two marines tried to keep pace with the four sailors at the oars, and the coxswain sat with the double honour of maintaining the tiller and keeping the weapons dry beneath the sheets.
They had set off from the starboard side of the Starling, away from the eyes of the Lucy, as far to the eastern side of the beach as they could, scudding over the pink coral reefs. The Starling lay anchored now, with furled sails, hammocks stowed along the bulwark netting, her larboard guns still not run out.
The scant wind came so'west yet, even so, the Starlings prow ducked and rose against her anchor. To bring her closer would be the end of Mister Howard's and Mister Anderson's command. Her ship-rigged courses would be fatal against the windward shore, her staysails turning her like a herd of cattle, whilst the pirate brigantine would spin like a coin on a table with her jibs and lateen-rigged mainmast and spanker.
'Look, Captain,' Scott sang out, a grey-gloved hand pointing to the shore over Coxon's shoulder, 'a jolly-boat. The pirates, I'll be damned.'
True enough, as they closed the last thirty yards, Coxon followed Scott's hand to the small boat dragged up on the beach.
The boat was not secured - no land anchor, no proper beaching - suggesting some urgency or an imminent return.
Moments later, coral replaced by silver sand, Guinneys leaped over the gunwale into the warm, soft spume, his Cordova leather riding boots shrugging off the water as he sprinted for the jolly-boat.
Traditionally Coxon would be carried the few yards through the water, still seated on the bench he rode in on, and the rest of the planks would be brought ashore to wedge under the longboat's sides to hold her to the sands. He forsook the honour, soaking his stockings and shoes in the champagnelike effervescence, the hem of his black silk coat dipping in and out of the water as he ran to join Guinneys.
'Empty, sir.' Guinneys sounded disappointed. He glanced up at the brigantine, surprisingly close; he could almost make out the grimy faces peering over her fo'c'sle.
'What were you expecting, William? The gold in the boat?' Coxon joined him in the study of the pirate ship, seeing the men on board ducking away at his stare, like cockroaches away from a lamp. Just his presence had brought fear into them - or, if not fear, then a reminder. A reminder of the discipline. The orders. The bell. The red bag that held the cat with nine tails. Eat when told. Sleep little and sleep sober. Go hungry on my command. And now you had gone too far. Now you would choke for your freedom. Tyburn or Wapping will be the last place for you, my lads.
'She could hit us from here, Captain. Why don't she try?' Guinneys looked warily at the four six-pounders coming from the cutaways on the leeward side facing them.
'We are all friends, William. I may even affect a wave. She holds that pavillon-blanc rag: thus we are allies. Neither of us has signalled. If she tries to ply us, the game will be up and the Starling will grind her to sawdust. Come. Let's see what goes on at the fort.'
He dragged Guinneys by the arm, wheeling him away. An hour at best, and he could dispense with the pleasant regard. Secure the island. Gain back lost pride. Although Guinneys may well be innocent, Talton's broken pen had written the guilt of someone, of some presence in the small cabin other than of death.
An hour, then. Leave the coxswain at the boat, a pistol for a companion.
The eight of them, armed and justified, strode gallantly up the sandy path, the sound of the surf fading behind, and all noticed silently the army of footsteps that had gone before them.
Landri Fauche had adapted to his situation. He bowed when he presented the pirates with muskets from the barracks, no pistols, and helped Devlin reload the nine-pounder with grape. They all joined the women and the two sleeping guards in the mess. Devlin sat on the edge of a table, Bessette's sword in his hand tapping a rhythm on the floor, his head lowered.
An English ship. By appointment or by chance, it mattered little. No Shadow. No Peter Sam. Think. A chest of gold that weighs as much as three men. Perhaps a mile and a half to the shore. A short-handed crew on the Lucy. The navy about to make a show.
A party would come to shore first. Probably no more than ten, a fair assumption based on the size of a longboat.
A fleeting image of cannon fire and the clash of cutlasses through the saltpetre smoke of muskets filled his vision, but the spectacle, inspiring as it was, ended in his own inevitable death. He slid from the table and looked for a drink to ease his mind.
'Which one of these is good to drink, Dandon?'
Dandon wore again his elegant, frayed justaucorps and tricorne. He sighed despondently. 'Any of them now, Captain. Who knows? We may be fortunate enough to still be asleep when they hang us.'
Annie chirped up, 'So
what are we to do, then? I think our part's been enough, don't you?' All the ladies now adopted the same defiant pose, their hands on their hips, their heads cocked to a sneer.
'I ask no more of you, Annie. You have what monies you were promised. My only regret is that it may not be with us that you are escorted back to Providence.'
'Which is to our own detriment, ladies.' Dandon bowed. 'Now that we are all members of the demi-monde.'
'So we're to go down to this English ship, are we? That's it, then?' Annie snapped, her chin jutting to the pair of them.
'I can ask only one thing,' Devlin beseeched, his mind clutching at straws. 'Tell anyone you may see that all is well here. You have done your duty to the barracks and are returning to your ship.'
Annie rasped some kind of agreement through her lips, before swaying her way into the sunlight, the others following like ducklings.
Dandon trotted with them to open the gate. 'I have known most of you ladies, quite intimately, for quite some time.' He sounded almost apologetic for his company. 'And you know that I am not a brave man. I would be most grateful if you could find a good word to say about me to any official who may ask as to my nature.'
'You could come with us, Dandon. You owe that pirate nothing.'
'Ah, Deus misereatur. If I felt that I could leave such a fortune for one man to carry to his grave…' He opened the gate, grabbing a look at the jungle outside and the empty path beyond. 'And if you do return to Providence, be sure to tell Mrs Haggins to keep my eminent position open for me.'
'It'll be the first words I say, Dandelion old mate.' Annie grinned, and waved as they departed.
'Goodbye, sweet ladies.' He shut and barred the gate; for why, he was not sure. It seemed the thing to do.
He returned to find Landri and Devlin conversing politely on the situation. Landri confirmed there was no other shore on the island, not without traversing through several miles of thick jungle to reach a sheer drop straight to jagged rocks. The path ran from the east coast lookout to the west coast, with a break to reach the shore and that was all.
'No underground stores? Hidden landings?'
'Non, monsieur. If you wish I will gladly accept your parole. If you are willing to surrender?'
'It may come to that indeed.' Devlin turned away. He had dressed himself with a soldier's cutlass to partner Bessette's elegant scallop-guarded hanger, and now he drew it to have both in his hands as he paced the room. Dandon, a sword alien to him, stood by the door, a shoulder and an eye facing the gate of the stockade, leaning on the barrel of a musket.
'Think, Dandon.' Devlin gritted his teeth. 'What do we know? We have the gold. We have four men alive here' - he nodded to the Frenchman - 'including yourself, Monsieur Fauche. They will wake soon
'I can alleviate that distraction, Captain,' Dandon volunteered.
'Get to it. One less problem.'
Dandon gently leaned his musket to the wall and dashed to fetch his ethereal spirits. Devlin continued, now only talking to a bemused Landri.
'He could have lied. Your comrade. The bell was for a ship. My ship. There's no English ship at all.' He stopped pacing. 'Were you expecting a ship?'
Landri nodded in affirmation. 'But not until June, monsieur.'
'Then there's hope. It could be the Shadow. I need to lay eyes on that ship.' He resumed his anxious pacing.
'We'll know soon enough, Captain.' Dandon came back into the room, a small brown bottle in one hand, a large green carafe in the other, from which he took a draught. 'If the ladies are at the beach, our own mates will come and get us and all will be well.'
Devlin's mind twisted options over and over. The grand ones, the foolish ones, the bold ones. Disguise, deception, bluff, and all for a chest of gold that, for its damnable weight, might as well have been shining from the moon. A ship. If not the Shadow, then where was she? Where was Peter Sam? How far off? If at all.
He slashed the cutlass deep into the edge of a table with an alarming fury.
'I'm still here, you bastards!' He snapped the cutlass free again, dragging the protesting table a few inches. His eyes closed for a moment. Landri and Dandon shared a glance.
Sam Fletcher appeared before Devlin's lidded eyes. No other choice. If Fletcher and Hugh Harris were willing, if they were still able to follow through, if the Shadow was nearby…
'Right,' he said at last, and pointed a blade to Landri. 'How rich do you want to be, Fauche?'
They were coming down the path now, the stockade silent before them, the surprising party of women they had met traipsing up to meet them still a leering subject of conversation amongst the chortling tars.
With gentlemanly goodwill, Coxon had ordered the marines to stay with the women, find shade if possible, whilst he, Guinneys, Scott and the four hands ventured on, somewhat confused by the ladies' claims of compliance with the fort.
Coxon had questioned three of them. The one called Annie had appeared to be their hostess and she assured him that they had arrived from the ship for one purpose, and now attended to and handsomely paid they were returning, for repose, naturally. Everything was fine in the fort. They knew nothing of pirates or of one called Devlin. Their ship was crewed by modest men who had sailed them from Hispaniola for an equal share. The two others had giggled the same story. They were alone, and only as innocent as they were yesterday, no less so.
As they walked on, Guinneys could not help but cast aspersions. 'Surely they belong to the ship, Captain? They're with them, are they not? The pirates?'
Coxon removed his tricorne, ran a sleeve across his forehead. 'I have no doubt. A whores' ship the same colour as the pirate brigantine? Unlikely.' A conflict he could not quite grasp kept surfacing within Coxon. Devlin, a pirate captain. Devlin, loyal servant. Devlin, lording over all with bloodied sword and smoking pistol. Devlin, biding his time to overthrow his pirate masters and show his true colours.
'All that bunting, though. It's a possibility,' Guinneys theorised.
'It's a deception. That's how he got in here. Using bloody whores like a Trojan horse. Now hold, William, look alive.' He waved them all down to crouch along the path and observe the fort.
Nothing stirred. No sound from beyond the austere gate. No lookout in the tower.
'Seems quiet, sir,' Guinneys pointed out needlessly.
Coxon ignored him and pulled two of the sailors out to the front. 'You two,' he whispered. 'Go around the walls. See if it's clear. Look sharp now.'
Without hesitation, the two men in slop-hose loped down to the gate. Finding themselves still alive, they sidled round the far wall and disappeared.
Guinneys jostled Scott as he pulled one of his pistols clear of his belt.
'What say you, Scott? Fool's errand? Pirates ahoy, ho-yo, ho-yo, eh?'
'Quiet, old boy,' Scott hissed.
Coxon looked back at his two officers harshly, then back to the fort, waiting for a shot or a yell to break the tension standing on his skin.
Moments later the two sailors popped out from the opposite wall, indicated all was well and waited, stuck fast to the wall.
Guinneys shuffled up to Coxon's side. 'What now, sir? All clear around, it seems?'
'We need to know what goes on in there. Whose party this is.'
'How do we do that, sir?'
'Well, for one thing I've had enough of waiting for something to be done to me.' Coxon dragged Guinneys up and waved the others to follow. 'I'm going through that bloody door. I'm not about to be afraid of a man who used to wipe my shoes.'
They were all against the wall now. The sailors were armed with musketoons, cutlasses and their own gullies, each gentleman with a brace of pistols, hanger or cutlass.
'The door is barred,' Coxon reported from the front.
Guinneys threw off his boatcloak, dashed up the path, then looked back to the fort. 'There is a bell,' he shouted. 'Want me to hit it, Captain?'
'Your shot would draw more attention, William.'
'Yes, of course. Silly of m
e. Damn nerves, I suspect!' He cocked his pistol.
'No, William.' Coxon raised a palm to him. 'One of the musketoons will do better.' He gestured to Adam Cole, a burly soul striped in blue. Cole rose out of his crouch and away from the wall. Instinctively he looked upwards for a target; then, aware of all eyes upon him, he snapped back the dog-head and nestled the musketoon into his shoulder, firing, a breath later, over the stockade wall, the explosion reverberating off the walls. He looked to his captain like a child for praise, then lowered his mind to his cartouche, reloading as he walked back to the small group.
'Good, Cole.' Coxon nodded. As if to reinforce the gunfire, he kicked out at the door again and again with his buckled shoes, simulating the impatient knocking of a giant.
Coxon stepped away, perspiring coldly from the heat and the effort of his rapping at the gate.
Guinneys' voice wafted up to his ear. 'Someone locked those ladies out, Captain, not ten minutes ago.'
In response to Guinneys' words, barely uttered, the solid sound of a wooden bar drawing back scraped through them.
The gate dragged slowly inwards, revealing a bright world beyond the shade of the stockade wall, the small, grief- stricken form of Landri Fauche stepping into the gap, musket in hand.
'Bonjour, mes amis.' He smiled weakly. 'You are English, no? You have come to my aid, monsieur?'
Devlin checked his bonds. His arms were tied behind his back as he sat at the feet of the dead Bessette, the tablecloth again concealing the hiding place of the black chest. Dandon stood at the intersecting door to the corridor, Bessette's pistol in one hand covering Devlin, the other nervously sleeking through his hair beneath his wide yellow hat.
'Did I tell you how I became the captain of these men, Dandon?' Devlin almost sang.
'You did not, sir.' Dandon smiled back.
