The Pirate Devlin

by Mark Keating

  Before the end of Devlin's words, Coxon sprang forward, sword swinging.

  The chime of steel sang across the beach as Devlin met the blow. They pushed each other back silently, shared one sharp breath and clashed again and again, faster now, spinning across the beach, etching their brawl with the sliding and dancing of their feet into its white powdery sand.

  Gregory and Davies stood and watched the display, inched together, whispering as if gossiping behind fans at the edge of some ballroom.

  Gregory looked idly to the musketoons, being kissed slightly by the lazy Caribbean tide. 'We could get the guns. That'd settle it, don't you think?'

  Davies threw a fleeting eye to the weapons and tipped back his straw headpiece. 'Best not confuse the thing, Mister Gregory. A gentleman like Captain Coxon would most likely settle us for disturbing a matter of honour. Or whatever it is he's doing.'

  Both men looked up as a thud and a curse indicated that blows from legs and fists had now come into the battle. A scuffle ensued, then broke, clumsily, reluctantly, as if unseen arms had heaved them apart.

  Swiftly, in the heat, in the hunger and the thirst, the fury began to seep away. Coxon and Devlin circled, their nostrils flared, their chests heaving, swords dragging them down.

  'Surrender to me now, Patrick,' Coxon gasped, 'and I'll let you be drunk when they hang you. There is no ship. You have put your trust in pirates.'

  'I have no wish to kill you, John.' Devlin straightened, reversed his stride, his sword arm furthest from Coxon. 'We are fighting over nothing. French gold that your own precious board wanted to steal. If you lay down now to me, I'll grant you safety from my men. Drop your sword, John.'

  'I have a great deal to fight about, pirate!' Coxon spat. 'The very least of which is that you will stop calling me by my bloody Christian name!' And he dived again for Devlin's side.

  Devlin's left arm snapped out and latched on to the billowing sleeve of Coxon's thrusting arm, pulling the surprised captain through the air as he spun, Coxon's own momentum sending him rolling ungracefully into the sand, where he lay sputtering and cursing as Devlin walked slowly over.

  'What is it about the gentlemen I meet of late and the powerful desire they have that I will not use their lawful name?'

  His shadow fell on Coxon, who brought his left hand to his brow, half to shade his eyes, half to rub away the salty sand and silica. Devlin let his sword fall to the sand.

  'This ends now,' he said. His words were followed by the drawing of his pistol. Coxon began to rise, his progress halted by the weight of a boot pushing him down; his eyes were gripped by the gaping barrel staring back at him. He opened his mouth to speak as Devlin pulled the trigger.

  Gregory and Davies darted forward at the sound of the shot, then froze as they heard their captain cry out, more in anger than submission. They watched Devlin turn to face them with the smoking gun. Already his teeth were biting the paper off a cartridge. Coxon rolled up to his knees. His right forearm now sported a crushed red rose. He slapped his left hand to the rose, which suddenly grew a scarlet glove as the blood poured.

  Gregory and Davies turned to the musketoons at the shore and scrambled to them, almost on all fours, their heads running away before their legs.

  Their hands landed on the comforting wooden stocks a second later but pulled away just as fast, as both laid sight of the small boat rowing into shore, bristling with raised swords and muskets, hauled effortlessly along by the four giant Dutchmen.

  Devlin looked up to the boat as he rammed the wad home upon the powder and ball. He turned to Coxon, who had dragged off his cambric necktie, placed one end between gritted teeth, and was tying it tight round his arm to staunch the blood.

  'This ends now, John. I hold that you can live if you want to. Mark me.' Devlin's ears were deaf to the cursing and bile howling forth from Coxon's mouth as he calmly picked up both swords and walked to his men.

  On the quarterdeck of the Starling, Sailing Master Dawson was the only soul still maintaining a sweep of the horizon. His head and eye ached from the bright light and the slight deviation of shade between the blue sky and the endless line of the earth. He looked out westward.

  Below his gaze, he had missed the tiny boat of pirates creeping back to the island, looking only for the telltale triangle of white that might mark a sail miles distant.

  In the darkness around his concentration and closed eye came the sounds of men hauling, wet feet slapping up and down the decks, the banging of wooden hammers that never seemed to stop as some soul spent forever repairing something, and amidst the sleepy creak of the rigging some fool had found the time to be piping a tune and, yes, of all things, there was the happy wail of a fiddle also.

  Aware that somewhere near him Midshipman Granger would be standing erect and stiff, he spoke, never dropping his vigil.

  'Mister Granger, is it apt that there be time for the men to be fifing at this hour?'

  Granger swung round from his watch. 'I beg your pardon, sir?'

  Dawson sighed and lowered the glass. 'A tune, man. Can you not hear that awful drone?'

  Granger cocked an ear around the ship. 'I hasten to say I can hear nothing, Mister Dawson. What sort of tune?'

  In truth, now his focus had shifted, Dawson could no longer hear the noise. He looked to the island in the distance. The bulk of it like a giant fortress rising out of the sea, sound could echo from it, to be sure, but the music was not from the island.

  He passed his gaze over the busy deck, the heads of the crew, the furled sails, trying to filter out the annoying sounds of work, until the pitch carried back to him again.

  'There!' he said. 'Plain as day, a pipe and a fiddle. A dancing tune, hear it now, man!'

  Granger shook his head. 'I do not, sir. But I shall check below.'

  'No…' Dawson moved in front of Granger, dreamlike in concentration. 'It's not on the ship…' He raised his glass to the eastern cape of the island. His vision was swamped by luscious green at first, until he drew it over to the seascape.

  The din became magnified by the scope by some magical anomaly, and it was all Dawson could hear now. Then, as if it had always been there, a black bowsprit swam before his eye followed by the jibs. His eye filled with the rush of rigging and bodies and the scope fell and he stared in horror at the masts and full grey sails speeding from behind the island, swathed in hideous green smoke, the row of cannon peering at him like the black eyes of some monstrous sea-creature.

  'Oh, my God!' Dawson ran, as his space was taken by Granger, who gawked at the black ship that had come from out of the sea itself to be within a thousand yards of the Starling.

  She was fully revealed now, billowing supernatural smoke that shielded the spirits on board, a devil's dirge drifting across the gap between them, mocking them.

  Granger bellowed, 'Sail there!' He spun to the deck, where others joined in the cry as they all saw the black ship at once. Dawson flew to Acting Lieutenant Davison at the fo'c'sle as the cries followed him.

  Breathless, he panted the very late news to Davison. 'A ship… the pirate frigate… she is on us!'

  Davison was not listening. He stared at the ship that smoked as if ablaze. He had seen pirate ships before. Always skulking on the horizon as the Starling sailed home from the East. Schooners and sloops hanging back. Luffing peacefully, waiting for a gap between them and their fat East India consort. Never daring to come close on the English guns.

  He had heard too of the 'vapours', the noise and show the pirates put on to instil fear in their victims, to break the will to fight before a touch-hole had been lit. They must have ovens on deck, he thought, burning something, boiling something, to make that green cloud. My God, if they can fight through that smoke? And music? A jolly tune even! Are they mad?

  'Mister Davison!' Dawson snapped him out of his slumber. 'This morning you were a midshipman. This afternoon the ship is yours. Orders, if you please, sir?'

  Davison came back with a start, then gathered himself in
a heartbeat. 'We will beat to quarters!' he yelled, and somewhere the drum rattled and men ran. He looked to Anderson's and the other boats, less than fifty yards away. Good, they had heard the drum, or they could see the ship; either way they were rowing pell-mell back to the ship.

  Davison's instinct was to turn larboard, away from the pirates. The Starling's bow faced the island, but he risked two dire events: drowning Anderson and the others in his turn, and giving his stern to the pirates' starboard guns.

  No. It would have to be starboard and turn their bow towards them, before the pirates crossed their stern. He barked now at the impatient William Dawson, 'Topsails and gallants, Mister Dawson. Spanker and all jib. Hard to starboard.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.' Dawson trotted off to his ropes, his order blasting across the decks. 'Hands to braces! Hard to starboard! Bosun! Slip cable!'

  On a good day, when not beset, it took eight minutes to beat to quarters. Marines went into the fighting tops. Cartridges were brought from the magazine. Tables cleared and away, hammock nettings piled along the gunwale, guns cleared for action. Earlier Coxon had prepared as much as possible. Shot garlands were brought up, water to dowse the barrels, weapon lockers readied, and the boats were already free to save them being shattered by shot and spearing all in their path. Not too shabby; Davison thanked himself and spared an eye to the pirate ship.

  By God, it moved fast! Already it had passed their starboard quarter, the viridescent smoke trailing behind and off the water like a rolling fog.

  Granger joined him now, pointing out that in turning they would delay Anderson coming aboard. Rather that, Davison asserted, than do nothing and show their arse to the pirate guns. How many men to a gun did the Starling have? Four would make a two-minute reload. Two men to haul the nine- foot lump of iron, two to load. Six men was a luxury for wartime. Four would do.

  Sail fell, throwing darkness and a cool breeze across their heads. Granger and Davison were suddenly swamped by a rush of brown-skinned, bare-backed men running to the jibs.

  In the same thought they ran for the command of the higher quarterdeck as the helm lurched the ship beneath their feet and the Starling became alive again, bucking up out of her slumber like a slapped horse.

  The deck was clear as they ran. Above their heads the men were bracing the yards round, some leaning off the larboard gunwale, their feet glowing white with tension, their arms as tight as the ropes they hauled on.

  Marines were taking their dread climb to the wooden platform of the mainmast fighting top. Muskets slung, they climbed gingerly, getting heavier with each leg up, dismissing the lubber hole around the mast. For speed they had to climb outwards, over the shrouds, almost over the sea, before the relief of clambering to the safety of the platform and the eerie sensation of being able to hear every voice at once, from the deck far below, clear as a bell.

  Davison and Granger hit the quarterdeck running, joining Mister Dawson and the helmsman.

  'Bringing her about, Mister Davison.' Dawson nodded. He had two decades on the young faces, two decades whilst they had been wet-nursing. All he could do was his duty. It would not be his fault if he died this day.

  Below deck, in the cockpit afore the manger, Surgeon Wood scattered a burlap bag of sawdust around his table. He unrolled his canvas bag of knives and probes and called for water as he watched his lantern swing and the rattle of bottles chinked all around him.

  Dandon stepped cautiously out of the Great Cabin and peered into the half-light. The outer coach had gone, the partitions removed to reveal the clean embrasure of the last two of the twelve-pounders. He moved past the companion- way that led to the quarterdeck and touched the capstan for luck.

  The ports were still closed and the guns strained against their tackles as the turn was almost complete. There was a calm about the ship, a rare silence, broken only by the rattling of the swaying lanterns.

  Nine nine-foot guns either side. Dandon stood where the first four guns patiently stayed beneath the dark of the quarterdeck. Men stood on the larboard side, most with a strange tool as tall as themselves in their hands, waiting. The others were swiftly brushing shot clean of any debris or imperfections in the surface, making sure that their first shots were as fine as they could be.

  Thomas Howard saw Dandon and placed down by guns six and seven the serge canisters of powder he was holding, and joined him by the capstan.

  'You should not be here, Doctor. It won't be safe.' He placed a small hand upon Dandon's arm. 'You should go back with the women.'

  Dandon ignored him gently. 'Tell me, Lieutenant,' he enquired, 'why are the men only on the one side?'

  'That is the side we are bringing to bear on the ship.' He pitied the ignorance of the land-locked. 'You have seen the ship? The pirate ship?'

  'Briefly. From the windows. A terrible sight. Then we began this strange turn. Are we in danger of a deadly occurrence?'

  'Not at all. We outgun her by any count. This is how it will play.' He proudly walked Dandon into the light of the open deck, like a boy showing his toys to a visiting cousin.

  'They will play the old game and so will we. These guns will fire on her hull. We will fire two to her one without a doubt and more iron to bear.'

  'Is that the true happening of the circumstance?' Dandon was genuinely curious.

  'Aye, she has nine-pounders to our twelves and they are but drunken pirates. No match for honed men.' He carried Dandon along the row of guns. 'See, in a few moments we will run out the guns, on order, and the linstocks will be lit, the quoins lifting the guns to fire below the waterline. Our aim will be to sink the beast.'

  'And what will be the pirates' aim?'

  'Oh, they will play their book, which is always to go for the rigging, disable the sail, for they will want the ship, you see?'

  'Will they?'

  'Of course. They will wish to board. They are pirates naturally'

  'Naturally.'

  'Most likely it will take three rounds and they'll be off. Do not worry.'

  'I will not worry if I can be near you, Mister Howard. I do not carry arms myself, and I would fear for the poor women.'

  Howard smiled. 'It will not come to small arms, Mister Dandon. Three rounds, I swear. See how I have only brought up powder for such. Think of it! That's twenty-seven shots! Over three hundred pounds of iron! I could sink a forest with such a barrage!'

  'How is it you know so much about the ways of the pirates, Mister Howard, may I enquire? How they will fight and such?'

  'From accounts of course. It is well known, sir.'

  Dandon hummed thoughtfully as he looked to the sails high above, still at a tight right-angle. 'But surely such accounts come only from failed attempts? Pardon my ignorance on such matters, Lieutenant Howard, but it would occur to me that no one reports on the successful pirate methods, if I can be so bold.' He smiled softly. 'At least not from this world.'

  'Hah!' Howard slapped Dandon's arm. 'Be off, sir. Back to the women. I will protect you if it comes to it, I swear.'

  Dandon bowed just as a yell from Granger above begged Howard's attendance. The boy excused himself and scurried away. Dandon wheeled his way back to the cabin. He took off his coat as he entered the room and slung it on the back of the captain's chair.

  'Make sure all those windows are open, my girls. Take them out if you have to.' He picked up a decanter of golden ambience. 'We are playing the "old game", apparently.'

  * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  At the Hour of Our Death, Amen…

  Letter from Thomas Howard to his father, the Hon. Rev. John Howard

  May 1717 Dearest Father,

  I know this letter will arrive the same instance beside my previous correspondence but I hope you will permit such indulgence. You are aware I have not returned from the foreign factories, but currently upon the Caribbee waters hunting a pyrate no less. We are commanded by a Captain John Coxon, an old salt it seems, for he drills us every day and has me reading Seller's book of inst
ruction every evening and makes every soul wear a hat Sundays.

  Today has been most delightful I am to be Acting Lieutenant whilst Captain Coxon and Lieutenants guinneys and Scott are embarking upon a most exciting mission to apprehend the pyrate Devlin upon the island of the Trench which we have landed towards. William Guinneys as you will recall has been Captain for the two years I have been in service. Captain Coxon commands for this endeavour bowing to his more common experience and mature nature no doubt.

  I feel Captain Coxon favours me to the good as he has taken the time to talk to me privately and by my name.

  I will ask you to remember the name of Mister Edward Talton in

  your prayers, Father, as his life was extinguished today. He was purser to the Company's interest on board our ship but I fear the crossing of latitudes may have done for him as Mother feared it may of me.

  Please inform Mother that I am well and hearty and keep my head on a swivel at all times. I do not swim, and I have eaten no fruit save apples as she instructed.

  If I see the pyrate Devlin I shall not catch his eye and I will pray for his immortal soul. This day will, with ad hope and good fortune, end with my permanent commission as Lieutenant Thomas Howard.

  I hope you are well, Father, and I anticipate a return to home by mid-August.

  Most Gracious Lord save and preserve us.

  Your obedient son,

  Thomas Howard.

  Acting Lieutenant His Majesty's ship Starting.

  Captain John Coxon.

  On the beach, Hugh Harris looked to the bloody arm of Coxon and the sorrowful faces of Gregory and Davies and cocked his head to Devlin.

  'Now, Cap'n,' he scolded, 'can we not leave you for the sixtieth of an hour without you getting yourself into some scrape?'

  "Tis good to see you, Hugh.' Devlin passed the spare sword to Dan Teague with a nod and a wink. 'And you, Sam Morwell.' He shook the skinny, flaccid hand and passed on to Sam Fletcher. 'Thank you, Sam. You did well.'