by Mark Keating
Devlin had stood in front of his stern windows and sipped. He opened a pane, breathed in the blue sky, listened to the tide pushing against the anchored ship, watched the insects dive and hum about the stern, the gig below chinking against her chains as the water ebbed.
The unusual came then.
Something content settled over him. Not happiness, that was wrong, but something. He closed the window to stop the moment forming in his memory as he did when he unloaded his pistol into a man’s face and concentrated on the reload and moved past the body. Bite, pour, click, snap, click, pour, ram. Gone.
Now he would tell the hundred what they were about to risk all for. Again. Again and again. Four years now. Too long to chance your arm. He winced as his right leg reminded him of the bullet and the sword from last year, the most recent chancing of his luck. Too long to chance. Always strange that he had been shot on the left of his back yet the right leg had the memory, and always in the damn morning, nagging like a whore outstaying her coin. A small limp now, but he would rather be a dead man than allow it to be seen.
‘We’re to the Indies, lads.’ He spoke as if standing among them all, no need to shout or bully his words.
‘Back to Madagascar and then some. We made out poor last year and lost good men. But that was then.’ He moved along the rail, scanning for resentment, finding none.
1720 had been a bad year for all and not just those with their breeches stocked into the South Sea failure. Devlin had come away from the year with nothing but lead in his back.
He had risked his ship, and his crew, for the promise of amnesty from the Crown, and the Crown and black-clothed ministers had wanted a king’s diamond that could save the world. But Devlin had lost men in its getting.
Black Bill Vernon, one of the old-standers, one of a handful of the originals, him missed most of all. Devlin and Dandon bloodied and scarred, limping still and stretching their white scars awake every morning. Devlin had sent the greatest diamond of the age back to the earth. Lost as they had lost. He had been called to London and Paris, blackmailed, threatened – as ever the recourse of the appointed over the oppressed. And the pirate had proved too depraved to be swayed by notions of honour or duty. Some coin, the promise of pardon, that would be the limit of his understanding. But that was then, as he had said; last year. Now it was June on the African side of the Atlantic, the season of typhoons and monsoons; but there was work to be done if a quiet winter in the Spanish Main was a prospect or, as Old Cracker had sworn, to become rich again.
That part was important. The crash of the South Sea Company had been a glorious revenge for his men that had died, but now the seeds that he sowed were not even worth reaping. Ships rotted in harbours, companies were unable to trade, goods were not sailing. Bad news for a pirate. The Shadow’s coffers were almost spent and not for want of trying – simply for want of lading. Almost any man is one or two bad months from the compter. The threat of bad debt was a strong motivator in the normal world, and how the mighty conspire to keep the lowly in their power. And when all pockets are empty charity dwindles and crime increases. Crime becomes work and those who lived by it before must work harder for their piece.
Aye, work to be done, and murderers and thieves the tools of Patrick Devlin’s trade.
‘We’re after La Buse – “The Buzzard”, as he has it. Though I’m minding that’s for the mark of the beak on his face than for a talent for prey!’ A welcome laugh. The opening of the pocket. Pick them up and place them in – but careful now. The purpose of the narrator on the stage is to pull the audience into trust, assure them that the play about to start is the best entertainment to be had for their penny.
‘The Buzzard took the Virgin of the Cape in April. We’ve all heard it. The inns are full of little else. A gold bounty that no man can measure.’ He watched the crowd anticipate his next words. ‘But we can measure a lot. Don’t we always?’
Whispers now from the deck, a scowl from Peter Sam not enough to quiet them, but Devlin knew what word went round.
La Buse had vanished. He could be anywhere.
‘I have good word he has taken his spoils to the Amirantes. And there is the pirate Roberts after a partner to relieve La Buse of his wealth.’
A doubtful voice hidden by the wall of men chirped up.
‘How did this “good word” come to thee, Cap’n?’
Peter Sam broke from his lounging against the gunwale to seek the head that spoke, a path opening up before him, but no need: Devlin had been a poacher since childhood and more than once something of those days had saved him and others.
The shot thudded between the man’s bare feet into the deck, now split apart. The sailor jumped away from the splintered hole as if the spent ball might still leap up and bite him.
‘That’s how I got it, George Leary!’ Devlin shoved the smoking pistol back to his belt. In his mind’s eye a fat fox with Devlin’s rabbit in its jaws winked at the fourteen-year-old butcher’s boy. ‘You’d best get better at this, fool,’ its tail flapped at him before loping away into the dawn. Hunger and beatings had trained his ears as much as his eyes.
The ship cheered at George Leary’s impudence but questioning the captain was a pirate’s right. It might mean death for the common sailor on merchant or king’s ship but Leary had his entitled answer. Devlin’s speech carried on as if he had only pointed out Leary from the crowd.
‘What’s to happen? An easy cruise. Until the end of it. But an eternity of wealth waiting. Roberts knows where La Buse might be but he don’t know the Amirantes.’
Another voice, and why not now after Leary had his heard? A shot between Leary’s feet made him special. Questioning was now a badge of honour.
‘Might be? Where Buse might be? And how do we know the Amirantes, Cap’n?
Devlin arrowed a finger at the accusing head, which ducked as if the pirate could smash it with a lightning bolt.
‘Sam Morwell! You know I could find you in hell and steer you to the saints. Ain’t I kept your raggedy hide alive all these years?’
More laughter. Rum and laughter as good as the wind to a pirate ship’s sails. Keep them hot. Damn hot.
‘The Buzzard won’t give it up easy, mind. ’Course, we could head back to the Carolinas then up to Trepassey for the summer. Then winter in the Caribbee or Maracaibo. Back here in the spring. The same pirate round as ever. Or would you like one last hunt? And when we’re dull and fat, with grease on our chins and virgins at our feet shall we pity what other men do with their lives? Or shall we go? Summer in Newfoundland? What say you?’
This was the hardest part, the thinnest thread. The pirate captain might have the plan but it was the ship that decided.
There were fishermen near the shore, their rafts bound with strips of bark, no hemp or tar to hold the loose wood together, just trust in the father who had taught them. Their teeth were sharpened and their faces painted red and the most golden-bowed missionary riding his chariot of fire would have found it hard not to sweat and shirk in their presence.
They ducked at the joyous roar and the pistol-fire from the black and red ship in the offing and chattered and panicked like birds; they pushed their poles to the coral and away from the ship that was about to rise up and swallow them whole with the great mouth that had made such a fury.
Aye, thought Devlin, that’ll do.
Away we go.
Chapter Eight
Supper on the Standard. Eight bells. Early, but Coxon retired at ten and he would need the hours to prise from his officers their pasts and any futures that differed from his own. He started lightly, over tongue and potatoes greased with a salty gravy the consistency of pitch, making comment on how he wasn’t sure whether to eat it or brush it on the shrouds. Monday a banyan day for the men, no meat; not so for the captain’s table. His company chortled through the gravy. Pease, potatoes and bread for those below. He lulled the table more, caused snorts into their wine, as he described his last steward, Oscar Hodge.
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p; Hodge, pitifully amusing in that he had a disorder of the nerves which caused one or the other of his eyes to be half-closed and always made him appear deep in thought. Coxon never sure, he told them, when Hodge was silent, whether the man was having some grand epiphany or passing wind.
He studied them over his glass as they roared. He had them now.
‘Drink up, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘for I will hold to the rule that officers shall only drink in company. And I will hold you to the tradition that you will be expected to bring your own wine tomorrow.’
‘No strap in our beds, sir?’ This from Doctor James Howe, corpulent and scarlet. Coxon had already surmised that he was not long for the world. Every breath was nearly a gulp, every bite of food scooped and swallowed was barely chewed. The man obviously accepted that indigestion was now the natural state.
‘As I say, Doctor Howe, no drink without company.’ He watched the man drain his glass and reach for the carafe, a belch held back through puffed out cheeks.
‘But no less for that I assure you, Doctor.’ Coxon smiled.
Each man stifled his amusement with napkin or glass, with the doctor the last to laugh and just polite enough not to query what the joke was, and still managing to pass the port to Coxon on his left after pouring for young Thomas Howard at his right.
Coxon’s glass was as full as he intended and he sailed the carafe on to Lieutenant Manvell, who topped up and offered the toast: Monday, so the glasses raised to their ships at sea. The table repeated with a rap to the wood, no glasses clinked for that would cause the death of a sailor, and no standing – for the beams overhead and several dead soldiers of wine might cause unfortunate injuries. Even the sovereign had to deign to permit his captains to sit when saluting his health as per the tradition. Coxon, not privileged to ever have been in a king’s presence, wondered if such a right was ever asserted and voiced this to test what company his table had kept before he came. But this sitting was not wide enough. There was Howe, a sot of a doctor, no doubt only aware of the blue and the black draught that settled most problems or at least stopped men coming back for seconds. Thomas Howard, no dissatisfaction there, but Coxon knew his own weakness for sentiment. Judge him by his actions. He had thought Devlin as loyal as a dog once but carried a star-shaped scar on his forearm from when the pup had bit the hand that fed him.
Sailing-Master Richard Jenkins. Quiet, another one in his fifties creaking towards pension like Howe. God, how will I fight with these men? He looks like his hair is that of a horse stuck on with glue of the same. No captain for the dozen marines, only a sergeant, so no seat for him here.
Manvell then. Feign a giddy openness due to the Oporto you have only sipped. Coxon put down his glass.
‘I should like to know how you entered the service, Mister Manvell.’
Manvell cleared his throat as he dabbed at the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, sir, I must admit it is not the most honourable of appointments.’
‘Explain.’ The humour fallen from Coxon. He sat back with his hands entwined across his waistcoat and stretched his feet beneath the table until they touched Manvell’s. He felt Manvell’s pull away as he hemmed again.
‘My stock is not the greatest, Captain. My father is a Deal publican, but a tremendous man with a sword. I have fenced by his instruction since I was seven. I know not where or why he acquired such a habit and I thought it ordinary for all boys. Fortunately, due to my father’s humble nature, I have not boasted of this aptitude, which I’m sure has led me to be a modest and healthy sort.’
‘No shame in being an honest publican’s son, Mister Manvell. I myself am a parson’s second. Had one pair of trousers until I was twelve and the queen gave me another. Go on. When did your service begin?’
‘I am afraid I am a bit of a late bloomer, sir. Not that I should wish for the Standard to consider me less for it.’
Coxon shook his head and Manvell gave up his journey like a confession.
At eighteen he had fallen into a romance with the Duke of Beaufort’s daughter. This was not to the duke’s pleasure and the prospect of his dearest and his lineage living with a tavern-keeper’s son was beyond the pale.
Coxon winked to all the table: ‘Both, Dove-like, roved forth beyond the pale to planted Myrtle-walk.’
Manvell saluted with his glass and carried on.
He had fortunately relieved the duke of this embarrassment by providing him with another scandal to remove it completely. Foot followed foot and Alice, seventeen, tripped and fell pregnant, which surprised everyone except the birds on the bough who witnessed the act beneath their tree.
At first the duke considered a duel until he considered better the advice given that young Manvell could peel the skin off an apple while it was still in your pocket with any strip of steel you gave him.
So marriage then, and a commission for Manvell so that he might at least have some future.
‘Unfortunately our daughter was not born, sir, but, as is the way, the Lord is apt to plan these things to bring love closer. I am in two families now. The duke has mellowed to me, and I am blessed to say that Alice is expecting again. Although I am considerably nervous on my part as twins do fairly run in the duke’s family. I’m sure I believe we will be successful this time.’
The table was quiet, forks were laid down.
It is difficult to commiserate and congratulate in the same voice even though all men share at least some of the same paths. The only relief is the hope that the path when you meet it will be just that. A path. A short tread through the dark, and not a road.
Coxon kenned Manvell shy of what he had said: the man had come to terms with his loss and now did not want to embarrass others. Coxon locked only two words away for when the time came to measure him.
Manvell had said ‘daughter’ not ‘child’. There was a terrible shared day there. And he had said the name ‘Alice’ to strangers as if they all recalled her. As if anyone could not know her. Coxon had only ever spoken of his first ship in the same voice. He almost felt envy at the tone of it.
‘Then we will make the duke proud of his son-in-law,’ he said. ‘And your father will have your portrait above the hearth of his tavern.’
The bell outside rang once and Coxon glanced at the clock. Eight-and-a-half hours since they had set sail. The Lizard and even Brest at their stern. Lonely water now to the Verdes. Eleven days he planned to Cape Coast Castle, the trade winds at their back. Worthless to consider the pirate before then. But Manvell had not forgotten the noon address.
‘Captain?’
Coxon sniffed himself out of his thoughts. ‘Yes, Mister Manvell?’
‘This pirate, this . . . Devlin, you mentioned, whom we are to chastise. You indicated that you knew him.’
Coxon played his fingers on his full belly. ‘Has Mister Howard not told you of our experiences together?’
Manvell explained that Howard had only come into company the day before and that he was confident that neither of them trucked in gossip.
‘Very well,’ Coxon said. ‘For some years this man was my steward.’ Elaboration on those years was not tasteful to Coxon and his embarrassment well known. But they needed to know about the pirate.
‘I would like to say that he is a drunken, misanthrope idiot. But that would give you the impression that all you will have to do is walk into a tavern and lift his head up from a table.’ He watched them all shift in their seats, study him judiciously. The tradition of Aesop was his duty.
‘What I can tell you will be meaningless against what he may show you. And if you give him the opportunity to “show” you . . . it will be too late.’
Howe scoffed into his glass. ‘You make him terrible, Captain! I’ll wager he doesn’t even wear shoes!’
‘He will be wearing your shoes if you continue to appraise him so, Doctor. Make no mistake, Devlin is intelligent and bold. He has not survived so long by mere luck and nor is he a great warrior. If he were in this room now you would not see a remarkable man,’ h
e pointed to the door, to the deck. ‘You would see one of them. The men we trust to follow us, who rely on our instruction to bring them home. And I guarantee that a similar discourse is flowing below. Only they will show a little more respect, some of them even awe. And you may live longer if you gain the same.’
Manvell was intrigued.
‘You sound as if you admire him, sir.’
Coxon leant on the arm of his chair, pitched forward so that Manvell could see nothing else but his face and taste the meal on his breath.
‘And so I should. If I did not admire a man who has bested me twice, that would make me a fool who any boot-wipe can lick. And I take pride in the knowledge, gentlemen, that the one time I was not there to break him he triumphed over the royal houses and governments of two countries, sirs!’ Coxon fell back. He had said too much. He looked at his glass. Wine proved always the culprit. Devlin’s grin piercing him was always the spur. He blurted an apology.
‘But I can say no more on that, gentlemen. Forgive me. But, yes, the part of me that knew him would be foolish to not admire.’
Thomas Howard had been conspicuously quiet. He cut his meat silently and sipped his wine as Coxon had spoken. He had seen pirates fight. Seen the boarding axes fly with blood, seen the cannon fire two to their one, and the green veil of smoke that heralded their coming from their cauldrons on deck. He shared a glance with Coxon who now sank in his seat.
Doctor Howe smirked.
‘Admire, sir? You sound positively proud!’
Coxon tapped his glass on the table.
‘And should I not? I taught him everything he knows. Shame and praise me.’
Silence around the table and the sound of music, an agreeable Cheshire voice and a fiddle, from far below, gentle as whale song. Something about lasses and fairs as always. Coxon picked up the decanter with a chime, poured for Howe and himself then passed it on.
