Cross of Fire

by Mark Keating

  ‘I can’t think what I would say to him. He’s a pirate. The world’s enemy. A fiend.’

  ‘Then don’t say anything. Forget him. Do your duty. You were just a boy. He probably does not remember.’

  ‘But I remember,’ Howard said.

  Manvell did not understand. Howard tried to share the jumble of contradictions that had become his reason.

  ‘If I remember and do not say anything what does that mean?’

  Manvell’s feet scraped again to leave and seek Sailing-Master Jenkins but he twisted back for one more consoling word.

  ‘I’m sure there is a philosophy scratched by a Frenchy somewhere which will go along those same lines, Mister Howard, and I would suggest to you that you do not concern yourself with guilt or compassion. As to what it means if you say nothing, may I offer that it simply means you are a man, sir. That is what it means. Welcome to our pasture. It is pleasant enough when it do not rain.’

  He spun away, pleased with his wisdom, leaving Thomas Howard again staring down onto the deck and his thoughts travelling through to the hold like a spirit.

  Howard had work to do. Manvell had appeared with orders. From behind he heard Master Jenkins arguing all the points of the compass why he could not be underway before the night and dictating sails to the bosun with the same breath. Soon Manvell would come back and give him orders; soon Coxon might reappear and soon Thomas Howard would have to concentrate on how to hold his face at dinner when word of the Dandelion pirate went around the table.

  He stared at the black mouth of the companion stair vanishing away, down into darkness. Coxon was down there, Kennedy was down there. Kennedy who had returned from questioning Old Cracker with scarlet fists. Kennedy was now below with Coxon and Dandon – Dandon, the pirate of his nightmares, and how confident could Howard be that he was awake now?

  The earth could not be this small. Not small enough for Coxon to point his arm and find all that he needed, no more complicated than the pocket of a schoolboy or as limiting as his schoolyard.

  This was not faith, not the faith he had put in Coxon, unless it is the faith of a man who jumps from a ship to the sea with the assurance that another will inevitably come soon enough.

  Howard was used to the orderly world. As a midshipman he had his books to follow, to learn from.

  ‘Read this and do as is done.’

  He would do well because the books would tell him what to do. There was no emotion behind their covers. Just learn them and do as is done.

  But there had been one book of instruction that had broken its ranks. The thirty-one page book had been as precise and didactic as the others but he had turned a page to find a flower pressed into its pages. Faded and powdery as a moth’s wings but had been bright yellow once.

  Before Thomas Howard had gone to sea another boy had read the dull pages and copied with chalk and slate the signals to chase; and then one day, one bright day, perhaps even his first, he plucked a flower from a Portsmouth road or his mother gave it to him from her breast – but one day he had put a flower in a book and changed the ordered world.

  And it had been a Dandelion.

  Dandelion. Not a flower at all.

  He stared down the dark companion stair, longing for someone or something to break him from his distraction.

  He jumped as a scream of pain came from the black below.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dandon had laughed at first.

  ‘Go to hell,’ he said and laughed harder. Kennedy cracked him across the jaw, silencing the derision but helpless to strike the pride off the pirate’s face. Kennedy shook his hand with the pain of glancing his knuckles off Dandon’s gold-capped teeth and Dandon laughed again. Kennedy raised a fist.

  ‘Enough!’ Coxon pulled him away.

  That was then.

  Coxon had brought him to the wardroom and placed a goblet of wine at the hands still wearing their iron bracelets. Dandon drank fast, before the charts landed in front of him. He rattled the cup on the table for more.

  Coxon ignored the request and spread the Indian Ocean before him. He tapped the map.

  ‘Where?’ he said.

  And Dandon, his wine empowering him, gave his first ‘Go to hell!’ and brushed the map from the table.

  ‘It is the drink I waned for!’ he said. ‘Now I am willed to silence. Unless you have more wine, John?’

  All that was then. All before.

  Coxon had turned his back.

  ‘So be it,’ he thought.

  ‘Elicitation’ Coxon had called it. Let a pirate go to a pirate. The scream had come later.

  The wardroom had lanterns. It had candles and tallow lighters, oil, match and tinderbox. Coxon listened to Kennedy giggle again as he went searching the room for toys.

  Coxon went to the partitions of glass and hinged frame that went across the beam of the ship, the door from the room.

  ‘I will be back shortly. I have a course to set. Do you wish to tell anything now? To aid me?’

  Dandon leant in his seat.

  ‘Go very merrily to hell, John Coxon. And shame on you, sir.’

  Coxon opened the door and called for a marine to stand guard. He set the man to his post inside the room as Kennedy came back to the table; Coxon left with his eyes down and turned away from the scene. He retired to his cabin, listened for a moment to the sounds of feet scuffling on the overhead and went to his desk for paper and ink.

  Coxon heard the scream. The writing hand went to his sweating brow, then the sounds of the ship returned, covered like a tarpaulin, and the hand went back to the paper. He had little time. Manvell would be the one to take the note to shore, Manvell the one who disapproved the most, so remove him for an hour and hope that the pirate gave up what he had.

  He dusted the ink and folded and sealed the paper, the gentleness of this act belying the act below, belying its consequences.

  He went to his door and ordered the marine outside to bring him the lieutenant and Coxon went to wait by his stern windows and watched Bourbon becoming night.

  Perhaps he could tell Manvell of the other letter, the other orders. Manvell was a good man and growing better all the time while his own character was being shamed. Manvell would understand then, understand that Coxon was not raving, not obsessive and tyrannical, and that although these were the characteristics of admirals who survived the war, to these young officers such action was unwarranted now. But they should know that he was not making orders.

  He was following them.

  The coach door knocked upon and opened with Coxon’s call. Manvell swept off his hat.

  Coxon studied Manvell’s reflection in the diamond panes, as he had done on the first day. Manvell had changed. His eyebrows appeared less surprised and his manner had lost its edge of clumsiness. Coxon pointed to the letter on the table.

  ‘Take that to the cathedral, Manvell, if you please. Best to the same priest, if best you can.’

  Manvell picked up the letter and blanched at the name across it. ‘Captain?’

  Coxon lifted his chin for the question.

  ‘This is to “Devlin.” The pirate?’

  ‘Do you know another?’

  ‘May I ask . . . for why, sir?’

  ‘You may,’ Coxon stepped away from his stern. ‘I wish to tell him that I have his man. Confirm to him that it is I – by my hand – rather than rely on a babbling Porto priest.’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  Coxon thought on that. If only he could impress on Manvell the image in his own mind of Devlin’s fury when he opened the packet to read his and Dandon’s names and the history inside the simple message, Coxon indeed would; but he had no brush to paint it with.

  ‘He will come for us,’ said Coxon simply. ‘And then we will seek each other. His treasure will mean far less. Trust me.’

  Manvell put the letter inside his coat.

  ‘Aye, sir. We will be ready to sail on my return.’ He snapped his heels, replaced his hat. Coxon raise
d a finger.

  ‘Mister Manvell, did you hear a disturbance from below? Could you discern from the quarterdeck?’

  ‘I did not, sir.’

  ‘And Mister Howard? Did . . . Thomas . . . voice any concern?’

  Manvell delayed just enough to indicate that he did not wish to speak for Thomas Howard.

  ‘He was stood at the rail above the companion. A better position than I.’

  Coxon understood. He should have summoned musicians to cover Kennedy’s work. That would be the way in the future if the pirate did not talk. Manvell stepped to his task and Coxon returned to his darkening panorama.

  Full dark soon. Somewhere Devlin sailed, under the same stars. If Dandon remained closed then Devlin would know him gone when he returned to Bourbon to collect and know further that he had Walter Kennedy to assist, and know the nature of that wretch. He had written it all under calculation that the pirate in his democracy would share his knowledge with his crew. They would all know why Kennedy had come. An accusation in ink. That might have some use.

  A rap at the door – for thinking of the Devil has an effect – and Kennedy shuffled into the room, his hands blackened.

  ‘Captain,’ he wiped his hands through his hair. ‘He wishes to speak to you now, so he does.’

  When he returned to the wardroom it seemed a smaller figure that was slumped in the chair before Coxon. It was clearly still Dandon, still the once-smart linen and tailored breeches. But now the body was as exhausted and worn as its tattered raiments.

  Coxon remarked on nothing. He dismissed the marine, paler now than the ruddy fellow he had been when placed there. He returned the map to the table and stabbed his finger amid the whales and Spanish galleons. He pointed inside the Indian Ocean as if there had been no gap since he first asked and nothing terrible had blighted his ship.

  ‘Where?’ he said.

  In the same light, inches away from each other, Coxon could see the waxy hands, greased from an emollient to help soothe something but making the red and blistered skin of the knuckles shine like crackled pork fat. Kennedy stood behind his work, beaming with pride. Coxon could not bear to look at him. He pushed a full goblet to Dandon. That would pass as a degree of sympathy.

  ‘Where?’ he repeated.

  The chains made their loathsome noise as Dandon’s hands trembled for the wine. There was no blood about them and there was a biting need in Coxon to know what had occurred when Kennedy and Dandon were alone. Judged from the hands there had been burning. Prolonged burning. He had heard that pirates in their inquisitions of prisoners sometimes entwined the obstinate’s fingers with match fuse, lit and let it smoulder through the knuckles. He determined then that he would not question Kennedy. The man would surely derive some joy from the telling.

  Dandon drained the glass, turned it over, let it drop and smash to the floor. He lolled his head to Coxon.

  ‘So I have agreed to speak. And so shall I speak. A man of my word.’ He raised himself in his chair and cleared his throat. Coxon’s patience at an end.

  ‘What island? Where the treasure?’ Coxon said.

  Dandon lifted his chains. ‘Je vais vous raconter tout ce que vous voulez savoir.’ He fell back in his chair with a snarl. ‘Malheureusement le choc de mes blessures a forcé mon cerveau pour retourner au Français de mes premières années. Parlez-vous Français du tout, Capitaine?’

  Still Dandon. Still the pirate.

  ‘As long as the wine comes, Captain, I’ll gladly be here.’ Dandon pushed the map away. ‘Your fiend tortures, and you ladle me with drink, and in truth it tastes better for it: la foie coloniale.’

  He lifted the chains to his forelock and saluted. ‘What a set we have in the world, Captain.’

  ‘You think you’re not to talk?’ Coxon said. ‘You think I’m gaming you?’ He nodded to Kennedy. ‘Take him below. Tie him back to the overhead. See how arrogant he is after a night hanging in chains.’

  Dandon laughed.

  ‘Oh, John! Captain John,’ he shook his head in pity. ‘By my not talking can you not see how I am sparing your ship? I work for you not against, in pity for your fates.’

  Coxon pushed away from the table, took the map.

  ‘Tomorrow then. And no more wine. Nor water.’ He rolled the chart to carry it with him for study.

  ‘You forget, pirate. I have known Devlin longer than you. Longer than all of you. I have sent to that Porto priest the word that I have you.’ He ushered Kennedy to pull Dandon to his feet. Side by side. ‘You and I both know that he will come.’

  Dandon pushed out his manacled hands, elbowed the body beside him.

  ‘So why this? Devlin never spoke of your manner thus! He had little word against you.’

  ‘If you tell what you know I may save some time in hunting him. It will inspire the men to fill their lockers with gold. And if you are any man at all you will know . . .’ He undid the pearl button at his right sleeve, rolled the shirt back to show the star-shaped scar where the skin had been sewn back and showed it to them both. He did not finish his line but tacked on another.

  ‘The winters make it ache. He took my ship, and did this. A small thing but it suffices. Hate enough.’

  ‘He met you under truce before,’ Dandon said. ‘Do your men know that? You let him go with the porcelain then. Why this fury now?’

  ‘That was before. He has since almost brought down the king and nearly ruined the world. I have been ordered to him.’ He opened the door and stood aside for Kennedy to drag his prisoner. Dandon struggled, threw a sneer at Coxon.

  ‘Then I hope you get the moment to fulfil your order, Captain John. I very much hope that day comes to pass. You will hear nothing from me!’

  Coxon shoved him on.

  ‘I’ll see on that tomorrow. The night may make you perceive differently.’ He shut the door. He studied the scar, rubbed its ache before folding down the sleeve to cover it. He had not meant to do that, to show it. Such emotion was not like him. But perhaps if Manvell should see, that might help. Not for pity or to stoke loyalty but just for understanding. Sometimes, for the ignorant, pictures could help tell a story more than words.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Peter Sam grabbed Devlin’s arm. It was dawn and he immediately felt the green and the damp of his clothes from sleeping among the fronds and rocks. Peter Sam had shaken him awake and said something and Devlin’s coiled body had jerked and sprung for his gun. Now he rolled up, fully alert, the pistol ready.

  ‘What say you?’ Devlin breathed and then saw Hugh Harris standing behind Peter, checking his guns, a musket leaning in his armpit. Peter Sam had woken him with words but Devlin had missed them.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Peter Sam said, and added as if Devlin would not know, ‘O’Neill has gone.’

  Devlin looked about and still needed the word said again.

  ‘Gone?’

  Peter Sam wiped his bald head front to back and followed Devlin’s eye scouting the trees.

  ‘A water bag gone. I’ve looked about. I make we go to the boat.’

  Hugh Harris belted his guns. ‘I make we go for the bastard’s head!’

  Devlin said nothing. He looked up at the green, listened to the water, stood as still as the trees. He put his pistol to his belt and picked up his hanger and sheathed it to the same.

  ‘To the boat,’ he said, and Peter Sam and Hugh knew when it was wisest to be quiet around him.

  They followed him down, the tropical air already boiling around them, aiding the rising of their blood. They hoped to meet a man of God struggling to launch a boat from the shore or better still his pirate allies conversing on the beach with him. They would have livers and hearts instead of bread and fruit for breakfast.

  The beach gave them nothing. There was the Shadow sitting high on the crystal waters with her angular masts and rigging, her prow and clinker-built strakes all too foreign against the natural world surrounding them; but the beach was empty. The jolly-boat was gone.

  The p
irates spread out along the shore, each with his hand on the wrist of a pistol, and glared at a different patch of water seeking a priest rowing somewhere.

  Devlin called Peter Sam to fire a musket to let the Shadow know they were still there, that all was still well and that he was still in command and shaping the world.

  The crack shivered the trees and snapped them all into rolling thoughts.

  O’Neill had taken the boat. He had withheld cards from their game and played them all for fools. Played their captain for the Irishman that he surely was. He plainly had no fear of them, and that was the worst part.

  Devlin turned back to Peter Sam. ‘I’ll burn him down,’ he said.

  Peter Sam nodded as he reloaded from his belly-box. ‘Where is he?’

  Devlin cocked his head to the green island over his shoulder off the beach. You could build a bridge to it. ‘He’d be confident to row there. I know two things.’

  ‘You’d better,’ Peter Sam’s eyes were to his weapons.

  ‘There’s the gold there. He led us to the wrong island deliberate so he could keep us from it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He has a friend to go to.’

  ‘La Buse?’

  Devlin looked to the Shadow already lowering a boat.

  ‘It had better be God himself to save that priest. There’s no Latin or Spanish to damn that dog enough.’

  They waited for the boat, spoke little, and played their guns and swords like the itches of wounds.

  Dandon had hardly slept so he could not say that he had woken. He had heard the watches and the bells above him all night as his head lolled and his arms hung. It was more stupor than slumber. His pained hands rubbed against his head and he swayed with the ship. But comfort is not a thing to be measured on a ship. Nothing about it is so. It is simply learning to lessen discomfort.

  His pose was not too afflictive at first, but after hours of it had ached like crucifixion. His back felt whipped raw, his arms swollen and, when he could no longer grasp the chain he hung from, his wrists had chafed against the irons about them. He looked to the goats and pigs and envied them; and then they snorted and he heard footsteps from the stair and straightened himself with a grinding in his spine.