Cross of Fire

by Mark Keating

  Coxon snarled, pushed the chains away. The goats bleated as Dandon laughed. Coxon went slowly to Kennedy and the wretch lowered his head like a shamed dog.

  Coxon looked back to Dandon.

  ‘We are alone, pirate. I have made it so. This is your last chance to talk. To talk well.’

  Dandon posed himself as nobly as he could.

  ‘I am supposed to say, “or else,” am I not?’

  ‘Say what you want. While you still can. I have less need for you than you think.’

  Dandon’s humour dropped.

  ‘Less?’ he said.

  ‘If you would talk and tell where Patrick is, where the gold is, it will remove you from this place to your own quarters and save my good men some time.’ He sat on a barrel like Kennedy, his arms crossed. ‘But Devlin will come to me regardless.’

  He relished the inquiry on the pirate’s face.

  ‘I told you I sent a letter. I sent word that I have you. What I also sent was the location on the sea where I shall wait for him. Where I will set the Standard to wait for the Shadow. You could avoid that bloody day.’

  ‘Why not wait at Bourbon?’ Dandon said. ‘If you are so inclined to believe my captain is coming for me there?’

  ‘Surround myself with dozens of pirate ships in pirate waters? In a short bay? How fine.’

  ‘So, the sea is where you will have it, John? Am I privileged to know where?’

  ‘I can bring a map,’ Coxon leant back on the barrel. ‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.’

  Dandon laughed. ‘I am glad that we have not allowed circumstance to devour our humour, John! Good show!’

  ‘You should rather think on that I only need Devlin to believe I have you. And that if you continue to threaten mutinous thoughts to my officers you will not need to manufacture wounds . . . or perfect your silence.’

  Kennedy leered at Dandon.

  ‘As I said,’ Coxon went on, ‘we are alone. I could release you out of pity, out of your promise to talk. You could attempt escape, attempt murder. Kennedy would defend me. We have hours left to us.’

  Kennedy unclasped his gully with a gleeful click.

  Dandon paled. It was not in him to flush with rage. He usually had men in front of him to do that.

  Coxon stood. ‘It is too warm for me down here. I will fetch the doctor for your wounds.’

  ‘It is but a scratch,’ Dandon said, but his voice was weaker now and Coxon heard it falter.

  ‘You misheard, pirate,’ he said. ‘I will fetch the doctor for your wounds.’ He cocked a thumb at Kennedy and jerked it towards Dandon.

  ‘No cuts, Walter. I want some word from him for when I return.’ He looked back at Dandon.

  ‘I’ve had enough of your blather. I thought you an intelligent man, pirate. You should at least have realised why Devlin is so able. He was under his post-captain for years.’ He turned for the stair as Kennedy slipped from the barrel, hunched, creeping towards the prisoner with a wet grin.

  Dandon shook his chains and Coxon turned his head.

  ‘I know,’ Dandon called, ‘that you, John, became post-captain when it was Patrick who translated for his French officers! On the day you took him into servitude! He told me that! You owe him that, “Post-Captain”.’

  Coxon’s face showed nothing. He brushed a fly from his shirt.

  ‘But did he not tell you that he stepped forward to save them, pirate? Was that not the vital part of his story?’

  He did not wait for a reply and ascended to search for the swollen and red Doctor Howe.

  But not too quickly.

  It was a sky of a honey-onyx hue when Manvell and Howard took the final boat back to the ship. Every anker of water, every trussed pink pigeon, every giant tortoise with its delicious liver already setting tongues slavering, had all worked to bring a rare air about the crew. They laughed, sang, helped each other hand over hand willingly, more as a crew at the end of their work than one approaching the cannon. Manvell mirrored their humour by leaning down from the ladder to haul up Howard, his boxes over his shoulders and about his waist so that he waddled out of the boat awkwardly.

  On deck, only Jenkins the sailing-master, greeted them, a stranger next to them in coat and tricorne; the lieutenants were still in calico and straw.

  ‘How went the island, gentlemen?’

  ‘Very well, Mister Jenkins,’ Manvell said. ‘How goes the ship?’

  ‘All’s well, Mister Manvell.’ He saw Howard’s pile of boxes. ‘Specimens, Mister Howard?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Howard opened one to show. ‘For the captain. For presenting back to the board.’

  Jenkins sniffed over the box. ‘Eggs. Good, good. What creature?’

  Howard looked to Manvell. ‘Bats, sir. A flightless sand-bat, I perceived.’

  Manvell looked up at the mainmast, turned his face away and fascinated on the oak so Jenkins would not see his smirk.

  ‘Good, good,’ Jenkins approved. ‘I shall look forward to seeing more. Perhaps after supper.’ He saluted and spun away. Manvell came back from his study of wood.

  ‘Thomas,’ he took out a kerchief and wiped his brow, ‘you are a terrible fellow. We should change and report to the Standard. ‘He picked up his own share of baskets and boxes. ‘Come now. The trees and the sand have improved me immensely.’

  Howard was pleased. He had avoided Manvell on the island, should he have had whispered more of his seditious words. He was not willing to forge conspirators’ alliances over the giving of a drink of water.

  He had seen pirates, and judged them with the dead he had also seen turn up when the pirates walked. But that one, Dandon, had shown compassion once. All Howard had done was make a return on that compassion. If it was against orders he would live with that. The island had performed its magic. The world of wood that swaddled them daily was a small world. It magnified everything. The island had reminded how large the earth really was. Looking back at the ship from the jungle had been the best perspective. The ship just a hundred and eighteen feet of wood. A conveyance. A vehicle for his duty. And Manvell clearly had a similar viewpoint. They went below with shared laughter.

  Sailing-Master Jenkins looked back at the sound, then the shrouds beside him began to shake and hum and the yards above creaked painfully. He clamped his hat down and watched the giant palms of the island shiver like wheat. The boats, still being pulled up, swayed dangerously. Straw hats flew from the heads of the men straining to hold them.

  And then it was gone.

  It had been a warm rush of air from the island’s mountains and he watched it roll away from their starboard and across the sea, now seeming to pull away from them as the Standard bucked in her chains.

  Calm again. The air heavy and too still. He stood and waited for another portent. The men at the boats went back to work and Sailing-Master Jenkins bit his lip. He took out his watch, his log and pencil and walked to the quarterdeck.

  Manvell and Howard came across Doctor Howe hugging a post outside their quarters. The wind had unbalanced him, he declared, and the lieutenants helped steady him, amused at the wine stains on his paunch and the fermented breath.

  ‘You would do better to get some air, Doctor,’ Manvell said.

  ‘I would so,’ he clung to Manvell like a cat falling down a curtain. ‘But the captain had an exigence to inspect his injured pirate.’

  Manvell and Howard looked at each other. ‘Kennedy?’ Manvell asked.

  ‘No. The other. I gave him a draught. It is all he will need. Closing of the bowels.’

  Howard let him go and slung his boxes off his shoulders and peeled down the stair.

  ‘Thomas!’ Manvell excused himself from the reeling doctor and his own baskets and ran after.

  Howard saw the chains swinging empty. He heard Manvell come down behind him and ducked his way through the hold until he saw Kennedy and Coxon and the prone body lying on a jury-rigged table. He stopped and Manvell brushed past him.

  ‘What has hap
pened here, Captain?’ Manvell’s voice was calm. He saw Kennedy slink away to the manger.

  ‘Good to see you return, Lieutenant,’ Coxon was in rolled shirtsleeves, his hair pulled tight by its bow as if recently secured. He stepped aside to show the full sight of the pirate.

  ‘I released him. Out of pity. He attempted escape. Or some pain to me personally. I should not have sent so many of you ashore. I think he saw his chance.’

  Howard took a step towards. ‘Is he—?’

  ‘Dead?’ Coxon said. ‘Why would he be dead?’

  Manvell saw there was no blood around the table and came closer.

  ‘Escape? Where would he go?’

  ‘To the island one would suppose,’ Coxon shrugged. ‘There are pirates in the south. He would know that. Fortunately, I was unharmed. Kennedy was able to subdue.’

  Manvell looked over at an unmarked Kennedy.

  ‘You are more powerful than you seem, pirate.’

  Kennedy saluted.

  Manvell bent to Dandon’s face. The eyes were closed and swollen. The whole head seemed bigger. His arms over the sides of the table trembled.

  ‘He is asleep,’ Coxon said. ‘The doctor’s draught.’

  Manvell straightened.

  ‘Or beaten senseless.’

  Coxon pretended confusion.

  ‘Do you suggest something inappropriate, Mister Manvell?’

  ‘No, Captain. I do not suggest.’

  ‘You are not entitled to opinion, Lieutenant. Unless it be granted you.’ Coxon stood close. ‘The pirate took advantage. Kennedy came to my assistance. They fought. The confines of the hold afforded him his injuries.’

  Manvell took off his straw hat, feeling himself foolish in his shore clothes.

  ‘Then I would like it noted in the log that I think this man has been beaten unjustly.’

  ‘This man?’ Coxon looked between the table and Manvell. ‘This is a pirate, Lieutenant. We have been around this conversation before. This pirate holds vital information concerning the purpose of our mission!’

  ‘Our mission, Captain – respectfully – was to join Captain Ogle and hunt for Roberts and Devlin together. It was not some glory lust for gold!’

  ‘The gold has no part of it. That is for our men. Would you have me tell them that you wish to deny them so? I have acted on more pertinent intelligence which has moved us from our orders.’

  ‘Yet you need more? And this man has it all!’

  ‘I believe you were with me on Bourbon, Lieutenant? Was I not questioning pirates? Found Devlin’s closest ally? Whom – I should add – Ogle would not know from a horse’s arse, sir! There is reason in sending me to this sea!’

  Manvell took a step back from Coxon’s reddened face. He had not said anything that he regretted and he would pause before he did. His mouth opened, then a croak from the table made them both still and stare.

  ‘Thomas?’ Dandon coughed. ‘Mister Howard?’ He tried to lift a hand.

  Howard was shaking. He clenched his fists and tensed the sensation away. He was drawn forward by the voice and the pained eye. Kennedy started also but Manvell froze him with a glare.

  Howard was beside the table. He held the weightless hand. He saw that Dandon’s cheek lay in a pool of sweat and saliva. He had nothing to wipe it away save his own sleeve and he carefully lifted Dandon’s head to do so.

  ‘You are hurt, Mister Dandon, sir. You should rest.’

  ‘. . . Hurt but am not slain.’ Dandon almost smiled. He closed his eyes and Howard softly put the head back to the table. He smiled then.

  ‘Good boy. Brave boy,’ he mumbled and dropped his hand from Howard’s.

  Coxon and Manvell stood silent as Howard withdrew.

  ‘He’s out again, Captain,’ he said, and fell in between them both.

  They watched Dandon’s back rise and fall. Manvell broke the silence.

  ‘What now, Captain?’

  Coxon put a hand on Howard’s shoulder.

  ‘He will need to be restrained again when he wakes. He has forced it on himself with his attempted escape.’

  Manvell felt his stomach twist. The time had passed for him to regret his words.

  ‘I wish to comment in the log, Captain. The treatment of this prisoner is not fitting to my station as the Standard’s First. As entreated to me.’

  Coxon took his hand from Howard’s shoulder.

  ‘We should discuss over supper.’

  He thought on his papers. The orders over all others. The Standard’s logs just tinder, Manvell’s words worthless. Back in England Manvell might become privileged; once Devlin was done, once the king’s honour had been restored. He would understand everything then.

  ‘But he shall be restrained again,’ he said.

  The bell rang above them. The ship was at last back to order.

  ‘To supper, gentlemen. You can explain to me, Christopher, your sympathy over pirates who attack your captain.’ Coxon walked away. ‘Change your dress. Thomas, you will tell me of your specimens.’

  ‘With respect, Captain,’ Howard said, ‘I should like to attend to the pirate and secure him. As is fitting.’

  Coxon stopped. He did not turn to Howard.

  ‘Granted,’ he said. ‘I will deliver you some pork pie. Kennedy will assist.’ He ducked away through the dark.

  Manvell tugged Howard’s shirt, pulled him to his face.

  ‘Good show,’ he said. ‘I will mention at supper. With the others. Have no fear, Thomas.’

  Howard pulled his sleeve free.

  ‘I don’t, sir.’ He threw his straw hat to a corner. ‘It is a Christian thing. As you said. Do not count me with your conspiracies. If you please.’

  Coxon ordered from the stair. ‘Manvell! Come!’

  Manvell leant into Howard’s face. He looked once at Kennedy near the manger who retreated from earshot.

  ‘He is mad you know. He endangers us all with this pirate. We have broken our orders.’

  Howard looked back to the table.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘The difference is that he does not wait for orders and papers. That is how the pirates win. Too many simply wait. He is going for the throat. I have seen their axes and guns. He is becoming them.’

  ‘Manvell!’ Coxon bellowed.

  Howard pushed Manvell to the dark.

  ‘I know what I’m doing, sir. Do yours.’

  Manvell took his hand, not offered.

  ‘Come find me later,’ he said.

  Howard dropped the hand.

  ‘You are the First, sir. Do as your position. Please.’

  He went to the table, and Manvell could find no more words.

  He followed his captain.

  Chapter Thirty

  The night now. Coxon was dressed for a dinner he had no appetite for. The pirate had not spoken. He had Kennedy wrap his own fists with soaked cloth and beat at him in his chains, so that his hanging arms punished him as much as the bludgeoning hands.

  Kennedy smashed against his liver, at his sides, at his groin. And still nothing came from the pirate except sweat. Not even the lies that Coxon had expected. Only when Kennedy himself folded over exhausted did the pirate speak, as Coxon asked his question once more.

  ‘Where is he, Dandon?’

  The pirate spat. It strung from his lip and he shook it free like a dog.

  ‘Where he has always been, John,’ he flashed his gold caps. ‘In your dreams.’

  Coxon paled. He stared at the pirate as if he had discovered witchcraft in the world.

  ‘Take him down,’ he said to Kennedy. ‘He’s dying.’

  ‘I know a priest, John,’ Dandon said. ‘I know where you can find him for my end.’ He passed out with the grin still on his face.

  Coxon looked in the mirror, an old speckled glass he had carried with him for more than twenty years. It had aged with him. Almost black in places, warped and opaque, it reflected well. He lowered his eyes from himself.

  He had starved the pirate and he did
not talk. He had beaten and tortured him and he did not talk. He looked again at the mirror and let it reflect on the marvel of friendship he did not know. The emptiness of the room figured behind him. It held the absence of portrait frames he had bought and filled in his life, mementoes of intimacy.

  There were only tools and maps and the books where he lived the lives of other men.

  He gleaned the bright brown leather of the Cervantes volume Devlin had given him the last time they met. He turned to it, half-expecting it to not belong in the real world and vanish with the mirror.

  He walked to the shelf and his hand was almost upon it when a knock on the door came and broke him from his reverie. He knew that knock by now.

  ‘Come, Christopher.’

  Manvell ducked his way in. Bright in a blue riding coat. In all the time they had been at sea Manvell’s wardrobe, Coxon noted, had still not rotated.

  ‘What is it?’ Coxon asked as he tidied his waistcoat. ‘A private conversation not fit for mess?’

  It was approaching nine o’clock but the sky was still golden in the stern windows. They had been underway for two hours. Without a word from the pirate they were heading north-west, coursing for the Comoros for now. Coursing to meet Ogle and Herdman. The ship had become sullen that the gold was slipping away like the hue of the sky.

  ‘No, sir, I mean . . . John,’ Manvell dipped his head. ‘I just wondered when I might make my entry into the log regarding the Standard’s treatment of the prisoner?’

  Coxon sighed and lost interest in his threadbare waistcoat’s loose buttons.

  ‘If he talks would you still call him the “prisoner” or would he be the pirate then?’

  ‘Would that matter?’

  ‘No. No, I suppose not.’

  Coxon picked up his hat from the table, thought on the letters that would exonerate him from all of this. If he could but share them Manvell would not stand so indignant and Howard would not look at him so ashamed. He had become an agent for men in black cloth but he now understood why. They operated so to protect. To protect those beneath them, even if it was just from themselves.