by Mark Keating
One ally.
Devlin’s wounded arm pulsed as he moved to Hugh, his shirt arm just blood, and he watched another shot fly towards him like an arrow.
The stone falling drowned the ball and Devlin breathed again. He saw the rocks smash into the pool among his cursing men. He saw Hugh’s back running wet, coming to stand, and Levasseur saw it also.
‘Nice eye-patch,’ Hugh said to Levasseur and unhooked his hatchet from his belt. ‘I lost my pistols,’ he rolled the hatchet in his palm. ‘You be dead for that.’
Levasseur pulled his head back and looked down his substantial beak.
‘English?’ A French scowl.
Hugh shook his head.
‘Pirate,’ he said and skulked forwards.
‘Dead,’ said Levasseur and fired into Hugh’s body with a snap of his wrist.
‘No!’ Devlin roared and was on Hugh before he fell, his sword out to Levasseur across them both, defending pointlessly against lead. His men remained lost in the water and shouted up at what they had seen.
Levasseur’s palms rested on new pistols. He paused to pull. Gave a captain a moment with his lesser man.
Devlin held Hugh with his shattered shoulder, dropped his dagger beside him.
‘Hugh?’
Hugh Harris pulled the back of Devlin’s waistcoat, dragged himself up.
‘Just me belt, Cap’n,’ he grunted. ‘Good. Italian. Like your boots.’ Devlin looked down to the new stud decorating the six-inch-wide leather.
‘But fuck, that hurt!’ he hissed. ‘And the fucking cave’s falling in!’ He passed his hatchet into good hands. ‘I’ll be up in a minute, Pat.’ His gut denied and he went back down.
Devlin let him to the ground, stood over him. Faced Levasseur.
The hatchet dangled, loop already about his wrist, pitted sword in the other. The same Welsh steel he had faced René Trouin with. More a shield than a blade. Worn with worth. Earned. His clothes dripped like sand in a glass, wet as the dead below.
Levasseur pulled iron and lead against steel. And the steel came on to the pistol mouths. As all battles commence.
The lead. The steel. Both metals of the earth and shaped by fire and men for one purpose: the mettle of men. Strength of muscle and sinew, command of nerve and will.
‘Traitor!’ Levasseur cried. It was the first time Devlin had heard his voice, but the word seemed familiar.
‘I am Levasseur! This is my place!’ He stepped back to the shade of his chamber.
Devlin came on.
‘Your cave is falling. Done for by your own cannon. Come. Leave with me.’
‘You come for my gold, traitor!’ The pistols sat cocked in both his hands, yet the man coming on was not afraid. This the gravy of his days.
‘My men are here,’ Devlin announced behind his blade. ‘We’ll take what you have. The priest’s cross. I’ll spare you. Lay down.’
‘Spare me?’ They were within a dozen feet of each other, a killing ground. And Levasseur fired, threw his pistols and pulled steel before waiting for the shots’ end.
Devlin stood the pistol fire and heard the whistle as it passed. He still moved, and that was good enough, and through the gunsmoke steel finally met steel.
Levasseur’s good eye widened, his mouth white with spittle, and they ran the swords’ lengths to their hilts, fists almost to the floor.
Levasseur gritted his teeth as he felt the hone of the arm against his.
‘Who are you, Monsieur? Before you die.’
Devlin pushed him back.
‘Devlin. Did O’Neill not say? And this sword beat Trouin.’
Levasseur walked his quarter.
‘They sent Trouin after me, pirate! He did not find.’
‘I beat him and found you. You should measure that.’ And Devlin took his quarter also.
They circled once, and that brought Devlin to see the glistening from the chamber, the stone throne, the gold cross gleaming upon it. And Levasseur saw the diverted glance and dove at his new enemy, a traitor like them all.
Below, the men were pelted by the hail of rock. They ducked under the water in time to miss the largest shards but with every stone they knew the cave was nearing its end, becoming mountain again, eroding aeons of nature’s work. Hugh had climbed so why not they? They crawled and clawed their way up.
Peter Sam still clung to the upturned boat. Back, toward the cave mouth, he could see the new boats coming and shouted to the others. His brothers were safe now. Above he could hear the sounds of battle that came down like hammer on anvil even over the commotion of falling stone.
The combatants were out of sight but in his mind he could see every swipe and clash, and the muscles of his arms flinched at the familiar sounds. He could do nothing to help his captain. To help his friend. He waited for the final sound to come. But he had no doubt who would prevail.
Devlin beat Levasseur back for a pause of words.
‘This is madness. We’ll all be dead. Put down, Capitaine. Come out with me now.’
Levasseur howled and swung. The forte of Devlin’s blade sparked against the Frenchman’s. He had fought René Trouin and after that every sword felt slow. His blade had grown past the butcher’s boy of his youth.
‘You will fall,’ he said – he promised – his sword up and beside his head. Grace given.
‘You will fall,’ Levasseur cried. ‘Fall in my kingdom!’
He hacked as if Devlin were only a tree, and the pirate let the blows come on to sword and axe as if from the wooden sword of an enraged child. He parried easily, only turning his wrist. He had tussled whores harder. He pushed Levasseur away each time with the boarding-axe. Spared his head.
Devlin had the lead in his shoulder, and the true wound from the god Trouin still biting at his back, but Levasseur was no match. He knew that now. His pain was just payment for the skill he had gained.
A pirate stood before him, the man who had stolen the greatest haul on the sea. And Devlin was his master. He had practised harder with his men on Sundays. He was already counting his gold.
He let the blade come once more and turned it effortlessly to the stone and held it there with his own blade like a vice.
He put his Cordova boot to it, snapped it like a dead branch and kicked the poor steel to the pool in the same movement. His only concern was that his men would avoid its plunge.
He stepped back, turned the axe in his hand, let Levasseur marvel at the stump of blade in his fist and fall to his knees. The eye patch quivered as the brow moved in surprise.
‘The words you are looking for,’ Devlin said, ‘are “Dommage, Capitaine.”’
He pricked Levasseur’s bandoleer with his sword, made sure the pirate could feel the pressure behind the quillions.
Levasseur looked up along the blade to the cold face.
‘We are of the same age, Monsieur. Young enough . . . old enough . . . to have seen the war. No doubt you became a pirate . . . for the same . . . as did I.’
‘This life chose me,’ Devlin said. He took away the sword and put out his hand, the hatchet hanging. ‘Come. I’ll get you out of here. For another day.’
Levasseur took the palm.
‘You say “chose”, Monsieur,’ he grimaced. ‘That is the difference.’ His grip shifted fast to pull the wrist to the ground, his broken sword against Devlin’s throat.
‘Nothing chose me, dog!’ The eye-patch quivered again. ‘I am this!’
He pushed forward as Devlin’s ebony dagger hissed between them and embedded itself in the leather eye patch.
Levasseur fell back in a scream, balled up in pain at Devlin’s feet.
Devlin turned to Hugh Harris holding his belly, grinning for one wink.
‘You couldn’t have hit his good eye then, Hugh?’ Devlin put his sword in his belt, checked his hand to his throat.
‘I was aiming for his neck, Pat.’
Hugh stood and joined him. He put his boot to Levasseur’s chest and pulled the dagger free without a g
rimace at the sucking sound that came with it and passed it back to Devlin. Levasseur stopped writhing and waited for his end.
Hugh whistled at the sight of the gold cross.
‘Holy—’
‘Holy is right,’ Devlin said. ‘The priest’s Cross of Fire.’
Hugh sprang to it, to lay both hands on the cold metal.
Levasseur rolled up on his side to watch Hugh try to pull the cross from its throne.
The fight had gone from him, tears of blood coursed from under the eye-patch. The good eye was dry.
‘It is mine,’ he said. He clawed at the air near the gold.
Hugh grunted with the effort. ‘It won’t move, Pat! Help me.’
Devlin’s feet began to quake. The dust and shale were now falling like a mist, sifting down his back into his shirt and boots.
‘Leave it, Hugh! We have to go! The roof is falling!’
‘We can’t leave it, Pat!’ Hugh bellowed back and pulled harder. ‘It weighs a tonne!’
Levasseur sank, his claw now a fist.
‘More . . . It weighs more . . .’ and his eye swivelled to Devlin.
Devlin looked away, ran to Hugh, pulled him free.
‘Hugh,’ he dragged Hugh’s neck to look at the ground, at the carpet of gold and jewels. ‘If you fill your pockets you’ll drown. We’ll get out and come back.’
He twisted Hugh’s head to the hole opposite.
‘Look! There’s where the priest came in,’ he pulled the face to his. ‘Where we’ll come in. Come back again.’
Hugh looked at the gold cross, at his feet spilling with gold coins that trembled and chinked with the shaking of the cave.
‘Aye, Pat,’ he said. ‘Aye. You were right. I’ve seen it. You were right.’
‘You tell them that. If we get out. Bring Levasseur.’
They turned and stared at empty space.
Hugh scrambled to the place where the pirate had been, swept his hands over the earth as if the body hid in dust.
Devlin went to the edge of the pool, looked down at his boats now dragging in the others.
‘This is his place,’ he said. He looked back at the gold cross. ‘Not ours.’
He spun the axe back to his fist, threw his arm behind and hurled it at the cross.
The gold pealed as the axe sank into its heart and quivered as it stuck. He imagined the wooden splinter buried within gasping at the air. And then his vision vanished beneath the rock.
‘We’ll be back, Hugh.’
They jumped the edge as the collapsing chamber clawed at their backs, dust fingers grabbing at their heels.
Silent seconds under the water, spiralling down, their boots on the faces of the dead pleading up at them. They kicked away with bullets of stone bubbling down past them and then broad arms heaved them back to the noise of the world falling.
‘We’re going,’ Peter Sam declared, and the oars played fast and the rock chased them out, never harming but only warning them to be gone. Only Adam Cowrie, some religion still pressed in him, crossed himself when at last they met the day and swore that it was the cross within the cross that had blessed and saved them.
‘You think so, Adam?’ Devlin said with his old grin, slapping the dust from his hair while Peter Sam made a tourniquet for his arm.
‘I didn’t see it doing the last king of Ireland any favours.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
The bosun stood to his duty. Thomas Howard had been restrained in leg-irons in the larboard gangway. According to the Custom of the Sea he was to be given twenty-four hours to make his own cat-o-nine-tails. Under the circumstances he had only twelve as subject to the requirements of the service.
Coxon had pulled from his shelf the Fighting Instructions, part of which detailed the Articles of War of 1661.
It contained thirty-five acts of discipline all derived from the ancient Laws of Oleron, the customs of the sea that made the oceans a law unto themselves.
Thomas Howard had contravened at least four of them. Only one of them did not have ‘death’ as its last word, and that would do. He read it again. Plucked from it what he needed.
Every Captain Commander and other Officer Seaman or Soldier of any Ship Frigate or Vessel of War shall duly observe the Commands of the Admiral or other his Superior or Commander of any Squadron as well for the assailing or setting upon any Fleet Squadron or Ships of the Enemy Pirate or Rebels or joining Battle with them or making defence against them as all other the Commands of the Admiral or other his Superior Commander upon pain to suffer death or other punishment as the quality of his neglect or offence shall deserve.
He put the book open to the table. The bosun, the other warrant officers to read and agree. No need to mention the other disciplines, the more appropriate. They all read too final.
Outside, the bosun took the offered ropes from Howard. He tossed the worst of them to the sea and selected the nine best knotted for waxing and splicing to a cut piece of hawser. He said nothing, and Howard kept his eyes low, out of the sun.
The bosun went to select his team, one or two of them to be left-handed. No punishment had been set but no harm in being prepared. The choice of left-handers would make a difference when they lashed against the right-hand stroke already laid.
Coxon had chosen the indictment both out of compassion for Howard and the fact that mutilation or death would require warrant from higher authority. Manvell was set for Martial Court, which would be at sea but back in English waters. He did not want Howard to suffer so, to crush a promising young career. And he needed the ship to see the way of the path of sedition. He closed the book.
‘Agreed, gentlemen? Twelve lashes.’ The most available without a court.
The bosun, purser, master, carpenter and cook all concurred. The First Lieutenant was understandably absent.
The whole ship’s company mustered, Manvell included, their heads uncovered. A hatch-grating lay wedged against the gunwale and the skidbeams. At the sound of the slam of wood Coxon read the indictment and offered Howard his chance to speak.
Howard stared at the grating. He pulled his shirt over his head, let it fall and stepped forward.
‘Bosun’s mate,’ Coxon ordered. There was no need to raise his voice; the ship stood already hushed. ‘Do your duty.’
Howard’s arm was taken and he was walked to the grating, his cheek laid upon it as his wrists were tied to its sides.
The bosun handed the cat to the first of the six. Custom. Tradition. One arm out to the prisoner’s left shoulder, the arm with the cat at the same level. He would sweep the full length of the arm across the back, keeping it straight until one arm replaced the other now behind. A pivoting move was decreed so no undue or sadistic force could be used and no man could pull his sweep. The bosun’s only power over the rule was to bring a left-handed man up next. His sweep would cut the knots across the lashes. Bring new flesh out. Each man before he threw would run the waxed tails through his fist to remove the clots of blood for his fresh swipe.
No man relished the duty but it was part of the service, and no captain truly wanted it done to his working crew. What point taking a man out of work by wounding him? Every hand weighed as much as every barrel and sail, as every nail and carpenter’s band. The punishment was present for the threat only. Mostly.
But this was an officer who had cost them gold, had freed the pirate who had helped take their good captain’s old ship with Devlin – the ship where their brothers had been slain, where this traitor himself had served and watched them die. And besides – and the whisper travelled the ship – how often the chance to strike the better-born that took a whip to them at any slight?
There had been no need for lots to be drawn.
The hawser rope and its tails were weighed by the first to step up. He slapped it to his hands and Howard closed his eyes at the sound and tensed his back. Not the best practice, and the sailor grinned. The pup would learn that instantly.
He snarled away the grin and set his a
rm, but Manvell had seen enough.
‘Hold there!’ he cried and the sailor dropped his arm.
‘This man does not deserve punishment!’ He stepped from the ranks along the larboard gangway and stared Coxon down.
‘Mister Howard,’ Manvell said, ‘was following my order to release the pirate.’
Walter Kennedy, standing behind Coxon, hid his joy with his hand. This day was growing lively now. He had expected himself to be punished for his drunken dereliction. Now it was as if he was in the gallery of the Bailey. Common salt Walter Kennedy, he who had killed his father and pirated his way around the world, at court on a king’s ship. He rocked on his heels with glee.
‘What, you say?’ Coxon said.
Manvell stepped forward more, became the player on his own stage.
‘I ordered Mister Howard. I must take the blame, Captain. I insist.’
‘Insist?’ Coxon’s jaw clenched. ‘Your indictment will come, Mister Manvell. It cannot be replaced by lash. If you are guilty, Howard is guilty. Still the same. He did not report your . . . mutiny.’
‘Then I request that Mister Howard is judged by advocate. He should face the same law as I.’
The bosun and his team stood back, looking to Coxon only.
‘Manvell,’ Coxon rubbed his eyes as if weary. ‘If you wish to put Mister Howard to a martial court I can assure you it will be more than his back that he loses. Is that what you want?’
‘No, sir,’ Manvell snapped himself tall. ‘But perhaps a martial court will listen to how the Standard has truly been betrayed.’
‘I repeat,’ Coxon matched Manvell’s height, toe to toe. ‘The result will not be favourable. I am lenient enough to protect Mister Howard from losing his neck and his career.’
He nodded at the looks of the Standard upon him.
‘As I would any of you. I do not hold the same for mutineers. As you, Manvell, have just confessed yourself to be. I will commend to the court your honesty.’
Coxon saw the pride fall. Manvell felt sure now that he would never see his child, twins or not. He would never see his wife’s face again.
