by Mark Keating
Lucy offered some parting words before she was swallowed up by the inn. ‘That’s also the home where Blackbeard’s chest came out of, sirs. From my room I saw it carried up the street.’ She kissed her lips and bustled through the door, her entrance generating a roar of approval from deep inside the inn.
Dandon opened his mouth to speak but Devlin was already striding to the black door. Dandon followed, whistling to Devlin’s back to slow up, whilst they perhaps took time to contemplate the situation over a roasted bird and some wine.
Devlin announced his arrival by shoving open the gate, slamming it against the railings like a gaol door. But despite his temperament, he paused as the black door crept open at his approach to reveal the red hall beyond.
Chapter Fourteen
The young black boy in the white bob wig, attired in a scarlet coat as finely embellished as that of any Saxony footman, led them along the red-flocked walls of the hall. He did not speak. He did not ask for weapons to be discarded.
The pirates followed him to the end of the narrow hall where the boy tapped a silver-topped cane against a door on their right.
Silence; then the sound of a chair scraping accompanied by the boom of command.
The door opened and the boy gently tugged on Devlin’s arm to enter before stepping back into the hall and closing the door of their escape.
Before them was a fine study, a gentleman’s repository of books and ornaments, clocks and silver. Two glass doors leading to the garden faced them. Standing beside one, a black-clothed stick of a man looked away into the night outside.
He turned his head to look at Devlin, then Dandon. When he spoke his tone was sharp with the patronising resonance of the licensed and appointed.
‘You were to come alone.’
Devlin wondered whether this man remained in the room for weeks waiting for the rap on the door, counting the leaves on his trees.
‘You are Ignatius?’ he asked flatly. ‘The man who summons me?’
The ebony figure turned fully, his taffeta-bag wig flapping on his shoulder, his white stock collar drawing his face to a bony point.
‘I am.’ His eyes took in Devlin’s considerable stature. ‘I imagined you shorter, Captain. Like a sailor. No matter.’ He sat, at his oak office, pulling a stylus and parchment from a drawer. ‘No matter,’ he repeated. ‘However, due to your lateness it is quite possible that your quartermaster may already be dead.’
Ignatius raised his head at the sound of the trinity passage of the lock and trigger engaging on Devlin’s pistol.
‘You had best clarify that statement, sir.’ Devlin held the pistol at his side. Not a threat. A tiger yawning; showing his teeth.
Dandon chewed on a thumbnail, happy to be ignored. Ignatius put down the stylus and leant back in his chair.
‘I do not scare, Captain. And I know my game well. If I am dead you will never find your ridiculous quartermaster and your ship would not make it out of the harbour I assure you.’
‘I would not kill you. I would hurt you.’
Ignatius picked up his stylus again. ‘Captain, I have had Blackbeard himself in this very room, and barely tolerated his idle threats. A lesser pirate such as yourself will more quickly exhaust my patience if you persist with this mélodrame.’
Dandon began to fade away from the conversation, taking in more of the noble room. Convinced Ignatius probably had a pistol lying in an open drawer of the desk, he twisted his heel away a little, opening a space between himself and his captain whilst he looked innocently about.
The door they had come in was the only one. To his right, against the wall, glowed a display of pottery upon a long tombstone commode. An impressive collection, Dandon noted, as it seemed to span several styles.
His wandering eye was attracted to the floor. There were wet footprints by the curtained window where Ignatius had been standing; more around the desk. He could not be sure why it bothered him, then he had no more time to dwell upon it as he jumped at the sound of his own name.
‘Dandon, is it not?’ Ignatius prepared to write the name down.
‘Aye, sir,’ Dandon tugged his hat-brim. ‘I have been known to be called such. By serpents and lambs.’
‘Then I take it that Captain Devlin does not know your real name?’ Ignatius looked for a conspirator’s reaction. Devlin did not move his eyes from Ignatius; he never even blinked.
‘No, sir,’ Dandon concurred, heat suffusing his face at the thought that this stranger had such a deep knowledge of him. ‘It has scarcely come up in our conversations.’
Devlin interceded, ‘I know the real names of but a few of my men. Pirates mostly adopt new handles when they go on the account.’
Ignatius scribbled as he spoke. ‘That is good to know. Until now I would happily have penned Dandon here as innocent. He will be noted pirate along with the rest of your crew. Now,’ he slapped the pen down and sprang up, moving from the desk to the maple orange commode against the wall. ‘To the business at hand.’
He drew their attention to the cabinet, loaded with trinkets of extravagance – cups, teapots, fluted vases and fat terrines – all of the finest white and blue-glazed porcelain. Thousands of pounds’ worth.
‘Before I begin, Captain,’ as he spoke, the corners of Ignatius’s mouth rose above the stock collar. ‘Do not concern yourself with your quartermaster’s well-being. He should already be on his way to join us. But it was important for me to know, if I am to be convinced at all that you are a potential champion for my cause, whether you truly cared about his welfare. Your violent introduction gives me some encouragement, but your suitability and usefulness depends on more than just that.’
Devlin put his pistol back in his belt, the dog-head half-cocked for a speedy draw if necessary. The two pirates stepped from the heavy weft rug in the centre of the room to join Ignatius at the commode.
Ignatius picked up some small intricate pieces, snuff boxes and thimbles, lowering his voice as if quoting a psalm.
‘This is faïence. From Saint-Cloud,’ he looked at them both pitifully, ‘in France. It is the finest attempt the French have made at replicating the true porcelain.’ He tossed a thimble in the shape of an embryonic elephant to Devlin.
Devlin rolled the glazed oddity around his palm with as much interest he afforded any thimble.
Ignatius regarded him scornfully. ‘It is an expensive failed attempt, an educated guess. Baubles for the wealthy who know no better. A man would be laughed out of court if he succumbed to collecting it.’
He moved along to a clearly European coffee service, more ornate and vulgar than the refined Chinese sets of which Devlin himself possessed two.
‘This is Meissen,’ he spoke admiringly, picking up a softly tapering and floral cup. ‘For the past six years it has become the object of desire in Europe.’
Even in the lamp-light Devlin could see the cold shimmer, the skin-thin translucency of the mouth of the cup.
‘The world has changed much since the end of the war,’ Ignatius’s voice swung down to a resentful baritone. ‘Ten years ago the most important things that transpired in this world were objects of blood: iron, steel, gold, silver, slaves and guns.’ He put down the cup with a melancholy eye.
‘Now all the allied Kings and gentlemen ever talk of is wig-powder, tea, chocolate, coffee and porcelain. The most fashionable, the most charming corner of any debate? Tea, coffee and chocolate. The celebrated beverages of the New World. All medicinal. All prohibitively expensive. All the young fops care about. That and how joyous it is that one can obtain French linen again.’
At that moment Devlin saw Ignatius clearly. In his voice was the spite and indefatigable appetite of a warmonger. His face was old enough to have witnessed the passage of two wars and new monarchies and lords with weaker and weaker values who wanted only to hunt on their horses, not ride them into battle.
This man spoke now with pirates. He probably spoke with Spanish admirals, ambitious princes, dukes, assassins and tortur
ers. He was known only by a single name. There was no title and no reverence or courtesy – not even the wetting of a windpipe for his guests.
Ignatius twisted his face away from the coat of Dandon who had sidled up to the commode to pluck up some of the faïence.
‘My God, sir! You smell of atrocity and fat. It is quite pungent, you are aware?’
Dandon sniffed his shoulder. ‘I have been at sea for six weeks, sir. You should try it some time. It has a very liberating way of relaxing one’s sense of dignity.’
Ignatius lifted his eyebrows and continued his speech.
‘I need you, Captain, to understand the importance of my preparations. I have gone to the trouble of bringing you here under great expense. I had agents across all the known pirate shores looking for you. Each one with the same letter. You have reason to hate me, Captain: I am threatening the life of your brother and the liberty of all your crew. And yours, naturally.’
‘My liberty?’ Devlin stood back.
‘I have letters of arrest signed by the Dutch, the United Kingdom, and the French. All excluding you from pardon. If you refuse to aid me I will have them distributed throughout the hemisphere. And as I torture your quartermaster I will add the names of your officers to the hunt.’
Devlin turned his shoulder to the man, his head lowered. His voice was tight, almost trying not to laugh.
‘Why do you rile me so? Surely you must have some sense? Some tale of me?’
‘I knew I would not be able to bring you here with a bribe or a reward, Captain. But a threat? A challenge perhaps? That might task you.’
‘Might kill you,’ Devlin walked to the desk.
Ignatius sighed, ‘Again with the mélodrame.’
Dandon had picked up a Chinese cup. The blue glaze, part of the shell-like surface, seemed naturally ingrained, painted by heaven more than man.
‘From the Italian, porcelana,’ Dandon feigned an elaborate accent. ‘For its shine and opacity is akin to the lustrous down on a sow’s back. Only the Italians could whittle such an allusion.’ He placed the cup back while noticing an appreciative look from Ignatius, and he winked at him.
Devlin flicked a finger at the ream of papers upon the desk, musing on how many referred to him. ‘Enough. Tell me now what this has to do with me? And Blackbeard’s part of it.’
Ignatius showed a marked pleasure in Devlin’s bark. His eye brightened. The pirate had known him not one chime of the clock and yet he could feel the chill of enmity.
This was exactly the response he had hoped for. Hate was a better motivator, an impulse that might drive one beyond ordinary ability with enough will to force open even the most sturdily-bolted doors. Hatred was an energy that all great generals had learnt to harness.
Ignatius leant back upon the commode and took a deep breath as if about to break into song.
‘Several years ago, a Jesuit priest and missionary began a ministry in the Jingdezhen province of China. In truth he was an industrial spy. His studies centred around learning the secrets of the production of the Jingde hard-paste porcelain. And being a man of God he was foolishly trusted to be privy to the process itself.’
Ignatius looked hard at Devlin. ‘Understand, Captain: this is a product of royal value and the East India companies have been smuggling porcelain for years. They disguise it as parcels of tea. Straw wrapped bundles. Customs count four hundred jars of tea, not four hundred porcelain vases. Over the years the Dutch alone have “imported” over three million pieces in such a manner.’
He lifted himself up and moved along the cabinet to the Chinese set Dandon was still admiring.
‘The priest observed and recorded all that he saw. He wrote down the entire process from start to finish, for both the soft-paste porcelain and the superior hard-paste formula. Unfortunately his complete letters never made it out of China.
‘In Europe, just a few years before the priest wrote his account, a certain alchemist fled from Prussia. He escaped from one tower only to be imprisoned in another. In Prussia he had been forced to the method of transmutation of metal into gold. Now the Elector of Saxony imprisoned the unlucky man until he could discover the secret of the “White Gold” instead. After many years of research he succeeded, perhaps not only by his own hand.’ Ignatius paused to pick up a small delicate white cup, a rueful look appearing briefly on his face and vanishing as the cup went down again. ‘But he succeeded nonetheless. That young alchemist had achieved what the world’s greatest craftsmen and experimenters had been trying to discover for centuries, since the first pieces began to trickle back to Europe during the crusades.
‘As is common with those who discover things of great interest to more powerful men, the alchemist soon died mysteriously, leaving his secret to the pottery at Meissen. The Meissen manufactory began to produce Europe’s first, Europe’s only, hard-paste porcelain. Many in Europe believe it is unfair for one power to have the monopoly. For many years others have only been able to produce the lesser form, the faïence, the inferior flux and frit that chips, stains, breaks and burns.’ He gently cradled in both hands a blue-dragon serving pot and held it before him like the Baptist’s head.
‘Pai-Tzu. True porcelain. The Japanese have armour made of it. The Chinese have gilded royal homes with it. And a King can drink chocolate from it without burning his fingers.’
Devlin tipped his hat. ‘Aye. It’s of a price. I know that. Baubles for the rich have many prices. Saxony alone has this secret?’
Ignatius breathed out heavily and put back the pot. ‘They have as close as an approximation as one can hope for without possessing the actual formula. It is the same clay that Saxony is fortunate to have beneath its earth. I believe the Americas also contain this same clay. Certainly some of the savages use pottery wares akin to it. And the priest’s notes contain the precise mix, the firing, even the design of the kiln in which the clay must be fired. The country that owns those letters owns the largest secret in a world at peace. More than a secret: an arcanum! The most valuable man-made substance on Earth, gentlemen. A product as profitable as war and even more capable of starting one.’ He held up a schoolmaster’s finger. ‘Think on that! What if a country as young as this one could manufacture such a product? Imagine the wealth that could bring to the Americas!’ He lowered his voice, drawing them in. ‘Why would you want such a secret to fall into King George’s lap, Captain, if you could take it from him? Imagine the discord when it is discovered that it is you that has denied England such a prize.’
Devlin looked back into Ignatius’s now gentle face. ‘Aye. I’m sure you’ll be wanting to enrich the Americas with such a gift.’
‘And I owe it all to you, Captain.’ He opened his arms and smiled.
Devlin looked once to the bemused Dandon then back again. ‘How so?’
Ignatius’s soft smile did not fade. ‘Three long years ago, three years that have aged me terribly, the letters resurfaced. Oddly enough from a young officer of your own acquaintance.’
Devlin’s ears pricked up. Dandon had almost stopped listening. He removed his hat and dragged a cuff across his brow. The study of cups and all the talk of drinks had brought a great thirst upon him.
‘Captain William Guinneys,’ revealed Ignatius, and took pleasure in the obvious recognition of that name.
Dandon fanned himself with his hat and glanced wide-eyed with surprise at Devlin, ‘The little filth is reaching to us from beyond the grave. Fancy.’
Guinneys had been the young captain with Coxon on The Island. He had turned. He had betrayed. He was dead.
Ignatius pattered on, hoping he had baited them enough with intrigue. The final hammer blow might be too much. All might yet be lost.
‘The arcanum was sealed inside a Chinese bronze cannon. A clever hiding place of Captain Guinneys’. This gun made its way to the Americas. Unfortunately the word had already begun to spread. Intellectual property is a commodity more blood-stained than gold. I needed to get the gun hidden again. That is when I discove
red how useful pirates can be amongst these inlets.’
He pulled his silver Dassier pair-case watch, a nervous act for he seemed to pay no attention to it. Devlin could sense anxiety encroaching on Ignatius like flies to meat. He was now a fisherman trying hard not to lose his catch.
‘The Chinese had lost the secret of silk, and of gunpowder. I began to feel that their Gods did not want their last mystery revealed. I arranged for the pirate, Sam Bellamy, to sail the gun north on the Whydah Galley. I desired to get it out of the Carolinas and away from those who were showing most interest before I myself was able capitalise on its promise. Unfortunately …’ he looked between the two pirates and had to explain no further, ‘… I believed the gun lost forever. But she has come back to me. Providing you, Captain, can bring her here.’
‘And why am I so privileged as to be chosen for such a task? What have I done to be singled out so?’ He stepped within a foot of the bony face, his interest waning as his anger percolated. ‘What is so special about me?’
‘Ah, yes,’ Ignatius brushed past him and creaked across the floor to stand behind his desk, Dandon watching his footsteps with focussed curiosity.
‘There is indeed a reason as to why you were absolutely necessary for this mission. Why I had no choice but to bait you here, Captain.’
He pulled from a drawer, not a bottle as Dandon had been hoping, but a black-edged envelope of darkest vellum. He walked back to Devlin and held out the packet.
‘The nobleman who has funded my enterprise, the same man who informed me that the gun was not lost, and of the place where it now rests. It was he who insisted that I appoint you for the task.’ Ignatius handed over the envelope.
‘And once I had separated you from your quartermaster – him in particular, mind – I was to give you this.’
Devlin tossed the thimble to the desk and took the envelope. Even without opening it the thin bone-like form and the crackle within gave him a clue.
