by Mark Keating
He had bid for and bought the gun, then hidden it in plain sight in the abandoned Spanish fort on Providence until the world had forgotten him and he could come back and claim his pension. But the King had reclaimed Providence, New Providence now deemed, and it was no longer safe to return. It was now a year after the sinking of the Whydah and the crown had still not laid a hand upon him. Only the Devil could find Palgrave Williams now for surely only the Devil would know where to look.
For Palgrave Williams in his current predicament, hell could threaten little more. Roped tight within the bowels of the sloop Adventure, half his body lay soaking in the well of the bilge and his arms were chained above his head keeping him from drowning. Rats scampered across his lap, nibbled at his leather belt and boots. The cool of the water accomplished nothing against the stale, hot air below the waterline.
It had been days now, feeling the pressure of water above his head outside the keel and the Bermudan tide swaying in the stagnant well all about him.
He had found sanctuary in Bermuda, in St George’s Town, biding his time until the English gave up on saving New Providence and he could return to collect the gun.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to make his way to Bermuda. His reasoning had been that the English island had defended itself well from pirates over the years yet was just a couple of days’ sail back to Providence and only six hundred miles from the Carolinas. He could keep his fingers in the pie but be far enough removed from the squadrons on land and sea that hunted for him daily.
But pirates did haunt Bermuda. Not as boldly or as veraciously as the string of islands to the southwest perhaps (a pinch of slave smuggling now and then around Rum Cay was Governor Bennett’s most bothersome infraction), but come they did and it would have been in droves if it were not for the shallow shoals keeping their keels at bay.
Local fishermen, for a price, would guide pirate sloops through the rocks and Charles Vane, since fleeing from Providence, had fully taken advantage of their cupidity. Vane’s boldness had caused a stir around the islands and Palgrave began to feel the need to move on.
He did not know the sloop, Adventure, that the swarthy quartermaster claimed to be a part of when he paid a coin to be introduced one evening in the Angel inn but he liked the offer of free passage back to the Americas providing he could haul a sail. Palgrave had assured the man, Israel Hands, that his current formal dress was not to be taken as a measure of his worth. Had he not been a commander of one of Black Sam Bellamy’s ships himself? Had he not spliced and reefed with the best of them? Israel Hands was not to worry about Palgrave Williams or his stout belly and advanced years. He would not slow them down.
Now Palgrave found himself wallowing in the bilge amidst the lead ballast of the Adventure waiting for the Devil to appear, as Israel Hands had promised, laughing all the while as he tied Palgrave like a hog and cast the darkness upon him with the closing of the hatchway.
Days passed, foetid days of starvation to lower his will, days spent counting over the last years of his life and charting his mistakes. The third time he stirred awake, startled by a noise above and disgusted at the tiny bubbles of his own urine floating over his breeches, he presumed it to be night by the movement of a lamp along the deck of the hold over his head.
The golden light sliced through the beams above as someone moved with a crab-like scuttling, too tall to just lower his head and creep along judging by the laboured breath and cursing.
The hatch door creaked open, the sound and descending light sending the rats swimming and jumping away from Palgrave’s body, shrieking to their wives and children to hide themselves.
Palgrave recognised the rattle and clink of a man brimming with steel.
The lantern swung over, momentarily blinding Palgrave. A rum-laden chuckle aimed itself straight at him and the man stepped closer, swinging the lamp and throwing his monstrous shadow around the walls of the bilge.
‘Well, well,’ Blackbeard growled. ‘I be pleased to meet you, Palgrave. You be a man well sought for. I’ve a mind to let you keep your freedom and as to that I have a proposition for you. I knows about the gun. I knows where it lies. But I don’t aims on setting foot on Providence to gets it. But you, Palgrave. You have a use to old Blackbeard, so you do.’
Chapter Thirty
The beach seemed somehow brighter to Coxon. Perhaps it was just the clearing-up that had gone on over the past few weeks, the removal of the cattle carcasses and sweeping away of years of accumulated rubbish and bottles. Or perhaps it was the sight of chained men under guard of sailors from the Mumvil that met Coxon’s gaze as he stepped down over the final dunes to the shore that made everything seem to shine and glow. At last here was his opportunity to reacquaint himself with the pirate who had once slept on his floor as a trusted servant. It had been a long year and now it was time to see what time had wrought.
‘Should we not fetch more men, Captain?’ the soldier by Coxon’s side spoke anxiously as he counted the heads of at least thirty dishevelled and armed men jostling each other on the sands.
Coxon had already spied the tall form of Patrick Devlin, in waistcoat and shirt, indeed chained but still with his head held high and catching Coxon’s eye with a smirk. ‘No need,’ Coxon said. ‘This will not take long.’
He made his path to the men carrying the most weapons, those he supposed were the crew of the returned Mumvil.
‘Which one of you is Howell Davis?’ he barked authoritatively, hoping that the whiff of rum did not carry as far as his voice.
‘I am, Cap’n.’ A short scrag of a sailor, although with a handsome young face, stepped apart from the others. ‘I be Howell Davis.’
Coxon walked towards him. ‘I understand you are responsible for bringing the Mumvil home again, Davis. You are to be commended, man.’ Coxon greeted him warmly.
Davis looked sideways to his men and the dark face of Devlin. ‘Aye, Cap’n. Quite a tale it is, sir.’
‘I will hear it, Davis. You will be a hero home in England.’
Davis tapped his skull. ‘Thank you, sir. Wasn’t easy.’
Coxon moved to the group that surrounded the chained pirates. ‘And you good men who resisted the pirate way, you shall all be rewarded by your grateful governor! I will insist upon it.’ Coxon did not listen to their cheer to his good name for he had stopped to face Devlin and ran his hands over his manacles, jury rigged from fairleads and chain.
‘You are secure, Patrick,’ he said. ‘I am almost disappointed. I suspected some ruse of sorts. Like the last time.’ He looked over to the horizon. ‘And that frigate of yours? Is it not about now that she appears? Some rescue you have planned no doubt?’
Devlin said nothing, but he held Coxon’s eye with his own and Coxon stepped back with a small flash of a smile. ‘I would very much hate that to be the case.’ He turned to Davis again. ‘Mister Davis? Your men to my right side if you please, I wish to see the prisoners separate.’
Howell’s men, the Mumvil’s original remaining crew, shuffled to Coxon’s side, their muskets, cutlasses and belaying pins still in their hands, ready to strike. The six prisoners stood small and lonely before them all and the parting of the crowd revealed a mess of bundled bodies behind them.
‘Howell?’ Coxon queried of the more than a dozen corpses dragged onto the beach like turtles.
‘That’s the ones that ain’t so fortunate, Cap’n. Some of Devlin’s. Some of the pirates that took the ship.’ He lowered his voice almost respectfully. ‘Seth Toombs amongst them. He took the Mumvil. Forced us into it. Cap’n Finch will testify. We were all pressed into his mutiny.’ Howell vaguely crossed himself, penitent for his sins.
Coxon wandered over to the bodies, drawn by the familiar brown coat and the red tricorne. Seth Toombs’s body lay on the bellies and the shoulders of several of the others. The wind played the straw-blond hair across the face as Coxon looked down at the grey mask. The mouth and chin were a black chasm, the leer wiped forever clear, eyes dry and glassy staring
over Coxon’s shoulder. Coxon noted that despite the baked permanence of his wound someone had found it necessary to tie Seth’s wrists together.
‘Knew I’d see you again, sailor,’ Coxon patted the brown coat and moved back up the beach. ‘’Tis a small world for evil men,’ he aimed his words at Devlin alone as he came alongside him. ‘You are quiet, Patrick. I am not used to this.’ He clasped his hands behind him and inspected the rest of his prisoners, immediately recognising the yellow justacorps of the man at Devlin’s shoulder. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘It is the French surgeon is it not? You know, I do believe that I hold you almost wholly responsible for the losses of the Starling that day. It’ll be a cold day for you, sir, soon enough.’ Dandon shrank before him, his eyes to the sand.
‘And you, pirate?’ Coxon stopped at the still bloodied face of Hugh Harris. ‘You are also familiar. Are you glad to have stayed by your captain’s side this past year?’
‘Aye,’ Hugh snarled. ‘And I be the one who’s carried your guns all this time. Shoot fine they did, with lead or shot. Parted many. I’ll be happy to carry them again for you, Cap’n.’
Coxon spun round to Howell. ‘My pistols! This man had a pair of duelling pistols that belong to me. Where are they now?’
Howell looked from side to side amongst his men. ‘Reckon they be here somewheres, Cap’n. We took all the weapons from them.’ A faint grin. ‘He took your pistols, Cap’n?’
A slow laugh rippled through the prisoners and Howell’s men. The soldier lowered his head respectfully but the crown of his hat trembled as laughter infected him.
Coxon looked back to Devlin’s grin. ‘A small world for evil men, Patrick. There is a hanging party going on in the square. We may still have time to join it.’ He swung away. ‘Howell. Private. Bring them to the square.’
The afternoon had clouded over, great grey sheets more akin to a London sky than the normally vibrant blue of the Bahama islands. The dead now lay flaccid on the hand-cart, the chill of the day no longer their concern. Eight were dead, one more to come, still kicking his heels at the end of a hemp rope beneath the ‘Tyburn Tree’, the triangular scaffold twice as tall as the victim, just high enough for the drop to grant a macabre dance for the audience; only now they turned their heads to the small parade advancing up the sandy path from the beach and missed the final faint twitch of the nineteen-year-old boy who had once dared to be a pirate but now had been unjustly rewarded for taking the King’s pardon.
Woodes Rogers followed the heads of the crowd and stepped down from the box which he had upturned to stand above his subjects. He closed his Psalm book and left his German clerk and the push of soldier’s muskets to dismiss the townsfolk.
‘What goes on, John?’ he looked past Coxon to the six chained men.
‘We have a gift, Governor. Those that we thought completely lost have returned. The Mumvil has come back with these good men and they have brought us a gift.’
Howell took his cue and pushed Devlin to trip in the dust before Rogers. Devlin shrugged himself tall and passed his gaze around the crowd now whispering his name.
Coxon grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him like a child to Rogers’ judgement.
‘The pirate Devlin, Governor. Patrick Devlin.’ Coxon offered nothing in the words, he spoke as if Devlin was an item on a list now marked clear. ‘If you want a pirate to hang to make a point we could do no better today I’m sure.’
Rogers sniffed and wiped his mouth and took a step closer, aloof and careful, for the crowd was listening. ‘The pirate Devlin, eh? Short of Blackbeard and Vane, sir, you are the most wanted head upon these seas. What do you have to say for yourself, my man?’
Devlin rubbed his wrists, the links of his chains already scraping a slave tattoo. ‘You have me, Governor Rogers, and owe this man, Davis, for the fact. I would be honoured to take the King’s pardon for your will and my men also.’ He lowered his head. ‘I surrender myself to you, sir, and your jurisdiction.’
Rogers raised his chin high above Devlin’s lowered brow. ‘You wish to claim the King’s pardon, pirate? Yet you arrive in chains? Clearly you have come to us in guilt rather than sorrow for your crimes.’ Rogers moved to reveal the hanging corpse revolving slowly behind his shoulder. ‘It may be too late for you to repent, sir.’
‘I ask nothing except an hour to discourse how I came to this point. To talk of Seth Toombs, my lost ship, to sign Howell’s statement as to how he came to end my days, and of what became of my gold,’ his eyes held Roger’s like a rope. ‘All my gold, Governor. And where it lies.’
Rogers checked his watch, the words of the pirate of little interest it seemed. Coxon pulled Devlin aside, dragging his body away from Rogers’ view. He placed his face closer to the governor’s than he had ever previously dared.
‘It would be my opinion, Governor, to hang this man whilst we have a rope afforded. He cannot be trusted to respite. He is uncommonly gifted for escape.’
‘Do you think he can outwit me, John? As well as you? Is that what you think? It is now after three. My clerk always takes my council at four for the order of the day. I can spare this pirate a few minutes, for what it’s worth. It has been a most trying afternoon. Take what measures you will, John. I will hear this man and Mister Davis, as well as whatever light Captain Finch can throw on the subject. The Mumvil after all was his originally to command.’ The governor had already begun to make for the stone fort, brushing the sordid afternoon from his coat sleeves.
Coxon pushed away Devlin’s chains, ignoring his grin. He barked at the private still attached to him from the beach: ‘Separate these men. A cell each if you can,’ and pointed significantly at Dandon. ‘You to watch this one, private. Him most of all. Mister Davis, you are to accompany me to the governor’s office.’ He clicked his fingers to the rest of the soldiers. ‘Clear the square. Cut that man down,’ he pointed to the swinging body now crowned with flies and the hand-cart with the repulsive burden. ‘Build a funeral pyre on the beach tomorrow and burn those pirate corpses. Have their ashes brushed into the sea.’ He came back to Devlin, the grin galling him now as it had done a year before, only now Coxon had the means to wipe it off his arrogant face.
‘Don’t expect the pardon, Patrick. No matter what you think you can offer the governor.’ Again he checked the chains that bound the man. ‘I buried the woman, Sarah, last week.’ He savoured the look that came back at him. ‘She died of the fever. I buried her and all that she owned. All that she owned.’
Devlin and Dandon’s chains chimed as they pulled tight against their fists.
Coxon smiled, a rare thing since Providence became his home. ‘By this evening I will scour the horizon for that frigate of yours. You will not catch me twice. This governor does not know you, but I do. Whatever you have planned, whatever you think you are doing …’ He pushed Devlin away, up towards the fort.
Devlin shrugged off Coxon’s hand and whispered in close. ‘And did you tell the governor about Sarah, John? Or have you kept that to yourself?’
Coxon said nothing and shoved the pirate’s shoulder harder.
The square emptied with enough tattle to carry through the night. The six pirates trudged up the hill, the afternoon heavy on their shoulders, now free of steel and iron other than that wrapped around their wrists. Faith in the tall man at their head was all that they had, and they were questioning that now, the sight of the Tyburn Tree having shrivelled all their hearts. ‘A short life and a merry one,’ a motto to drink to, not one to wish for, not now, as their path left the sea behind.
Chapter Thirty-One
‘O bury me not in the deep, deep sea,
The words came low and mournfully
From the paled lips of a youth who lay
On his cabin couch at the close of day.
He had wasted and pined till o’er his brow,
Death’s shade had slowly passed, and now
Where the land and his fond loved home were nigh
They had gathered around him to s
ee him die.’
The slow lament from the Spanish guitar and the low fife drifting from the open windows and doors of the Porker’s End reached even the windows of Rogers’ office where Devlin stood alone amidst a throng of enemies casting judgement. Chained still, a soldier to each side, standing before Rogers’ oak desk like a schoolboy summoned, Devlin listened to the end of the song and the words from the desk that finally drowned it out.
Rogers, Coxon, Howell Davis and Captain Finch were all present and all seated except Coxon who stood a pace away from Devlin with an eye trained on him while Rogers raked over Devlin’s past.
‘As I understand from your crimes of piracy, Mister Devlin, it began with the theft of a Porto man of war from out of the Verdes. Is that a true assumption?’
‘It has a manner of truth about it, Governor,’ Devlin said.
‘Well, is it true or not, man?’ Rogers snapped.
‘I was escaping with my life, Governor. A lot of death that night.’
‘I have faith in that I’m sure.’ Rogers lifted the paper from the desk, squinting as he studied the print. ‘Then there is the matter of a Dutch ship, pirated mid-Atlantic, another enemy gathered against you. Another ally of your King you chose to defile.’
‘She was a slaver, Governor,’ Devlin interjected calmly. ‘She was defiled enough.’
