The Pirate Devlin (11 page)

  'No, Senor Devlin' - Mendes was genuinely pleased - 'it is a wonderful gift. Surely one of the most precious things in this world is to know where you are in it, is it not? If all else falls around me, and I have but this one thing, still I will have the means to know where I am in this world. I thank you very much, senor.'

  Toombs spoke up, 'And truly, Your Grace, there is rather a precious thing of beauty sitting out there off your harbour. Is she yours? That frigate, that is?'

  'She is ours, Captain. The
Shadow.
I named her myself, for she is very black.'

  Devlin watched Mendes place the lodestone down amongst the collection. Both men walked back to the table.

  'I had always thought,' Devlin said, sitting, 'that your navy preferred Dutch designs. Fluytes and suchlike.'

  'Indeed. But the French is more built for war. I have spent many years trying to get some ship to defend our interests here. This one I crew myself. But she is not ready, still.' Mendes chewed through a piece of roast pork.

  Toombs put down his glass. 'Is that so?' His eyes widened. 'In what sense be that, Governor?'

  'I have but thirty men upon her, that is all. Good men, but I am having great difficulty now, without a war, to persuade my country to provide me with more.'

  'Ah, well,' Toombs sighed. 'That is the problem that we all face, senor.' Then he held up a hand, a look of benefaction on his face. 'I'll tell you what, Your Grace, so I will. Tomorrow evening, you dines with us, and I'll get some of my men over to that ship of yours to teach your boys a thing or two about sailing short-handed. There's nothing them boys don't know about sailing light. Why, I had to sail all the way from Boston to Bristol with only ten men once, didn't I, Little John?'

  Devlin closed his eyes at the pirate name. John Phillips, his chin shining with grease, winked at him. 'Aye, Cap'n. That we did.'

'Little John?'
Mendes queried with a staccato accent. 'What a strange title to give one of your men, Captain, is that not?'

  'Ah, well.' Toombs poured himself some more wine. 'I've known some of these lads for so long that I find myself often christening them with little affections, senor!'

  'I see.' Valentim looked calmly around his company. 'You talked of dining on your ship, Captain Toombs?'

  Alvaro cleared his throat. 'Yes, Your Grace. Captain Toombs was wondering if you might dine with him tomorrow night whilst his men gather water?'

  'And perhaps trade a little, senor,' Toombs added. 'I have some fine tobacco on board. Straight from Virginia. Sweat still on it, so it is.'

  'That sounds very interesting. But now I am ignorant with my manners.' Mendes sat up tall and spread out his hands in apology. 'I forget the
pez!
The fish! And a special dish for you, Captain.' He closed his eyes and lowered his head. 'In honour of your visiting our humble home. Leandro!' He waved his servant to the table.

  Leandro picked up one of the covered dishes and placed it in front of Mendes. He walked back and brought another. Placing it in the centre of the table, it rang like a bell as he swept off the lid. Whatever the fish was, it was lost beneath a white sauce brimming with capers and lemons.

  'Too kind, Governor. Too kind.' Toombs raised his palms in protest at the generosity.

  'That is for your men, Captain.' Another dish swept in front of Toombs. 'This one is for you especially.' Mendes sat back, his fingers entwined as if in prayer.

  Leandro stayed at Toombs's side, his hand on the domed lid. Devlin felt Alvaro Contes moving away from the balcony and towards the table, but his eyes were only watching Thomas pour more wine for himself and John Phillips.

  Leandro lifted the lid from Toombs's platter with silent grace, and Toombs found himself staring at candlelight reflecting off the silver surface, the platter empty.

  'I am not sure if I understand this, Your Grace. I have an empty dish, I see?' Toombs spoke nervously. The other guests looked at the empty charger and began to lower their wine glasses slowly to the table.

  'Oh?' Mendes feigned concern. 'Did I not explain, Captain? That is my manners again, you must forgive me!'

  He raised the lid of his own dish, placing it down to reveal two dragoon pistols lying side by side on folded green silk that had silenced their trip to the table.

  There was a click as Leandro cocked his pistol, pushing its cold barrel against Toombs's temple before he could move.

  'Ah,' was all Toombs said. Quietly.

  'That dish, Captain,' Mendes spat, 'is where I will place your pirate
head!'
His arms snapped forward for the pistols as the pirates scraped back their chairs.

  The albino bird, panicked by the sudden lurch, sprang from his shoulder, screeching straight into the candelabra, which rattled to the floor, shivering the table into darkness.

Chapter Five

  Those who survived would struggle to recall what transpired after the raven sent the candelabra to the floor. It would be remembered only through a series of flashbacks, a cold recollection of frizzen sparks and muzzle flash.

  There was still faint light in the room as the serene moon flowed in through the balcony window.

  The instant the candles vanished and snapped the table into darkness the first pistol shot and a catlike wail came from Toombs's side. In the same moment, Devlin sent his chair flying backwards and reached across his body to his pistol. He turned instinctively to Alvaro, mirroring the same action, as smoke snaked in the moonlight between them.

  And
there
was the difference.

  Alvaro's pistol was a beautiful Spanish work of art with an ornate bulb grip, its dog-head and pan on the right-hand side of the gun.

  To avoid the lock digging into his side all day, and catching his clothes as he drew, he placed the pistol in his velvet belt with the lock facing out, and hence also upside down to the left hand now reaching for it. The right hand was naturally for the sword. For most activities during the shooter's day this mattered little; however, at this precise moment a pirate faced him across the room, pulling his left-locked pistol. Surely it was only one more movement? Alvaro simply had to turn his wrist to grip the pistol and then again to cock it as it rose. He had done it dozens of times; it took the speed of thought to execute. But Devlin did not have to do it at all.

  Before Devlin's barrel had cleared his frayed leather belt, the flint was locked. Alvaro cocked his weapon at about the same time that a small ball of lead thudded into his chest. He felt ribs crack like twigs within him. He fell back, forever, firing uselessly into the ceiling.

  Three flashes so far. Three snaps of light that framed the action for a moment. The acrid smell of powder filled the dark. Devlin became aware of a struggle around the table. Now he held his pistol reversed like a club, and reached for the smaller one tucked behind his back.

  Another flash and crack of air. He saw Valentim's snarling face lit for that instant. Someone cried out - a child's voice - then another shot followed from the right of the room.

  Devlin crouched and fired low at the air where he had seen Valentim's head, then turned to the growl of Leandro bearing down on him like a bull, wielding a hatchet above his head, howling as he crashed into him.

  The pair tumbled backwards to the balcony doors like playful lovers, sending the telescope crashing down. Devlin's dagger flew from his belt, scuffing along the floor. They rolled. The scalloped guard of Devlin's sword jabbed against his ribs.

  Burdened by the axe, Leandro let it drop, preferring the power of his hands clasped round Devlin's coughing throat as he snarled through bared glowing teeth.

  Devlin let go of the small gun and pulled uselessly at the giant's grip with his free hand. Leandro shook his head and giggled at the futile effort, but the grip gave Devlin enough leverage to roll and hammer his massive iron club of a pistol into Leandro's head.

  The blow was enough. Leandro yelped off. They stood panting as an English curse and a shot rang out behind them. Leandro shook off the blow in time to see Devlin scrape out his blade with a grin.

  In more restful times, Devlin would tell of his surprise as Leandro ignored the sword, put his sweating bald pate down and charged again. Devlin's lungs exploded as the blow took them flying through the doors and into the night.

  It was inevitable. It happened in a heartbeat. The two of them went over the balcony. Devlin threw his sword as they fell, twisting Leandro beneath him. The thud of the landing on the stone below winded Devlin. It killed Leandro.

  Devlin rolled upwards and left the sleeping giant. Breathing hard, he ran to retrieve his sword, sticking his pistol in his belt. His back ran cold with sweat. He turned and looked up at the dark house. Suddenly the room above was bathed in light and shouts. The guards had mounted the stairs and burst into the fray. More shots. More yelling. It was over then. It had taken seconds.

  Devlin spun round and made for the gate, almost pulling it from its hinge; then he was through it and running, off the path and bolting away from the house.

  He ran only for a few minutes, wading through waist-tall grass and low trees; then he began to struggle as the land slanted uphill, his chest like a furnace. He had to rest. He glanced behind. The house was no longer visible.

  Kneeling down, hidden in the grass, he checked the action on his pistol for damage from the fall. He reloaded methodically, finding comfort in the clicks and snaps from his weapon and its partners, the patch pouch and cartridge box.

  The ammo was prepared. A paper-load of powder wrapped round each ball with a twist. Bite, prime, pour, load, ram.

  The ramrod refused to find its way home through his trembling hands.

  Crouching there, under the moon, brought him back to the Kilkenny fields and his poaching days, years from this place. Killing one thing was as good as another. Blood as a butcher's boy, blood as a poacher, blood as a fisherman, four years of it with Coxon, and Philippe Ducos's blood still staining his boots.

  Devlin took out the compass. He would have to head north to find the shore where Peter Sam had landed, having already discounted the bay where
his
party had arrived since - even if he made it to the boat - a lone man rowing out to the
Lucy
would be a grand target. Besides, he was counting on any pursuers making that judgement and granting him escape time. He looked up at the volcanic hills. North, over those hills, avoiding the roads, was a hard passage. His crossbelt and sword now hung over his waistcoat, as he bundled the heavy coat in his arms and pressed on.

    Valentim, still holding a French dragoon pistol in his right hand, looked over the balcony at Leandro's broken body. 'I want him found!' he yelled to the guards. 'He will make his way to the boat. Do so yourselves. If you cannot find him, if the boat is still there, return to me.' They bowed and ran from the room.

  Valentim moved back inside. His foot kicked against something and his eyes fell to watch Devlin's ebony dagger spinning across the stone floor. As if woken from a dream, he picked it up and admired it before placing it cautiously in the sash round his waist. The white raven alighted on his shoulder and preened. He looked down at the dead Alvaro Contes, his friend, and crossed himself. The only breathing sound in the room was his own.

  Slowly he turned back to his fallen telescope. Lying his pistol on the balcony chair, he re-erected the wood and brass instrument. A minute later he had sighted it on the
Lucy.
She sat still, a ship asleep, silhouetted against the moon. He swung left and beheld the
Shadow
on the other side of the bay.

  It had not been a lie about the lack of men on board, although within a day he could maybe add thirty more from the townsfolk and slaves. Nevertheless, the
Shadow's
acting captain, overweight and indolent as he was, would have also recognised the brigantine for the pirate ship described in the recent correspondence from Cape Coast Castle. The captain doubtlessly had watched Alvaro escort the party to shore and surely would have maintained a cautious watch.

  He had anticipated capturing the pirates and forcing the ship to surrender. The triumph would make him a legend amongst the islands, possibly gain him enough fame to sail his way off this slave rock and back home to Portugal.

  He would have time yet before the crew began to miss their pirate brothers. Enough time to get to the
Shadow
and inform its feckless captain of what had occurred and then, with a single broadside, advise the pirates to kneel or suffer the fate of their brothers and the wrath of his frigate.

  But there were plenty of dories around the island to steal. The man Devlin could get back to his ship, inform them that the
Shadow
had only thirty men, that the house had few defences and even fewer guards. The pirate Devlin must be found. Found and silenced.