The Pirate Devlin (13 page)

  Devlin released his arm and stood up, slow and breathless, his head lowered, a pain across his shoulders all of a sudden. He backed away and sheathed his sword. Peter Sam brought himself up as if struggling against the fall of rain.

  The two men glared at each other. Steam wisped off them like smoke from snuffed-out candles. The race of their hearts in their ears drowned out even the rush of the rain.

  Peter Sam lifted up his cutlass to the expectant eyes still standing around the two men. He looked once down the length of the blade, as if it had a secret etched into the steel. He turned the blade and ran it home to his belt.

  'Show me where the bastard is!' was all that he said.

Chapter Six

  The rain had stopped. For almost an hour the riders had searched whilst their oilskin cloaks turned to lead across their backs. The horses' white sweat streaked down their hides, their heads rocking and snorting in protest at their labours.

  They trotted northwards through the valleys, having returned spent from the ride to Carrical in search of the Irishman.

  Twelve miles east they had ridden on Valentim Mendes's instinct that Devlin would try to hide away from the larger towns and seek a fishing boat to steal with a mind to try and return to the pirate brigantine. The sky had cleared and the moon had already started her path downward as midnight waned. With every hour fewer words passed amongst them, each man conscious of the murder he might commit at any turn in the path.

  Mendes had ordered two men to stay at the pirates' longboat; the rest of his personal guard rode with him. He had been confident as he galloped out into the night that he would ride over Devlin stumbling in the dark; now, two hours having passed, he rued not riding straight to Ribeira Brava to at least alert the small garrison of idle soldiers that doubled as choirboys. Now Ribeira was his last hope, and truculently he turned his mount along the path to the town.

  His head lifted at the stamping of his black horse and the chattering of his men: before them, in the road, lay the prone form of a man, his black coat spread away from his body like bats' wings.

  In a heart murmur Mendes conceived that Devlin had been injured by his own servant, the brave and murdered Leandro, and now here he lay dead or dying, probably all the time they had been searching further east.

  Raising his hand, he silenced his men and slid down from his horse. The still body lay some twenty yards in front of him, and by the second step he had drawn his fine Toledo blade as he made his approach. One by one his men followed, rolling their muskets off their backs.

  Mendes looked up to the slopes of the valley for any ambush, but saw only the dark vagueness of the dragon trees and bushes that grew amongst the rocks above them.

  He was at the body now. His first instinct was to run it through. Pierce down until the ribs grated and the dirt stopped his lunge, then pull back with the body sucking at the blade. But the man might still be alive and, before he became a corpse, he should look at the gentleman who would send him righteously from this world.

  Reaching down, Mendes pulled at the coat's left shoulder, which suddenly rolled against his grip. He found his face inches from the eye of the octagonal muzzle of Devlin's pistol, clicking thrice into life from the cover of the coat.

  'And how are you doing, Valentim?' Devlin grinned.

  A curtain of men rose on either side of the moonlit valley. Peter Sam and three stood up on his left with muskets pointed at Mendes's guard, whilst Hugh Harris and the others levelled their guns direct at the governor.

  Mendes's men, mouths agape, shunned their guns like pitchforks in wintertime. They knew pirates, and they knew they would be fed whether they fought or not.

  Mendes rose with Devlin and sent cursed looks to his men. One of them felt Mendes's glare and bent swiftly to take up his musket; in the same movement he fell dead as a crack echoed from the left slope.

  'Wise not to move, gentlemen,' Devlin said, edging backwards, his pistol set on Mendes.

  'So,' Mendes smiled, 'you were never alone,
pirate
?' He stood aloof from the gathering, his sword resting on his right shoulder like a parasol.

  Devlin smiled back. He shouted up to Hugh Harris, 'Hugh, come relieve these men of any duty they have left so as they can sleep peaceful, like, this morning!'

  The three pirates came lumbering down the hillside, the buckles rattling on their shoes and crossbelts mimicking their cackling laughter.

  One by one they picked up the wheel-lock muskets, and pulled the cheap and pitted hangers from the soldiers' belts, piling it like firewood on the side of the road. All the while, Mendes never stopped grinning, and never took his eyes from Devlin's.

  'And what of me, Senor Devlin? Would you like to take
my
sword and pistol?' Mendes sidestepped, cutting his Toledo through the air, pointing to the amused pirates.

  'He moves quickly for a lubberly soul, don't he?' Hugh remarked kindly and they leisurely gave him space. Mendes threw off his cloak and balanced himself to face Devlin.

  'I am not so afraid of you sea dogs as you may hope to think, senor!'

  As his last word hung in the air, a blinding spark flew off his outstretched blade. The bones in his hand hummed and the sword leaped away to quiver on the ground yards away.

  'You should be!' Peter Sam's voice boomed from behind the sights of a smoking musket high up on the slope. All eyes gaped at the shot.

  Mendes recovered first and pulled his pistol at Devlin, who had followed everyone in staring up at the black shape of the quartermaster.

  Devlin turned back in time to hear the dog-head strike the pan with a flat click, then watch Mendes's face as he realised the gun had become nothing but wet driftwood in his hand. He cursed, the pistol still raised; then his eyes blinked shut and he collapsed forward, unconscious from the blow that Hugh Harris had swiped across his nape with his club of a pistol.

  'You couldn't have shot him, then, Hugh, no? Before he fired at me and all?' Devlin asked, bending to pick up Mendes's weapon and spying his dagger hiding in Mendes's sash.

  'Me powder's probably as wet as his, Pat. I didn't want to risk the fact,' Hugh stated earnestly.

  It was the pain within Mendes's shoulder blades and skull that finally hauled him awake. He had no concept of how long had passed, but it was with struggling horror that he realised that he was tied to a broad tree, his chest and arms naked. The pirates had used the straps from his soldiers' muskets to bind his legs and chest.

  Curiously his right arm was free, but could not release the leather snares holding him, no matter how he tugged at them. His left arm was outstretched and numb with agony as he tried to move it; then he followed the length and found it to be bound to a neighbouring tree, the hand wrapped entirely in a leather and cloth bundle.

  Through the bundle he could feel something cold and hard in his forced fist. He reached over with his free hand but, tied tight as he was across the body, he could hardly even reach his elbow. He struggled to pull against his bonds, feeling his bare back tearing against the bark.

  Exasperated, he became vaguely aware of voices in front of him, below the ridge of trees where he was trapped. The group of pirates sat huddled near the road locked in conversation back and forth. Beyond them he glimpsed the strange sight of his guard, naked from the waist up, sitting backwards on their peacefully grazing horses and, close by, his doublet and weapons.

  He yelled at the pirates. His voice was unintelligible even to himself, like the rambling panic of a dream, but it brought attention. Slowly Devlin and Peter Sam got up and approached. Mendes recalled the big bald one as the rogue who had shot the sword from his hand. Now he carried a small boarding axe, and Devlin strolled towards him tossing the ebony-handled dagger a few times before placing it again behind his back.

  Any modicum of respect and title had fallen from Mendes. Yesterday a man like Devlin held as much importance in his world as his morning stools. Now the former servant would talk to him about death or life. Mendes would not be the first nobleman to have his birthright shaved away by the slash of a pirate's blade.

  Devlin smiled his most modest smirk, and spoke plainly. 'We're of a divided opinion, Valentim. Peter Sam and I.' He leaned with a languid arm against the tree close to Mendes's head. 'You can be of some help in the matter.'

  Mendes's voice was guttural and distinct. 'You will not use my Christian name, dog. Untie me!'

  Devlin continued unabashed, 'I believe,
Valentim,
that the good folks in Ribeira are unaware of us, and that we could make our way back to the ship with no harm to ourselves. However' - he indicated the grim, dark form of Peter Sam - 'Peter here thinks that the
Lucy's
boat be surrounded by soldiers and we should take the long way round in his. What say you to that point,
Valentim?'

  'I will tell you nothing! Release me at once!'

  'I'm telling you, Devlin,' Peter Sam snapped. 'No sense going back to the ship at all! The
Lucy
s got that frigate staring at her. I counted a hundred men on her myself, man!'

  It was only a small reaction from Mendes, a slightly unfocused look, the slow opening of the mouth as if to speak, but it was the very look Devlin was striving to see.

  'It was true, then, Valentim?' His eyes shone. 'That beauty has only thirty men aboard? 'Tis all I needed to know, senor. You see, Peter? Easy pickings. I'll also wager a penny that a fine gentleman like Valentim here would keep his purse on that there ship. Nice and safe, like, from servants and pirates. What say you, Valentim?'

  Valentim blasphemed and wrestled against his bonds, swinging his free right arm wildly until Peter's grip held it fast. He looked hatefully, furiously, between the two men, but whereas Devlin's face was still very genial, the other pirate hated back.

  'Who is this oaf who stares at me so? Why am I tied like this?'

  'Ah, now there's a tragic circumstance and no mistake,' Devlin sighed. Taking the time to check that the strange bundle of leather and cloth round Mendes's wrist was tight enough, he set out the position they now found themselves in.

  Devlin himself, he explained to Mendes, had persuaded the pirates that instant retribution was unfair. After all, Mendes was only defending himself against their attitudes towards him. He had behaved exactly as any one of them would have done. Rather more unfortunate was the fact that one of their late companions was close to Peter Sam, but that was as nothing compared to the loss of their captain. Revenge was inevitable: it had always been their way.

  'Because of this, Valentim, I must do what I must. Right was on your side: we all agree that and hold no more against you. But this is how it plays for you now.'

  Mendes suddenly became aware of the long black fuse that trailed down from his sealed wrist and along the ground.

  'What is this madness?' he asked, his voice faltering.

  'Our Hugh has been kind enough to make us a fuse. Hopefully, by his arm-lengths, he reckons it to be a ten-minuter.' Devlin carried the black length away with him a few steps backwards. 'The purpose of which is to blow up the grenadoe that you're holding in your left hand.'

  Mendes stared. Devlin continued, 'If providence is with you, Valentim, the fuse may burn out before it reaches its mark. But, for your bravery against us, we'll give you a pirate's chance as well.' At his closing words, Peter Sam slapped the short axe into Mendes's open right hand and stood away. Mendes's mind raced but still did not comprehend. 'You can't reach your ankles with it, but it should just afford you enough reach to do whatever you decide is best.'

  Mendes felt the weight of the hatchet in his grip and he lifted it to his eyes. It was old but sharp, maybe eighteen inches in all.

  'I understand none of this.' He spoke quietly.

  'It's plain as print, Your Grace.' Devlin bowed. 'You could wait the whole ten minutes and slap at the fuse with the axe hoping to put it out, or hope it dies itself - although I wouldn't like to count on that personally.' He took his unloaded pistol and placed the charred end of the charge against the pan, drawing back the head with a fateful click. 'Or you could take five minutes to hack at your own wrist. Once your left arm is free - minus your hand, naturally - you'll have more movement to escape. That is, if you're able to concentrate after all that.'

  Peter Sam chipped in, 'Don't gamble that the grenadoe would only take your hand anyways, Your Grace. I've seen Robert make them to take down three men. You'll be looking at all sorts of parts whilst you bleed to death tied to a tree.' He strolled away down to his brothers, some satisfaction growing within him.

  Devlin cocked his head to the half-naked soldiers on horseback. 'They may offer you some encouragement, Valentim. And the prospect, of course, of chasing us down before we reach the shore and all.'

  The other pirates had already started to move along the southern road back to Preguica. 'Goodnight, Your Grace,' Devlin whispered, and fired the gun. The fuse blazed into life, then calmly smoked and smouldered along its deadly path as Devlin let it fall. He turned his back and moved to join the others. He walked down to the road, expecting to hear the curses and pleadings of the man strapped to the tree. He heard nothing and he never looked back.