The Pirate Devlin (25 page)

  Bessette gripped his jaw, his knuckles whitening as he took in the dirty golden-coated man before him.

  'Perhaps I might be permitted a glance into your oral cavity, Capitaine? No fee.'

  'You are skilled, monsieur?' Bessette wiped tears from his eyes.

  'You see these?' Dandon wiped a black finger across his gold front teeth. 'All my own work. Never felt a thing. Didn't even need a mirror.'

  Bessette felt the faintest shaft of hope glimmering in the dark world of pain that had been his life for the past three weeks. No brandy eased the nagging pulsing in his jaw, food gave nothing but torment, and the odour that seeped from his mouth turned his very soul. Could it be that this ridiculous yellow-garbed beacon offered release from his torture?

  He straightened himself, some dignity returning to his face, mopping the drool from the side of his mouth with the sodden cloth. 'You may approach, monsieur.' And he beckoned Dandon to him.

  Dandon stepped across the warm sand with trepidation, unsure of his feet upon the soft white powder. Ten paces later, winking as he passed Devlin's gaze, he stood by the chin of Capitaine Bessette.

  'Would you be so kind as to lower yourself somewhat, Capitaine.'

  Bessette dropped to his knees, his sword ploughing its way behind him through the sand, his eyes and mouth open and expectant, as if awaiting the miracle of transformation from his first communion.

  Dandon's lips drew back as he caught the decaying stench that issued from the yellow and angry lump that occupied a wide portion of Bessette's inside right jaw. He caught Bessette's nervous eyes and smiled warmly.

  'I've had worse.'

  'You can help me?' Bessette rose, wiping his mouth.

  'Immeasurably.' He grinned kindly.

  Bessette smiled back, then raised himself to shout to Devlin, 'Capitaine, you may stay. Only yourself and this man, you understand.'

  'I do, Capitaine.' Devlin walked slowly forward. 'But what of some water, I beseech you?'

  'In good time. For now you will refresh yourselves as my guests. Come.'

  'Ah.' Dandon raised an enquiring hand. 'I will need to return to the ship for my requisites and accoutrements.'

  'Of course,' Bessette concurred willingly.

  'And an assistant. One of the girls naturally.'

  'Yes, yes. Go now.' Bessette's right cheek grew redder.

  'And naturally if I bring one girl, it would be impossible to leave the others.'

  'No,' Bessette was firm. 'Only one more.'

  The head of his lieutenant, Abelard Xavier, identifiable by his lace collar and red sash, slyly leaned into his captain's shoulder. Whispers were exchanged. Sentiments quietly voiced. Devlin could only imagine that the verse Abelard suggested was of an appeal to the Gallic nature of them all.

  'Very well.' Bessette was irritable, imagining the ten minutes of pain he would have to endure whilst he waited for Dandon's case to be rowed back to him, his dark walnut box with its little green baize alcoves of bottles and folded papers of powders, which now Bessette held in the same regard as the Ark of the Covenant. 'Bring all the women. But leave all the men aboard. Leave me some semblance of order to my king.'

  'Of course, Capitaine.' Devlin bowed again. 'Your generosity will not go unrewarded.'

  Dandon clapped his hands and began his clumsy-footed return to the boat.

  'To my things! Capitaine Coqsan, if you please?'

  'With your permission, Capitaine Bessette?' Devlin smiled.

  'Yes, yes! Go now!' Then he added, 'Mademoiselle Bernadette may stay with us.'

  'By your leave, Capitaine.' And he joined Dandon back in the surf. Then in confidence, in low English, he queried Dandon's actions. 'Have you done this before, Dandon?'

  'I have done everything at least once, Captain,' he muttered into his chest as they dragged the boat from the shore. The sea sucked back the longboat to her realm and they leaped aboard.

  Devlin spat the spray from his mouth as he picked up the oars. 'Do you always play at life, Dandon?' he asked, his limbs taking the strain of the sea.

  'You have to play at something, Captain.' Dandon smiled, forgetting to pick up his own share of wood.

   On returning to the shore with their colourful companions, the party, after brief blushing introductions and curtsies, began the ungraceful trudge up the steep incline from the beach. The early afternoon sun beat mercilessly at the necks and backs of the men, the quintet of ladies protected by elegant flimsy parasols that they twirled as often as they giggled at the leers of the five soldiers.

  Devlin and Dandon struggled with the mahogany and walnut case with the brass fittings, barely two foot square, which the soldiers had opened and inspected. They carried and dragged it up the path between them, grateful for the half-logs embedded in the shingle for purchase, but were still exhausted when they reached the crest, only to be told that there was now a downhill walk of another half-mile east.

  Abelard Xavier, Bessette's lieutenant, was amused by the two sweating men. At first their appearance had caused apprehension amongst the men and the captain, but now they represented pleasure and relief from the dull days of gardening and watches. They were unarmed, not so much as a clasp knife between them, and had brought with them such lovely, warm, blushing women, perspiring like flowers in the dew.

  Mindful of his duty, Abelard stopped at a gap in the path that tumbled down to the beach and gave a clear view of the brigantine in the bay. He ordered one of his men to remain to observe the ship. From this point they were halfway to the barracks, more than enough time for a warning should any party leave the ship.

  Reluctantly the man took up the post, permitting his hand to brush briefly across the lavender taffeta dress of Annie as she passed.

  Devlin and Dandon exchanged glances over the top of the chest between struggles for air, their eyes conveying as much as words.

  A new wave of enthusiasm flowed over the pair when they came to a corner and looked down into a dusty clearing almost a hundred feet below. In the clearing sat a small square stockade, barely large enough for the two L-shaped barracks housed within its log walls.

  In the right-hand corner, closest to them, a simple platform with a sailcloth shade rose above the perimeter, serving as a watchtower. A soldier sat beneath the shade, cross-legged, and looked up at their approach.

  Nine, thought Devlin. Nine men. Nine shots. His eye fell upon the familiar sight between the barracks, behind a redoubt, of a single small gun, a field gun on iron-spoked wheels - perhaps a nine-pounder or less. One gun. They carried on along the path, moving downwards now, the burning sun almost fanned away by the uplifting fluttering of his heart.

  Coxon sipped at his Bordeaux. He sat at his open stern windows, clad in only his shirt, breeches and stockings. That morning he had washed his hair, which had been rank with the smell of salt water and smoke from the small hearth in the galley. An amber carbolic soap that he had picked up in Chatham and was now worn to a sliver had provided the much-needed distraction from his concerns and the perfect companion to his morning ablutions.

  His senses absorbed the morning beauty of the Caymans through the open windows. It had always been peaceful in the Caymans. Even the wildlife and sea creatures were otherworldly; he recalled letters he had written suggesting that naturalists should be as prominent as parsons on naval ships above fifth-rate.

  The sound of his door swinging open pulled his head from the windows. He passed a taciturn look not at the hulking form of a marine announcing a visitor, but at the black-suited frame of Edward Talton of the Honourable East India Company standing uninvited in his doorway.

  'Pardon my interruption, Captain.' Talton was vexed, his glasses steamed. 'But I would like to enquire whether you may have a more efficient pen I could borrow, rather than these apparent chickens' quills I have acquired that break so.'

  Coxon ignored his question. 'Mister Talton, did you perceive a lighted lantern outside my cabin?'

  'I did, sir, but-'

  'And perhaps a stout fellow in clay piping and red?'

  'Ah, but-'

  'If you did perceive these things, then you should understand that' - his voice rose now to a bellow that caused the surface of his wine to tremble - 'you are to knock before entering my chambers,
sir!'

  'My apologies, Captain Coxon.' Talton almost cracked his spine resigning himself to a bow. 'I am unfamiliar with your naval customs.'

  'I collect it has always been customary to knock before one enters private rooms.'

  'Quite.' Talton conceded the point, as if they were agreeing on the rudeness of a third party.

  Coxon rose to pull on his white waistcoat draped over the back of a chair, placing down his goblet of wine, his taste for it gone. 'Furthermore,' he lowered his voice as he focused on buttoning half of the seventeen plate buttons, noting with pleasure that some weight had returned to him, 'I expect that whilst you are on board you are to obey me and my officers absolutely. As one day, sir, it may save your life.'

  He saw Talton's fishlike mouth droop open, about to protest, but lifted an indignant finger, anticipating his voice. 'Despite the fact that this ship sails by grant of the investment of the company. Do you understand, Mister Talton?'

  Talton agreed, anxiously removing his spectacles and cleaning them furiously, sending dazzling reflections of sunlight dancing around the small cabin.

  'Please do not blame your man by the door, Captain. My intrusion was too swift for him to question.' He carefully entwined the thin golden arms of his spectacles behind his ears. 'Now, would it be possible to avail myself of a writing instrument?' He held up between his thumb and forefinger the fletchless, ink-stained quill that was the cause of his distress.

  Coxon approached and inspected the pen. 'Crow, I perceive.' He took it from Talton and flexed it in his hand. 'Not hardened enough, I'll wager.'

  'It is the third of such a type that I have had ruin on me.' Talton sighed.

  'I imagine it is part of my duty to ensure that the company's secretary and observer be furnished with appropriate tools…' Coxon's voice trailed off, diplomatic and polite again, noting the pride that he saw rising in Talton's thin mouth.

  Coxon moved over to his writing desk with its pewter wells and green leather surface. From a narrow drawer he picked out a quill, the fletch removed save for a few feathers at the very end for dusting the paper. With some ceremony he presented the expensive pen that had once belonged to the left wing of a Suffolk spring swan.

  Talton, visibly pleased, gratefully acknowledged the loan. He declined the volunteering of ink, bowed and reversed out of the cabin. Coxon had no objection to the loss of the quill, the whole desk and its contents being originally Guinneys' official bureau, and he smiled accordingly.

  Moving to pick up his wine again, he casually passed his eye across the chart laid out upon the table. A solid black line reaching from the Caymans plotted them to the island in less than five hours' time. Luncheon. Designating boarding parties, gunner captains, checking shot garlands - and then head to
him
with all malice.

  Coxon knew Devlin was already there. A few short weeks ago the whole scenario seemed merely the fancy of Whitehall, but there had been times when pacing on the quarterdeck alone, the feeling of a heaviness in the air seemed to drift off the still waters. A tight feeling across the chest born of expectation. The same feeling he felt moments before the cry 'Sail ho!' brought a line of French frigates across the horizon.

  How strangely his fate had shifted. By now he had imagined himself closeted in a few rented rooms in Portsmouth on half-pay, brought down to master and commander or, worse, paid off altogether; unable to recover from the loss of the
Noble
, ending up as an old sot bestowing wisdom on young officers in exchange for noggins of rum.

  Now he was watching the sea rise and fall from the stern windows as the
Starling
ploughed along at five knots running off the wind. Post-captain still. Honour would be restored; position retained. Life in the bell jar he loved.

  Luncheon. A side of dried beef, soaked in salt water for two days until it became almost palatable, sauerkraut, carrots and shelled peas. All wasted on Guinneys, who nibbled at shavings of beef upon ship's biscuit, but drained enough wine for three courses seemingly without effect.

  Coxon asked his first lieutenant to dine with him as this would probably be the last meal they ate this day, now they were but three hours from the island.

  Coxon maintained his old habit of cutting off a slice of beef to keep in his coat pocket along with his own compass, a precaution against the unknown of tomorrow, and he shared this with Guinneys.

  'Amusing so,' Guinneys said. 'I have often seen common seamen hiding tack upon themselves before a fleet action. You reveal your background too much, Captain!' He smiled kindly.