The Pirate Devlin (28 page)

  Bessette snored in agreement.

  'I'm hungry,' Annie declared.

  'You can eat the five doubloons in your purse if you're hungry, my girl, but for now you will sway your hips into that mess with this wine and join your colleagues.'

  'Bloody pirates,' Annie murmured, picking up three bottles with ease between her fingers, leaving Bernadette to smile sweetly and pick up the other three, her dress hanging off her left shoulder to reveal the curve of her breast.

  Dandon led them to the passage. 'They must all drink swiftly. Pour it down their throats if you have to.' The women passed through into the corridor, their mouths exhibiting a definite downward turn.

  Devlin and Dandon followed, simultaneously checking the action on their pistols. 'I have never shot a man, Captain.' Dandon smiled meekly, his eyes lingering on Xavier's body as they stepped past.

  'It will not come to that. In a few hours we will be dining on the
Shadow,
laughing about this day.'

  They settled against the wall, sharing a breath for a moment. Devlin waved to the women to open the door to the mess.

  'Aye,' Dandon whispered, 'or we'll be dining in hell. Either way, we're sure to be eating.'

  Annie pulled back the bolt with just the crook of her little finger and shouldered the door. The corridor filled with the sweet song of the flute and fiddle, jeers and the scraping of chairs. There was a roar of approval as the new pair danced into the room, and Annie kicked the door shut behind her, leaving Devlin and Dandon with nothing but a faint waft of sweat and perfume.

  They stood silent, listening like elderly chaperones outside a drawing room for any new sound. The jolly music continued. No raised voices. No mistrust. Devlin was almost envious as he shifted to the door and gently locked the bolt again. Three men would live a while longer; Devlin and Dandon's pistols would remain cold.

  'And what of him?' Dandon indicated Abelard Xavier.

  'We'll lock Bessette's door behind us. He is well hidden in a locked corridor.' Together they hurried back to the anteroom, bolting the adjoining door behind them.

  Sanctuary. Devlin could no longer think more than five minutes ahead. He absorbed the peace of the room. Here everything was fine. Here was control. Bessette was dozing. Nobody knew more than them. Everybody knew less. If he could just hold on to this room, hold on to the chest, all would be well.

  Devlin moved to the outer door, opening it just enough to view the unmanned cannon, and sidled out, edging his way to the first corner. Daring to inch his head out, he saw the mess door pulled half open, obscuring his view of the gate at the far end. He could spy the watchtower in the far left corner, the marine still sitting there, his back to the rest of the stockade. The only sense of life was the small eddy of smoke that occasionally billowed out from the drawing of his pipe.

  If the drink flowed and the laudanum mellowed, the three soldiers would be asleep in minutes. But what then? The
Shadow
should be approaching by now. Her grey sails spotted by either the guard staring straight down to the
Lucy,
or by the watch on the west coast. The thought of a hundred comrades within shooting distance gave Devlin some comfort.

  As if in answer, he suddenly saw the gate swing slowly open. He fought the instinct to withdraw his head as he watched two men come through and hail the watchtower.

  One of them he recognised as the man stationed to watch the
Lucy
from the path. The other carried a leather satchel over his shoulder; Devlin vaguely recalled him as one of the men barked away from the beach by Bessette.

  His cautious eye watched the pantomime of the two gesticulating to the guard in the tower, who rose awkwardly to his feet. Then, and for the first time, Devlin saw the hanging ship's bell under the canopy of the watchtower.

  His mind magnified the size of the bell tenfold. He watched the hand reaching for the rope and he clutched at the pistol in his sash, waiting for the terrible moment. Then, out of the door of the mess, just yards in front of him, staggered one of the marines, grasping the lintel to stop himself from falling. The marine timed his incoherent bellow exactly as the first peal of the bell rang out across the air.

  A second peal, and the drugged marine fell against the door, slamming it fully open against the mess wall as he succumbed to the comfort of the dirt.

  Three pairs of eyes turned to the sound of the crashing door.

  They took in the sight of their fellow prone in the dust, then followed through to the man in shirt and waistcoat standing between the two buildings. A pistol already in his left hand. Their captain's distinguished sword in his right.

  Devlin could not recall stepping out into view. He could not recall pulling his weapons. He only remembered the echo of the second peal and the sight of the marine from the path slinging the musket from his back.

  Devlin ran to the slumbering soldier and briefly glanced into the mess at another world of colour and laughter, oblivious to the bell. He crouched in the door frame and checked his pistol, then glanced up at the three marines bolting at him from the gate.

  Devlin raked his eyes over the man at his feet, then kicked him over, cursing at the lack of a second pistol that would have given him half a chance. The sound of a chair falling to the floor behind him jerked him up, just as a ball sang past, splintering the frame where he had crouched.

  Devlin backed away from the men charging towards him, their cutlasses drawn. He edged back to Bessette's quarters, part of him wanting to draw the guards away from the vulnerable ladies in the mess, and part of him wanting to get back to the room where he had control, where he could savour the gold at least once before he died.

  At twenty yards, his shot would be worth something. One shot and only one more second to choose a target, then it would be a matter of hacking and hacking with the fine sword until he lived or died.

  Oh, for Peter Sam or Dan Teague. They would be laughing as they killed as easily as wiping mud from their shoes. Faces now, fearful and savage, filling the space between the barracks and the mess. One shot. The oldest one. That would be fair. Now.

'Down,
Captain, if you please!'

  Devlin flashed an eye behind, then flung himself to the ground. The marines stared at the man holding a smoking linstock in his hand. He was standing beside the nine-pounder, which now roared and spat a venomous spray of grape.

  Their tunics flew apart as if torn by a hundred fish-hooks. They danced up into the air, pirouetting round in a grotesque ballet that left them on their backs, writhing and stunned.

  Smoke trailed over Devlin's head as he raised it to peer over his forearm. The silence that followed the cannon blast was gratifying. The sight of the corpses more so.

  Standing, again waiting for his heart and his head to run together, he turned to face Dandon, whose normal placid composure was slightly affected by the unfamiliar blast of the cannon. The gun now stood twice its length behind him, smoking passively. Dandon staggered from the redoubt and raised a smile to his captain.

  'My apologies, Patrick.' He joined Devlin, who stood brushing the dirt from his clothes. 'I came as soon as I heard the bell, but that blast will surely bring the remainder upon us.'

  'I fear there may be only two to concern us.' He did not smile, but raised his pistol again and stepped towards the mess.

  Coming over the threshold, he gathered the recent history of the room. Cutlasses lay across the tables. A couple of chairs had their backs to the floor. Two marines lay sprawled amongst a debris of bottles, clay mugs and scraps of food. Dandon's drugged wine had worked well.

  The women had run to the rear wall at the sound of the cannon, silhouetted now against the window. At the sight of Devlin, they once again became the animated, swearing vixens they had been since they were fourteen, and set about jostling each other for the scavenger rights to the sleeping marines.

  'These men will have to be restrained, Captain,' Dandon's voice came wafting over Devlin's shoulder. 'They are good for an hour perhaps.'

  'No mind. That bell the others rang will be on sighting the
Shadow.''
He smiled. 'Our day has come. Let us lay eyes on our gold.'

Chapter Thirteen

  The cry of 'Sail ho!' had come an hour ago. Coxon stood with Guinneys at the
Starlings
fo'c'sle, surveying the black and white brigantine through their respective telescopes.

  There were four scopes aboard the
Starling.
Guinneys had his own fine brass, a London-made three-draw with a luscious shargreen finish. Coxon had grabbed the smoky glassed ship's tube from the helm becket. The other vellum tubes were in the lubber hole with the lookout at the topsail, and at the taffrail with Mister William Dawson, the
Starlings
able sailing master. Only Coxon and Guinneys spied on the
Lucy.
The others had instruction to study the horizon for the fateful showing of the pirate frigate.

  'She would appear,' Guinneys reported through clenched lips, 'to be decorated in her rigging with all manner of bunting cloth, Captain.' He lowered his glass. 'Trifle late for May Day, is it not?'

  'A deception of some kind,' Coxon wondered aloud. 'See how she flies a French flag as well? That's our man.'

  'Well,
your
man certainly, Captain.' Guinneys fashioned a smirk across his tanned features.

  Coxon actually smiled at the witticism and let it ride.

  'Maintain a three-thousand-yard vantage, Mister Guinneys, half a league.' He pitched his voice for all the hands straining their necks to the brigantine, and swept his scope across her bows. 'Easy sail. Top gallants only. Any reach you fancy.'

  He removed the scope from his eye, and let the bright emerald island behind the brigantine map his perspective, her crescent beach welcoming, virgin and white, barely a mile away.

  'Three thousand yards, sir?' Guinneys made a small protest by snapping down his waistcoat sharply with a fervent tug. 'Respectfully, Captain, those are no more than nine-pounders on that slut. We have over two hundred pounds to bear against her forty-eight. I could make toothpicks out of her in three rounds.'

  'And a fine use you'll have for those toothpicks whilst you rest our keel upon these sands. Have a mind, man! Can you not see the sand? Nor the scrawny wretch hanging out of the shrouds watching us? The ship is empty. A few souls peeping over the gunwale at us. Anchored bow and stern. Out here she is no match for us and they know it well enough. If we venture in' - he gestured to the island - 'we never get out. We draw too much water, William.'

  Guinneys looked back to the ship and sniffed in some personal agitation. 'Aye. There may be something in that. Not about power, eh? Position and all that.'

  'Blood soon enough, William. I would lay to that. 'Tis the frigate we must worry about. Half a league and we are out of range. And those are four six-pounders she has on us, not niners, so worry not about them, just about yourself. I'm sure you can manage that, Lieutenant.'

  He turned to the deck, not waiting for a cynical reply, his eye seeking the keen form of Midshipman Howard. He yelled to the boy.

  Howard weaved nimbly through the crowd to attend the rail beneath his captain.

  'Aye, Captain?'

  'Prepare for your first command, Mister Howard.'

  'Sir?'

  'Gain the attention of Mister Anderson. Make your boarding parties, and ready your gun-crews.' He spun back to Guinneys. 'Party of eight, Mister Guinneys. Yourself and Lieutenant Scott with me. We're going ashore.'

  Guinneys sniffed again; he stiffened as if pulled from the yards above. 'May I be enlightened as to the order of the day, Captain?'

  Coxon paused, took the
Lucy
in his sight once more. 'That ship stays there for two reasons only: she is left for unknown purpose whilst the frigate carrying the gold is long gone; or else there are misdeeds afoot on that island and she awaits instruction. Either way we will investigate as per our orders. Will that suffice, Mister Guinneys?'

  Guinneys doffed his hat mildly. 'Aye, Captain. That will do.'

  'Very well, then. Arm yourself and make ready.' He turned, momentarily freeing himself from the heavy, cold sensation that the sight of Guinneys now invoked within him, and made his way to his cabin, catching the troubled gaze of Midshipman Howard again.

  'Mister Howard? You still hover here?'

  'Begging your pardon, Captain.' The young man tugged a ginger forelock and walked amidships with Coxon, struggling to keep pace as Coxon headed for his quarters. 'May I make a note of these events, for myself? It won't take long.'

  'You may do whatever you wish, Mister Howard, as long as the men on your quarter bill are ready on my return.'