The Pirate Devlin (35 page)

  'Patrick, anyone can steal. Anyone. The pirate has always been. Always will. Sometimes they hide beneath the coats of gentlemen, but it all ends the same.' Solidly he met his servant's eyes. 'This will end the same. I know that. It's a small world for evil men.'

  'Spoken like the son of a clergyman, Captain.' Devlin smirked.

  'Your familiarity displeases me, Patrick,' Coxon snapped.

  'No, Captain. I would call you John to displease you. I have belittled governors more.'

  They had reached the break in the path that looked down to the
Lucy
in the bay.

  'Your ship, Patrick. Where you left it. Where your frigate left you all. A pity. I had hoped to lay eyes on her.'

  Almost a mile away to the east, the
Starling
sat glowing in the lowering sun, breathing on the swell like a sleeping infant, her sails furled like hammocks. No other ship filled the sea. No
Shadow
in the offing.

  'As we were,' Coxon said. 'I hope you at least felt that gold, Patrick.'

  'I may feel it still, Captain.' Devlin's face was oddly placid. 'The moon's a long way off.'

  Guinneys turned with a shout. 'Master Coxon! Move that dog. Lively now, sir.'

  'You're too old to dream, Patrick.' Coxon resumed the hand at Devlin's elbow and dragged him back to the group, now once again moving downhill. Devlin threw a single look to Dandon, who bowed his head from the gaze and busied himself with the encumbrance of his case.

  'Tell me, Captain,' Devlin resumed his patter, 'why all this interest in a little of the devil's work?'

  Coxon looked to Guinneys' back, noting the fine cut of his black silken coat that had not faded green across the shoulders like his own old cloth.

  'It is of an opinion that you have been tempted to stray on a Jacobite path. That some intelligence, possibly Spanish, has guided you to this island to steal the gold.' He coughed a little. 'The purpose of which I am led to believe is to harm relations with our French allies and to fund a Stuart restoration, perhaps. And I myself may have some knowledge on the matter.' Coxon's voice rose higher, as if by changing tone he could wipe the unpleasant thought from his mind. He changed course. 'Pray, what happened on the
Noble,
Patrick? What of young Thorn?'

  'Now, as I recall, the last time I saw Mister Thorn, he was swaying from a yardarm trying to catch as much shot as possible. Having decided to dispose of many of Mister Lewis's accoutrements.' Devlin briefly smiled at the thought.

  'Ah, Mister Lewis. I had almost forgotten the pompous arse. How fares he? He was taken, I was told. A precious commodity, no doubt.'

  'Aye. He had his eyes squeezed from his skull. Then we fed him to the porkers. Not very diplomatic, Mister Lewis, we found.'

  Coxon stopped, staring at the stranger beside him. Devlin caught the interlude with a light smile. 'I took it upon myself to be navigator. With your own expertise as my guide, naturally.'

  'Aye. That would be so. And what of any of my belongings? Did you hold on to any of them?' They were at the path to the beach now, the pace brisker as they moved down.

  'I managed a sword, and some silver, Captain. And that silver tube of lighting sticks you were fond of.'

  'Ho! The "Lucifers". Splendid. Good man. Where be they?'

  Devlin nodded his chin towards the
Lucy.

  'Damn your eyes, Patrick!' Coxon snarled. 'My father's gift to me. You left them there?'

  'I'm after hoping that I'll be bloody glad I did, Captain.' Devlin's look was serious and cold.

  Guinneys raised a hand and the walking stopped. The sound of the sea kissing the sands wafted pleasantly to their ears. The same sound the world over.

  They were between the two boats on the shore: the longboat from the
Starling,
the coxswain rising from his lump of cheese and hard tack, brushing the crumbs from his worsted jacket and the beer from his lips; and the small craft from the
Lucy,
innocent and serene.

  Guinneys beckoned to one of the sailors. A canvas bag was opened and a spyglass passed silently to him. He swept it across the
Lucy
until the blinding glare of another dazzled back into his eye, causing him to curse.

  Almost at the same moment, the white and gold pennant began to fall, and the ship became naked of colour save for the boulting cloth amongst the rigging.

  'They have given up the pretence,' Guinneys acknowledged proudly. He passed back the brass instrument and strode across the sand to Devlin and Coxon, close enough to smell the wine on Devlin and the damp from Coxon's clothes.

  'Master Coxon?' He grinned. 'I hold you to mark this pirate.' Without waiting for a response he turned to Devlin. 'Pirate, I intend to board your vessel. To retrieve the gold. Your men have no doubt seen you as our prisoner. I wish to know if they would resist now all is lost?'

  'See for your own mind, Captain.' Devlin looked over Guinneys' head to the
Lucy,
and Guinneys looked in turn to see the gig being lowered hurriedly over the larboard side.

  Guinneys' joy was almost holy. 'They flee! How very so! My, they fulfil my expectations of dogs!' He swung back to Devlin. 'What souls you gather around you, pirate.' He abandoned them both and ran to the larger group, shouting as he pounded over the sand. 'Scott! See they are not taking the chest! Cole! The women and the doctor to the longboat. Back to the ship. All to me and to the boat!
Marines!'

  Coxon watched the two marines gather like bridesmaids at Guinneys' shoulders. Cole bustled the women to the coxswain, avoiding Coxon's eye, every whore winking, whistling or curtsying to a bowing Devlin as they skipped past.

  'They run, Patrick,' he said. 'They always run.' More solemnly he added, 'I cannot save you, you know? You will hang.'

  Devlin gave no answer other than the clenching of his jaw as he watched the boat descend and his crew scrambling into her.

  Guinneys was next to Scott now, the excitement of near victory running through him, his hands nervously toying with one of his fine pistols.

  'They are running, Richard!' he declared. 'Escaping on the gig! Can you believe such folly?'

  'Perhaps they know something we do not, William,' Scott replied ambiguously.

  'They know the
Starling
will run them down otherwise, man. I have an admiration for a man knowing he is whipped!' He slapped Scott's shoulder. 'We have the gold, Richard! To the boat. We'll board and run them down with their own guns.'

  He turned to weigh up his band. The marines would board with him and Scott. Williams would return a pistol to Coxon to guard the pirate Devlin, then return to the ship with the women, the French doctor and Cole. The two remaining sailors, his company of old, Davies and Gregory, he recalled, would remain with Coxon.

  'There's no chest with them anyways,' Scott observed with a shading palm to his brow. 'They have probably filled their pockets with what they can, William.'

  'As will I, Richard, have no fear. To it, man! They are lowering the gig!'

  The two of them flew to the quarterboat, dogged by the two lumbering marines.

  Coxon and Devlin watched silently. They were some distance from the rest of the crowd. Williams appeared in front of them, handing Coxon his pistol and repeating Guinneys' orders that he was to stay along with Gregory and Davies as guard to the pirate.

  'What's to happen when Captain Guinneys secures the ship, Williams?'

  'Don't know, sir. We're returning to the ship with that French doctor and those… ladies. Guessing the captain will come back after. Once the ship and gold be ours.' He smiled uncomfortably. 'Excuse I, sir. I best get that doctor aboard.' With that he turned and went humbly to Dandon.

  Dandon bowed at Williams, who obliged him by picking up his chest. Dandon passed by Devlin and Coxon and bowed again, returning upright without spilling a drop of wine or breaking his stride as he ambled to the longboat, now full of cackling women.

  Devlin could not read him. He accepted that he might be lost to him, but without blame. Somehow Dandon was close to saving his own skin, and Devlin imagined this was how it had always been with the yellow-coated scoundrel.

  'Filthy brute that one' - Coxon watched Dandon's back recede - 'even for a Frog.'

  The sound of the quarterboat running into the surf with a bounding of legs brought them back to the matter of the
Lucy.
Devlin and Coxon watched for a moment as the two officers rowed, whilst the marines half crouched with their muskets high, ready to lower and fire in a moment if need be.

  'Tell me now, Patrick,' Coxon said, checking the pan on his pistol. 'Out of the merest nod to our history. Are there any more of your men on this island?'

  Devlin watched Dandon and the longboat creep slowly away.

  'I am the only pirate here, Captain. And you'll live if you want to.'

  Coxon could contain himself no longer. The sanctimony of Guinneys; the impudence of his former man turned brigand, shaming his patronage. He stopped the examination of his pistol to bring its brass cap up like the kick of a horse under Devlin's jaw. His right foot then adopted his finest shooting stance, before he cocked the pistol and levelled it at Devlin's writhing form upon the sands.

  'How dare you! How dare you, dog! To speak to me! To speak of death to me!' He felt himself being pulled backwards by the rough hands of Davies and Gregory, who had come up silently to wrestle him away.

  'Easy now, sir,' Davies begged in his hollow Welsh tones. 'Don't be denying a man a living by shooting him now.'

  Devlin rolled up, his head reeling. His eyes were fixed on the
Lucy,
and on the quarterboat, a cable-length from her now. He spat onto the sand a small wad of blood and smiled wickedly.

'Row,
you swabs!' Hugh Harris yelled at the four Dutchmen.
'Row!'
His yells were unnecessary, the broad blond men could row up a mountain, and already the
Lucy
had begun to shrink. They aimed for the rocks, to get round the corner of the island where the mangrove trees hung over the waters, away from any guns, away from everything.

  Sam Fletcher sat giggling, clutching the bundles of maps and oilskins from the cabin. Dan Teague had two pistols in his hands, his eyes watchful on the
Lucy's
deck. Rattling around the pirates' feet beneath the sheets were as many swords and firearms as they could throw into the gig, a man's-weight worth, and more stashed around every fold of clothing.

  'Ho!' Sam Morwell cried with a pointing hand. 'They're aboard!'

  All looked to their ship wistfully, at the sight of strangers upon her; then all yelled at the Dutchmen to row faster.

  The quarterboat, pushed by the tide, and pulled like a magnet to the
Lucy's
hull, had banged home. There was the usual ungraceful fumbling of pushing and heaving, until Scott scampered up the freeboard and belayed the boat and one by one each man clambered through the entrance port.

  They spread out, the four of them, weapons drawn, moving slowly across the deck, expecting some form of trap. Scott looked scornfully at the unkempt nature of the ship, the swab buckets rolling empty, the mess of broken ropes and untidy sheets. The only sounds were the living creak of the rigging, the faint rattle of chain and the anxious chattering of the hens in the coop behind the mainmast.

  'The ship is ours, gentlemen!' Guinneys grinned. He ran to the larboard gunwale, to spy the gig rolling away, already out of pistol shot. 'The cowards! Scott, let's give them a taste.' His eyes fell to the six-pounders either side of him, the gig perfectly framed between them. Scott joined him, then gave him the bad news.

  'They've spiked them all, William. Tompions in every one. The starboard guns also.'

  Guinneys swore inwardly, then yelled behind, 'Musket! Marine to me!'

  'They be out of range, sir!' Fellowes, a Guildford man, now regretting his move to Portsmouth, carried his gun forward.

  'I did not ask for your opinion, man!' Guinneys snorted, and grabbed the weapon, instantly, expertly, familiarising himself with its length and weight, and brought it to his shoulder.

  He sighted through the narrow V and brought the bead down on the mass of bodies in the gig. His breathing stopped. The gig rocked up and down before him, bobbing like a reef marker, and on the down roll he fired.

  His eyes smarted as the saltpetre smoked. His reward being only the small splash of water more than fifty yards short of the gig. Cursing, he threw the gun back at Fellowes's chest.

  'Never mind, lads.' He stepped back and turned his gaze to the open, inviting cabin. All with the same thought, to a man, they rushed to its dark interior, skidding into the open cabin.