The Pirate Devlin (30 page)

  He had been lying flat outside the tent on the western post, his afternoon watch under way, idly tracking the sail moving slowly SSE towards them, his telescope constantly fogging, his thumb swiftly wiping it under cursed breath, turning the sail into a greasy smear as he re-sighted it. Somewhere inside the vellum tube, an aphid had found a home, and occasionally it leaped into view, appearing to devour the little ship creeping over the horizon. Favre had shown him the ship when they had slunk back to the cliff, when the women had arrived, when the afternoon had such possibilities. Together they had watched the ship as they sat ripping up tufts of grass like petulant schoolboys, slapping the insects on their faces, moaning how they were having none of the fun, and every now and then glancing up at the grey sail on the horizon.

  Favre's watch was over, anyhow. He would take lunch. Make sure there was plenty of stew left for Duphot, and they had bid
au revoir
to one another.

  Now Favre was dead. As Duphot trundled down the dusty path, summoned by the bell, he saw the brigantine and the other ship, in the offing, cruising past the breakers, the bluff lines and tight rigging of a man-of-war, a British pennant above. Two ships. Five months of nothing but gardening and drill, and then within hours a fleet descends on their little stronghold.

  He did not pause, or dwell on what he saw, but carried on wheeling downhill to the fort, when he saw Landri lurking by the edge of the trees holding his musket, as if surprised that it was in his hands at all.

  He related all this to Landri, ignoring the itching in his eyes from Landri's shot and keeping them fixed on the mess.

  'But the English, they will help,
non
? We are all allies now,
oui?
' Landri's politics were simple.

  'Ah, that is why those men have killed our comrades,
non'?
Because we are all friends now,
oui?
He sniffed derisively at Landri. 'Tell me, Landri, if I pissed down your back would you think that it was raining?'

  'Maybe there is only one left? You said there were two, Dominic. I have killed one. Bessette and Lieutenant Xavier would never let anyone else ashore: they would not take such a risk.'

  He was right, Duphot thought. No one else would have come ashore. Ah, but Bessette's mind was addled by his abscess, his rotten jaw; he was not as he was. Then again,

  Lieutenant Xavier was as sharp as a shard of flint, was he not? Irrepressible. Constant.

  Yes. Two men. Some argument had occurred. Perhaps the gold discovered. Women coerced. Tempers unhinged.

  'Landri, I think there is only one man. You are right. We will hold out here. That English frigate will be-'

  Behind his head there came a click. Duphot knew the sound. He did not know the soft voice that followed it, laced with a layer of menace.

  'What English frigate?' Devlin asked.

  Dominic Duphot turned slowly, his fingers finding their grasp on the musket weakening. He saw the tall man from the beach standing a spit away from him, his pistol loosely aimed at Duphot's guts. Beside him, the sallow-eyed one in a yellow damask vest held a smaller gun to Landri's trembling neck and relieved him of his musket.

  'Carry on,' Devlin encouraged with a beckoning from his pistol. 'What English frigate?'

  Duphot stood, his knee cracking awkwardly as he did so, and gently, without request, let his musket rest against the wall of the barracks.

  'I will say no more, monsieur.' He spoke in English. Again he thumbed the pages of his mind back through all that must have happened, back to the point after Landri's shot. The two must have run from Bessette's anteroom to his bedchamber and out through the window, making their way up to the gate and around to come up behind them, probably actually following their footsteps.

  Duphot spoke dejectedly to his comrade, 'By any chance, Landri, did the soul that you shot have a short beard and a shiny bald head?'

'Out.
Bald. Some black hair? But it was just a glimpse.'

  Landri looked nervously between the two brigands.

  'It was for the best, mate.' Dandon allayed Landri's fears. 'His mouth was worse than a king's, I assure you.'

  Duphot continued, speaking slowly to Devlin, for all English were ignorant with gin, 'So there
was
only two of you, eh?' He smiled, almost chuckling. 'Do you have any idea what you have done, monsieur? What you have achieved this day?'

  'Some. And you do not have to die because of it. You can help us carry the chest to shore.' At word of the chest, Duphot s shoulders sank, his head became limp almost to his heart and he sighed deeply, shaking his head as Devlin spoke on. 'Those are my ships that look to the beach. Your position here has gone. But I'll grant you safe passage off this island. Or you can stay here with your three countrymen who still live.'

  Duphot raised his head. 'You are not a complete devil, then, monsieur,
non›
And these women that are all hiding in the mess are truly with you?'

  'They are. Now, what'll it be?' Devlin took a step back, squarely facing Duphot.

  He had not expected Duphot to laugh.

  'What sails does your ship have, monsieur?'

  'Why?'

  'And she would fly a British pennant,
non
? Her paint, yellow and black?'

  Devlin looked to Dandon. One small look away from Duphot.

  All Duphot required.

  In the same moment he went from a sluggish Breton to a Parisian lion, and Devlin was on his back, the blue sky framing Duphot's snarling, slavering head as he wrestled the pistol from Devlin's grasp. Prayers of hate spat out through Duphot's teeth. He was heavy, strong, his breath hot and foul. Devlin felt the pistol being dragged effortlessly from him. Then there was the crack of the small overcoat pistol and a look of surprise on Duphot's sagging face as he rolled off Devlin like a spent lover.

  Devlin pulled himself up to see Dandon's smoking gun in one hand, Landri flapping like a captured hen in the other.

  'Do I have to spend my entire life, Patrick, shooting men for you?' Dandon cursed, slapping Landri across the head to be still.

  Duphot was smiling, mumbling, the pistol in his right hand. Devlin stood over him, his left foot on his wrist, and bent to gain back the weapon, catching Duphot's final triumphant words.

  'Pity, Capitaine… you almost had it,' he coughed, choking on his own last breath. 'I have seen your ship… I have seen those grey sails. Far away… travelling south. These… this ship are Englishmen… come to kill you,
non
? Your own kind. Heh!' Then his head drifted back, with his last gasp mouthing reverently, 'Those poor, poor women… women.'

Chapter Fourteen

  Letter from Edward Talton to the East India Trading Company

To the Officers of Administration

Leadenhall Street

London

14 May 1717

To all who sees these presents, Greetings,

I wish notice to be drawn to this letter so dated as displeasure as to the treatment of the Company concerns regarding our return from the Company factory placements in our allotted interest. Unsatisfactory relations have developed as direct interference of Whitehall concerns. Sir, our stock has been undervalued beyond our investment in the Board and my own personal involvement has increased beyond my role and reasonable fortitude.

When this letter finds you I shall be in the Antilles as partner to a Board and Parliamentary mission that has no Company requirements as consequence of which I suggest removal of percentage of success from officers related to His Majesty's ship Starling. It has not been given outside my powers of office to mention most reluctantly that we pursue the adventurous nature of one known now to me as the pyrate Devlin.

On my return, some months hence, I will gladly represent the Company interest in complaints and seizures of percentages.

I note with concern the interest that has developed in my position since the appointment of Captain John Coxon has come to the fore.

Several of the officers have visited of late in my own private quarters and shown unwarranted interest in my correspondence.

Whether this is a consequence of the Board is not to my knowledge and I inform the Company in my own interest naturally.

I find the ship to be in good order to the best of my scrutiny and query and suggest any funding to repairs and fitting to be denied.

Your obedient servant,

Edward James Talton.

His Majesty's ship Starling.

Captain John Coxon.

  'Tell me, Doctor, is there any means of testing for arsenic poisoning? Immediately, I mean?' Coxon had summoned Surgeon Wood to his cabin as he readied himself for shore, and was silently gratified that the Scotsman was the first person for quite some time to actually knock on his door for permission to enter.

  He had partially turned to face Doctor Wood, as he changed into a woollen shirt and a cambric steinkerke, and at such position kept the rising and falling anchorage of the
Lucy
constant through the larboard window of his cabin, never far from his eye.

  'Arsenic? Why do you ask, Captain?' Doctor Wood bowed under one of the overhead beams as he stepped into the room and closed the door.

  'Before we dispense with Mister Talton, I wondered if it would not be prudent to eliminate any foul play, 'tis all.' He flapped on his dark brown vest, ignoring the slightly damp odour it gave off, and began buttoning.

  'You suspect a murder?'

  Coxon took a small personal delight in the rolling resonance the Scotsman gave to the word 'murder'. He made the concept almost seductive.

  'I should eliminate the prospect. I find such a sudden death unusual at the very least.'

  'Aye, well, you could probably discard your arsenic concept, then, Captain.' Wood removed his pince-nez, habitually closing his eyes and squeezing the bridge of his nose. 'It's a painful way to go. Not half as romantic as history may have led you to believe.'

  'How so?' Coxon, his vest secured, crossed the cabin to select a sword from the three draped upon the sloping wall.

  'It would take almost an hour to actually kill, supposing you had ingested, say, a small ink-bottle's worth. And in that hour you'd be in such agony and all manner of sickness… you would not go quietly.'

  'I see.' Coxon decided on a short cutlass and narrow black crossbelt. Once adorned, he made for his cot between the bulkheads, his private partition folded back. 'Is there any test you may be able to perform on Mister Talton to check for poison?'

  'I could gut him. Take a look at his organs. Most poisons rely on suffocation of the organs themselves… Are we actually contemplating this, Captain?'

  Coxon opened the baize-lined box that contained two simple, brassed English pistols. Not his own. His own commissioned pistols had gone down with the
Noble,
he hoped, rather than survive to be in the hands of some contemptible soul on the ship abreast of them.

  'Hmm?' He had been distracted by the implication of personal arms. 'Oh, not really. Not to concern yourself. But perhaps tomorrow, when this is over, I would appreciate a trip to the cockpit with you, before we commend Talton's body. Just for the sake of my log, you understand.'

  Wood nodded compliantly. 'If you wish, Captain. Aye.' He made a note to check his supply of sawdust, and begged if that was all that Coxon required of him.

  'Dismissed, Doctor Wood. But,' he added solemnly, 'do not tell anyone of what we have spoken, if you please, sir.'

  Wood grunted an accord, knuckled his head and removed himself quietly, silently affirming that all seamen were mad by nature.

  Coxon began unfolding from the baize inserts of the pistol box the small waxen folds of paper that held five prepared cartridges apiece. Each cartridge a small packet of powder and ball. Methodically, he patch-loaded and primed each pistol; his mind was elsewhere, however. Guangzhou, to be precise.

  Thoughts of China, Bombay, the delicate, deadly, strange Far East. Guinneys had spent three years back and forth throughout the factories and markets of those unholy lands. Guinneys had even attempted to entertain Coxon with tales of how poisoning was a capital punishment - reserved for nobility, no less. It would not take much for a curious man like Guinneys to be persuaded to purchase or even receive as a gift a small, elegant bottle of some substance.

  It was a possibility. Although for why, Coxon was at a loss. He stood, aware of how long he had left Guinneys alone, aware that Mister Howard would be counting his quarter bill for the umpteenth time. He picked his hat up off the cot, looked inside, ran a finger round the band, musing on the day ahead.