The Pirate Devlin (8 page)

  Devlin stood by the Great Cabin. He had pilfered one of Coxon's swords and any easily hidden silver he could find. At the first exploding 'stinkpot', he had run his necktie through a swab bucket, tied it across his lower face, covering his nose and mouth like a footpad.

  He grabbed a manrope as the two worlds collided and the ship rocked and the cannons rolled around the deck. He stared up at the marines hanging from the rigging like bats. Blood dripping like the last of the wine. They had still been biting the paper from their cartridges when the lead spun them from their perches.

  Devlin watched Thorn leap down the steps from the quarterdeck. His black hair hung damp with sweat under his tricorne. The long sideburns that covered almost half his face and that he cultivated to age him years beyond his twenty looked false and foolish. Now he looked like a schoolboy lost on the wrong side of the Thames.

  The noise finally broke him. A noise from the time of the Caesars. Then, ages past, it was the sound of ten thousand spears rattling in formation against a legion's shields. Here and now it was the thumping of a hundred cutlasses against the brigantine's gunwales, again and again and again.

  Thorn stared wildly around him. Looking for something. Something unknown. Something he never found. His eyes fell on Devlin, taking a second to recognise him through the necktie wrapped round his face. Then he leaped through the cabin door and bolted it behind him.

  It was a fine story. Toombs had been there for the end of it. Under a million stars, spilled like grains of salt across an ebony table, Devlin stood with Toombs at the fo'c'sle.

  They smoked contentedly, leaning back beneath the moonless sky, watching the sails glow in the faintest of light from the stars on the water and listening to the weary strains of the jibs above them.

  Both men were unable to sleep. The bell had kept ringing, the sails kept changing with Devlin's tack, still maintaining seven knots upon his traverse board, so Toombs and Devlin had found themselves drinking punch and smoking through the night.

  Devlin needed to be awake but, despite the rum, Toombs found that the bell outside his cabin was not conducive to sleep. They sailed in darkness, with no sidelights, whispering their talk as if in fear of disturbing the
Lucy.

  Mostly the pair talked about each other: how they came to this point. Holding all the right pieces back, but revealing secrets, as men are apt to do beneath infinity.

  Toombs laughed, blackly, about how he had been peeled off the table of a Bristol tavern to be a cod fisherman. How his masters loaned him money in lieu of pay and charged him twenty shillings for a loaf of bread. He told of great storms and shipwrecks, of ghosts born from the long, cold, murderous nights along the Newfoundland coast.

  Every few months, pirates would come from the Caribbean to fish for men, and the fear and dread of the governors at their approach, and the reticence of the navy to offer protection, had inspired him to consider that the waters of piracy were maybe less muddy than those of a fisherman.

  'But what about you, Patrick?' he asked. 'Why were you on that ship? A servant, no less?'

  Devlin shifted uncomfortably. He testified that his life was of little consequence. His father had sold him to a butcher in Kilkenny for four guineas. He had only been eight at the time but he'd been tall and his father had sold him as a twelve-year-old. He had spent his early years, motherless, playing with stones and mice in a one-street, four-horse town near the ever-freezing River Barrow, learning to curse and fight before learning to pray.

  He remembered trying to bring living fish home and wondering why they died before he brought them through the door, sharing this memory with Toombs and blushing at the utterance.

  He had never known his mother, only the warmth of his father's sister, who looked after him every summer whilst his father picked hops alongside
his
father for the Kilkenny breweries. Dead or living, his mother had gone, and Devlin paid her no mind. He did not blush at that to his captain.

  At ten, he was a poacher for the butcher. At first with snares for rabbit, hare and duck, then with a matchlock musket taller than himself, spending days in brush and thicket, under a sailcloth tent, waiting for the deer to sniff out the morning.

  Teaching himself to read from books that people stole from their squires to offer as payment to the butcher, the only one that served all the fine houses along the Three Sisters, he read much and ate well. Kilkenny was a plump town in which to be young and vital. Almost a decade went by before destiny caught up with him.

  At nineteen, one of his fowl still carried some shot that cracked the rotten teeth of a magistrate's wife, and Devlin was chased down for the crime against her person.

  He had run from his punishment to England, with the blue Wicklow Hills shrinking away from the stern of a Deal yawl his last memory of home. He'd worked and tramped his way east, drifting finally to the docks of London. As an Irishman, he sought out others, and found his way to Pelican Stairs, the sailors' district in Wapping. There he was taken in by a father and son named Kennedy, serving in an anchorsmith's with old man Kennedy.

  The son, Walter, never took to work, preferring burglary and theft, and father and son fought like dogs. In the summer of 1710, Devlin came back to the small, damp, tumbledown house to find old man Kennedy with a dirk sticking out of his chest, and the young Walter Kennedy gone.

  'It is my shame still,' he confessed, stabbing a pipe at Toombs, 'that I ran from the house that night for terror of my own neck.'

  'What did you do?'

  'There was a war. I gave my oath.' He sipped at his mug, removing the history that he had fled to St Malo and had laid his own eyes on the infamous corsair Rene Duguay-Trouin, the pirate that loaned even King Louis money.

  He had stayed there two years, fishing along the coast before starvation led him into Louis's flotilla and barely a month later into the hands of the English.

  'Were you not a servant, though, Pat? Not a signed man?'

  Devlin had slipped. It was still in his mind to keep his French past hidden. Toombs was not a fool.

  'I began before the mast. A younker furling sail. But not for long. I had a happening along the gangway one day: I was flogged for not tugging my forelock to a snotty. The captain felt that an Irishman on his ship was a lost cause anyways. He enlisted me as his man instead.' He took a drink, swallowing the lie.

  Toombs blew out a veil of smoke. 'He taught you well, though. I don't know the man, but I can see his shadow in you for sure.'

  'I spent four years by his side.' Devlin's voice was bitter. 'He didn't teach me, Cap'n. I Jewed his clothes and I listened.' He turned and stared across the deck to where Dan Teague, with the only lantern allowed, stood watching the sand-timer dance with the rolling of the ship.

  Devlin gave his mug to Toombs, and pulled out the brass pocketwatch. In the glow from his pipe as he drew a little, he saw her arm drag to two o'clock just as Dan chanted out his morbid four bells.

  'Curse you, Patrick, for not allowing me to sleep,' Toombs muttered.

  The lads were doing well. The watch was working. Devlin made his way to the helm. He took the long walk sparse with men, for they huddled in closer quarters below, away from the bells. Crewmen shuffled past him to the staysails for the change in direction. Devlin unlashed the wheel and set NNW to the spinning binnacle at his knee. He looked down the ship and watched the ropes being belayed by grey spirits in the dark.

  For a few minutes he relished the pull of the ship, the water struggling against the wheel in his hands as the earth turned; then he lashed her to her course and went down to relieve Dan.

  By dawn the men of the watch were spent. Devlin ducked out of the cabin, spyglass in hand, to find a new face, not one of the allotted four maintaining the sand.

  The man nodded at him without a word and Devlin climbed to the quarterdeck. Somewhere in the night the crew had come to their own arrangement. The brethren's spirit for each other continued to stagger Devlin. Extending the three-draw telescope to the northeast, he scanned the horizon.

  He had not pushed to take a chip log during the night, leaving the sails to read their speed. Before a noon reading, and by dead reckoning, he was hoping to see the island of Brava in his sights. The misty view through the 'bring me closer' rolled up and down, but Devlin saw nothing. He panned himself right, hoping to be late, perhaps, but there was still no shoulder of land. The spyglass was snapped shut with a curse.

  'I'm thinking you won't see Brava, Patrick.' The voice of Black Bill rumbled in his ear.

  Devlin turned to the old mariner. 'Is that right, Bill?'

  'Aye. Oh, she's there. And we're about thirty miles off of her, I reckon. As do you, lad, by your charts.' Devlin had been plotting through the night and Bill had spent a while mulling over his reckoning. 'Me and the boys will take a sounding. I'll lay you a pound of powder it'll be shell at six fathoms.' He pointed over the rails, scowling into the rising sun. 'See that cloud? That's Brava under that. She's a bairn compared to St Nick, but she's there, and you plotted well, Pat.'

  'Well, I thank you, Bill, for being a gentleman.' Devlin smiled.

  'Nay, lad. Never a gentleman.' The big man leaned on the rail, his wiry black beard lifting in the wind as he looked out across the calm sea. Tomorrow night we'll arrive at St Nick. Keep an eye north. There's plenty of black rocks that'll mark our passage. Birds too. Clouds of them. We need a good account, Pat. It's been a bad winter. The lads' songs are full of laments. Yet they run the sails without complaint all night. And turn your glass.' Bill elbowed Devlin as he passed to the companion. 'You're pistol-proof, Patrick Devlin,' he told him. Then added, ominously, 'Just keep arm's-length away from Peter if you can, lad.'

  That evening the officers stood around a lantern-lit table, mired in each other's smoke. They had dined out on deck with the rest of the crew, on a spiced dish of rice with chicken taken fresh from the small coop next to the mizzen, and washed down with as much small beer as they needed to take away the memory of Dog-Leg's fare. Toombs had called them to discuss the prospects for the following night's adventures.

  'The way I see it, lads, we're coming down here.' He stabbed at the chart on the table with his pipe. 'The bay of St George. Patrick will bring us northwards by early tomorrow evening. Then we sail along the shore and around this cape, windward like, to come to Preguica, here.' He stabbed again at the knuckle of the island. 'As if we'd just sailed off the lap of King George himself. And all hands dressed like common blue sailors. Just a few fishermen and the governor's house are all that's there, and I'll bet a portion that he hasn't more than a handful of men.'

  'But we don't know that, do we, Cap'n?' Will Magnes asked.

  'That's truth talking, so it is, Will, but it don't matter anyhow - we'll be flying the king's colours, remember? And I ain't intending to go ashore and count his men. All we'll be doing is inviting the poor governor for a friendly dinner in the company of his peers!'

  'What if he doesn't want to come over?' Peter Sam queried.

  Toombs inhaled at the question, closing his eyes briefly. 'This island, mate, is a volcanic rock. The Portos have been there nigh on a hundred years and have grown nothing but tired. We show up with news, wine, coffee and tobacco. We'll have to fight the buggers off.' He tossed down his pipe upon the island with a clatter.

  'The governor's probably some nobleman's rapist son hiding out here. His island's naught but a signpost for us civilised squires heading for the Indies.'

  'So who's going to pay ten thousand doubloons for him?' Peter again spoke up.

  'Don't fret about that, Peter. I know these bastards keep that in tin just to pay for slaves to colonise the bloody hole!'

  'What if he asks us over to him, Captain?' Devlin asked.

  Toombs's jaw clenched. 'What, pray, is that of a comment, Patrick?'

  'Wouldn't we be supposing a boat comes out to meet us, rightly so? They look around the ship, all done and happy, then they invite us to dine with them?'

  Everyone watched Toombs.

  'No, he dines with us. He comes aboard, we pull our pistols.' Toombs spoke as if the whole event had already happened and they were snug in their hammocks weighted down with gold.

  'But should we be asked to the island, we can't refuse, can we now?' Devlin turned to his fellow officers. 'It doesn't matter to the plan: if we sup on the island one night, the governor eats with us the next, but' - he paused, picked up a divider and pointed at the island - 'I suggest we land a boat here on the north shore, at the narrowest point, six miles north to south. Half a dozen men to cover the risk that we find ourselves separated from the ship. We could make our way there should we smell a trap.' He looked straight at Peter Sam. 'Six men to watch our backs.'

  Toombs's voice was strained. 'What are you saying, Pat?'

  'We're thinking of deeds against this man, ain't we? It's just an insurance that he's not thinking the same about us, Captain.'