Blood Diamond: A Pirate Devlin Novel (30 page)

‘Any trouble?’ Devlin’s greeting to Peter Sam came from the stone steps that descended from the street to the water. The dory rocked unsteadily as Peter Sam held a hand to his captain; Dandon was left to his own luck.

‘No trouble, Cap’n,’ Peter Sam replied, but their eyes were on the languishing form of Albany Holmes at the stern of the boat. ‘We slept for the most. It’s warm down here.’ They had rowed to the steps that morning in the
Junot
’s dory, the palpable stench of fish polished into her wood. The tartane was left moored with dozens of others beneath the shadow of Pont Notre Dame.

‘Hey now, Captain!’ Albany waved. ‘How goes your day? Sold your cakes I see.’ Devlin and Dandon had ditched their empty trays in the first alley they had run through.

Devlin did not answer. His confidences were for Peter Sam only and Peter bent his head to listen.

Peter Sam did not spend much of his time with his captain. He did not play cards well or enjoy wine as much, and as for books, which Devlin and Dandon shared like bread, to Peter they were only fit for ripping cartridge paper from. And, without shame to remember it, he had tried to kill Devlin more than once when they first met.

But Patrick Devlin had sailed across the world to find him when he had even thought himself dead.

He would listen intently to every syllable that ever fell from his captain’s mouth until the trumpets of Judgement Day blew, and Sam would be standing at Devlin’s shoulder when they did.

Albany at least could find some talk in Dandon. ‘Went the day well, sir?’

Dandon looked at him kindly. ‘Well enough. We are still alive at least. I hope we did not cause you too much concern, Albany.’

‘Not at all. Your other companion, the filthier one, has absconded somewhere. No doubt for drink. I found
this
bald fool,’ he jerked his head toward Peter Sam, ‘rather dull for company.’

Dandon watched Peter Sam’s ears burn red, the dory too small for much privacy. ‘He has his uses, Albany. And when I figure out yours I’ll let you know. Besides, you should be grateful that our Peter Sam does not find you to his own . . .
taste
.’

Albany seemed to rejoice in this revelation. ‘Is that so? Well, they say you can never tell, eh?’ And Dandon winked in his wickedness.

Devlin turned to them both. ‘Hugh has gone to the inn. That wouldn’t be a bad plan for some supper and wine anyways. We should reward ourselves something at least.’

‘Agreed,’ Dandon pulled off his woollen cap. ‘As long as I don’t have to wear
that
any more.’

Devlin tugged his own cap from his head. ‘What say you, lads? What do you reckon four men can do with a Paris evening?’

Albany curled a lip at the prospect of what pirates might consider entertainment. ‘I’m sure we will do well,’ he flapped a limp hand at Peter Sam. ‘And I’m sure we could find a Molly house to distract this ape.’

The small boat rocked with Peter’s clamber to get at the grinning head of Albany, with Devlin dragged across the boat as he held on to him.

But Albany was the only one of them armed and his blade cut short Peter’s path.

‘Come on then, fool!’ He stepped back for Peter to consider his steel, his eyes wide and laughing. ‘You’ll not find me with my back to you!’

The rocking boat drew looks from the others all around and from the Sunday strollers on the street above. Devlin hissed for them to calm, aware that lapses in discretion tied nooses; but the gun had been cocked. Peter Sam came on, the sword only maddening him more.

Albany drew a circle at Peter’s chest, daring him forward and Peter obliged, his hand protected by a leather sewing palm as he grabbed the point and closed it in his fist.

Albany tried to tug back the blade only to find he had struck carelessly into an oak tree. Peter Sam twisted the blade and Albany’s wrist, committed in his grip, was wrenched painfully.

In a fight if you own a man’s wrist you own his entire body; you can angle him to his knees as easily as tumbling a kitten. Albany yelled out in pain as his arm, shoulder and torso bent him to the bottom of the boat as if his spine had left him.

He looked up at his master holding him at a leash, his twisted, entangled hand unable to let go of his sword’s grip. An enormous fist rose above his head.

‘
Peter
!’

Devlin’s shout broke Peter’s rage like a spell and he dropped the sword. Albany whined at the bones in his wrist, hated his arm and let his sword fall as the giant stepped over him out of the boat and to the stone walkway. Dandon danced behind him and laughter came from the other boats all around.

Devlin stood on Albany’s sword and leant down to him. ‘Are you
mad
? That man will kill you as easily as throwing a rat against a wall and with less thought.’

Albany looked up hatefully, his good hand holding his wrist. ‘I am not mad! But I begin to suspect the affection you “matelots” have for each other. I think Walpole would be very interested to know what den I have found myself in! In England we still find such acts punishable by death, whatever your colonial instincts, Captain!’

Devlin ruefully shook his head. ‘I’m for a drink. We are hours away from our aims and you pull this shite.’ He stepped out of the boat to join his men. ‘You can come if you want. You need to drink with Peter at least. That’s how it goes on a ship. No room for grudges. He’s hit me enough times.’

‘I will come! If only because I am dressed like a pig and could probably find no other company!’

‘Do what you will.’ He went up the steps and trawled through his pockets for his pipe and tobacco. He tapped a stranger for a light. As he sought the flame’s relief with cupped hand he considered his small band wearing the tension of their days like tight boots. How did his
Shadow
fare? How were a hundred men coping without him to rule them? He had but five to carry and yet dogs would work closer.

He had to get back. Back to the wood. London, now Paris. A mass of stone and crowds all moving faster than him. No control. No ropes to pull to change things. The endless sea felt small in comparison.

There was no order in this order. The straight streets, the houses on top of each other, the rush of carriage wheels always rolling somewhere. He understood then that his men had not ended up on the sea. He had not ended up on the sea.

They had escaped to it.

Get back to the
Shadow
, hold it together for one more day. John Law to do his duty and then back to Walpole and the prince. Take his amnesty for the past and then back to the real world.

He swallowed deeply his Brazilian smoke. His head lightened and his eyes turned misty, and he soon caught up with the others heading to the cabaret, the Image Notre Dame. Tomorrow he would be free again. One more day. And if Law failed, what had he lost? They would be on the sea again and no more hated than the day before.

The night came too soon for John Law. He dreaded it like the jilted lover looking mournfully out over the city and knowing that somewhere the woman that had been his heart was pulling the chemise from her shoulders for someone else now that the day was done, with every light in every window a reminder of your loneliness.

Only a warm bottle for company. He resided in a palace that had now become a cell. His cuffs brushed over the glass, a blackness at their ends, his laundry overdue. A whiff arose from his blue velvet waistcoat. Candle smoke and damp. He had neglected being a gentleman, perhaps deliberately, as a small punishment to himself. He drank deep until his throat burned.

Did he have to wait until the palace was asleep? He looked to his clock. Two porcelain cherubs pointing their arrows to the white face. After ten. The regent and his court were fed and drunk by now. There would be midgets cavorting beneath the table passing their tongues between the ladies and gentlemen; one of them, trussed like a pig, would be laid out naked on the table, an apple in his mouth.

Law counted Philippe as a friend, as fellow gamblers count themselves, the same as drinking partners measure their allegiance. He knew him as a painter, a sculptor, a composer of operas and did not understand how the debauchery fitted in with these accomplishments. To Philippe there was no division. His power was simply a means to enjoy and develop these better things. Politics just a means to this end. He had created some of the finest art galleries in the world for his people, made public the royal library and funded the Sorbonne university for all who were too poor to attend elsewhere. His desires were only fuel to the notion that life was joy without limits.

What Law missed, what Law misunderstood, was that these men of royal blood tied themselves to the gods. They were above morals and despised the church built by men. They could trace their line back to heaven. The world needed their breeding or it would cease to be. They were forestalling judgement with their lusts, for if not then the meek would surely inherit the earth. It was a warning to carry on indulging, not a prediction. Every seed sown increased their line, each one a noble angel. Everyone below them was allowed only to till the earth to fill the gods’ bellies.

Law had not been born to be a king so he did not understand. Philippe admired his genius for numbers and balance that had temporarily restored France to greatness but for all his formulae the Scotsman was still only a broken dog shivering with raised paw for approval. Philippe had raped his paper bank of its coin but even he had been dismayed at the number of nobles now plundering the vaults and making for Switzerland and Belgium. The dismal end lay only a few suppers away.

Law threw another brown glass of liquor down his neck. So I owe him nothing, he confirmed to himself. He has ruined my schemes with orgies and diamonds.

He put down his glass. Enough courage. He looked again at the clock and threw his wig to his bed, then shoved his hand through the crust of the pie that Devlin had given him, his probing hand as urgent as the Indian slave’s who had first plucked the real stone from the walls of the Parteal mine. And with the same slave’s hope he gazed upon it as it sucked free from the rancid meat and gravy. He gave it a wipe of linen and spit. It had been years since he had first seen and brokered it to the duke for Pitt, and this replica looked just as magnificent. Clear and hard. Sitting heavy in his palm like a stone. Just a stone.

Amused he watched his beating heart make his waistcoat tremble. Might it fail before he had a chance to complete his task? Then his door was open and with a shuttered lantern in his hand he crept into the corridor without another thought.

He could not remember the long walk to the regent’s study. The dark passages still held lingering smoke. The piss-boys had disappeared and he heard only distant laughter and violins’ notes falling from high above, the musicians wearing blindfolds so they could not report who or what they had seen. He could be caught at any moment, but only by a man dressed as a satyr chasing a giggling maiden down the stairs. Such was the night in the Palais Royale, the guards as dumb as the musicians were blind.

He padded on, respectfully quiet for the hour but with the confidence of one who belonged in these halls. And then the doors, and the gold handle softly turned. He stepped into a darker world, unaware of the eyes that had followed him and still observed him surreptitiously. Then the watcher moved away, on to the rooms upstairs to report what he had seen.

Law opened the shutters on his lantern, but still the shadows outweighed the dim light. He placed it down and sought a stronger source.

Above, Philippe had gathered twelve of the prettiest girls from the opera, all now enjoying the attentions of his
libertins de bonne compagnie.
Tokay and champagne, a course of the feast in themselves, poured directly from bottles into the faces of the naked young ladies, who laughed and spluttered and pretended to struggle as the dwarves dressed in grapes and laurels tied their wrists and ankles to their chairs under his guests’ slavering gaze.

Philippe, distracted, uninterested in the sights around his table, tapped a finger against his cheek. His conversation had been melancholy this supper, his appetite subdued, his eye glassy and resting on the empty chair beside him – the chair that no-one spoke of any more.

He had taken his usual cup of chocolate for luncheon, its energy rewarding and luxurious but light enough that he could indulge in his suppers that his mother chided him for again and again: three animals every evening and two hundred bottles of wine a week for his guests, enough to bury Bacchus and she cried and begged him to be bled more to purge his vices.

But tonight his attention flitted between the chair and the door behind which the blindfolded musicians played in their anteroom. His heart fell when the man he had sent to spy on John Law covered his eyes as he bowed into the room and leant to Philippe’s ear.

Philippe excused himself at the news and swept from the room with three guards at his heels. He waited until he had reached the stair to fold his banyan tight and hold out his hand for a pistol. It was slipped into his hand and he looked down at its crudity of wood and steel. He had never felt anything colder.

He regretted his slippers that made his walk seem clumsy against the proficient stride of the guards at his side. He had never visited his study in the night, had never noticed how wide the passage was now that it was empty, how silent his court when the glory departed with the sun.