The Pirate Devlin (16 page)

  Preliminaries undertaken, officers and their mysterious guests withdrew to the comfort of the Great Cabin. Coxon's eyes followed Cayeux's back. This was the first time he had known a Frenchman aboard the same ship as himself who was not a prisoner. His world was getting larger.

  Inside the surprisingly spacious cabin, most of Guinneys' extravagances having been squared away, matters moved swiftly. Whilst there was no uniform to distinguish the navy officers from the politicians, they were as farmers to kings in terms of linen and attire. Coxon looked dourly at the wear on his coat, no longer having his own man brushing his clothes nightly and the black fading green in the coat's folds and across his back.

  James Whitlock spread out his ledgers and orders from his leather bag, uttering a small affirmation to each one. The lieutenants had prepared inkwells and quills in the centre of the table along with Guinneys' personal glassware, water, wine and some Indian sweets, which added some delicate colour to the white-walled cabin.

  Whitlock and Taylor-Woode seated themselves at the head of the table, with Rear Admiral Land at the opposite end. The French ambassador sat next to Taylor-Woode's elbow and cast his eyes over the bundles of yellow paper tied up with red ribbon. Coxon and Guinneys sat together, at Land's portion of the table, separating themselves from the politicians.

  Talton positioned himself on Cayeux's breadth of the table and brought out his spectacles, which he cleaned, fulminating against the dew that seemed to adhere to every glass surface he possessed, then Talton, without any knowledge of propriety, spoke first.

  'Would it be acceptable to breakfast at all, gentlemen, or am I expected to wait till luncheon?'

  Whitlock looked up, expressionless. 'Are you addressing me, sir?' he responded.

  'Indeed. Your presence was unexpected, sir, and I have not had time to eat this morning.' In truth he had simply ignored the call to partake at eight bells with the midshipmen and had been unable to find any hand who could bring him so much as an egg afterwards.

  'I breakfasted at dawn, Mister Talton.' Whitlock offered this information, as if by some process of osmosis Talton's hunger would be appeased. 'I would like to proceed, as time is an imperative to us all.'

  'Undoubtedly,' Guinneys confirmed, his words generating a small cough from Lieutenant Scott, with whom Guinneys had bet a crown that he would speak only in three-syllable words.

  Whitlock continued, 'Captain Coxon?'

  'Yes, Mister Whitlock?' Coxon rested his right arm on the table and leaned in.

  'You were captain of the
Noble
, were you not, sir?' He acknowledged Coxon's confirmation and carried on. 'And you have been made aware that the vessel was attacked by pirates near Gibraltar, have you not?'

  'I have been made aware that the
Noble
was subsequently set ablaze by my first lieutenant,' Coxon's voice grieved.'

  'Catastrophe,' Guinneys sighed.

  'Indeed,' Whitlock concurred. 'Although perhaps if Post- Captain Coxon had seen fit to allow the
Noble
to complete her passage, such a calamity would never have come to pass.' He saw Coxon open his mouth and raised a quietening palm to hold his tongue. 'However, we have reason to believe from the description of the pirate brigantine that two weeks ago these same rogues also attacked the governor of one of the Verde Islands, and subsequently made off with a twenty-six- gun frigate belonging to the Portuguese. Twenty-six including the swivels, of course.'

  'Good God, sir!' Rear Admiral Land exclaimed. 'Do you say that there's a band of brigands out there with a man-of-war?'

  'I do, sir,' Whitlock returned. 'And a brigantine. Over a hundred men according to witnesses from the
Noble.''

  'Horrendous,' Guinneys murmured.

  Coxon interjected, 'Are men from the
Noble
still in Gibraltar, Mister Whitlock?'

  'The devil I know, sir. That is not my business.'

  'Then pray,' Admiral Land asserted his position, 'what exactly is your business, sir?'

  Whitlock motioned to Ambassador Cayeux. 'The ambassador of His Most Gracious Majesty, Monsieur Cayeux, has brought a rather important event to Whitehall's attention.'

  Cayeux bowed at the mention of his name. 'It is a pleasure to meet you all, gentlemen.' His chin lowered to his chest, his accent subdued.

  Whitlock carried on, 'My colleague, the Honourable Mister Samuel Taylor-Woode' - another bow - 'holds many positions in Whitehall. And his coat buttons up over a number of closely guarded secrets, one of which was related to him by Monsieur Cayeux. I will now hand the elaborations over to his good self.'

  'Pardon my interruption, Mister Whitlock,' Talton spoke up as the Whig started to rise from his seat. 'But I should like to know if we will be able to unload our cargo? I have duties to the company to perform at our house, don't you know?'

  Whitlock glared at him. 'No soul will leave this ship, Mister Talton. I am perfectly capable of dealing with your cargo. And you may pass your tally on to me consequently. What transpires here this morning must never leave this vessel. Do you understand me, sir?'

  Coxon feigned surprise. 'Are we to take it, then, Mister Whitlock, that none of your company will leave this ship also?' he asked.

  'The king trusts me, Post-Captain, to keep my silence.'

  'Indubitably,' Guinneys agreed. Lieutenant Scott sniffed hard, stifling a sneeze.

  'And do not hope to forget, Captain, that Whitehall is most well aware you turned the
Noble
home rather than escort a "Blackbirder" of the South Sea Company. The subsequent consequence of which was the loss of a company man and a rather expensive king's frigate.' Whitlock took some water, eyeing Coxon over the glass.

  Coxon felt his face flushing as he spoke. 'My report to the board, which I will gladly address directly, indicated quite satisfactorily my concerns, sir, about sending an officer as inexperienced as Lieutenant Thorn to the Indies. A place the fellow had never been to, and certainly no place to send a man jumped up from a midshipman two weeks previous. Especially as my Irish steward could traverse with better reckoning!'

  Whitlock placed down his glass. 'I'm sure he could, Captain.'

  Land interceded. 'Let us address the matter at hand, Mister Whitlock. I would be most interested to listen to Mister Taylor-Woode's discourse.'

  'Your servant, Rear Admiral.' Taylor-Woode bowed to Land as he finally rose.

  He was young for a politician, perhaps thirty or so, with an unpleasant red rash above his collar, his face a day short of a shave. He touched some of the bound papers before him as if looking for a lost purpose.

  'I am in uncertain terms, gentlemen, as to what we are to achieve today.' He smiled uncomfortably. 'I have orders, but as to their value I am unsure to my utmost.' His ambiguity drew glances across the whole table. 'I will therefore simply put forward our situation and hope that it speaks for itself. I have some papers here…' He began to unravel his scripts, some shadow-marked with candle burns, some smeared with clumsy wax seals. 'Firstly, I must assure you that Monsieur Cayeux has our highest regard. You must take his word as well as I hope you may take my own.'

  'Absolutely,' Guinneys stated.

  'My gratitude. Without much distraction, I hope, I must establish a series of tragedies that necessitate my presence here today.' Taylor-Woode spoke with all the verbosity of a true politician.

  'Late last month, Monsieur Cayeux' - a bow to the ambassador - 'made aware to my council the failure of a certain sloop to arrive back at Calais. This sloop was returning from the Caribbean Sea after transporting a considerable gold fortune to a secret island location. An island unknown except to all but a handful of souls in possession of its map. The map is now believed lost with that sloop.'

  Taylor-Woode raised a furled piece of paper in his right hand. 'This paper is the only other map in existence that reveals the location of the island itself.' The paper drew the eyes of the entire table. '
This
ship, gentlemen, will have this map, signed by. Philippe the Second, with His Majesty's blessing. This ship will sail to the island with the purpose to hold its secret safe until such time that French forces can arrive.'

  Samuel Taylor-Woode paused for the drama to sink in. Coxon and the other sailors, however, were corks in a turbulent sea daily, and simply waited for the Whig to continue, their eyes meeting briefly across the table.

  'I am assured by Monsieur Cayeux that the vast majority of French warships are engaged with blockading the Spanish. Ever the enemy. And the only avenue of opportunity to address the vulnerability of this gold is to send an able British ally to safeguard and carry word to the French forces in the Caribbean, whereupon the
Starling
is our apt choice.'

  Coxon shifted his seat. 'Why is the
Starling
so apt, Mister Taylor-Woode?'

  Taylor-Woode's head craned towards Coxon. 'Why,
you
are on board of course, Captain,' he declared with almost insidious delight.

  'I beg your pardon, sir?'

  Taylor-Woode looked down to a correspondence in front of him. 'You are aware, no doubt, that in the loss' of the
Noble,
Captain, we also lost the ability and personage of one Alastair Lewis. His fate is unknown. Also amongst the sailors in Gibraltar there was one other soul who was absent from their company. His fate was unknown also, until the recent information regarding the theft of the Portuguese frigate from the Verdes. His importance would have passed us until we noticed in our inquiry that he drew rations with yourself, Captain.'

  'I do not follow, sir?' Coxon felt the cold, unpleasant creep of his own skin, a tightness around his chest.

  'Does the name "Devlin" mean anything to you, Captain Coxon?'

  'It does, sir.'

  Whitlock interrupted, turning his body to Coxon. 'In what sense, sir?'

  'Some years ago, at the end of the war, I liberated a Patrick Devlin' - he looked coldly to the French ambassador - 'from a French sloop. A sloop of war. I took him as my manservant. He served me on the
Noble.''

  'He accompanied you on land, I take it, as well?' Whitlock asked.

  'Of course.'

  'Your Irishman who could reckon better than Lieutenant Thorn?' Whitlock leaned forward.

  'Yes.'

  'Taught him yourself, I'll warrant?'

  'He was very observant, sir.'

  'Catholic too presumably, sir?' Whitlock looked away to the stern windows with a satisfied smirk.

  'Not that I noticed. What relevance is all of this, may I ask, sir?'

  Taylor-Woode shook his head. 'According to our information, Captain Coxon, your man, Patrick Devlin, is the pirate leader of these ship thieves.'

  Coxon's body turned to lead, all but his head, which had begun to swim.

  'Would you mind' - he cleared his throat - 'reiterating that point, Mister Taylor-Woode?'

  'Our information, Captain, is that Patrick Devlin is the pirate leader of over a hundred men, which affords you, as his former master, a unique opportunity to pull him to heel, as it were.'

  'Astounding!' Guinneys gasped.

  Coxon sat back. 'Devlin was a servant. It's only been a couple of months since he was shining my shoes. I'd find it remarkable that he could do such a thing.'

  'Irishmen!' Whitlock snorted.

  'Nevertheless, Captain, it seems he was able to convince the governor of St Nicholas that some other dog was the pirates' captain, whom he willingly sacrificed in order to trap the governor, murder several of his men and sail away with a prize warship. Hardly the abilities of a mere boot-wipe, would you say, Captain?'

  Rear Admiral Land rapped the table. 'What has this to do with this gold that you mentioned, Mister Taylor-Woode?'

  'Ah, Rear Admiral, what indeed.' Samuel Taylor-Woode sat down and drew more papers towards him, opening the sealed ones carefully. 'Shortly before Post-Captain Coxon left for the Guinea coast in January, he attended a social occasion, accompanied by Devlin, in London. The occasion was without importance other than that the Swedish ambassador was present. That same evening, the ambassador was arrested for conspiring with known Jacobite factions. The
Noble
sailed the next morning.'

  There was an uncomfortable movement around the table. The movement was not unnoticed by the Whigs.

  Taylor-Woode continued, 'We are in precarious times, gentlemen. It is only two years since Mar and his devils attempted to overthrow our noble king. The "old pretender" has fled to Rome since the death of his patron, Louis the Fourteenth, and we are assured by the regent Philippe, on the young king's behalf, that France has no desire to aid in his unlawful return to our United Kingdom.' Taylor-Woode paused to pour himself some wine, seemingly exhausted from a speech he had long prepared.