The Pirate Devlin (20 page)

Chapter Nine

  Letter from Claes Aarland to the Dutch West India Company

12 May 1717

To all who will see these presents, Greeting,

It is with regret and sorrow of heart that I must inform upon the unsatisfactory nature of our voyage under the most prominent order of the offices of the Dutch West India Company. On the day of the eleventh of May at the watch of noon His Honourable Majesty's ship Ter Meer was attacked and abused by a collection of two pyrate vessels under the command of one Patrick Devlin. A frigate of unknown name and twenty-four main guns of unknown poundage beset upon us joined in conspiration with a brigantine under the title Lucy of eight main guns and unknown poundage. Complement of one hundred men at approximation.

It is with honour that I report no loss of life due to the competent action of my officers and command. It is with regret that I must report the theft of all stock relevant to our voyage and the theft of five crew to be named and counted as stock for insurance to be claimed.

40 Negro men

12 Negro women, two with child

8 Negro male child

29 bottle of wine

15 bottle of rum

7 bottle of brandy

hog pork

barrel of peas

barrel of salted cabbage

6 barrel of molasses

barrel of indigo

2 hundredweight sailcloth

400 yards of running rigging

hog of beer

barrel of gunpowder

It is with honour that I report my return safely of the ship from pyrate hands and of my gallant crew and officers to their homes and service. 'With this letter I wish to express our united concern for the apprehension of the pyrate Devlin with the utmost expedience and wish his actions to be reported with much affront to our allies who have fathered such a man.

Captain Claes Aarland.

His Majesty's ship Ter Meer.

  Providence. Twenty-eight miles long. Eleven miles across at its widest breadth. A million miles from heaven, a footstep into damnation.

  In 1700, the combined efforts of the French and Spanish pushed the neglected English governor and his fort off the map. Settlements were burned, properties plundered, Englishmen forced to serve as slaves to Spanish masters.

  Those who could escape ran northwards to the Carolinas, spreading the word that the isle was lost.

  Some lords with foresight beseeched the queen in 1705 that Providence could be an important stronghold. She had

  a harbour that could hold up to five hundred ships, with a small island lying off her north shore that provided a sand bar to the harbour, through which no large man-of-war could pass.

  For whatever eventual reason, no English force came to reclaim Providence. At least not through the front door.

  Slowly, as slowly as the sea laps at Providence's long white beaches, pirates began to descend on the island. They were prompted at first by Spanish gold in return for English and French goods, for as long as the raiding of a ship happened within five leagues of the island, it was a legitimate act of privateering.

  Many simply forgot that it was the Spanish raids on Campeche that had forced them onto their dread path, and the rest remembered that it was the English who had abandoned them when peace came.

  Through the next ten years, the English colonial buildings sang with English voices again, and when Spain became the common enemy against all the earth, the pirates ruled Providence. In 1717, England turned her eyes towards it again.

  Many of those who carved their names on the island were former English privateers. They served Anne. They would turn to George if granted amnesty. They would turn if given land to colonise, if their crimes were pardoned. Naturally their memory would be short after years of rotting with rum. England would gain Providence again without a shot being fired.

  For now, Devlin and Peter Sam walked the winding dirt streets with impunity. With all the English-style taverns of broad, stone facings, American oak beams and two-storey houses mingling with small fishermen's cottages, they could be in a Cornish village if it were not for the palm and dragon trees swaying over the yellow sand.

  The
Shadow
sat a mile east of the harbour, due to the shallows. The
Lucy
, however, could sail straight in and was beached for careening. There were plenty of black gangs along the shore to carry out the slow process of scraping and caulking her keel, experts at the task for a price.

  All of the
Lucy's
crew were ashore whilst she lay on her side. Forty men today from the
Shadow
, the rest tomorrow. Eagerly they were rowed to shore, overspilling the two boats that the ship possessed - rampant men, bulging with coin, desire shining across their faces.

  William Magnes, the old carpenter, had acted as purser to the two ships, and Devlin took his tally to gain a fair price for the excess goods they carried: chiefly the surplus from the
Ter Meer
that they could not eat or drink.

  Peter Sam, as quartermaster, took Devlin to the largest tavern on the island, Devlin bowing to Peter Sam's far better knowledge of such dealings.

  They came to a stone, two-storey building at the top of the twisting town. A wooden porch skirted the building, the upper storey overhanging the lower. White silken promises hung out of the windows above, drying in the sun.

  Despite the early hour of the day and the rising heat, the windows were shuttered below; still Devlin could hear the rising of songs and laughter as they approached.

  Peter Sam's long arm reached the wooden handle almost at the same time as his foot fell upon the decked porch. He paused and grinned at Devlin through his red beard.

  'No doubt you've met a lot of good men in your life, I’d say, Cap'n.' He nodded inward to the door. 'Prepare to meet a damn bad one.'

  The door resisted Peter's arm as if trying to protect the outside world from the horrors within. A wall of noise and smoke greeted them as they stepped over the threshold and across the sawdust-covered stone floor.

  Devlin's senses were bewildered by the cacophony of songs and the pressure of bodies almost locked together in a perpetual rolling tune. The room was surprisingly cool, the result of the large slabs of stone that made up its walls and floor, coupled with the high, tobacco-stained ceiling.

  Sunlight strained through the shuttered windows, bounced off the hilts of cutlasses and green bottles stuffed with sweating candles that sat on almost every level surface. A long table ran down the centre of the tavern, with benches along its sides, on which sat or lolled men seemingly from every nation of the earth, united in their love of ale and rum.

  Other smaller, square tables littered the room, similarly packed, whilst half a dozen smiling black maids weaved skilfully amongst them, pouring crock jugs of wine into leather mugs.

  As Devlin followed Peter Sam through the maze of tables and stools, he rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword, passing sailors gaming at dice at one table, cards at the next. The familiar chink of coin was everywhere, almost beating a rhythm along with the quartet of musicians. They sat above everyone's heads, urgently fifing a jig or scraping fiddles, seemingly producing a different tune for every table.

  Through the smoky gloom Devlin and Sam reached a short stair in the right corner of the tavern, which led to a raised area like a quarterdeck complete with rails, just large enough for the single round table that sat there.

  In the corner of this stage was a clean-shaven man with a grey frock coat, white bob wig laced with black ribbons, and an oversized black tricorne that had once been trimmed with white plume but now showed patchy and grey across its wax-stained felt. He sat alone against the wall, with probably the only backed chair in the place, dealing cards to himself for some intricate purpose. A pistol lay to his right hand, whilst a red sash around his collar ended tied to the fingerguard of another, larger flintlock, the brass cap of which peered up from the edge of the table.

  As they mounted the stair, Devlin noticed that the tip of the man's unsheathed sword poked innocently out of the rails, ready to score the ear of an unwary passer-by. As the shadow of the two men fell across him, he raised his head angrily, relaxing with a growling grin as he recalled some previous meeting.

  'Peter!' he exclaimed almost gleefully. His voice gave no accent to his birth. 'Well met, sir!'

  'Cap'n Vane.' Peter Sam nodded coolly. 'Good to see you're still breathing.'

  'Aye. And you and all.' He turned his eyes searchingly to Devlin. 'Who be this, then, you've brought to meet me?'

  Devlin stepped forward and tipped his hat. 'Patrick Devlin. Captain Devlin of
Shadow
and
Lucy.
Warmest greetings, Captain Vane.'

  'Aye. Indeed. I am Captain Charles Vane. Many happy days to you, sir.' He kicked out a stool from under the table. 'Take a sit, lads.' He beckoned with square, stubby hands. 'Let's drink to old friends.'

  Devlin pulled out the stool and sat opposite whilst Vane raised his hand to catch the eye of a serving maid. Peter Sam pulled out another stool and sat at Vane's right hand, which surreptitiously moved the pistol to below the table.

  Moments later, mugs were set and wine was brought for his company. Vane poured an amber liquid from his own crock bottle into one of the 'blackjack' leather mugs preferred by establishments for less breakages. Vane offered a small snuffbox to Devlin and Peter Sam, which they pinched from politely, after which Vane turned his head to Peter Sam.

  'And, of old friends, where be Seth, then, Peter?'

  'Gone. Dead,' Peter Sam said flatly.

  'Ah. 'Tis a shame. How'd it happen, lad?'

  Peter Sam recounted the yarn that brought them to Providence, even managing to bestow a solemn admiration for Devlin.

  'I'm of believing he could polish mud,' he offered to Vane, who nodded respectfully at Devlin.

  'Seth was always overestimating himself. But a good soul, nonetheless.' Vane raised his mug and the three drained their drinks. 'May the Lord and saints preserve us!' he cried. 'Now, gentlemen, what brings you to my table?'

  'We have goods to sell, Captain,' Devlin said. 'Peter says you'll get us the best prices. For a tribute of course.'

  'Aye. I can manage that. Least I can manage that your goods will make it to Stockdale's store.'

  'You be law on this island, then, Captain Vane?' Devlin asked.

  'Hush, lad. Kind words, quietly spoken. Jennings be the true lord around here. But in his absence, myself or Hornigold will act as lords to the bar, so to speak.' He leaned forward conspiratorially. 'You're lucky to catch even me. I be heading to the Carolinas in a week or two. Mark my words, gentlemen, the hurricanes start in June, but the waters south of here be swarming with English warships to take you down before then. It be the shallows that keeps them away from us and the islands, and sure enough the narrows in the Carolinas be fine for me and the
Ranger.'

  Devlin and Peter Sam swapped looks at word of the warships.

  'Ah. I knows that countenance!' Vane laughed. 'There were schemes in thy brains, lads!'

  'We'll be grateful if you could appraise our tally, Captain Vane.' Devlin closed the conversation.

  'That I can, Captain Devlin.
Rackham!'
He called over the rails, and like a genie a young man dressed in a short white linen jacket appeared below them, wiping a greasy chin across his wide sleeve.

  'Aye, Cap'n?'

  Taking no time to introduce the man clad exclusively in calico and linen, Vane handed the tally to him.

  'Take this to Stockdale. Tin to be delivered to Captain Devlin here by noon tomorrow, John.'

  'Aye, Cap'n.' He swaggered off, pulling his hat down purposefully and weaving through the crowd. Vane took a long drink.

  'Tell me, Captain Devlin, do you still sail under Toombs's black flag?'

  'For want of another, Captain Vane.'

  'Well, that ends today, sir!' He slapped the table. 'Peter! Take him to the widow, man! Do you have no sense of honour, you rake?'

  'That was my very next visitation, Cap'n,' Peter Sam confirmed.

  Devlin stood, bringing the meeting to an end. 'Hope I find you well again, Captain Vane.'

  Vane did not stand. He merely proffered his left hand, palm down, keeping his right below the table. They took his hand in turn.