The Pirate Devlin (9 page)

  John Watson, the cooper, drew long on his pipe. 'That's not a bad plan, Captain. He has a thought sure enough.' The others stood still.

  Devlin carried on, 'And when they come aboard to spy us out, we only have enough blues for a quarter of the men. We should put as many men in the hold as possible. The rest are to dress as plain as print. I never saw a merchant yet with a hundred men aboard.' There were murmurs of agreement.

  Toombs looked around his table. 'Aye. Maybe so. We don't know what we're sailing into, that's for sure. No harm in safety, ladies, if that's the way you want your cards. Who's to sail the boat?'

  Peter Sam raised a hand. 'I'll take that honour, Captain. I'll pick my own cox'n and mates, if you please.'

  'Aye, but young Thomas will be with me, Peter. If I'm to go ashore, I want the handsomest lads with me. That carries you with me as well, Patrick, and you, Little John. Black Bill - you'll hold the
Lucy
for me until we return.'

  'Aye, Cap'n.' Bill winked.

  'Then that plan's a mainstay. That is if you're all happy now with Patrick's suggestion?'

  Toombs turned and vanished into the gloom of the corner of the cabin. He carried back a large roll of black cloth and unfurled a portion of it upon the table. The rolled-out piece revealed the cross-stitched eye of a white skull and a crude hourglass.

  'Stronger than pistols, boys. Swear on this.' All spat on their hands, Devlin last of all, and slapped the flag.

  'We have an accord!' Toombs jeered and rolled back the cloth. 'Dog-Leg! Rum for all!'

   He had never seen a morning rain of its kind before. It came down like a wall of water, giving an eerie luminosity to the courtyard below the window. The low, flat roofs of Cape Coast Castle hissed with steam. John Coxon looked up to the beamed ceiling in his quarters, apparently being ridden over by a thousand horses.

  Through the small paned window in his room, peeling its green paint, Coxon could see the hazy form of the frigate that would take him home. Back to sea. She lay out in the small bay, her almost skeletal prow grinning at him through the cascading rain.

  A fifth-rate frigate of thirty-four guns, no doubt twelve- pounders. Crisp yellow and black paintwork across her strakes. Coincidence or not, Phipps had made his proposal to keep Coxon there, and two days later the
Starling
appeared on her way back from the Indian factories.

  Not wishing to take command, he would come on board as commander under the captain. Probably some midshipman would be ousted from his berth for him, or perhaps the political adviser's space would be vacant. Nevertheless, he would be at sea. Twelve days, maybe fourteen, he would be back in England, standing before a table of wigs, ribbons and engorged faces.

  As a fighting man, they would punish him by sending him out to the Caribbean to quell the tide of cut-throats that had swelled since the Peace of Utrecht and the Spanish raids on the colonies of English woodcutters along the Brazilian coast, clawing back what the war had cost them, had pushed hundreds of rovers upon the sea.

  That would suit. That would do. Just to get back to the sea. To find the man who deemed himself worthy to attack his ship. To lash the man against his own mast before setting him ablaze and tossing him into the sea.

  You could not hang these men. Each time you brought one back to Execution Dock, five more were inspired to take his place. Do not show them off for their crimes, wasting time on trials and hangmen. Whittle them down. Just let them disappear like winds, their voices never heard.

Chapter Four

  'It's time, Peter.' Toombs gripped the quartermaster's shoulder.

  Peter Sam responded, shaking Toombs's forearm. Six men sat below in the boat, its single mast lowered, all men at the oars. It was early evening now. That afternoon the windward island of St Nicholas seemed as if she was powering towards them across the water, her great black volcanic peaks standing directly on the narrow rocky shore.

  Each man armed with a musket, two pistols apiece, and with Peter Sam in charge of a special assortment of grenadoes, all safely stowed beneath the sheets of the longboat, they began the slow trawl to shore.

  An hour's sail brought the sun falling behind the cracked, speckled hills as the
Lucy
rounded the eastern bay, Sao Jorge, her pennant flying the colours of the Union Flag and only a handful of widows' sons on deck.

  'Hello?' Toombs raised the spyglass. 'There's something there that the Lord hadn't considered.'

  Devlin and Black Bill were by his side at the fo'c'sle. Devlin shielded his eyes with his palm as he looked out.

  Across the bay from them, a mile away, sat a black and red frigate facing south, out to sea. Toombs, through the glass, laid odds that she was nigh on a hundred feet long. Devlin watched Toombs's mouth counting. 'Twenty guns and a couple aft and fore, no doubt. No less than nine-pounders, I reckon. What say you, Bill?'

  'Could be, could be.' Bill leaned on the rail. 'We could be generous, Cap'n, and give them five to a gun. Maybe another thirty more for hands.'

  Toombs lowered the shargreen and vellum tube. 'Outgunned for sure. Best keep on his good side. That's a Porto pennant she's flying. Keep that merchant jack up high, Bill.'

  Devlin took in the dark sight. At least a hundred feet long for sure, with a jutting rostrum and short, high bowsprit. The gun ports were painted blood red; everything else on the freeboard was black, up to the gunwale, with all three masts rigged to the gallants, her grey sails furled. She was a forbidding sight.

  'That's far enough, Cap'n, they've seen us now.' Bill straightened up. He moved to the deck and prepared to haul sail, lower the anchor. Toombs and Devlin moved across to starboard in silence.

  Toombs raised the telescope again, but found it near useless in the shrinking light and joined Devlin in straining to see any life in Preguica port. They could just make out the smattering of fishing huts. Even at this distance the smell of smoked fish and pork came drifting in on the wind.

  A small wooden jetty poked out into the harbour, the whole of which was necklaced by a low redoubtable stone wall. They could imagine rows of soldiers with cannon elevated over the edge, laughing at them, as the six-pound balls from the
Lucy
died hopelessly on the beach.

  The shouts of men hauling away broke them from their thoughts. Minutes later the rattle of the anchor confirmed their position. They settled south of the bay. The soundings had marked this the surest bed, albeit with quite a swell. The anchorage also kept them well out of range of any cannonade.

  Together, Toombs and Devlin looked again to the shore with a sharp eye; for now, in the gloom, could be seen the orange dance of three lanterns slowly swinging their way down to the pier from a higher place inland.

  'Like moths to a flame, eh, Patrick?' Toombs grinned.

  'Aye, Captain.' Devlin heard his own voice as a whisper. 'Aye, indeed.'

  Half an hour had passed since they had watched the boat creep its way from the dock. Every man had a job to do to hide the normally languid role of the pirate. Despite the dark, men were mending sails, preparing oakum, holystoning the deck, whilst the bulk of the cut-throats hid in the putrefying hell of the hold, all to give the illusion of a moderately crewed merchantman to the party slowly approaching.

  Adorned with a new shirt and breeches, Devlin prepared himself. He stood in the cabin and stuck a small ebony-hilted dagger in his belt behind his back. Next, also tucked behind his back, a small Queen Anne turn-off pistol, patch-loaded, a small wad of linen to keep the ball and powder from falling out. Then his French left-locked pistol. The same one he had been allowed to choose from the weapons locker after he had signed the articles. He had rummaged until he had found a left-locked one. A preference that would matter several times in his life. The fast draw it provided was favoured by the French. It was a brute of a weapon with a hexagonal fourteen-inch iron barrel and iron nose, similarly patch- loaded, and placed on the right-hand side of his belt.

  He put on a square-tailed black twill greatcoat that must have belonged to a fine gentleman, so heavy was the cloth and so stout the fit. He pulled out the pleated linen cuffs of his shirt until they reached his knuckles, then picked up his crossbelt. No scabbard, the sword just hanging tight in its baldric, he placed it over his head and right shoulder. Although fashion now frowned on the crossbelt, Devlin welcomed the extra protection that a four-inch leather belt across his heart afforded.

  A few shifting adjustments and the hilt of the sword came just to his left wrist. He turned to see Toombs standing in the doorway, dressed almost identically, save for his baldric lying beneath his coat.

  'They're here, mate,' Toombs announced.

  Both men emerged to receive their guests as the last of the three took the final short step down onto the deck and joined his companions.

  Toombs introduced himself to the finest. The first two wore the breastplates and purple caps of guardsmen, sporting too the regulation moustaches. The third, however, wore fine red silk brocade, and had the longest black hair Devlin had ever seen on a man.

  Clean-shaven, with a benevolent face, he seemed the picture of a Portuguese gentleman. In his velvet belt he carried a graceful Spanish pistol. On the other side, a filigree hilt and a promise of his skill and wealth, hidden in a golden scabbard.

  'My name is Alvaro Contes, Captain. I speak for Valentim Mendes, who is the governor of Sao Nicolau. May I welcome you and ask what is the nature of your business here?'

  'If it should please His Grace, sir, we would like the opportunity to gather fresh water in the morn. And perhaps we could trade a little.' Toombs bowed. 'We have plenty of tobacco on board on its way back to England, and it wouldn't hurt now to miss a few twists for the right price, you see?'

  'Where have you sailed from, Captain?' Alvaro asked.

  'From Virginia, sir. We are mostly carrying post back to England, but find ourselves short on water and beer for the remainder of our journey, and as a sign of friendship we would like to extend the courtesy of inviting His Grace, the governor, to dine with me and my officers.'

  'That is very gracious of you, Captain. Would you also be so gracious as to allow my men to check the validation and worthiness of your vessel?'

  'Indeed, sir, and may I say they look like the perfect officers to fulfil such a task. May I introduce you to my men, sir?'

  Contes nodded humbly, casting his eyes over Devlin. 'This is Mister Patrick Devlin, our navigator. He has a rather fine lodestone that he would like to present to His Grace should he attend us.' Contes bowed and Devlin did likewise. 'Mister William Vernon, our sailing master and a fine Catholic. He keeps his eye on all of us, don't you, Will?'

  'That I do, Cap'n.' Black Bill tugged his prodigious forelock.

  'And this is Mister John Phillips, our bosun, and proud to have him we are. He'll gladly show your lads around, sir.' Phillips heartily agreed.

  'Thank you, Captain Toombs. You are gracious indeed.' Contes smiled with some constraint, then with a nod dismissed the soldiers to follow Phillips. 'Now, Captain, if it is not too much trouble, I should like to see some of your ship. It is so rare that I get to see life on a working merchant.'

  'Not much to see, to be truthful, sir,' Toombs confided. 'We live but humble lives. But we eats well. Which I'd like you to address to His Grace.'

  'Really?' Contes moved towards the cabin. 'One would have thought your food to be - how you may say -
terrible.
Is that correct?'

  Toombs and Devlin moved with him. Bill stayed by the bulwark, silent and watchful.

  'No, no. Not at all, sir.' Toombs walked ahead. 'As much cackle fruit as you could eat - that be eggs and chickens to you, sir. Pork, apples, sauces, dried beef. You see, we don't hold by familiarities you might see on a warship, sir. We have an oven, laid on a hearth here' - he gestured to the galley stove incongruously sitting amidships - 'with cauldrons to feed all the men. I always say you can't run a ship on a cold stomach! Don't I, Patrick?'

  'Indeed you do, Captain,' Devlin conceded.

  Contes turned towards him as they reached the cabin entrance. 'You are the navigator, Senor… Devlin?'

  'I am, sir.'

  'My master is most keen on navigation. Your English John Davies is a hero of his.'

  'We should have much to talk about. I have a small mounted lodestone that I would like to present to him as an English gift.'

  Contes moved into the cabin. 'I myself know nothing of such things.' As he looked around the cabin, his face filled with disdain. 'You have very little… of anything. Captain Toombs?'

  'Ah. Indeed, senor. Worms, you see. Rather than let them spread, I chose to throw all the wasted furniture over. Although don't you fret. We have enough left to entertain His Grace. My table should suffice for all the chickens I have planned!'