Authors: Mark Keating
Returning to the telescope, he could see the lanterns of his men by the shore. The boat was still there. Devlin had run inland. He would not escape. It was fortunate that the horses had not yet been stabled for the night.
Devlin made his way to the top of another hill. Covered in grass seeds and sweat, a raging thirst at his throat, he willed the black clouds to break. From up here he could discern a road, maybe some houses, and in the distance what might be the sea, or perhaps just more of the same bloody dirt that his boots were full of.
Six miles at most to reach Peter Sam on the northern shore - not a great distance by any reckoning, and certainly not when being pursued. He fumbled for the compass in his coat, its whalebone face glowing beneath the moon as its dial danced on his palm. NNE would take him away from Ribeira Brava, the largest town and the one best avoided, for if there was any garrison on the island it would be in Ribeira.
Readjusting the boulder that his coat had become, he moved down the hill. He plucked at the shirt, stuck to his back with sweat. He thought of abandoning the heavy woollen twill coat, but not only did its pockets hold all that he had to carry him through this night, it also had other advantages. He had noticed the ordinariness of Seth Toombs without his. A good coat and a fine hat would always mark one as a cut above the rabble. It was like a priest's vestments in as much as it could transform the simple into the sublime. He would hold on to it.
A crack of thunder directly above him made him cower and look to the clouds in awe. The earth seemed to join the sky all around him with the falling of the African rain. Blinded by the sudden wave of water, Devlin shook the coat on gratefully, but mourned the tricorne he had left behind on Valentim Mendes's table as its three corners would now be running the hammering rain away from his back. He trotted on, the warm rain seeming to laugh at him as he stumbled through its walls of water.
Black Bill, the rain clinging to his beard, leaned on the starboard gunwale to look to the black frigate across the bay, her shape cut out against the hills by the cascade of rain.
He had spent the last hour sheathing the guns from the downpour, aided by the drunken gunner captain, Robert Hartley, who cursed the mongrels of the gods for the rain they had decided to throw upon him and his guns.
Below him a neverending rum-laden chorus of 'Leave Her, Johnny' hailed up through the deck.
It was rotten meat and weevil bread,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her.
'You'll eat or starve,' the old man said, And it's time for us to leave her.
Soaked as he was, he remained, watching the whitecaps growing as the harbour seemed to boil. It would be a short rain, for he knew any fall was rare in the Verdes: the dust of the earth and the tinder branches of the dragon trees were testament to that. Nonetheless, it would no doubt delay the return of the men ashore.
He thought of Peter Sam's small encampment. They were probably huddled under their makeshift tents eating cold meats and drinking dry the seven jugs they had taken with them. They had enough supplies for two days, but now were no doubt swearing against the soul of Patrick Devlin for suggesting such a course as they tried to keep their lanterns and, more importantly, their powder dry. He spat over the side and moved down to join his brethren and hoped no fool was trying to light a pipe below.
Devlin had found a nook in the black hillside to shelter and watch the forks of lightning rape the sky. He wore his coat over his head and had smothered his pistol inside his waistcoat to try and keep her dry. The slope was perhaps only thirty feet up from the dirt path, but he could see the snaking road from where he came, and to his left the passage that would take him to the rocky shore where Peter Sam lay as his rescuer.
He estimated that in less than an hour he could join them. Every moment of lightning showed him the sea in the distance all around him, the view blocked only by the mountain peaks that echoed the thunder like giants threatening to rise up and walk.
A movement from the path made him snap his head. A lightning flash revealed four crouching dogs lurching along the road to his right. No, not dogs. The blue crash of light was addling his brain, changing the creatures. Horses. They were horses, and upon them black oilskinned wraiths sniffing him out.
He watched as the rider in front wheeled his horse to face the others. The rider swung out his arm to indicate a direction and one of his companions pointed to another path in response. They moved closer together, and even through the rain Devlin could hear raised voices.
He drew his coat around his head, permitting himself a single eye to stare out through a hanging forelock, fearing his face would glow and reveal his presence if they turned towards him. Another flash of light and they vanished with it, riding to the east.
The time he had to make the remaining few miles grew ever shorter. He rose up and stumbled down to the north road, gasping at the rain as if drowning in it, throwing glances behind at every step, looking for the riders.
The rocky shore on which the boat had landed gave little comfort to the seven pirates camped there. Peter Sam sat beneath his crude tent of sailcloth tied to a wooden pole and watched the ocean, trying to grapple back their boat from the pebbled beach. They had heard the first rumblings of the squall two hours ago from the south. Hugh Harris had lovingly wrapped his pair of matching duelling pistols in his coat before putting them to bed within his tent to shield them from the coming rain.
Peter Sam drank from a jug of colonial whisky, switching left and right as he did so to check for eyes upon him, for it was a personal thing with him and he loathed sharing his drink. He savoured the warm liquid, knowing that his brothers would not appreciate its smoky, caramel taste.
They camped against a wind-free wall from where a natural passage crept up to coarse bushes that led to the barren countryside. From here they could see any approach; it had proved the best-hidden landing point, if not the most hospitable.
Another flash of lightning and he began to ponder on the night's events. If all had gone well, the fat, wealthy governor would have ferried himself out to the
Lucy
and found his first course to be a leaden one. Under a flag of truce, two of the men would then have rowed back to shore to deliver the ransom threat.
Whatever guard the governor possessed would have trembled in their boots. They would have sent a runner to Ribeira for more men, for that would be the garrison town; then the priest would take command and insist on paying the ransom.
Toombs would barter on the whole account being settled whilst it was still dark, before the light of day brought courage to the foolish. The money would be theirs, and shortly after dawn the
Lucy
would swim in from the west and pick them up to make a mockery of Devlin for his concerns.
Grinning at this, Peter Sam thought of the bond between himself and Toombs. It would never have occurred to him that after getting the doubloons Toombs might cut and leave. He had murdered two men for Toombs in his time, without thought or question. As fishermen together they had shared fur blankets and black bread as the Newfoundland winds sliced at their bones. It was Toombs's plan to go on the account over three years ago and Peter Sam had never regretted it. He ate what he wanted and drank like a priest. For fifteen years he had been a hungry fisherman; now his belly was sated and his heart utterly loyal to Toombs.
Chomping on a pickled egg, combing the flecks of it out of his beard with a black thumbnail, he watched Hugh, weaving his way to the longboat to fetch another bottle, swinging his arms, ape-like, in his own drunken style. Silhouetted against the sea, shrouded in rain, he raised the rum above his head in triumph, generating a low, bovine cheer from the other tents.
His scarecrow-like form suddenly stood stock-still, his eyes wide. The bottle fell from his right hand, almost hitting his streaking cutlass as it flew out.
Without a pause the other six were upright and following Hugh's stare, a flash of lightning dancing off their drawn blades.
They spread out, backing towards the pistol tent, all except Peter Sam, who stared razor-eyed at the figure breaking its way through the bushes before them. The black, headless shape appeared, staggering towards them. With a sweep of its arms, off came the sodden, cape-like coat that concealed the bedraggled form of Patrick Devlin.
The others relaxed in recognition; only Peter kept his apprehensive expression.
'What are you doing here?' Peter asked, moving towards him.
'Water,' Devlin croaked. 'Water, Peter.'
Peter Sam grabbed Devlin and pulled him to his face.
'Where's Seth?' He swallowed hard. 'Where's Thomas Deakins?'
The others put their weapons away and moved to join them.
'Dead, for all I know!' Devlin gasped. 'We were attacked. I got away.'
Peter pushed him away. The rain slowed.
'Oh! And you got aways! Now isn't that a page of the good book I'd like to hear! Who attacked you?'
'A trap.' Devlin bent down, panting. 'Governor trapped us. He's following me now!'
Andrew Morris, a Dorset sailor, a pirate for a year only, spoke with a tremor. 'Following you now?' he asked.
'Aye. Four of them. Behind me somewheres.' Devlin reached for his coat and straightened up.
'He's lying!' Peter snarled. 'He's given them up for his own hide, and led the Portos to us!' He stepped back quickly, his cutlass whirling loosely in his hand. 'What did you sell them for, Patrick? How many pieces?'
Devlin stopped putting on his coat and let it fall. 'Water, Peter. I'll not ask again. I've killed two men this night already.'
Hugh Harris faced Peter Sam and shouted through the rain and thunder: 'Give him quarter, Peter! For all our sakes!'
Peter pushed him aside. 'Article Eight, lads. Quarrel shall be ended,' he yelled. 'On shore by sword or pistol. By first blood!'
'I don't want to shoot you, Peter. I need you,' Devlin said wearily.
'By sword it be, then,' and Peter drew his dagger to partner his cutlass. 'No quarter, dog!' The others moved out in a silent crescent around the two.
Devlin's shoulders sank, then rose again in a forlorn breath. 'We've no time for this!' he shouted against the rain. 'They'll be on us!' But Peter had already drawn back his cutlass and sprang forward, cleaving the air.
Devlin's sword barely cleared in time to cross his body and meet the blow as he leaped backwards, the impact rattling through his arm.
He crept further back, his sword high before his face. He had seen how the pirates fought. There was no interest in a handsome fight or skilfully disarming an opponent. Simply slice off a part of your foe's head and move on to the next man. The victim might catch part of his face as it fell into his hands and would slump to his knees, then suck the air in disbelief as a following pirate ran him through.
Peter hacked again, a blow intent on smashing Devlin's thinner blade. His dagger dived in towards Devlin's liver but stabbed into the walnut grip of his pistol instead, marking it forever. A lightning flash as the steel clashed again, blades sliding down to their hilts as they came together, the two blades running with rain as if made of water. Peter hissed something through the roar of the thunder as Devlin's left hand snatched the wrist that drove the dagger, pulling Peter with it. Peter's body turned with the knife as Devlin's sword arm wrapped itself round his neck. His back was at Devlin's chest. His ear at his mouth. He could smell the brass guard of Devlin's sword at his throat.
'We can't do this!' Devlin spat. 'Stop this now!'
With a boar's roar Peter shot forward, hurling Devlin over his shoulder. Devlin saw the ground spin away from him as he crashed onto his back. His pistol fell from his waistcoat.
He rolled away in instinct and felt Peter's cutlass crack the ground where his head had been. He pushed himself up and back, checking for any of the others joining in. They stood, impassively, as if looking from a carriage window.
He appealed again to Peter, 'Have sense, man! Cool your head! There's danger here!'
Peter's chest heaved. He slung the dagger down and ran his hand across his face in a futile effort to wipe off the rain, then charged again, his sword hand almost behind him as if to hurl the cutlass. Devlin jumped back as the sword cut through the air in front of his eyes.
Missing his mark, Peter unbalanced, stumbling through like a lubber missing the last step of the companion. Devlin caught his fall, pushing him to the ground and holding him there, his forearm over his throat, slamming his sword onto Peter's cutlass.
Peter's body seethed beneath Devlin's, surprised by the strength within the Irishman; then he heard the words whispering from Devlin's mouth. In his rage they made no sense at first, as they had made no sense to Sam Fletcher when he first heard them whimpering from Philippe Ducos upon the island. But this time they were in English and Peter Sam knew the words very well.
'Gold,' Devlin had said. 'Hundreds of thousands of louis in gold and I know where it lies! If I die it never gets found. I
was
up to something, and this is it, Peter. A fortune in gold and I need you to get it and I need you to get the man who's killed Seth. Who's killed Thomas. Now belay this shite for another day and let's kill the Porto bastard together!'