Cross of Fire (28 page)

‘I was with Davis when he turned. When you were in Charles Town.’

Peter Sam’s turn to say nothing, which was enough.

‘Ready a boat,’ Devlin said. ‘Bags to fetch water. Sack for fruit and a cradle for meat. A hunting party to shore. Me, you, Hugh Harris and the priest.’

‘A hunting party?’

‘Reason to be armed. Should we come across rogues that’s our reason for being there. Too many numbers would cause a start.’

‘I’ll load for a fight,’ Peter Sam affirmed and went down. Devlin went back to surveying the black pyramid now splitting into green peaks and an emerald skirt as they arrowed towards. He saw the shadow of the priest grow over the wood.

‘O’Neill,’ he said before the man could speak. ‘You best get changed. You’ll be coming ashore.’

The priest rested on the gunwale beside him. None had told him to wait to be invited to climb to the quarterdeck. ‘Why should I disguise myself when I am coming with an honest request?’

Devlin kept to the island. ‘And what request is that?’

‘I want only the cross. I wish the man no harm.’

‘Do you think he will just give it up? And do you think I am only coming to ferry you to your cross? I’m here for his gold.’

‘It is not his gold. It is not your gold.’

‘And is it the King of Porto’s gold is it? Did his hand cut it from the earth?’

‘It is beyond my interest, Captain. I want only the cross of wood within the cross.’

‘Then why set it in gold?’

O’Neill stretched to watch a pod of dolphin boiling the water chasing fish.

‘It is for the peasants. They admire gold. I would settle for the wood.’

‘I could get my carpenter to cut something if you wish?’

O’Neill ignored the flippancy. ‘If you want you could let me alone to petition Levasseur for the cross. If you think it beyond
your
interest?’

Devlin could see a beach now, no ship.

‘A seven foot cross of gold? What part of that would not hold my interest?’

‘Its heart. I would judge you do not care for that.’

‘Judge now is it, priest? Your station has improved since we met.’ He went back to his study. ‘Go to Peter Sam. He’ll get you clothes to come ashore.’ He anticipated the holy response. ‘They’ll be suitably humble.’ He turned his back to the priest, his mind pretending interest in the helm, O’Neill’s company ended and he waited to hear the sandals descend.

Devlin did not know the name of the man at the helm. So many men over the years. So many dead. His long-standers were Peter Sam, John Lawson, Robert Hartley, Hugh Harris, Dan Teague. Will Magnes had stayed in Madagascar; the Dutch were gone, all paid off with two thousand pounds in their account as agreed. This man was a black Spaniard from Tortuga. The
Shadow
had Porto blacks as well, smart slaves that had been taught to sail and work in the trades. In the merchants they were still slaves. As pirates they earned like the rest, although most pirates paid them less, but at least paid, and at least allowed them the option to progress.

It had shocked assizes all over the colonies and in England that they found themselves having to hang black pirate quartermasters and first mates. Now almost a third of pirate crews could be black, their rise coming exactly as the rise in the trade of flesh since the end of the war, when Europe was granted that which had once been exclusively Spanish. The reluctance of people to be slaves over pirates baffled only the minds of the richest. Devlin had found it to be a consequence of the New World. The blacks were destined to become pirates. In their homeland they would have been slaves for honour, for debt, for war. In the New World they were mere chattel.

And Devlin knew something of that.

He had lived in a world where everything rotten or cheap or badly done was preceded by the word ‘Irish’. Even on his ship the salted meat was ‘Irish horse’, the ragged oakum or hanging sheets ‘Irish pennants’. He had signed on his blacks exactly as any other man, and anyone who objected was always free to make their case to him on land, by pistol or sword, as they chose. And that was always the end of the matter.

He nodded to the man and then returned his concentration to the sea. The island now stretched out before them, and another, smaller island surfaced at their head, white ribbons of water all around.

Devlin went to the taffrail, leant back on the wood to take in the expanse of sail and sky above and see as much of the island as he could. Wide canvas and blue skies, a sight to warm cold nights when old bones came.

He saw John Lawson swinging the lead from the chains to sound, but judging from the breaking waters the
Shadow
’s
three hundred and fifty tons was at her limit. Anchor here and row in, as surely Levasseur had done. And again the question:

Where was his ship? Where The Buzzard? Where the gold?

More green, more islands splitting from the main as if just born, narrow channels between, and the first thoughts of barren hope began to cloud the scene of fruitful paradise. This was no desert spit of land; this could be London for its size, its peaks as large as his Ireland home.

O’Neill had told where Levasseur was heading; that had been only overheard, was not a promise or declaration. Suppose Levasseur had changed his plans, suppose O’Neill had misheard or, worse, was simply a lunatic priest on a holy crusade – and God Himself knew there was enough of those. Peter Sam cracked Devlin’s glazed look.

‘If this is the island his ship’s not here. If he’s on the other side, that’ll be the lee shore. He be grounded there if he’s for staying.’

‘Anchor windward at the stern,’ Devlin ordered. Windward to keep their head out to the sea. He had expected to find Levasseur’s
Victory
doing the same. If The Buzzard had anchored on the lee shore it could have been with the intent to beach and careen but it would have to be bedded anchors and capstan heaving to get off again and all his boats to warp him out to sea. Why all that when there was a perfect bay to windward?

Devlin scanned the land. Beaches, black monoliths and individual trees could be discerned now. A jungle climb lay in their future.

‘We’ll go ashore and take that peak,’ he aimed his arm out and Peter Sam followed. ‘Scout from there.’

‘Aye,’ Peter Sam could already feel the ache in his legs. ‘Maybe some savages will cut us down before we make it.’

‘Or we meet Levasseur and his men.’ Devlin slapped him away. ‘Think of the gold, Peter Sam! Ain’t this why we came to sea? Or do you still fancy Newfoundland for the summer?’

Peter Sam lumbered away, the only way he ever walked.

‘Aye, Patrick. Ever for the gold.’

Chapter Twenty-One

Quieter now as they rowed through the soft, crystal water, as the ship faded behind them, and only in withdrawal did it become apparent how full of noise was the daily deck. In the jolly-boat, in these serene waters, with just the sounds of oars as gentle as the patting of butter, the cries of curious sea-birds and the crashing of surf, an unbeckoned tranquillity descended upon the visitors as they tensed themselves for any movement in the trees.

They weaved through a sandbar, sometimes rowing back on themselves to gain the angle, all eyes to the white beach. Then feet in the water, their splashes and grunts perhaps the first brutish sounds ever broken on the shore. They dragged the boat up reverently as if walking into a church, every slightest noise echoing back to them.

Muskets were shouldered along with the poles of the cradle – not a ruse: hunting for meat would be a real thing. Canvas bags there were for fresh water, a cask in the boat to fill. O’Neill would not carry arms so he carried more of the rest. Devlin complimented him on his new pirate look. Without the robes his black beard and cropped hair gave him a Spanish manner and the pirates laughed at his new-found aspect. His blushing curses traipsed away from them up the beach.

‘You know where you’re going, O’Neill?’ Devlin called.

The priest stopped.

‘No!’ he yelled back. ‘Away from you, I know!’

Devlin looked to Peter Sam then back to the priest.

‘You
sure
you don’t know it now?’

‘Well I assume we are for getting off the beach, are we not?’ He continued to the first break in the trees where the palms went straight out from the forest instead of straight up.

Peter Sam and Devlin squinted at each other and followed on, Hugh Harris giggling in the rear.

Two hours of sweat and climbing and slapping at insects and Hugh had gasped enough.

‘This must be good for me liver!’ he cried. ‘It hurts too much to be anything I might enjoy!’

Devlin said nothing but kept up with O’Neill at the front, his cutlass sweeping their path. They had passed through ravines and crossed waterfalls, testing the water as they went. Black parrots and colourful sparrows landed fearless on them as they pulled along, the birds yet to learn to flee from trespassers. The air was wet, yet there was so little of it, every step proved hard – yet none complained.

The rock turned to shingle and slate and Devlin instinctively walked with care. Then the blue sky became clear above the jungle and a single strike of cutlass cut naked the last green and cast it aside like a curtain drawn – and the sea yawned beneath them.

Another beach. White horses of water crashing for a mile all around. The others saw the same as he.

An empty shore. No ship. Nothing.

‘O’Neill,’ Devlin squared to the priest. ‘Where is he? Where’s The Buzzard?’

No ship, no man.

A long astonishment from O’Neill as he looked at the barren shore.

‘What month is this?’

‘July,’ Devlin said. ‘What matter?’

‘So it has been three months since he took the ship.’

‘What difference?’ Devlin said. ‘You said he was run to here?’

O’Neill scratched his head. ‘But he did! I heard it. He would have to be here. He said he knew this place!’

Devlin lifted his blade.

‘But he’s not here.’

No ship on the windward shore. No ship grounded on the lee.

‘Where is he, priest?’

‘But he must be here! The cross must! It brought me to you! Brought me here! He has buried it, that’s all!’

‘That’s
all
?’

Devlin looked to Peter Sam and then O’Neill was fast against a tree, his breath slammed from him. Hugh Harris pulled one of his Dutch over-and-under pistols and gleefully clicked it into life against the priest’s cheek.

‘That’s all?’ Devlin said again. ‘Are you a madman who has brought my starving crew on a chase for a piece of wood?’

‘You said yourself—’ O’Neill stammered under Peter’s weighty forearm against his chest. ‘Roberts is after the same. You had the same word.
The same
!
You were coming here anyway, you just needed to know where. Have I not provided so? The Lord’s word!’