Blood Diamond: A Pirate Devlin Novel Read Free

of the pistol smoke as a beckoning hand invited the footpad closer. ‘Come on. Show me my coin, then.’
    The man stepped back, held his small gully blade loyally if not courageously. His wide eyes were wedded to the wave of the sword. The sailor came on slowly, grinned wider. Then the shadows of others loomed from the mouth of the alley. His shot had brought curious eyes. No matter, this was by far his right. Still, he had hoped for a more innocuous entrance.
    The footpad called out, his neck straining high, his voice higher.
    ‘Jon! Jon! He’s killed Arthur!’
    The sailor did not look behind him but moved his free hand to the back of his belt where his dagger waited. He carried on but his ears pricked at the clump of wooden soles behind him.
    The footpad aimed an accusing finger, lowered his knife. ‘ Him , Jon,’ then pointed the finger to his dying accomplice. ‘Shot up Arthur he has!’
    A bulk appeared beside the sailor, a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Put up now, sir. Let’s hear the tale of it.’
    The sailor looked at the hand, then the body it belonged to. As tall as him, just over six feet. A gentleman, trying to be, but a farmer’s quizzical scowl designated him a man doing better than he should by birth. He wore dirty lace and linen and a filigree sword more for ceremony than filleting. Only the heavy cudgel in his right hand signified that he worked at something – and that something distasteful.
    The sailor looked at the crowd gathering and put away his sword. ‘I defended myself, constable, if constable you be?’
    ‘My name is Jonathan Wild, sir, if you do not know. I will be addressed by you in the next moment as Thief-Taker General, if you please. What be you called now, sir, so as I might settle this matter?’
    The sailor checked once to the crowd, which seemed satisfied, and once to the footpad who had now put away his knife. It seemed that London had found some justice in his absence.
    Patrick Devlin’s name however was surely yellowing on the walls of the Bailey or on a magistrate’s desk somewhere. Devlin tipped his hat to Jonathan Wild.
    ‘My name is Captain John Coxon and—’ His address was cut dead by the blow of the cudgel’s oak head under his chin.
    He flew to the cobbles, his head cracking on the stones, his pistol jumping free from his belt.
    He rolled up and whipped out his ebony hilted dagger to the wavering form before him, shaking the shock from his head. He’d been hit before and he would be back to the fight when others howled or lay down. But Wild had been there before as well. He had already brought back his staff double-handed and the full back-swing of the oak across the sailor’s temple could have taken a child’s head off. Devlin stumbled with the impact and his blood painted the wall behind him like a brush thrown against it. He went down with his hand still gripping the dagger.
    Jonathan Wild waved down the laughter of the crowd. ‘Now, now, folks. Nothing here now. Go about your good business. Just an assault on two of my good men. Read all about it tomorrow, folks. Make a path, now, make a path.’
    The crowd dispersed, persuaded by Wild’s cudgel, whilst his fellow thief-taker rifled through Devlin’s pockets and helped himself to the left-locked pistol which he stuffed into his string-cord belt. Wild returned to the prone body and looked down at the crumpled sleeping form of the pirate Devlin.
    ‘We’ll take him to Newgate for now. Before he gets his sense back.’ He glanced up at the mouth of the alley, now empty. ‘What’s his tally, George?’
    ‘He has a king’s purse on him, Jon! Weighs more than me baby boy!’
    Wild spied the pistol. ‘I’ll takes that snap, George. Help for his trial. What did he say his name was?’
    George shrugged. ‘Cap’n John Coxon or other. Sailor I reckons.’
    ‘Aye? You don’t say?’ Wild mocked and stomped on the sleeping back. ‘Welcome to London, Captain John.’
    The two left the alley shouldering