The Pirate Devlin Read Free Page A

John Coxon. At the time, Captain Coxon was dying of dysentery in Cape Coast Castle and was unaware of making the 'gift'.
      He sucked on his pipe, drawing it into life, avoiding the urge to study the paper that Ducos's fate had given him. From the Frenchman's final, desperate outburst he had only gathered the promise of a map to a king's fortune, guarded and hidden. A fortune in gold, stored as a stronghold for the French forces in the Antilles.
      Until he looked at the paper he would not know what hand it would deal him. But his worst fate would be to be found studying a map taken from a dead prisoner for some unknown personal gain. In his contemplation, his eyes had carried back out to sea. He noticed, reflective, amused, that his exhalations of smoke matched the crashing of the afternoon surf.
      'Did you not think that you should declare those boots to your quartermaster, then, Patrick?' He turned with a start to see Peter Sam standing by his side. The others were following across the white sand, William Magnes carrying a lifeless goat across his shoulders.
      Devlin cursed himself. He had not heard a distant shot to explain for the goat, and coming across the sand the party should have sounded like carts on cobblestones to his poacher's ears.
      Peter Sam, one eye closed against the glare of the sun, spied Devlin's new footwear. 'Pretty nice boots that Frenchman had, eh? Did you not want to share them?'
      Devlin's composure returned as five pairs of envious and greedy eyes, including Fletcher's, were turned to his boots.
      'Now be fair, Peter: we'd look pretty foolish wearing a boot between us.'
      All, apart from the fiery quartermaster, cackled in agreement, Fletcher, in his ignorance, the loudest.
      'Get that meat to the boat!' Peter Sam growled with his Bristol drawl through his red beard, glaring at them all as they grumbled past him. He turned back to Devlin.
      He had disliked Devlin from the moment they had relieved him from his duty aboard the Noble. Although clearly a servant, he had been unwilling to join his pirate rescuers who had so easily mauled the English sixth-rate. Now, Devlin sat before him, grinning behind his pipe, perched on a rock, blood speckled on his linen shirt, the boots in question similarly dappled.
      'Suppose I want those boots for myself, Patrick? And what else did you gets from that Frog?'
      'If you go back there' - Devlin indicated to the jungle with his pipe - 'you'll find a thimble, a flint and a broken pipe.' With a flourish he pulled out the handkerchief, also covered in blood. 'But you're welcome to this if you want, Peter.'
      Peter Sam leaned towards Devlin's face. 'I wouldn't mind trying those boots, Patrick.'
      Devlin dropped off the rock, his face levelled to Peter Sam's, and he passed a look up and down the brute. Unlike most of the crew, who wore the finest linen and waistcoats, albeit tallow- and pitch-stained, motley as harlequins, Peter Sam wore goat-leather breeches and a leather jerkin. Gracing his chest was a deadly bandoleer of cartouche boxes and generations of pistols holstered with leather straps. He was the image of an old-time 'boucanier.
      'I took these boots off a dead man. You'll have to do the same.' Devlin brushed past and walked to the boat, Peter Sum's eyes at his back.
     
      
      The row back to the Lucy was a quiet one. Thomas Deakins, the young lad whom Peter Sam had led away into the jungle, and never strayed far from, now wore Philippe Ducos's blue tunic.
      Devlin had become accustomed to the closeness of some of the pirate brethren to each other, and when Peter took the arm of Thomas on the island, no one had raised a head. In many ways the closeness was of benefit to a ship. Some of the men worked in pairs like twins, and worked gladly. Every man seemed to be a 'bosun' rather than just a mate, running the shrouds and ratlines as smoothly as painting a wall.
      Despite the drunken nature of their days, there was no job