The Pirate Devlin by Mark Keating

English pennant now, sir?' He took a hold of Devlin. 'Sow the seed, Pat! What we be doing?'
      Devlin came to the edge of the table, map under his arm. He pushed away the litter of mugs and spread the Mercator chart over the table, dragging the mugs back again to fasten down each corner.
      'Pay attention, boys, to the hydrographica tabula.' He sang the words, and enjoyed his audience.
      'Bill?' The black eyes looked dolefully upon him. 'I'll need you to get me seven knots at least, against the wind as we are. We'll have a northwest tack for two hours, then a northeast for one, then back again. That way we should stay away from the coast but still keep to this course.' He pointed on the map with a divider to a course he had mapped.
      'Beating upwind as we are and as weatherly as the Lucy is, the sails are up to you. Close-hauled and no pinching, if you please. I wants and needs no more than seven knots, but I needs them. That should bring us here' - he stabbed with the divider a few points north of St Nicholas - 'by this time in two days, where we can sail downwind and around her eastern cape into Preguica harbour.'
      All looked down at the small clump of islands scattered off the coast of Africa like dice on a table.
      'The Islands of the Blest', the Portuguese had named them. Almost in the middle of the scattering sat their destination: Sao Nicolau. St Nicholas.
      Long and thin, Sao Nicolau was pinched almost in the very middle to less than six miles across, its mountain ranges skirted by small colonies of towns, each one full of winding streets and alleyways lined with a colourful collection of terracotta- roofed dwellings.
      The capital, Ribeira Brava, nestled below the watch of Monte Cordo, the largest mountain on the island, but the governor had made his home south of Preguica, at a far quieter locale on the south coast, which suited the pirates' needs.
      'You're sure you know where we be starting from, then, Patrick?' Peter Sam asked quietly.
      'The latitude I took this morning by God Himself don't lie. But we'll take another at noon today before we leave and I'll show you, Peter.'
      'You can show me!' Bill bellowed.
      'All are welcome, lads.' Devlin smiled as everyone looked upon him with different eyes. 'But there's one thing I have to insist on, boys. That is, if you're not going to shoot me in two days' time when we don't make it else.'
      'What be that now, Patrick?' Toombs asked.
      In answer, Devlin reached beneath the table and slammed down the old sand-timer that Dog-Leg had found for him.
      'I'll need that turned every half-hour. With a bell rung to tell me it's changed, and to tell Bill to change tack.' The officers straightened at the sight of the glass.
      'Without it, I can't check myself, and Bill can't change tack. He can check speed, but I need to check time and distance. I'll make my own traverse board.'
      'I can keep time,' Toombs offered.
      'Not good enough, Captain,' Devlin asserted himself. 'From noon today we're turning this glass.' He looked at Peter Sam. 'I'll not press you to keep a watch. Give me four men, preferably sailors, one of whom will be Sam Fletcher, and I'll sail you within half an hour of St Nicholas.'
      All were silent. Toombs cracked the silence with a laugh and a back-slap to Devlin.
      'By God, sir! That's a threat! You shall have it! Peter, find him his men. King's own each!' He popped a cork as if from nowhere, and drained a draught of wine. 'Through the night, I take it, an' all, sir?'
      'Through the night.'
      'Four men? Almost two days on a watch? By God, sir, the navy missed you!'
      'They never even saw me, Captain. I'll need your men to keep with me through the night, Bill.'
      Bill looked at Devlin like the dog to the hare. 'Don't expect any of 'em to listen to your bells, man. Just shout at 'em to change sails.'
      'I'll do that.'
      'Would you be wanting for anything else, Patrick?' Toombs asked in a low voice. A slow circle of