Devlin separated himself by walking down the steps, yelling as he came.
'Get your linen out, lads. I want seven before the first bell!' He landed next to Sam Fletcher, and put his hand to his shoulder. 'Ring that bell every turn, Sam. Like you used to. I'll bring you a drink each time.'
'Aye, Patrick.'
From inside his shirt, Devlin pulled out Lewis's log with pencil attached by pitched string. He wrote down the time and the latitude and walked back into the cabin. Laying the watch down on the table, he looked at the world spread out on the map before him. It seemed smaller than before; he could almost see the Lucy on its face, tearing across the paper. Above his head, the rudder beams yawned across the overhead, signifying Peter setting the wheel. He watched the compass swing to NNW and marked the bearing alongside the latitude. Toombs danced into the room.
'We're on our way, Pat. And you are now on the sweet account for a share and a half, my man.' He grabbed his bottle and drank to their health. 'Every man's on deck or aloft. 'Tis a grand sight.' He slapped the bottle into Devlin's hand.
Then, with a firmer voice, 'I need this one to come off for the good, Patrick. You get me to that island, else you'll find there's a reason why sharks follow my ship, sir.' He winked, and removed himself, barking insults to anyone in his eye as he strode out.
Alone, Devlin drank a mouthful of the sweet red wine.
He glanced over to the piles of papers at the side of the table. Scribbled notes and small coastal maps showing reefs and soundings gathered from raided ships. Some were tied closed with ribbon; others peered out from oilskin wallets.
Devlin reached for a pile and spread it before him. Their detail and sizes differed, as did their language and age, but Devlin paid little attention. He looked up. He was still alone.
Reaching down into his boot, he pulled out the parchment that Philippe Ducos had bequeathed him. For the first time, despite the nights it kept him awake, against his leg like a manacle, he creased it apart and placed his ace amongst the deck.
It showed the map of a long, small island, marked with deadly soundings and jungle all over, indicated by childlike smatterings of trees. Near the centre of the island, drawn in red ink, sat a crude image of a small fort.
In the bottom-right corner sat a fleur-de-lys compass rose; a swift hand had penned a full latitude and longitude trailing along the relevant point.
The longitude was presumably French, an easy calculation from the English. Even without checking, Devlin could see the island being lapped by cool waves south of Cuba. North of the Cayman Islands.
Taking up Lewis's log, he pencilled the figures into its white pages. A bulky shadow fell across his hand as he wrote. He slid his eyes up to see the figure of Peter Sam in the doorway, his arms stretching across the frame, staring straight at him, straight at the table.
Toombs was at the fo'c'sle, looking out to the horizon with a leisurely eye when the shot and the jeers came winging aft from the cabin. He whipped round and ran across the deck to join the crowd already heaving under the lintel. Toombs barged and cursed his way through, his elbows scuffing skulls, his hat some way behind him on the deck.
Breathless, hardly able to see, having come so quickly from the bright deck into the half-light of the cabin, he could just make out Devlin on the floor, sitting with a bloodied mouth, a shattered window behind him. To his right stood Peter Sam, a smoking pistol in his hand, reversed like a club, being held back by Black Bill.
'What in hell is going on here?' Toombs yelled.
'Ask him!' Peter Sam wrestled in Bill's grip. 'The little shite's too clever for his own good!'
'Patrick?' Toombs walked up to the table where the papers lay strewn about. 'Why are shots being fired in my cabin?'
Devlin stood, wiping the blood from his mouth. 'He fired, Captain,
'Get your linen out, lads. I want seven before the first bell!' He landed next to Sam Fletcher, and put his hand to his shoulder. 'Ring that bell every turn, Sam. Like you used to. I'll bring you a drink each time.'
'Aye, Patrick.'
From inside his shirt, Devlin pulled out Lewis's log with pencil attached by pitched string. He wrote down the time and the latitude and walked back into the cabin. Laying the watch down on the table, he looked at the world spread out on the map before him. It seemed smaller than before; he could almost see the Lucy on its face, tearing across the paper. Above his head, the rudder beams yawned across the overhead, signifying Peter setting the wheel. He watched the compass swing to NNW and marked the bearing alongside the latitude. Toombs danced into the room.
'We're on our way, Pat. And you are now on the sweet account for a share and a half, my man.' He grabbed his bottle and drank to their health. 'Every man's on deck or aloft. 'Tis a grand sight.' He slapped the bottle into Devlin's hand.
Then, with a firmer voice, 'I need this one to come off for the good, Patrick. You get me to that island, else you'll find there's a reason why sharks follow my ship, sir.' He winked, and removed himself, barking insults to anyone in his eye as he strode out.
Alone, Devlin drank a mouthful of the sweet red wine.
He glanced over to the piles of papers at the side of the table. Scribbled notes and small coastal maps showing reefs and soundings gathered from raided ships. Some were tied closed with ribbon; others peered out from oilskin wallets.
Devlin reached for a pile and spread it before him. Their detail and sizes differed, as did their language and age, but Devlin paid little attention. He looked up. He was still alone.
Reaching down into his boot, he pulled out the parchment that Philippe Ducos had bequeathed him. For the first time, despite the nights it kept him awake, against his leg like a manacle, he creased it apart and placed his ace amongst the deck.
It showed the map of a long, small island, marked with deadly soundings and jungle all over, indicated by childlike smatterings of trees. Near the centre of the island, drawn in red ink, sat a crude image of a small fort.
In the bottom-right corner sat a fleur-de-lys compass rose; a swift hand had penned a full latitude and longitude trailing along the relevant point.
The longitude was presumably French, an easy calculation from the English. Even without checking, Devlin could see the island being lapped by cool waves south of Cuba. North of the Cayman Islands.
Taking up Lewis's log, he pencilled the figures into its white pages. A bulky shadow fell across his hand as he wrote. He slid his eyes up to see the figure of Peter Sam in the doorway, his arms stretching across the frame, staring straight at him, straight at the table.
Toombs was at the fo'c'sle, looking out to the horizon with a leisurely eye when the shot and the jeers came winging aft from the cabin. He whipped round and ran across the deck to join the crowd already heaving under the lintel. Toombs barged and cursed his way through, his elbows scuffing skulls, his hat some way behind him on the deck.
Breathless, hardly able to see, having come so quickly from the bright deck into the half-light of the cabin, he could just make out Devlin on the floor, sitting with a bloodied mouth, a shattered window behind him. To his right stood Peter Sam, a smoking pistol in his hand, reversed like a club, being held back by Black Bill.
'What in hell is going on here?' Toombs yelled.
'Ask him!' Peter Sam wrestled in Bill's grip. 'The little shite's too clever for his own good!'
'Patrick?' Toombs walked up to the table where the papers lay strewn about. 'Why are shots being fired in my cabin?'
Devlin stood, wiping the blood from his mouth. 'He fired, Captain,
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