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fall.
    The green almost disappeared as dozens of shining black men filled the close garden. Peter Sam stood next to Devlin, both loaded, weapons downward to appease. A swift black muscular arm picked up the sea-cow strap and Cracker tried to wriggle closer to the pirates, leaving his blood like a slug’s trail.
    A scuffle broke out between the black men over the strap, their excited voices arguing in their rapid tongue, a firing of vowels, unintelligible surely even to them. Hands pointed to Devlin while others shook their heads and slapped their arms at Cracker, even their feet stamping out their passions, their chains rattling the while.
    ‘ Devlin ?’ Peter Sam said again. Never any fear in Peter Sam, his dog-head tight until his captain gave word. Devlin said nothing, hoped that what he saw, what he read of it was just a to and fro of blame and vengeance.
    They would have seen Cracker on his knees, seen his blood, have heard Devlin shoot him, known that it was the big man that had broken their gaol. But when these people painted the Devil they painted him white. Best not think about that. But Cracker did, could see the argument not falling in his favour as a circle began to form around him and backs began to turn toward Devlin and Peter Sam.
    Cracker’s last chance, his only chance: the man who had shot his feet from under him.
    ‘ Cap’n !’ he called between the bodies surrounding him. ‘Cap’n! I has something for you! Something to tell! Listen to me!’
    Devlin did not move but watched Cracker’s face creep and plead.
    ‘ Please , Cap’n! I can makes you rich ! Rich I says!’
    The African voices had ceased their gibbering. Cracker watched the strap pulled tight in the arms of the largest of them, the face vacant.
    A shot over their heads and the crowd jumped back. More nervous chatter, all eyes to Devlin as through the smoke he pulled his second pistol and Peter Sam’s cannon marked them all.
    ‘How rich?’ Devlin kept his pistol on Cracker’s face.

Chapter Three

     
    Walsingham House, London
     
    Walter Kennedy sat nervously. The oak bench ran almost the length of the wall but he squeezed next to Coxon like a boy to his mother in the hours before she sold him to the sea. Coxon had been here many times, here and Whitehall. In 1717 with the Earl of Berkeley – the First Lord of the Admiralty, as he was still, Coxon had taken orders at sea signed by these men. That was when Captain William Guinneys’ orders had differed from Coxon’s in the taking of the gold from The Island – when he and Devlin had first crossed as enemies instead of master and servant. Coxon was not destined to return according to Guinneys’ papers. He had faced the oak table and wigs with his account of the tale; denied any knowledge of Guinneys’ orders. Now he was meeting the same signatories of new orders.
    He had once sworn to be loyal to these men all his life, but then he had even trusted an Irishman once.
    The doors opposite opened and a scarlet-clad steward beckoned them up. Coxon dragged Kennedy to his feet.
    They had summoned Coxon this time, so different from the years after the war when young captains hovered around Walsingham House like hopeful bridesmaids. Masters and commanders had sought patronage, pleaded for prize money long unpaid or begged for a ship to keep ahead of their creditors on land. Still, those had been the best years. Not this mirror of life, this uncertainty. No war. No need for warriors.
    He unclasped his sword from his belt, took off his hat and laid both in the valet’s waiting arms, then took his hat back as he was sure he should and the valet did not correct. He signalled to Kennedy to follow, habitually smoothed forward his rabbit-grey cropped hair and walked into the room. His own anxiety was perhaps not too many degrees below the pirate’s.
    The steward dipped his head to the table.
    ‘Post-Captain John Coxon, My Lords.’
    A cursory glance up from the ink wells and ledgers from two