The Pirate Devlin Read Online Free PDF Page A

such an important position on his quarterdeck.
      Behind him, Devlin could hear the songs of the crew calling in the evening, songs of lubrication and bordellos, the friendly creaking of the boards beneath him and the slow lapping of the sea against the hull. He waited for Toombs to speak.
      'If you knew him, and had any kinship with him, you may go and see him.' Toombs turned. 'But I'm afraid, Pat, he's been blinded by some of the mates.'
      He elaborated that he had wanted Lewis to plot a course to St Nicholas, one of the Verde Islands. The course should be taken away from the coast to avoid patrols, and continue through I he night for added safety, especially as it was only weeks since they had left a burning English frigate near the Straits of Gibraltar. Toombs's own weakness with navigation had required Lewis's skill. Lewis had refused and Toombs had taken him below, in the dark and heat, and forced him onto his knees. A thick, knotted oakum rope, coarse as broken glass, had been put round his head, across his eyes, and twisted over and over, tighter and tighter. Some sweet tongue had christened the act 'the rosary of pain'; most just called it 'wooldling'.
      Usually the victim will have a change of heart as the ears start to rip, the blood starts to run down the neck and the eyes are forced back into the skull. Lewis just screamed on and on, until his eyelids tore and his eyes began to grind against the burning knots. The men had shocked themselves, their torturer's giggles switching to heavy, almost carnal gasps. They let him collapse to the wet, dark deck. Cowering in his own blood. Retching in pain.
      'If you don't want to see him, we'll just shoot him and give him to the sharks. The lads could do with the sport.' He placed his knuckles upon the table. 'Then you can join him, or sail my ship with me.' He looked Devlin up and down with a sway of the head. 'Fine boots by the way there, mate.'
     
        
      Below, Devlin was greeted by the stench of bodies and rotten food fuming in the African heat. He left the final step of the companion, instinctively lowering his head as he walked through the dark.
      Sunlight slatted through from the hatches above, thick dust swimming in its rays. The songs of the men pitched just above the incessant moaning of the ship as Devlin weaved his way past swaying lanterns and piles of stores towards a dark lump sitting slumped against sacks of rice.
      He knelt before Lewis, pushing his dragging sword behind. Lewis was trembling, sobbing. Across his eyes his own bloodstained linen blindfolded his pain. Devlin spoke Lewis's name softly, and the man jerked.
      'Patrick? Is that you, man? Thank the Lord! Have you come to save me?' In the months he had known Alastair Lewis this was the first time he had addressed Devlin as 'man'. It was slightly more reverent than the 'boy' he was used to. He only recalled Lewis barking demands for port and coffees, clean shoes and linen, as Lewis took advantage of his position and knew what Irishmen were for. He pitied Lewis's fate, but only as he might that of a rabid dog.
      Since their capture he had never even glanced at Devlin. Lewis had replaced Coxon's quarterdeck with Toombs's and simply argued slightly more on this one. Devlin wanted to see him, to find out what had been said about him in Lewis's torture.
      He touched Lewis's shoulder. 'No, Mister Lewis, sir. You're too ill to live.'
      Lewis's hand reached out for Devlin and grabbed his arm. 'Surely not, Patrick! My wife! Tell them about my wife!'
      Devlin knew nothing about Lewis's wife. He only knew that Lewis was a navigator appointed by the South Sea Company to attend to their interests in the Noble s escorting of one of their slavers. He removed Lewis's hand.
      'I need to know what you told them about me, sir.'
      'About you?' Lewis turned his head as if listening for other voices. 'What would you have to do with anything, man! Just get me out of here! Help me!'