The Pirate Devlin Read Online Free PDF

Devlin's concern was that Lewis knew he could speak French. He had lived for two years in St Malo before rolling into the Marine Royale, and happy they were to enlist an Irishman to hamper the English. He was only a couple of months in service before Coxon had captured their sloop of war.
      As a prisoner, Devlin stepped forward to negotiate between Coxon and the French officers, thinking only of his belly and dislike for chains. Coxon had found an Irishman in the French navy amusing, keeping him as his servant rather than imprisoning him with the rest.
      That had been four long years ago, the end of the war, and Coxon had never tired of showing off his Irish Frenchman.
      If this were known, if the thought had rattled around inside the most sodden brain that some word had passed between Devlin and the Frenchman, either aboard the Lucy or on the loneliness of the island, he was sure he would be standing in his own blood. No secrets on a ship. And dead men do not lie.
      It clearly gnawed at Toombs that the ten French marines, without officers, had fought like tigers to protect nothing but a couple of hogsheads of stale water and rancid pork. They had met their deaths for that rat food, all but one, and he could only speak his own damned tongue.
      They had gathered slowly from him, if not painfully, that the sloop was voyaging to the island for the marooned pig to gain stores, hence their empty hold. Toombs had decided to fulfil this plan, as fresh meat was always welcome. Now, with the promise of pork exposed as a lie, Toombs would be wondering again why the sloop sailed empty, with only ten common sailors on board.
      Devlin's shoulders appeared from below and he looked above at the spreading purple sky. He saw Toombs and Peter Sam at the taffrail with a pipe and a mug each, as idle as any gentleman on his country-house balcony.
      Toombs saw Devlin approach and tipped his hat back. Peter Sam turned his head to follow Toombs's gaze and immediately stepped towards Devlin to block him as he came up the length of the short stair.
      'Where do you think you're stepping, man?'
      Devlin pulled himself to the top of the rail, one foot on the deck, staring straight into Peter Sam's black eyes.
      'He's our new "artist",' Toombs yelled. 'Ain't you, Patrick?'
      Devlin pushed past Peter without a glance and walked to the rail, standing next to Toombs and looking out to mighty Africa.
      'Aye, Captain. If you'll have me.'
      'Why was I not told of this?' Peter Sam's broad form squared up to the two of them.
      Toombs slammed his fist on the rail, almost smashing his pipe in his hand. 'How dare you question me, sir! I needs an artist, and Patrick knows the art well enough to remove the burden from you or I!'
      'You don't know that, Captain. He's just some lickerish ponce's waister!' Peter spat. Devlin said nothing and began I he routine of filling his own pipe.
      'Then he shall have the moment to prove it, Peter. You can summon the men for me, if it's not too much of a trouble for you, mate.'
      Peter ground his jaw and spun round to face the drunken brethren beneath. 'Pay attention, you dogs!' he bellowed.
      The heads turned and stopped their singing and gaming. An air of wariness spread around in whispers. 'The captain will address you, lads, so pipes down!'
      Toombs snapped his coat, tugged the front cock of his hat down and winked at Devlin as he approached the audience looking up at him from the waist of the ship, his mug held high in his left hand.
      'Lads! I have good news!' He spread his arms, looked kindly Into the faces he liked. 'I know I promised you that English frigate, but that young quim burned it beneath our feet!' A rousing cheer, raised mugs and laughter.
      'And our gentleman artist from the lordly South Sea Company has been most "blinded" to our cause!' The men choked on their drink at this one. 'But our newly acquired Patrick Devlin, from the same frigate, the servant you recall