Free The Pirate Devlin by Mark Keating

arrangement. The brethren's spirit for each other continued to stagger Devlin. Extending the three-draw telescope to the northeast, he scanned the horizon.
      He had not pushed to take a chip log during the night, leaving the sails to read their speed. Before a noon reading, and by dead reckoning, he was hoping to see the island of Brava in his sights. The misty view through the 'bring me closer' rolled up and down, but Devlin saw nothing. He panned himself right, hoping to be late, perhaps, but there was still no shoulder of land. The spyglass was snapped shut with a curse.
      'I'm thinking you won't see Brava, Patrick.' The voice of Black Bill rumbled in his ear.
      Devlin turned to the old mariner. 'Is that right, Bill?'
      'Aye. Oh, she's there. And we're about thirty miles off of her, I reckon. As do you, lad, by your charts.' Devlin had been plotting through the night and Bill had spent a while mulling over his reckoning. 'Me and the boys will take a sounding. I'll lay you a pound of powder it'll be shell at six fathoms.' He pointed over the rails, scowling into the rising sun. 'See that cloud? That's Brava under that. She's a bairn compared to St Nick, but she's there, and you plotted well, Pat.'
      'Well, I thank you, Bill, for being a gentleman.' Devlin smiled.
      'Nay, lad. Never a gentleman.' The big man leaned on the rail, his wiry black beard lifting in the wind as he looked out across the calm sea. Tomorrow night we'll arrive at St Nick. Keep an eye north. There's plenty of black rocks that'll mark our passage. Birds too. Clouds of them. We need a good account, Pat. It's been a bad winter. The lads' songs are full of laments. Yet they run the sails without complaint all night. And turn your glass.' Bill elbowed Devlin as he passed to the companion. 'You're pistol-proof, Patrick Devlin,' he told him. Then added, ominously, 'Just keep arm's-length away from Peter if you can, lad.'
     
       
      That evening the officers stood around a lantern-lit table, mired in each other's smoke. They had dined out on deck with the rest of the crew, on a spiced dish of rice with chicken taken fresh from the small coop next to the mizzen, and washed down with as much small beer as they needed to take away the memory of Dog-Leg's fare. Toombs had called them to discuss the prospects for the following night's adventures.
      'The way I see it, lads, we're coming down here.' He stabbed at the chart on the table with his pipe. 'The bay of St George. Patrick will bring us northwards by early tomorrow evening. Then we sail along the shore and around this cape, windward like, to come to Preguica, here.' He stabbed again at the knuckle of the island. 'As if we'd just sailed off the lap of King George himself. And all hands dressed like common blue sailors. Just a few fishermen and the governor's house are all that's there, and I'll bet a portion that he hasn't more than a handful of men.'
      'But we don't know that, do we, Cap'n?' Will Magnes asked.
      'That's truth talking, so it is, Will, but it don't matter anyhow - we'll be flying the king's colours, remember? And I ain't intending to go ashore and count his men. All we'll be doing is inviting the poor governor for a friendly dinner in the company of his peers!'
      'What if he doesn't want to come over?' Peter Sam queried.
      Toombs inhaled at the question, closing his eyes briefly. 'This island, mate, is a volcanic rock. The Portos have been there nigh on a hundred years and have grown nothing but tired. We show up with news, wine, coffee and tobacco. We'll have to fight the buggers off.' He tossed down his pipe upon the island with a clatter.
      'The governor's probably some nobleman's rapist son hiding out here. His island's naught but a signpost for us civilised squires heading for the Indies.'
      'So who's going to pay ten thousand doubloons for him?' Peter again spoke up.
      'Don't fret about that, Peter. I know these bastards keep that in tin just to pay for