Free The Pirate Devlin by Mark Keating Page B

Twelve days, maybe fourteen, he would be back in England, standing before a table of wigs, ribbons and engorged faces.
      As a fighting man, they would punish him by sending him out to the Caribbean to quell the tide of cut-throats that had swelled since the Peace of Utrecht and the Spanish raids on the colonies of English woodcutters along the Brazilian coast, clawing back what the war had cost them, had pushed hundreds of rovers upon the sea.
      That would suit. That would do. Just to get back to the sea. To find the man who deemed himself worthy to attack his ship. To lash the man against his own mast before setting him ablaze and tossing him into the sea.
      You could not hang these men. Each time you brought one back to Execution Dock, five more were inspired to take his place. Do not show them off for their crimes, wasting time on trials and hangmen. Whittle them down. Just let them disappear like winds, their voices never heard.
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Chapter Four
     
      'It's time, Peter.' Toombs gripped the quartermaster's shoulder.
      Peter Sam responded, shaking Toombs's forearm. Six men sat below in the boat, its single mast lowered, all men at the oars. It was early evening now. That afternoon the windward island of St Nicholas seemed as if she was powering towards them across the water, her great black volcanic peaks standing directly on the narrow rocky shore.
      Each man armed with a musket, two pistols apiece, and with Peter Sam in charge of a special assortment of grenadoes, all safely stowed beneath the sheets of the longboat, they began the slow trawl to shore.
      An hour's sail brought the sun falling behind the cracked, speckled hills as the Lucy rounded the eastern bay, Sao Jorge, her pennant flying the colours of the Union Flag and only a handful of widows' sons on deck.
      'Hello?' Toombs raised the spyglass. 'There's something there that the Lord hadn't considered.'
      Devlin and Black Bill were by his side at the fo'c'sle. Devlin shielded his eyes with his palm as he looked out.
      Across the bay from them, a mile away, sat a black and red frigate facing south, out to sea. Toombs, through the glass, laid odds that she was nigh on a hundred feet long. Devlin watched Toombs's mouth counting. 'Twenty guns and a couple aft and fore, no doubt. No less than nine-pounders, I reckon. What say you, Bill?'
      'Could be, could be.' Bill leaned on the rail. 'We could be generous, Cap'n, and give them five to a gun. Maybe another thirty more for hands.'
      Toombs lowered the shargreen and vellum tube. 'Outgunned for sure. Best keep on his good side. That's a Porto pennant she's flying. Keep that merchant jack up high, Bill.'
      Devlin took in the dark sight. At least a hundred feet long for sure, with a jutting rostrum and short, high bowsprit. The gun ports were painted blood red; everything else on the freeboard was black, up to the gunwale, with all three masts rigged to the gallants, her grey sails furled. She was a forbidding sight.
      'That's far enough, Cap'n, they've seen us now.' Bill straightened up. He moved to the deck and prepared to haul sail, lower the anchor. Toombs and Devlin moved across to starboard in silence.
      Toombs raised the telescope again, but found it near useless in the shrinking light and joined Devlin in straining to see any life in Preguica port. They could just make out the smattering of fishing huts. Even at this distance the smell of smoked fish and pork came drifting in on the wind.
      A small wooden jetty poked out into the harbour, the whole of which was necklaced by a low redoubtable stone wall. They could imagine rows of soldiers with cannon elevated over the edge, laughing at them, as the six-pound balls from the Lucy died hopelessly on the beach.
      The shouts of men hauling away broke them from their thoughts. Minutes later the rattle of the anchor confirmed their position. They settled south of the bay. The soundings had marked this the surest bed, albeit with quite a