Hunt for White Gold

Chapter Nine





By the time four bells rang out for the fourth time Coxon was crouched with Rogers in the Milford’s longboat. Ten sailors sat at the oars, their backs to the island, their eyes to the cutlasses lying at their feet. Two young lieutenants sat side by side at the tiller, eyes sharp to the beach pulling ever closer and their fifty-guinea swords clamped between their knees.

Coxon looked over to the other boat drawing slightly ahead of them, crammed with scarlet men whose muskets pointed skyward like a dozen masts. He examined Rogers’ granite face. His governor’s chin was held high. His eyes were fixed on the crowd gathering on the beach.

Coxon pulled his pistol from his belt. He checked the screws with his thumbnail and the tightness of the leather-wrapped flint. He tipped the pistol down sharply to satisfy himself that the patch was loaded and packed well. Coxon regretted not polishing the brass plate or waxing the whole and stuffed the gun through his belt on his left hip to prevent the lock digging into his side. He sniffed, raising his head to assess the size of the assembly shuffling down to the beach, now less than a hundred yards away.

Coxon looked to his right, past proud Rogers’ puffed-out chest, to the third boat crawling its way to shore. Six hands sat huddled in the jolly boat, rolling their backs with the oars, trying not to disturb the three main pieces of the gibbet lying amongst them in case its bad luck should afflict them. A box of bolts rested between the sheets, wrapped in coils of hemp rope.

They were into the last of the murky breakers now. Rogers said nothing. He wiped neither the spittle from the side of his ragged lip nor the streaks of sweat seeping from beneath his wig. He simply held his head high as he took in the band of three hundred souls that had come to meet him. Three hundred armed pirates.

They formed a colourful and undulating line, an assortment of unshaven figures glittering with sheathed weapons and among them a motley selection of fine fashions as well as filthy coats and hats. Unkempt hair tumbled down their faces like straw or was restrained in head-scarves. They would be pitiful were it not for their wealth of warlike steel. A large proportion was arrayed as tattered gentlemen above but with no shoes or boots on their black feet.

Two men stood separately, in advance of the line, whose clothes appeared recently brushed and crossbelts newly polished. Their hair looked wet from some swift attempt at cleanliness.

Coxon guessed one would be Benjamin Hornigold. And the other? Maybe Burgess or Barrows. Jennings? Was he still alive? News travelled so slowly, but no matter. It was just some illiterate who fancied himself Governor of his own kingdom. Some drunken footpad that had eaten his last breakfast.

The company leapt from the boats, shattering in the breakers the tension of the sombre row to shore. Then there was the slight awkwardness of Rogers and Coxon being carried to the beach on planks as if they were boy kings.

Coxon was at first grateful to feel the sand under his boots after a month at sea, only to realise that he now stood before a crowd of heavily armed reprobates who, without question, despise his very bones.

His head swayed as the steady ground beneath his feet felt like it was falling away. He focused on the crowd, to pass off the sensation.

Coxon’s eyes met those of any that dared to stare him down, and then he moved to join the troops to his left, a quarter of the mob stepping further back as he did so.

Rogers looked hard into the face of Hornigold. They stood fewer than than ten yards apart but an abyss yawned between them.

Benjamin Hornigold gracefully raised his left arm and swept off his limp black hat as he bowed. The swift movement alarmed the soldiers and their muskets rattled along with their nerves.

Hornigold held up his hat, turning to the crowd. ‘Three cheers for Governor Rogers, lads!’ he cried. ‘And for good King George come to save us!’

Rogers blinked once as a primeval roar erupted, accompanied by the intense staccato of hundreds of pistols and muskets going off, which drowned out the second and third cheers – cheers that would have made even the Palace of Westminster tremble to her rafters if she had seen the throats from which they came.

The marines’ fingers twitched in their trigger guards as the volley carried on and on above their heads. The young lieutenants resisted closing their hands over their ears and instead smiled nervously, watching Rogers’ straight, steady back.


A light breeze dispersed the dense cloud of cordite over the camber of the beach to redden and water the eyes of the visitors, then sent the echo of the tirade over the bay to the deck of the Milford.

The midshipmen stood with the crew, almost biting the gunwales in anticipation. The weapons lockers had been flung open and shot garlands brought onto deck. Just in case.

A tar with bold black sideburns but a shiny red bald pate nudged Seth Toombs.

Seth seemed even more mesmerised than most by the events taking place on the distant shore. During the morning watch he had spent the time pointing out any ship in the pirate bay that he had a recollection of to anyone who would listen. Seth had grown ever more eloquent below deck over the past few days.

The men had come to hang on his nightly tales. It only took an extra wet from a cup to make his eyes turn wistful and bring out the stories. By the strum of a Spanish guitar and the mellow amber of the lanterns Seth regaled them with legends of a darker life, never quite admitting which episodes involved him.

Most of the crew eagerly awaited details about food, the endless rivers of drink, the rustle of a virgin’s petticoats. They dreamed of the African beasts with armour plate and necks taller than the mizzen, of the tribes with no heads but faces in their chests and of the sweet taste of crocodile that could send you mad for human flesh.

The sweet trade. Going on the account. Terms describing the life were given with a wink. And Seth, without a word about himself, had become an authority on the pirate way.

Now the seamen flocked to him, keeping him in the centre of a circle, as if by his closeness he could protect them if the day went the other way.

He looked down at the man who had elbowed him and cocked his head. ‘Aye, Tom?’

‘What goes on, Seth? The firing and all?’

Seth’s wound made of any grin a painful grimace but he had learnt to bear it. ‘Oh don’t you be worrying about that, Tom,’ he nudged him back. ‘That just means we should be all a-visiting those there tents along the beach tonight. If you’re lucky there may be some of that Chinese I be telling you about,’ he winked.

Tom looked harder toward the shore and the soft dreamy look on his face quickly changed to one of tighter, lustful concentration.

One of the young midshipmen glanced over disapprovingly, and Toombs knuckled his forehead and took a step back. The midshipman turned back to the shore. Toombs turned to his entourage and raised his eyes to heaven with a kiss of his lips, drawing smirks from his followers. Then he too looked back to the shore, his eyes narrower. His time was coming and his thoughts tumbled back to that night. The night in the Verdes, on Sao Nicolau, where Seth, Captain Seth Toombs no less, had been betrayed by the man he had made his trusted sea-artist. The night he had been left for dead by Patrick Devlin, left to suffer the vengeance of Valentim Mendes alone.

He stroked his cold ugly wound. His time was coming.


The way Rogers sucked in his scarred left cheek brought a cynical smirk to his leathery face. The rounds of shooting had died away, and in the silence he stepped forward against Hornigold so that it was now too close for either man to draw steel. Likewise their pistol barrels would clap together if pulled. Rogers could smell wood-smoke in every fibre of Hornigold’s clothes.

‘Benjamin Hornigold,’ Rogers raised his voice for the crowd and withheld the ‘Captain’ from his address. ‘I come to deliver the Proclamation granted by King George. The Proclamation sent forth last September to these very shores. I am delivering it in person. By order of His Majesty.’

He moved his eyes along the line at every word, looking for movement, waiting for some foul exclamation. None was uttered.

Last year the Proclamation came in on a sloop and the trembling captain that delivered it had been erased from the earth. The sloop’s timbers kept many a ‘boucan’ burning through a lively night.

This time the inhabitants of Providence looked upon five men-of-war stretching out over miles to the south of them. The furthest one, the forty-gun Delicia, was just a shimmering grey ghost. Whole forests of wood, hundreds of miles of sail and thousands of pounds of iron. All were ranged against them.

Hornigold held out his hand, expecting to receive the Proclamation, then lowered it to rest on his belt when Rogers looked at his hand in disgust.

‘Is Jennings still abroad here?’ Rogers asked.

Hornigold thought for a moment, touching his lips softly. ‘No, Governor. I’m afraid he not be amongst us at present. On account of him volunteering himself to the Governor of Bermuda. To take the Proclamation in your absence. So to say, Governor.’

‘Very well.’ Rogers cast a raised brow to the dark rover standing at Hornigold’s shoulder. ‘Who be this? Will he second you?’

Hornigold looked back to the young man in black and grey with a sharp black tricorne tight on his head. ‘This be Thomas Burgess. He will count in my stead, Governor, aye. And follow my hand, Governor.’ Hornigold had determined to repeat the word ‘governor’ as much as possible, in order to remove the idea from his own ambition.

‘Good,’ Rogers looked away from the pair. ‘I take it,’ he spoke louder, for all to hear, ‘that you, stood here now, will take the Proclamation. And its promises. For law. And that you will accept myself and my garrison as representatives of the King. So say you all?’

Hornigold’s eyes widened. ‘Aye.’ It was the promises that he wanted to hear. He had scratched his head with the rest of them when they had convened a council to discuss their options. It all hung on the promises. He bit on his thumbnail, waiting for Rogers’ next words. Then a man stepped out of the line.

‘No!’ came his cry. ‘Not, aye!’ The bony form launched a bottle upwards that arced through the air to thud into the sand by Rogers’ buckled shoes. Rogers never moved. Hornigold’s nail flicked on his teeth at the transgression. Before he could channel his fury the rebel continued his tirade.

‘Who is he who comes amongst us? What have I done to bow to him? Bow to his King? His King. Not mine. Not mine!’ Half turning, he pleaded with open arms to his fellows. ‘Not yours, lads!’

‘Silence, you dog!’ Hornigold bellowed. ‘Back in line!’ He moved closer to Rogers, confirming his allegiance. The soldier’s muskets rattled some more. Coxon rested his hand on the butt of his pistol.

‘What?’ the pirate sauntered away from the crowd. ‘Are we all to speak bloody German now, eh? Is that to be the manner of it? I say we should have gone with Teach and Vane. We’ll take the whole bloody Americas so we should! Stuff that paper up this ponce’s arse!’

Rogers shifted away from Hornigold. His sword scraped out of its sheath and flashed blindingly in the sun. The pirate span round at the metallic sound. He was drunk and was surprised to see a gentleman act so bold. But Rogers only wore the clothes of a gentleman. He had almost itched for such a moment to present itself, so that he could make a point.

‘Marines!’ he called behind him. He raised his left hand to the drunken pirate. Pointed his sword down to touch the sand. ‘Hang that man and the seven nearest to him. By my order. Raise that gibbet!’

Hornigold quaked more than most at the finality of the statement, but not more than the rapidly counting pirates standing behind their bemused brother, challenging each other as to where seven ended and eight began. The matter was quickly settled by the spade-like hands of the marines who dragged them out of the line.

Coxon stiffened at the flight of the marines from his side, but left his weapons be.

This will tell it, he thought. Spent their shot. But enough steel to pound us to flour. This will be the hour it goes up. Rogers had inspected each noose himself that morning. Coxon wondered how it would have happened if the pirate had not tripped out of the line. He felt his heart thump against his ribs as he watched the crowd.

The condemned and struggling eight, wrapped with scarlet arms and hidden by scarlet backs, pleaded to Hornigold as they were dragged to the shoreline. The sailors were clumsily trying to make sense of the three parts of the gibbet they had rapidly pulled from the boat. Each piece twice as tall as them.

Hornigold felt the eyes of the crowd on him. He looked to Burgess, whose hand had already strayed to the hilt of his cutlass, and who was waiting for a sign from his hallowed pirate lord. Hornigold was their protector, a privateer captain of the war, like Jennings, who had left them. But Hornigold had stayed. Hornigold was for them. Bad enough they had all agreed to surrender, to take the pardon, but to be hanged for it?

The frame of the gibbet had already been laid flat on the sand and now the rattling of bolts and tools filled Hornigold’s hearing. Before he realised it he had laid a hand on Rogers’ shoulder and pulled him round face to face.

‘This is wrong, Governor. I cannot see the good of it.’ He tried to contain his temper and make his anger sound like reason. ‘I cannot allow it.’

Rogers shrugged the hand from his coat and examined the fawn shoulder as if it had been stained. He left his sword-point where it was, touching the sand. ‘You cannot allow what, Captain Hornigold?’ He disdained the title but acknowledged the local standing of the man confronting him. ‘Justice? Order? What do you propose to deny your King?’

Hornigold swallowed. He opened his hands. ‘This. Hanging of these men for some drunken slurs. We wish only peace.’

‘Good,’ Rogers said. ‘We are agreed. I too wish only peace. The difference between us is that I am well aware of how to ensure it, Captain.’ He touched the arm of Hornigold’s coat almost tenderly. ‘And mark me, Ben, you will do well as a privateer in my service. I have come here for profit. Backed by wealth in London. I will remember your help to them all.’

Hornigold raised his eyebrows. He now found the banging of hammers on the shore merely irritating. He swallowed once more and wiped the sweat from his lip.

‘I only wish peace, Governor. Whatever else comes … well, I won’t suppose to consider. Let me address them all, Governor. It will be better coming from me.’

‘Of course, Captain. Whatever you wish to deliver I will grant.’ He stepped back and ran his sword home into its scabbard in one swift move, just as his silhouette was framed by the raising of the gibbet behind him.

It was a simple gallows, an oblong frame of fresh oak nine feet high and not enough of a drop to snap a man’s neck. Kicking away the barrel the condemned man stood on would only ensure a choking, swinging dance. Men shivered at the slow hammering into place of the gallows’ feet in the sand and the whores tied up the mouths of their tents and crossed themselves within.

Hornigold turned away from the sight, from the struggling of the eight men having their wrists and feet tied.

He lifted his arms to his brethren, stepping along the sand in front of the line that had slowly begun to form into a huddle. Crews gathered and looked to their individual captains and quartermasters.

Burgess remained still, his eyes on Rogers, his left hand caressing the hilt of his sword. He had not fired a shot. Three pistols rested snugly at his waist. He would stand firm behind Hornigold but only up to a point. His sloop remained crewed and ready, awaiting nightfall. He had long given up on the word of gentlemen and the imminent hangings confirmed his distrust. As much as he approved being recognised and pardoned, and sailing legitimately under letters of marque, he knew the beatings and privations allotted by society to those of his birth. His guns would abide, aye. To a point.

‘Brothers!’ Hornigold cried. ‘We should not let those who choose to sow discord amongst us sully our decision finally to grow into the community we have longed for. For years we have wandered, seeking our own liberty on the seas. Justly our King has seen to know us as kin. To grant us boons beyond our grasp. To form his colonies for him!’ He began to appeal to the captains, who had separated from the crowd and were waving down the protests of their crews, to listen.

‘You, Martel.’ Hornigold pointed to a fat greasy fellow in ancient coat and black wig. ‘Did you not dream of “Libertalia”? The fabled land promised to all of us by Captain Avery? And you, Captain Fife. Would you not allow your King to show you gratitude for the years you’ve spent slicing the Spanish dog?’

Fife shrugged and listened on. Hornigold spied the tall form of Oliver La Bouche, singled him out with gusto.

‘And Captain La Bouche. Can it not be of worth to have your slate wiped clean? To be a captain in service to a new kingdom?’

La Bouche ran a dark finger along his moustache. His eyes told Hornigold to move on. La Bouche had fed men their own lips and it was rumoured he had acquired a taste for the ‘long pork’ after being lost at sea for months. His eyes still bulged from weeks of thirst several months previously. He always said little and was uncommonly still. Hornigold looked away and continued with his speech.

‘Would we not all benefit from this day? I tell you, brothers, this is the day we have dreamt of!’

His words were punctuated by the slap of the noose being cast over the bar of the gallows.

‘Aye,’ a voice rang out. ‘This is the day I dreamt of, Ben!’

Hornigold threw a glance at the gallows, then turned to hand over to Rogers. He dipped a weak bow to the governor who nodded in recognition of a job fairly attempted.

‘Captain Hornigold speaks the truth, gentlemen,’ he announced. He strode to the centre of the beach.

‘Return to the town. We have hundreds of colonists who will help you in your new lives. Your King recognises your loyalty. I have a garrison of soldiers to guarantee your protection and social order. Each of you will be granted an acre of fertile land and a year to build a home for yourselves. Leave now.’ He paused to look along the line of shaggy men. ‘This act of justice will continue in your absence in respect of your allegiance to one another.’

He looked to Hornigold to carry out his wishes, and the pirate captain began to usher his own men to rally the crowd, which duly turned its back to the eight pale-faced men who contemplated the noose swinging lazily before them. Their names had already been forgotten by their brethren.

John Coxon had taken fifteen steps up the beach, leaving behind the gallows and the rest of the marines. As Hornigold and then Rogers had spoken, he had begun to move along the line looking for a familiar face, but had found none.

Hornigold’s speech wafted insipidly to his ears as he walked down the line, hands clasped behind his back, his weapons proudly apparent. The pirates all watched him. They recognised something in the worn shoulders of his coat, the cracked leather of his belt and the salt stains on his hat. Something about him was different from the shiny lieutenants and even the gentlemanly, noble look of Rogers. This was a hunter. A seaman. An enemy. He looked into their eyes and spoke to them individually.

‘Devlin,’ he asked them. ‘Patrick Devlin. Who knows him? Where is his ship? The Shadow?’ He walked slowly. He varied his questions with each face, and received nothing but looks of hatred in return. ‘A black- and red-painted frigate. Who knows it?’

Some spat on the ground. Others looked past him and laughed. The crowd began to shuffle away back to their townships, turning their hides to him.

Rogers appeared beside him. ‘John,’ he said, ‘I want you to remove those whores from the beach. Get them to gather their tents and return to the towns. Take five marines and make it so.’ He looked to the gibbet. ‘I will stay and carry out my duty.’

Coxon nodded. ‘Aye, Sir.’ He began to move but was stayed by Rogers.

‘And John,’ Rogers’ face lightened affectionately, ‘I heard you. Don’t be too bothered about Devlin.’

Coxon blinked at the mild words. He sniffed and ducked from Rogers’ eyes. He moved further away and looked at his feet rather than the tents along the crest. He had gone five paces when a small voice stopped him.

‘Señor?’

Coxon looked up at the young brown face and blue eyes of the man summoning him. He appeared to be under twenty and wore loose cotton cloth and linen without a hat or shoes. His shirt was open to the chest, revealing a taut skeletal frame.

‘Capitao?’ he continued and put up his hand. He did not know Coxon but he had been one of the original sailors of the Shadow when it had been taken, along with his hand, from Valentim Mendes, Portuguese governor of Sao Nicolau, of the Verdes. The young man had been there when Devlin’s story had begun.

He had decided, after watching the gallows go up, that he should make any attempt he could to gain favour with the new administration in the interests of his own neck. He grinned wildly at Coxon.

‘I know pirata Devlin, Capitao. Si. I know of where he has gone. Where he is. Si, Capitao.’ His smile broadened at Coxon’s interest. ‘I can take you to a woman who knows more, Señor.’

Coxon grabbed the startled young man and heaved him, legs flailing, up the beach. It was perhaps not the reward the Portuguese was expecting.

‘Take me to her,’ Coxon demanded hoarsely, his heart beating violently as he struggled to carry the man, sand flying from his feet.