Hunt for White Gold

Chapter Sixteen





Valentim Mendes, Madagascar




Six weeks had passed since the Shadow left. There had been no hint of Peter Sam. Not a footprint. Not a glimpse. Devlin’s remaining crew had given up the chase and waited for their brethren to return, convinced of the notion that Peter Sam had indeed been carried from the island and it would be their captain that would find him.

The ten left to scour for their quartermaster had pooled their coin, Will Magnes acting as purser, but six weeks of tavern living had still taken their toll on their silver in addition to their spirit and morale, for gambling and whoring were the black trades of Madagascar.

After a fortnight, six had sold their pistols and drunk an anker of brandy between them. By the month’s end four were living and pimping with young women they had fallen for, bouncing someone else’s nipper on their knees and teaching them songs perfectly inclined to the understanding of their mothers’ trade.

Three others had sailed, desperate and worn by the heat. Madagascar had, almost within a week of their captain’s departure, become swollen with pirates all telling the same terrible tale. Providence had fallen, reclaimed by the King. The last friendly port in the Caribbee was no more. Now the Americas, the crooked inlets and the swamps, or the East Indies and her belly of wealth waiting to be pierced would be their ports. Devlin’s men had sailed with Captain England, late of Providence, and paid Devlin no more mind.

Of the others, one had been shot dead, not for want of speed or due to drunken sloth, but the failure of his ‘snap’ – the diligence to check the effectiveness of his flint, which was forgotten with the fat living he’d had on Madagascar.

Only Andrew Morris and Will Magnes remained. They shared a room in one of the Dutch taverns in St Augustine. Their loyalty had come from their brotherhood. They had been true mates ever since the Lucy, Magnes had taken young Andrew Morris under his wing. Magnes, now in his late forties, was old for a pirate and Morris made good kin for an old man’s hands.

The ‘mate’ for a pirate was as close to a partnership as he might ever come. A man to eat with, to share with, to reload for, to fight alongside watching the back of the other.

The most successful ships of the sweet life generated crews of such men. Hence, Magnes and Morris hung together awaiting their captain’s return.

Late noon found Morris creaking out of the inn to stretch and welcome the day. He stood beneath the sailcloth awning that shaded the old men lounging on the porch and began to sweep his eye over the masts languishing in the bay, seeking a familiar shape.

The streets were already crowded with traders at their stalls, teeming with new lumbering sailors trudging up the hill, keeping their heads low and their histories lower. Madagascar was the cornerstone of the edge of the world and wandering mariners were drawn to it like a shrine.

Morris scratched his beard and clumped down the steps of the porch to watch the local folk at their best. He had abandoned his waistcoat for a loose shirt and breeches. He wore no stockings, just straw shoes and a straw hat, his headscarf tied limply around his neck for the wiping of sweat.

He had a dagger tucked behind him and a freshly beeswaxed pistol – a foot-long French arm – boldly sticking out of his belt front and shining like a diamond necklace on a pig. A pirate might have black feet, lice on his head and groin and fingernails like a dog’s claws but you could mark him by the sharpness and shine of his weapons.

His attention was snagged by the approach of a cedar-wood sedan chair struggling up the slope of the street. Such an emblem of wealth was unusual in St Augustine and the sight drew urchins like ants to sugar. Whoever sat behind the closed purple curtains of the carriage was doing little to dissuade the small brown hands from poking through as the bearers trudged along.

Morris found pleasure in the scene. A rich ponce had no smarts if he entered a poor town in such manner.

His face dropped however when the chair’s progress was halted by the growing crowd of children and the front curtain was swept aside as the passenger leant forward to encourage his bearers with the prodding of his cane.

Morris had seen that snarling face before and recalled the black shoulder length hair almost blue in the white sunlight. Then the face was gone, sunk back behind the velvet curtain, and the sedan plodded on.

Morris stepped forward, dreamlike in remembrance, unsure of his recollection. He watched the back of the chair as if he expected the occupant to lean out and wave back at him and found himself perplexed as he struggled to curl his tongue around a name just out of memory’s reach. Then it came back to him.

‘That’s Valentim Mendes,’ he mouthed as if waiting for applause. ‘That’s the man we took the Shadow from. He ain’t dead.’

Peter Sam, Valentim, Devlin – and Andrew Morris – had been there that night. Had taken the Shadow with Devlin and Peter. Killed, with Devlin and Peter.

Perhaps unwisely, with hindsight, the Devil’s own view of the world, he chased after the sedan, weaving amongst what little shadow the parched street provided, leaving Will Magnes sleeping in his bed.

After half an hour the town shrank into the distance leaving only the chirrups and howls of the forest. Morris swapped barrels and doorways for trunks and ferns as he crept behind the sedan unnoticed. He repeated in his head that he had his cartouche of fifteen cartridges for his fine pistol and a dagger and a belly full of breakfast timber to see him home.

He was not so stupid as to connect so large a world with what little coincidence the Lord provided. Yet this meant something, and he knew it would mean nothing to no-one if he was seen.

The sedan chair stopped at the baying of a black horse hushed with a pat on its jowls by a giant of a man who almost dwarfed the animal. Morris could see, even beneath the shadow of the large straw brim of the giant’s hat, a horn of a nose shining red like a five shilling ham drying in the sun.

He saw the back of Mendes, a purple doublet plumed by his black hair, climb carefully from the chair and confer with the giant. His hair appeared temporarily like a ridiculous beard for the giant as he stood before him. Then Mendes turned to command his chair-bearers and Morris quickly ducked to the ground, slowly lifting his eyes up in time to see Mendes mount and then pull the horse away into a trot. The giant ambled dutifully behind.

The chair-bearers padded away back down the path as horse and rider were swallowed by the jungle. Morris watched the chair pass his tree. He strained his eyes looking into the jungle after Mendes and switched his gaze between both paths. He considered running back to town to fetch Will. That would be a wiser judgement. But judgement was for judges. Like a gun-dog bounding after a stricken bird, helpless against instinct over brains, Morris loped after Mendes and the giant.