Hunt for White Gold

Chapter Thirty-Seven





Two of the Morning




It had taken Israel Hands almost an hour to race the skiff back to the Adventure and relate his tale. Sitting in the boat, waiting for Palgrave to return, he had seen the rocking lanterns rush towards the jetty and heard the rattle of lobsters’ belts and buckles pound across the sand. He sculled the skiff away until he could make a sail and left the soldiers staring after his stern as it vanished in the dark.

Teach looked his panting quartermaster up and down. His eye looked at the thin knee that he had shot a knuckle’s worth off some months before when the mood had taken him. Israel dared not lie.

‘So, we are betrayed!’ Teach bellowed. ‘Palgrave saved his own hide rather than take me offer of peace at Ocracock. Bellamy would shiver in his grave. If he had one to own.’ He turned to his men, all forty of them waiting for his word, the narrow deck of the sloop bulging with bodies. ‘It’s two in the morning, lads. Nassau will be sleeping. If Palgrave does not wish to join us with the letters, we’ll take them ourselves!’ He barged his way along the deck and plucked a dark bottle from the hand of one of the men. ‘We’ll show good Governor Rogers what we thinks of his pardon! Make all sail! Course north along the shore!’

A chorus of cries echoed over the ship as Teach emptied the bottle and threw it at the head of the furthest man. ‘Make to, you dogs! An hour will tell all!’ He leapt to the fo’c’sle, pulling his cutlass and whacking the back of any sloven not shifting fast enough.


Aqua Regia or ‘King’s Water’ was a goldsmith’s tool for thinning and etching in use since the Middle Ages, its discovery encouraging alchemists in the pursuit of the fabled philosopher’s stone. It was a substance as common to the goldsmith as his loupe and scales.

Palgrave Williams was a goldsmith before he sailed and he explained all of this to his cell-mates Adam Cowrie and John Rice as he held out the small vial of orange liquid which would kill a man in seconds if he could bear to drink it past the fumes. They looked at the squat portly fellow with new eyes as it dawned on them that the frosted bottle held more power to free them from their current unemployment than either cannon or key.

‘My intent was to dissolve the clays that stop the mouth of the Chinese gun but these here locks will fare as well.’ He whispered the words, not wishing to catch the ear of the new watch, the unfortunate soldier who had courted Devlin’s displeasure and now sat with his back to his cell, whistling softly to himself to show his indifference to the pirate captain’s cold stare.

It was two o’clock in the morning, an hour before the ‘witching’, the three of the clock that mocked the three of the afternoon when Christ breathed his last. This was the hour when men awake doubt the world around them and every sound that shuffles and scrapes is magnified to crick the bones of the neck of him that hears it.

Dandon rested his arms through the lattice of his bars and balefully recited to his gaoler, ‘’Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on.’

‘What shite are you raking now, you f*ckster?’ the soldier bowled back.

‘That be Shakespeare, my man. Or as close as I can muster to it. Can you not feel the night around you? These are the last placings of dead men that you guard. Does that not cause you unease?’

The soldier rocked in his chair and fumbled for his tobacco. ‘Not as much as you, pirate,’ his voice rising gleefully. ‘I’m only sorry that I’ll be sleeping when you hang.’

The voice rang out behind him. ‘I’ll be alive when you wake, soldier.’

The soldier twisted round, his tobacco forgotten. He looked at the man leaning against his cell door. More shadow than form. He thought of a dozen words to throw at the shadow but turned back to fill his pipe in silence. It had only been half an hour since his watch began and the time already dragged.

‘Did you find yourself a woman in the time that we’ve been parted, lobster?’ the voice continued.

The soldier ignored him and put his boots up on the table while humming through his pipe. He slammed his feet back to the floor when Hugh Harris banged the wooden jug against the bars.

‘Hoy! More beer there, man! Rum if you can! Dying men here!’

‘Where’d you get that?’ the soldier demanded as he strode to the cell. ‘Ain’t no beer for prisoners. Where’d you get that jug?’ He grabbed the jug and sniffed at it in his investigations.

Devlin tapped a coin against his bars, the sound of gold more distinctive than the closing of a whore’s bedroom door. ‘I bought it, lobster,’ he sang out.

The soldier was drawn to the coin, the jug at his side.

Devlin spoke warmly as he approached, ‘Gave your mate one for some beer and bread for my men. The same to you for a bottle of wine or noggin of rum, lobster.’

The soldier slammed the jug on the table and wiped his mouth. ‘Let me see that coin, patroon.’

Devlin closed his palm and the gold winked away. ‘No spirit, no gold, lobster.’

The soldier grinned. ‘Fair play, patroon. I’ll sees what I can scurry.’ Picking up his musket and keys he jangled his way to the stairs, pausing to call back before he ascended. ‘Anything for the great pirate Devlin and his men.’ And he chortled his way upwards.

Dandon watched him depart and called across the room. ‘Are we in a hurry now, Patrick?’

‘Time and tide, Dandon,’ Devlin replied. ‘Time and tide.’


Half past two. The guards on the beach checked their brazier, sifting embers with their bayonets and sending sparks high into the night to stimulate their spirits a while longer. They had shared tales of the local whores, shared the woes of their tawdry pockets and the foul and venal paths that had brought them to the Caribbean rather than Flanders: a wheel of cheese here, a bit of paid protection there, a transfer hither.

They lay back on the comfortable sands and listened to the surf, waiting for the end of their watch and a few hours of sleep before they could slake their thirst in the taverns again.

They both raised themselves on their elbows at the sound of the surf breaking against wood, then sat up as voices carried from the dark beach. They stood up with their muskets at the sound of boots running towards them and oars being thrown into boats and squinted through the light of the brazier that shortened their vision until a dozen faces blazed into their lit circle of sand.

‘Whence came you?’ the sentries shouted in automatic response as they fumbled at their muskets.

‘Men from the Milford and Delicia,’ someone panted. ‘Need to see Governor Rogers.’ The man stepped forward and they saw he sported a sailor’s black beard, soiled slops and Monmouth cap.

‘Cap’n Coxon and Cap’n Gale sends us back to warn the governor.’ The sailor pulled off his cap and ushered his men forward. The soldiers took relief in the familiar wide slops and rags of seamen and lowered their muskets.

‘What goes on?’ one of the sentries asked, seeing more men stumbling forward from the dark. Perhaps twenty now stood in front of him, two boats’ worth. ‘Coxon and Gale, you say? Warn of what?’

‘Aye,’ the bearded one mopped his brow. ‘Pirates are afoot. Devlin’s ship is along the north shore,’ he announced, ignoring the shared look between the two soldiers. ‘We’re to aid in holding the fort. Ten from Milford, ten from Delicia. My name is William Vernon, bosun’s mate. We be yours to command, Corporal.’

‘Private Woolcott, mate,’ the guard corrected Bill and straightened. ‘You say Devlin? From where? From when? Devlin is in the fort. Below in the gaol. Seen him taken there myself.’

Black Bill took the soldier’s arm. ‘Aye. Reckon his ship has come for rescue. Coxon is giving chase in the Milford, as you know. Take us to the fort. An hour or less and they could be on the north beach.’

Woolcott looked around at the belts of the men bulging with cutlass, dagger, belaying pin and pistol. He moved along reluctantly with Bill, protesting that Rogers would be asleep at this hour.

Bill did not stop, half dragging the arm of Woolcott up the beach. ‘Your captain will wake him for the word I’m sure, Private. Cap’n Coxon insists. Let us go.’ And twenty armed men escorted by two soldiers marched towards the fort.

The lobster returned to the cells, his musket slung. He held a fat green bottle of rum in one hand and in the other some hardtack wrapped in a cheesecloth packet. He dumped his load on the table and ignored the whining from the pirates about the time it had taken him to scrounge such a feast. A stench met him, a fug of urine strong enough to make him pinch his nose closed. ‘Jesus lads!’ he moaned. ‘Piss down the grates why don’t you. Stinking in here it is.’

‘Just the rum, lobster,’ Devlin called out. ‘No need for any lip.’

The lobster unfolded the cheesecloth to reveal the biscuits. ‘Aye. Rum. For a gold coin I believe we accorded.’ He left the table and swung his musket from his shoulder. ‘Reckon that the price be higher though,’ he stepped closer and lowered the musket to Devlin. ‘I’ll take any coin you have, Devlin,’ then added magnanimously with levelled gun, ‘I’ll take all you’ve got to save you paying later.’

Dandon pointed out with exaggerated decorum, as he had to their previous attendant, that shooting the governor’s pride and joy before he had a chance to sign the Act would not be received so favourably upstairs.

The lobster spoke slowly. ‘Oh, I knows that patroon. But I reckon “Old Rusty Guts” won’t be too fussed about losing one of you lot so much.’ He swept the gun round to Dandon, cocking the head back with his left palm. ‘Reckon you might care though, Cap’n Devlin, if I send this yellow scum to hell early.’

Hugh and the others, Palgrave even, cried out against their latticed doors. Dandon stepped back, finding that his narrow cell gave no shelter from the barrel’s eye.

The guard grinned and turned back to Devlin. ‘All your coin now, Cap’n, ’fore I drop this mate of yours,’ then yelled at the rest to simmer down lest he spoil his shot, his voice just loud enough to cover the dragging scrape of the cell opening behind him.

He rolled his head back to launch into more mockery but his grin disappeared at the sight of Devlin stood outside his cell. The lobster stared into the empty space beyond, as if Devlin would surely still be there.

He brought the gun back, fast he thought, trigger trembling, but still the barrel was grabbed and twisted and plucked like a blind-man’s cane from his hands.

The question, ‘How?’ almost slipped out but the powerful hand at his throat strangled the word to a gurgle.

He felt his feet leave the floor under the grip as the freed man spoke gibberish at him in his madness.

‘There can be slain,’ Devlin hissed, pulling the guard’s face towards him, ‘No sacrifice to God more acceptable Than an unjust and wicked king!’

Dandon cried out from his cell. ‘Damn, Patrick! I only gave you that Milton a month!’

Devlin could not hear. His pulse deafened him as he slammed the lobster down on the table, crushing the biscuits beneath his back and puncturing the scrawny neck with the man’s own bayonet grabbed from its sheath. As a butcher’s boy he had stuck pigs with the same stiff wrist and swift stab that came from the shoulder blade not the end of the knife, and he closed his eyes against the narrow spurt of blood as the red meat burst within.

He pushed the body from the table and took up the rum and drank until his heart begged for a break from the neck of the bottle. The rum sat cold in his empty belly and his drinking arm shook. Devlin watched his hands tremble. He had promised himself less of the rum so to keep strong in mind and body for all their sakes. But some things men cannot drain with water. He raised the bottle again, his eyes on Palgrave standing in front of him, free from his own cell with John Rice and Adam Cowrie, their liberty owed to the timely application of Aqua Regia to the padlocks.

First Palgrave had freed himself when the lobster had mounted the stairs, the acid excreting a noisome redolence not unlike the odour noticed by the late lobster. He had then run across the gaol and burnt through Devlin’s locks before returning to his cell just as the footsteps began to echo down the stairs. It had taken less than ten minutes to change their fortunes.

Palgrave looked down at the lobster with the bayonet saluting straight up from his throat. ‘Seems I have made a good choice in who is best to secure my future, Captain Devlin.’

Devlin said nothing. He wiped his mouth and picked up the keys from the table and tossed them to Cowrie. ‘Get the others out.’ Then he picked up the musket and bent to the corpse to pluck the cartouche from its belt.

‘Your liquid works well, Palgrave,’ he said as he checked the primer on the gun. ‘Do you have enough left for the Chinese cannon?’

‘Aye, Captain,’ Palgrave tapped his satchel affectionately.

‘Then we shall go.’ Devlin rounded on Dandon. ‘Will you be joining us mon frère?’ he asked sardonically, alluding to Dandon’s comments when the doors had first closed. ‘Are the cards in your favour yet?’

The sound of jangling keys and falling padlocks rang around the room. Hugh Harris’s and Lawson’s boots scuffled to their captain’s side.

Dandon gave his most effacing gold-capped grin as his shackles were lifted away.

‘I would have it no other way, Patrick,’ and he stepped to join them.

‘Weapons, Hugh,’ Devlin slapped Hugh Harris into action. ‘Some rope maybe. Make a couple of monkey fists?’

‘Aye, Cap’n.’ Hugh rushed to the fallen lobster, dragged the bayonet from the throat without a wince at the sucking noise it made and stuffed it in his belt. He flipped the table like a turtle and began wrenching out the legs. ‘Reckon these will do better though.’ The first leg snapped free and he tossed it to Lawson. Devlin and Dandon left him to it and walked to the base of the stairs. They inched their heads around the corner to check the coast was clear and then followed the spiral steps upwards.

‘Seems a longer way up than it was down,’ said Devlin.

‘Aye, Patrick,’ Dandon agreed. ‘It always is.’ The final sound of wood breaking heralded the others trailing behind them, armed with a hefty wooden club apiece, Palgrave last in the pack with just his stubby fists at the ready.

Sixty worn Spanish steps led to the floor above. They crept close to the curving wall, ducking beneath the lanterns circling the stairwell, Devlin at the front with the musket sniffing ahead.

The arch at the top of the stair loomed suddenly and Devlin’s head appeared in an empty corridor. To his left was the windowed passage leading to Roger’s rooms, the black door of his office visible forty yards away. Veering away to his right was the passage that looked out to sea and led to the barracks and mess. From above, the petrel’s-eye view, the small fort was laid in a scalene triangle. Two round towers hung over the sea with embrasures and fat hungry guns staring out forever, waiting patiently for Drake or Morgan to return. The third tower, square, sitting over the town like a throne and hidden in bamboo scaffolding was the one that the left-hand passage led to – where Rogers’ office lay, but more importantly where the Chinese gun lay, and the stairs to the town and the harbour. That was their way out now.

Devlin fell back to his men. ‘No guard,’ he whispered, the only words the others wanted to hear. From now on they wished every word to be a comforting one. Night and sleep were their stoutest allies: including the militia, there were over three hundred armed men about the town.

‘We take the letters then get out of here best we can.’

Palgrave’s heart had weakened. Freedom tasted sweeter than danger. ‘Hang the letters. Just get us out of here!’ He pushed past them all. Devlin pulled him back into place with a snarl.

‘Those letters save the life of a man worth more than what they promise, Williams. I don’t need you to make the acid work.’ He allowed the grinning faces of his men to make his point, and his eyes went back to checking the passage.

‘Rogers’ bed chamber is also in that tower,’ Dandon obliged. ‘That would be guarded. As would our exit I’m sure.’

‘Aye,’ Devlin agreed. ‘I wasn’t planning on venturing through the barracks neither.’ He waved them on and loped into the corridor towards the door, never looking behind. They would follow.


John Hamlin was born in Bath Town in 1696. His father was a tanner and his mother a housemaid. At sixteen John Hamlin had stolen a carter’s wheel for a dare and now wore a red coat as punishment. He had not seen his father for six years but had visited seven islands in the Caribbean and had slept with twenty-two women, which to him was more important. He earned fifteen pounds a year but owed twenty-five to the King over the last ten years of his service. In the last month of his night-watch he had succumbed to temptation, lifting a little piece of smoked pork and cheese and a small measure of rum from the mess and keeping it about him, for John Hamlin was a hungry man. The breakfast coffee, biscuits and bread and the cabbage soup for supper were not enough to keep such an ardent man full of lead. So rather than pay for sustenance from the taverns, which would make no hole in his debt, he would sit under the shade of a tree and nibble through his pilfered rations admiring his own cleverness in saving himself a shilling in the right quarter of his life.

The wrong quarter now it appeared, justified or not. Hamlin turned the corner to the passage and fell into a party of seven pirates. He opened his mouth and raised his musket.

And then Hugh was pinching the hair and skull fragments off his makeshift club and wiping his hand on his breeches, the sounds of violence still echoing around the passage as everyone looked down at the breath of the hot blood steaming from John Hamlin’s head. Lawson picked up the musket and belly-box of cartridges.

They gathered around the door of Rogers’ office, heads swivelling on the lookout for other wandering souls. Devlin tried the ringbolt lock without success.

‘Open it, Palgrave.’

Palgrave nodded and reached into his satchel. Then Devlin suddenly stopped his hand. ‘Wait!’

Palgrave watched the plotting behind the eyes. ‘Can you ruin the lock as well as burn it through?’ asked Devlin.

Palgrave attested that he could, that melting the lock to nothing would be even easier but noted that they would also be locked out of the room as there would be nothing to pull back the lock from its mortice.

Devlin went to the leaded windows, pushed one open and looked out at the scaffolding all around the walls. Planks of wood below the sill formed a walkway that stretched around the fort. To his left he could see Rogers’ open office windows. His head came back in. ‘No,’ he corrected Palgrave, ‘we’d be locked in. To it. Burn that lock. We go in by the windows.’ Palgrave understood immediately, and pulled on his leather gloves.