Hunt for White Gold

Chapter Forty-Six





On a hot afternoon near the end of August the people of Charles Town went about their business. Rice was sacked and carted to the customs house for its long journey back to England. Beer was supped warmly in the taverns by those who had earned its comfort and swallowed bitterly by those who had not, and who rued their days.

Roughly pasted above the stone fireplaces of the inns and on the wooden walls of the customs house were the general notices and by-laws that the council deemed imperative to inform its visitors and denizens of.

Amongst the fines for unescorted slaves and failure to prove ownership of a vessel were the waxed and dog-eared black-rimmed warnings that served to dissuade any of the populace from pursuing a life a-roving on the sea. They were the faded ‘Wanted’ posters for the pirates known to ravage the Carolinas now that the Bahamas no longer welcomed them.

Blackbeard, Vane, Bonnet: all had hit Charles Town and hit it hard and Charles Town would show them no mercy if they returned. But for now, that afternoon, a small black youth in white wig, bright red coat and gold epaulettes walked two strangers from the harbour and through the dogwood trees lining the streets.

Only one of them had his name printed on the bills on the walls. It had been there over a year now and lay beneath the fresher names of younger men inspired to follow, now dead and gibbeted or rotting beneath three tides waiting to be so.

A short life and a merry one had been perhaps too inspiring a motto.

The strangers paused when they reached the inn, where ages ago it seemed they had bade goodnight to the girl, Lucy, and where they now looked about them for some inkling of a trap, ignoring the impatience of the youth waving them to follow him to the powder-blue house opposite.

The taller of the two drew dark looks from the passers-by, not just from his stillness amongst their urgency or for his bow-less black hair straggling over his shoulders, but for the deadly cutlass hanging across his body, over his black coat, which hinted at a man more accustomed to pulling out the steel than pulling off the coat. The more observant noted the pommels of twinned pistols nudging the coat aside and ducked their eyes away from him.

The other wore a dirty Dandelion-coloured justacorps and matching wide-brimmed hat, but appeared harmless because he carried no weapons, only a thick bamboo tube, and bowed and dipped to every passing unescorted woman, who grimaced at his gold-capped teeth. He paid no mind to their disgust, using as he was every bow to check every corner and doorway for any observer beyond the naturally curious – the ones that might harbour darker thoughts and cling to the shadows. Some sign of satisfaction was exchanged, a look between the two with no word spoken, and they followed the pristine servant across the street.

It was Ignatius himself who opened the door before they had taken the final step to the threshold. He appeared to them clad in his pious pilgrim black and raised white collar, just as they left him, as if he had sat waiting for them frozen and inanimate whilst Devlin wore the weeks upon his clothes and unshaven face.

‘Captain Devlin,’ Ignatius looked at the pirate fondly, snubbing Dandon on the step behind. ‘I am so glad that you have returned safely. I trust your journey was a pleasant one. Please, do come in.’ He stood aside and gestured down the long red passage. ‘I have a guest who has been dying to see you again.’ He halted Devlin with an arm. ‘However, I must insist that you hand over your pistols to my servant boy.’ Then added generously, ‘You may keep your sword.’

Devlin said nothing and slipped out the pistols to lay heavy in the boy’s crossed arms like firewood. Ignatius’s attention fell to Dandon. ‘Your man, Captain, can wait outside.’

Devlin looked back at Dandon. ‘He is unarmed. He has the letters only.’

Ignatius reached for the bamboo. ‘May I?’ his voice purred beguilingly under his malevolent eyes.

Dandon tossed the tube to Devlin and flourished his hat. ‘No need, sir.’ He smiled, front teeth shining. ‘Captain, I will take no offence by not being permitted to enter. I can pass my time. I believe the Pink House worthy of my attention.’ The famed whorehouse of Charles Town was not lost on Dandon in his researches.

‘Back to the harbour, Dandon,’ Devlin said, and looked coldly at Ignatius. ‘Me and Peter Sam won’t be long.’

Ignatius pushed closed the door.

‘Then good day and good luck to you both!’ Dandon called as the door swung to before his nose.

‘Filthy fellow,’ Ignatius shook his head and joined Devlin’s side. ‘Now, Captain, shall we begin with some refreshment after your journey?’ He placed a soft palm to Devlin’s back then flinched in shock as Devlin slapped it away and slammed him to the wall by his neck.

‘Enough of your shite! Bring me Peter Sam!’

For forty-nine years Ignatius had led a life that had skirted death, a life that relied constantly on dangerous men, both to protect him and to be subjugated to him, yet it had never occasioned for anyone to stick their hands around his white lavender-powdered neck until their fingernails drew the first pink scrapings of blood.

It seemed so obvious to him now how differently his life could have been if, in the first days, someone had not bowed and done exactly as he said but had begun instead to choke the life out of him, their grip powered purely by hate. What a terrible wasted life that would have been.

How fortunate then that he did indeed lead a life that relied on dangerous men, and his eyes slid along the passage to where Hib Gow darkened the corridor.

Devlin loosed his grip as he followed Ignatius’s eyes and understood, his hand creeping towards his blade, how it was Peter Sam had been taken from them.

Hib had maybe nine inches on Devlin, but Devlin had faced big men before. Yet something in the still frame bracing the walls, the solid assurance like the great oak door of a castle and the bony, sharp face with the gnarled giant nose that told of a thousand battles, declared to Devlin that the sword held no fear for the man.

Devlin checked the boy holding his pistols who instantly ran behind the giant and then devoted his hands to simply embracing the bamboo tube. It was perhaps his only defence, and even that growing weaker all the time.

Ignatius coughed and levered himself off the wall, soothing his neck with his hand. Straightening his clothes he made the introductions. ‘Captain Devlin, this is Mister Hib Gow, my confidant and aide. He was once a hangman, you know? At Tyburn, no less. Who knows? You two might have met in the future if destiny had not sent you both to me.’ He coughed again while the marks on his neck from Devlin’s fingers still lingered. ‘Shall we?’ he said and waved Devlin down the corridor.

Hib glared down at the pirate as he passed by and followed faithfully at Ignatius’s back with the gilded servant close behind.

‘I trust that you have looked inside the tube that you have brought me, Captain? It would have been difficult I imagine to resist.’ They turned one corner, approaching what Devlin supposed was the dining room of a gentleman by the double door ahead.

‘Aye, I looked at them.’

‘Of little use to you, no doubt, being as the entire volume is in French. Ignorance is often the best security.’ The party stopped at the door and Ignatius lifted a key from a silk ribbon at his side.

‘I will fetch your quartermaster for you. You may keep the letters until then. I wish you no harm, Captain, despite your violence upon me.’ He unlocked the door and ushered Devlin in. ‘Wait here, Captain. A few minutes at most, if you please. You can cool some of that blood that boils within you.’

Devlin stepped into the room, bright and cheery from the glass panelled doors that led to the garden standing at the far end. A figure sat at the head of the dining table in front of the doors, as if beatified in the afternoon Charles Town sun. The door was locked.

He had known what to expect. He had thought long on it during the voyage from New Providence and indeed ever since Ignatius had given him the packet with the white raven’s feather, inside this very house. Still it came as some surprise to see the purple-doubleted and black-gloved form sitting at the long oak refectory table. The long smooth black hair and beard were not as well groomed as Devlin remembered but the eyes looked just as hate-filled as the last time.

Devlin took off his hat and slung it with the bamboo package on the table. He noted the bottle of wine in the centre that Valentim was already working through. ‘Well met, Valentim,’ Devlin grinned and held out his hand for a welcoming shake as if they were old friends, then pulled it back in jest and winked at Valentim’s out-sized left hand. ‘I almost forgot, Valentim: I must beg your pardon.’

Ignatius listened to the sound of crashing glass and the scrape of steel over the shouted Portuguese curses, then stepped away with Hib to leave the intimacy of the room to those that deserved it. He was a man of his word and had promised Valentim Mendes his moment with the pirate Devlin.