Hunt for White Gold Read online

  In 1710, through science, effort and luck, the Margravate of Meissen in Germany began to produce its own miracle hard-paste porcelain. Although inferior to the Chinese, the clamour for it rang around the world like the porcelain bells of its Frauenkirche, the chime of Saxony’s cups and serving pots mocking the French and English attempts to mimic the cool chinaware that had captivated the world.

  Hot beverages had become the mark of civilisation. Chocolate prolonged life and raised virility; coffee stimulated the brain and heart and was exotic beyond diamonds as if it had come from another universe. These new commodities were traded far and above the old-hat of hops and cloth, and so fortunes were made and companies born that would outlast empires.

  But these glorious luxuries all suffered from the same drawback. To savour and appreciate them fully they must be hot – too hot to be served in silver or pewter or gold. The table-services of kings were now simply an embarrassment to their guests and no matter how determined English and French potters became, the chinaware could be but poorly imitated.

  One English potter affirmed that the clay that held the secret to the coolness of porcelain could be obtained in the Americas for he had discovered native wares that possessed the same properties. The South Seas Company declined his offer to invest in further explorations.

  In 1712, Father d’Entrecolles wrote his first letter to Father Orry in Paris describing the full process, the firing and mixing of both soft-paste and hard-paste Chinese porcelain. The letter failed to make it out of China, but rumours abounded that the secret had been broached. The first letter soon became more valuable than the product whose manufacture it described. Father d’Entrecolles disappeared back into his missionary order and did not write again to his ministry for eight years. Any country or individual that could rediscover the first letter of Father d’Entrecolles would hold the secret of the first great industrialised product of the eighteenth century.

  Captain William Guinneys successfully purchased the first letter of Father d’Entrecolles from Wu Qua of the Foreign Trade Hongs for sale to a man, known only as Ignatius, in the American colonies. The transaction completed, Guinneys began an ocean voyage as wide as his bumptious smirk.

  Whilst Guinneys’ creditors in London mopped their brows in relief, the general hunt for the letter forced Ignatius to spirit it away to a secret location for safekeeping. He entrusted pirates with this task, believing they must surely have no interest in the ways of men beyond the lining of their purses

  He charged a pirate captain, one Black Sam Bellamy named for his flowing mane of black hair, to carry the letters north, sealed in a greying, bronze Chinese cannon wisely chosen by Guinneys as fitting concealment.

  But the device was not enough to hide the letters from the vengeful Chinese gods.

  A storm off the Cape Cod coast – a maelstrom from nowhere – drowned Bellamy and sank his ship, the Whydah Galley. It was April 1717 and the letters were lost again, the Gods satisfied. For a time.

  William Guinneys, his task completed, his pockets sufficiently full to banish worry about his peacetime deduct or the black-coated and black-hearted men in Leadenhall Street ruling the waves with their vellum and ink, continued his waltz back and forth from the Chinese and Indian factories and awaited war to speed him from the doldrums of the Company ledgers.

  Two years later, his first and last experience of action was ended with cutlass and powder. Not by Spaniards or Frenchmen, as his heart would have wished, but by a jumped-up boot-wipe turned pirate captain. The pirate Devlin was his executioner.

  Guinneys told no-one of the letter. There was no need; the letter spoke for itself.

  But first it had to become known again.

  Chapter Two

  Madagascar, June 1718

  One year since the letters disappeared.

  One year since Patrick Devlin became a pirate.

  It was the onset of a storm that had brought Albany Holmes and George Lee ashore on Madagascar to escape the dark skies and the rising whitecaps, and to dry their Parisian shoes in the winding streets of the port of St Augustine. Their captain had decided that a day or two in safe soundings would diminish any risk of a squall’s edge becoming a wallowing grave in wider waters. And as long as one kept to the towns the island’s notorious reputation for pirates should remain only that.

  They had been told that the land was ten times the size of their great United Kingdom and that although it boasted kingdoms and princes you could hardly count, there was barely enough tin to feed the coffee-coloured children that swarmed around the docks and shores.

  The two had travelled beyond the normal perimeters of the Grand Tour that occupied many unmarried gentlemen of a certain status, and were now stretching their horizons to sample the almond eyes and jet-black hair that encapsulated all the promise of the Orient Sea.

  They had ignored the pleas and warnings of their captain to not stray from the Dutch and French taverns and brothels that littered the bay of St Augustine. Instead they climbed the shingle roads that meandered into the hills until they became but dust tracks and the civilised sounds of cart and hoof were replaced by the bad-tempered clucking of the brooding hens around their feet and the dull bleating of the goat by the roadside.

  They walked through the homesteads and inhaled the smell of spit-roasting boar on wood fires outside the shacks. Cautious white eyes followed the path of the two colourful peacocks strutting through their midst.

  Albany and George found the hot smoky township and the drawn, dark people unsettling and felt the silent stares that lay cold upon their backs. They had perhaps trod too far inland.

  It came as a relief to hear the sound of English voices singing from within the stone-built tavern that dominated the hillside. Their pace increased as the heady aroma of tobacco and ale-soaked sawdust pulled them over the threshold.

  They swung into the heat of the room, the sudden silence wafting over them as strongly as the pipe smoke, while heads swivelled sullenly to take them in.

  The patrons judged them gravely, then turned back to their games and blackjack mugs, the murmur and songs slowly brewing up again: just a couple of silks. Not worth the first look let alone a second.

  ‘Perhaps we should return to the port, Albany,’ George whispered. ‘I’m not so convinced this is a wise venture.’

  Albany Holmes had never backed out of a room in his life. ‘Come, George. This is the real tour is it not? I’ll wager some of these damned souls know the finest quim this island has to offer, and do you not want to scribe something in that tome of yours?’ He cocked an eyebrow at a bearded sot heaving into his own mug. ‘George, I thirst.’

  They strode to the bar across the sawdust floor, Albany’s ebony cane tapping his way like a blind man’s, and elbowed a space.

  ‘Keep!’ Albany piped to the leather-aproned bear behind the nailed decking that made up the bar. ‘A noggin of rum and a carafe for my friend and I.’ He slapped down a Dutch dollar and pushed it to the bear’s side. ‘I will hold for pewter mugs rather than this leather you favour for your fellows, if it is not too bold, sir.’

  The bear rolled himself in front of them, his half-lidded eyes never straying from the silver. He slapped down the pewter goblets with the green bottle of wine and wearily began to pour from a barrel atop the bar a spurt of brown treacle into wooden cups. He slammed them down and scraped the dollar away in the same movement.

  ‘I am indebted, sir.’ Albany winced a smile and swept the wine into the goblets, pushing one into George’s nervous hand. He turned to face the room, taking in all the dirty unshaven faces and broad backs at the tables engrossed in their games and drink. No women, Albany sighed. No matter. A day or two yet. ‘Come, George, let us find a seat.’

  ‘I fear we may be wanting on that matter, Albany,’ George noted, sipping his wine with distaste. ‘The place is full with bodies.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Albany almost shouted, his raised voice sucking a glance from a scarred face along the bar. ‘There
is a fellow sleeping over there,’ he lifted his cane to point to a cushioned bench beside the door where a small-paned yellow window gave pitiful light into the den. ‘He will not mind to move up a notch to let two Englishmen sit.’

  George followed the cane to the bench and table.

  Sure enough some vagrant had secured himself a rather resplendent portion of the tavern. He lay in shirt and waistcoat only, a black three-cornered hat pulled over his sleeping brow, brown leather boots resting, crossed, upon the rough tabletop.

  ‘He looks awful peaceful, Albany,’ George attested. ‘Perhaps we should let him be.’

  Albany had already begun to move, carrying the carafe, leaving George to fumble with the mugs and goblets.

  Albany slammed down the green bottle, spilling a spittle’s worth, hoping to startle the man from his drunken slumber, but the hat remained drawn down, the boots planted.

  He took the goblets and mugs from George and crashed them down likewise at several points on the tabletop to reaffirm his intentions, but thought it wise not to disturb the crock bottle that stood close to the occupant’s legs.

  Albany took in the man. He was tall, grimy with work or time but dressed in strong Dutch linen with a black Damask waistcoat worth a year’s wages to a common man. His boots however were older than Albany. They were perhaps Spanish or French judging by the fine cut and quality of stitch that still left English bootmakers slapping their heads, but the leather was limp and cracked. Stolen most probably, Albany surmised.

  He lifted his black cane and rapped upon the man’s ankles. ‘Sir!’ he voiced. ‘Kindly afford some space for two gentlemen who wish to sit for a while, if you would be so inclined!’

  Silence. The hat never stirred. Albany pursed his lips, exchanged a glance with George and began again.

  ‘You there,’ he prodded with the cane’s silver tip. ‘You will make way for two gentlemen who wish to be seated. I do not feel it a tremendous inconvenience to accommodate two others at this sitting! Move now!’

  George swallowed his cup of rum, his eyes roving around the room, the free hand behind his back as far away from his pistol and sword as he could demonstrate it to be.

  The black hat stirred slightly. ‘I am tired, sir.’ A soft Irish accent drifted out from beneath the brim. ‘Leave me be.’

  Albany looked again at the length of the man. He could see no pistol. No hilt. His eyes travelled to the door where a hook held a black twill coat and crossbelt with hanging sword.

  ‘I would be of a mind to advise you, sir,’ Albany’s hand drew out, with the faintest scrape, the etched portion of the London and Birmingham pride of his sword-cane, ‘that it would be unwise for an unarmed man to question the actions of one such as I.’

  Albany tasted the salt sweat from his upper lip. This is why he had travelled. This was London and all of Paris in a cup. His sword-cane, partially committed, the fervent sting of battle in the turgid air. A drunken, unarmed vagabond defying him.

  How easy to cut him slightly, to just nick him and watch the fellow skulk away with all eyes on him, warily shrinking from Albany’s steely glare.

  The vagrant dragged his feet from the table, only to fill the bench more fully with his languid form, his eyes never rising from under the shadow of his hat. The voice was unaltered from the drowsy tones of his first utterance.

  ‘I am of a mind to believe that of late I do not need to be armed so often.’ He pulled his hat tighter down as a hundred clicks and rattles of flintlocks and scabbards filled the air behind the two gentlemen. ‘I finds I sleep better that way.’ ‘Albany, old boy?’ George nervously tapped the silk shoulder of his tall companion, who had already turned his face to the sound. He stared, rigid, hand upon cane, at a room full of black pistols answering his gaze. The faces of the men behind the weapons appeared minuscule compared to the gaping black barrels aimed at every inch of his body.

  Albany tightened his grip on his half-drawn swordstick, then discreetly and silently pushed home the glinting steel. ‘Of no offence, gentlemen.’ He painfully executed a bow. ‘We will stand. Not wishing to deprive a working man of his rest.’

  ‘You should say goodbye to the sun, gents,’ sighed the sleepy fellow who now tipped up his hat and swung his feet to the floor. ‘You have not done well here.’

  He sat up straight. Albany and George looked into his tanned face and mess of black hair straggling out beneath his cocked tricorne.

  Albany was surprised at the cold cynical stare, more gentlemanly and solemn than he had supposed. The soft voice continued.

  ‘What brings such colourful stripes to the realms of the Malagasay? Only pirates and fools stop along these shores. Or lost souls. And only ghosts come into the hills. I myself have strayed too far. Captain Avery’s inbred fools haunt these paths.’ He swallowed from his crock bottle and counted with one eye the guns of his brethren still hovering in the gloom.

  He slammed down the bottle and waved a gentle hand for all to lower their pistols. A moment later, the two stranded coxcombs saw only backs as the patrons returned to their murmurs and bottle mouths.

  Albany found his voice again.

  ‘We are mired here, sir. To ride out a storm soon to be.’ Then gallantly he broached, ‘And who might I be addressing, if I may address you, sir?’

  ‘I am the one who has kept you alive, sir. That is all.’

  ‘In that case, prudently observed,’ Albany continued. ‘I am Albany Holmes, and this is George Lee. Gentlemen abroad and devoid of experience.’ He affected a grin. ‘If you may gather my meaning, sir.’ Albany hoped still to fish from the fellow some whereabouts of iniquity despite the ill opening of their conversation.

  The pirate enjoyed the exchange. A sloping rakish grin lightened his face, but only for a moment.

  ‘Then in spirit I return the address,’ he touched his hat. ‘I am Patrick Devlin. Captain Devlin. Of the frigate Shadow.’ His gaze passed between the two, enjoying the recognition of his name and the nature of their fate dawning on their pinched faces.

  Albany, as pale as his shirt, whispered the name into the air like escaping steam, ‘The pirate Devlin?’ His hands winged to the sides of his coat, away from his weapons. ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ A rough cackling broke out amongst the patrons. Devlin bowed slightly.

  ‘You may well be.’ The lightened look had gone.

  Albany stiffened and reached for his bottle. ‘May I?’ he asked.

  Devlin opened his palm towards the bottle and sat back. George caught his eye and swiftly lowered his gaze to his shoe buckles, feeling the weight of his pistol and sword dragging his eyes lower.

  Albany poured, the sound of the gulping carafe settling his nerve. He swigged a goblet full and wiped the red line, mixed with beads of perspiration, from his lips.

  The wine encouraged him. Here he was: having sailed over oceans of colour, and witnessed the crossing of tides that before his eyes marked out boundaries of nations along the hull of the ship they patronised. Albany had breathed in the scent of olive and ebony limbs draped around his neck. He had lapped at their feminine sweat and marvelled at the whiteness of their teeth and the depth of their almond scented tresses. But now he felt a beat within him he had never known.

  ‘I am honoured, sir,’ he spoke at last. ‘Your fame has become great back in England. I would never have thought that I would come so far as to be standing before you yourself.’ The subtle hint for a stool was ignored.

  Devlin cocked his chin, ‘How so my fame, Albany?’ He riffled through his waistcoat for his pipe, the sudden movement of his hands causing George to shuffle uncomfortably.

  ‘Why, Captain,’ Albany bowed. ‘You are well known as a Jacobite terror this past year! Month after month your pamphlets are posted upon every guildhall in the land!’ He swigged his wine again. ‘The tale of the island and the gold is sold wherever a noggin can be purchased! You are an infamous soul, sir, to be sure and found!’

  ‘Aye,’ Devlin said quietly. ‘The island and the gold
.’

  Had his mould been cast already, shaped and poured to fit forever? Better than the servant he was before, to be sure, but to have these fops – who would happily sit in the stands at Tyburn and watch him swing – tip glasses to him seemed too strange.

  If Devlin had never fled London for St Malo, learning Breton French from coarse fishermen and therefore understanding the words of a dying sailor of the Marine Royale telling of the gold and bequeathing him the map, he would be smoking lice out of Captain John Coxon’s waistcoats even now.

  Such a time ago, yet not much time at all. For some, one year passes much as any other. For others a single year can roll by and yet a new dice is thrown and a new life begun.

  Patrick Devlin. Butcher’s boy. Servant. Captain. Pirate.

  ‘And it is a pleasing moment to meet you, sir,’ George proffered. ‘And we have no need of any reward to announce your presence by and by, sir.’

  Devlin’s face shone. ‘I have a reward do I? A wanted man?’

  A voice came howling from the crowd, ‘Reckon you be right popular, Cap’n!’

  Devlin struck a light from striker and flint; let an age pass as he drew his pipe into life. A lowered head showed only the crown of his hat to the uneasy gentlemen before him. Eventually his face upturned, hidden in blue smoke, and he blew a wraith of it into the waistcoats of the two men.

  ‘Tell me more about this ship you came in on, Albany,’ he squinted and grinned through the haze, his eyes smarting from his own smoke. ‘What be its name?’

  Chapter Three

  Dandon’s eyes blinked open painfully. He closed them again as sunlight stabbed into his skull then resigned himself to his awakened state and rolled himself upwards, his boots ringing against empty bottles as they gingerly settled to the floor.