‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll pay you back,’ I tell him. ‘All of it plus interest.’

  ‘Don’t think of it,’ Black Johnnie replies. ‘Besides, you have your share of the loot. Ask Bart for it. Aren’t you going to try on the new breeches?’

  As the captain averts his eyes, I undo the button and my old breeches practically fall to pieces as I take them off. I give the brass tin a quick rub with my sleeve as I put it into my new pocket.

  In the cloth purse I still wear around my neck, I have five doubloons left: not enough for my passage home.

  ‘Why don’t you come too?’ I suggest. ‘It would be worth your while.’

  But he isn’t listening.

  ‘A few more hauls,’ the captain is saying. ‘Seven or maybe eight and then I might be prepared to call it a day.’

  I glance out of the tailor’s window towards the bay then look again.

  ‘Captain!’

  ‘And what of the boy’s box? We never did establish what was inside that was so precious. It might be worth a haul or two in itself.’

  ‘Captain!’

  Finally he looks up.

  ‘What is it, Silas?’

  ‘Our ship! It’s gone!’

  14. DIAMONDS IN THE ROUGH

  The Tenacity has disappeared, along with the entire crew and what little there was left of our loot. We run down to the harbour and scan the horizon, as if the ship might still be there if only we look hard enough.

  Nobody has seen anything. The harbour master claims he only speaks French and can’t understand a word we say. And everybody looks at Black Johnnie and me in our fine new clothes with thinly disguised amusement. A pyrate without a ship is like a knight in armour without a horse: stranded, ridiculous, doomed.

  When the church bell strikes six, the captain sits down on a barrel on the quay and holds his head in his hands.

  ‘Why?’ he repeats over and over. ‘Why take my ship? The spoils, yes, but not the vessel!’

  ‘Who do you think did it?’ I ask.

  ‘It can’t have been the British Navy, not in French waters. And why choose my ship? There are dozens of others in the bay that are grander, bigger, newer.’ He shakes his head. ‘It must be McGregor. As an act of revenge for the White Stag. They must have seen me leave the ship earlier, and sent a raiding party.’

  I am thinking that although McGregor has the lead box, and the Tenacity, he does not have the jewels and will not find the key under the board by my berth.

  The captain suddenly stands up.

  ‘Heaven forbid, my stash!’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘I knew I should have brought it,’ he curses. ‘Ten years’ work for nothing. It is all I own.’

  ‘What did you say was inside?’ I ask.

  ‘A handful of white diamonds in the rough. One day I planned to get them cut and polished.’

  I am suddenly filled with horror.

  ‘They weren’t valuable were they?’

  He looks at me and laughs. But it is a sad kind of laugh.

  ‘They were my fortune,’ he says.

  It seems the dirty rocks were not mere souveniers.

  ‘I have money,’ I tell him. ‘Five doubloons. Take it.’

  ‘Silas Orr,’ he says. ‘You are a true friend. You are the keelson in my heart.’ I blush despite myself. The keelson is the length of timber laid along the keel of the ship to strengthen it. Black Johnnie shakes his head. ‘Thank you for the offer, but it’s yours,’ he replies. ‘Keep it safe.’

  As the sun starts to dip into the ocean, he looks out, hopeless.

  ‘Please,’ I say. ‘Please take the money.’

  He shakes his head, no.

  ‘I don’t want money. All I want is my small brass tin. There’s nothing I can do with a few coins.’

  How can I tell him? How can I not? I open my mouth and then I close it again.

  The captain doesn’t notice. He is pacing to and fro – thinking of his diamonds.

  ‘A solution has come to mind,’ he says suddenly. ‘We’ll make chase.’

  ‘In what?’ I reply. ‘We haven’t even a tub to our name.’

  First he glances round to make sure there is no one in earshot, and then he leans towards my ear.

  ‘I’ll win a ship at cards,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again. I’ll use your doubloons for stakes.’

  Black Johnnie holds my gaze as he waits for my reaction. I think he is more eccentric than I ever realised. But it’s not the kind of thing you can tell someone. And then I see a possible solution that would suit both of us, if only the captain knew it.

  ‘On one condition,’ I tell him. ‘If you win, you’ll take me first to Scotland.’

  His face falls.

  ‘You ask a lot,’ he says, as he mulls it over. ‘It seems, my boy, that you are determined to return home. Normally I wouldn’t entertain such an idea but what are my choices? Very well then, we have a deal.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I reply and hand him my bag of coins.

  15. A GAME OF CARDS

  With the spring back in his step, the captain leads the way back along St Pierre’s harbour. The light is turning pale pink in the west and the first stars are beginning to come out. As the sun dips, the colours of the sky grow deeper, richer. In all my time at sea, I have never seen such a beautiful sunset. And yet it feels ominous. The air is hot and heavy. A bad smell lingers in the back of the throat. My eyes blink with grit and ash. Above the town, the volcano churns out clouds of thick black smoke.

  But the captain has other concerns. As we pass each tavern, he pauses and listens to the voices inside. Some are French, others Dutch. He keeps going until he hears the harsh rasp of English.

  ‘Land ho!’ he says with a wink.

  This tavern is so dark inside that for a moment I can’t see a thing. Slowly my eyes adjust and I make out a couple of long low tables, a girl with a filthy rag thrown over her shoulder, a plate of half-eaten fish, and, sitting beside a fire that cracks and spits in the corner, a small group of men. Each one is holding a mug of beer. There are cafés full of light and luxury in the upper town of St Pierre; this place is entirely the opposite. The captain and I, all dressed up our fine clothes, couldn’t look more out of place. All conversations cease as, one by one, the men turn.

  ‘Good evening,’ Black Johnnie offers with a tip of his hat.

  Their reply, if you could call it that, is the rasping of throats and the sound a mouthful of spit makes when it hits a fire. I don’t like the look of them, not one little bit. I raise my eyebrow at Black Johnnie. But he pretends not to see.

  ‘You been moored in Martinique for long?’ he asks them after he has ordered us both a beer.

  ‘Not long,’ one of the men replies. ‘Sailed in the day before yesterday.’ He is dark skinned, wears a jacket with gold buttons and has black hair in a ponytail that reaches almost all the way down to his waist. By the look of him, the puff of his chest and the narrow glancing of his eyes, he is their captain.

  Black Johnnie pulls out my stash of coins and pays with one. The girl with the rag shakes her head – she cannot break it – and he tells her to keep it to cover the whole evening’s expenses. It is noticed. The men shift in their seats and catch each other’s eyes.

  ‘A good haul?’ the man with the pigtail asks.

  ‘That it was,’ the captain replies. ‘Our prize came from slavers.’

  Throats are cleared, hands thrust into pockets and I suddenly have the strong suspicion that we are both about to be robbed and murdered. Black Johnnie’s hand is on his dirk. The same thought must also be occurring to him. But instead of losing his nerve, he drinks his beer down and orders another.

  ‘And to whom do we owe the pleasure?’ he asks.

  The men all glance at the man with the ponytail.

  ‘Indian Tom,’ he pipes up. ‘You?’

  ‘Jon Harkin,’ the captain replies.

  The light from the fire flickers over Indian Tom’s face. He smiles. Two of his front teeth are missing.

  ‘I heard you swung at Port Royal,’ he says with unmistakeable pleasure.

  ‘No, not me,’ my captain says.

  ‘You may be at liberty,’ Indian Tom continues, ‘but isn’t there a price on your head?’

  ‘A decent one, I hope,’ Black Johnnie replies.

  ‘I heard you robbed a merchant ship,’ he went on. ‘Burnt it too. The captain was none too pleased. Swore revenge.’

  The captain’s face freezes.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  Indian Tom smiles.

  ‘McGregor and I are acquainted. I’d be on my guard if I were you.’

  ‘What about you?’ Johnnie asks. ‘Have you been lucky?’

  Indian Tom sniffs and then sticks out his left leg. Instead of a foot, he has a wooden stump.

  ‘That is bad luck,’ the captain says. ‘To lose a leg.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ says Indian Tom. ‘This was treachery, pure and simple!’

  His eyes slide back and forth over his shipmates. As one, they look away.

  ‘Let’s all have a beer,’ Black Johnnie says. ‘I’ll buy.’

  This seems to cheer them up no end. He passes round a tankard each.

  ‘A toast,’ he says, ‘to a common occupation, to our good selves, to Gentlemen of Fortune, no matter how lucky or unlucky we are.’

  And yet he does not drink a drop himself. I see his technique – he takes his mug to the latrine full and returns with it empty.

  When a game of three card brag is suggested, the men are all keen to play. The rules are simple; triples win, then pairs, then the highest card left.

  I know he must be sober but my captain keels and blinks and sways in his seat like a drunk. He plays the first few rounds badly, betting on a pair of fours and losing a doubloon. Indian Tom laughs as he sweeps his winnings into his lap. Why bother robbing a man like Black Johnnie, his men must be thinking, when he throws his money away so easily.

  After the eighth round I am beginning to worry. The captain has bet less but lost every single hand. He is down to our last doubloon. With a swig of his beer, he takes a look at his hand and flings his final coin in the pot. Everyone folds – everyone but Indian Tom, who raises the stakes with another coin and lays down his cards.

  ‘A threesome beats a pair,’ he tells Black Johnnie. ‘You must give yourself up now, my friend.’

  My small fortune, the first I ever had, is lost.

  As Indian Tom begins to rise from the table, his pockets heavy with coins, Black Johnnie’s hand shoots out and touches his arm.

  ‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Another hand?’

  ‘With what?’ Indian Tom replies. ‘You have nothing left to wager. Your fine clothes would not suit me.’

  His men laugh. Black Johnnie forces a smile.

  ‘I have rough diamonds,’ he says. ‘As big as my fingernail.’

  ‘All my coins are not worth as much as that,’ Indian Tom replies.

  ‘Why not bet your ship and crew then?’ Black Johnnie suggests. ‘Just a thought.’

  ‘Show me the diamonds!’ he demands.

  ‘Are you doubting my word?’ Johnnie asks.

  There is a moment when the only sounds are the crack of the fire and the distant cry of a night bird.

  ‘Very well,’ says Indian Tom. ‘My ship. And all my men. A rough diamond.’

  His crew gasp. Now here is a wager, they tell each other, that no one will ever forget.

  ‘The victor will win both,’ Black Johnnie clarifies. ‘My boy here shall deal.’

  And then he sits back down at the table and rubs his hands.

  ‘When in doubt,’ he whispers to me, ‘do the opposite of what they expect.’

  My captain carefully takes off his coat and hangs it off the back of his chair. He winces slightly as he does so – his shoulder has still not healed. It is a sign; this is where the real battle begins and ends, this is the moment he has been waiting for. And yet he doesn’t have the diamonds. What will happen if he loses? I just have to hope that doesn’t happen.

  I slide on to a stool and pick up the cards. They are greasy and stink of tobacco smoke and sweat. I hold them in my hand and deal. Black Johnnie stares at his hand for an instant and swallows before he picks them up. I notice his eyes are closed when he holds them in front of his face. And then he opens them. A twitch of his lower lip suggests that they might be what he had hoped for. Indian Tom’s face, however, reveals nothing.

  At the bar, the pyrates are making their own wagers on who will win the game. I see the glint of coins changing hands and the glisten of sweaty palms. For a moment the two men are silent and I take a quick look at Black Johnnie’s face. Although it is burned brown by the sun, his eyes are a pale, pale blue. I try to imagine him striding through Edinburgh, with its castle on a rock.

  ‘Turn,’ says Indian Tom. ‘You lost the last hand, you must turn first.’

  The captain runs a hand across his face and then he picks a card and slowly lays it down. It is the five of clubs. Indian Tom’s eyes glint in the firelight as he slams down his own card; a five of diamonds. I turn back to Black Johnnie. He gives me a glance with the hint of a smile.

  ‘Turn,’ says Indian Tom.

  He takes a deep breath and then lays down the next card. It is the five of spades. He has a pair. Indian Tom’s men cannot contain themselves, cursing and whooping with equal measure. Black Johnnie sits back and wipes the perspiration from his brow. But it is not over yet and he knows it.

  ‘Your turn,’ he says.

  Indian Tom takes in a lungful of breath and then slowly he lets it out. With a shrug he throws down his card. It is a five of hearts. Black Johnnie leans back in his chair.

  ‘A draw,’ he says. ‘Then it all depends on the third card. The highest wins the hand.’

  ‘The highest card,’ repeats Indian Tom.

  Rum is poured and this time Black Johnnie really drinks. The church clock on the hill outside strikes one.

  ‘This time, let’s change the order,’ he suggests. ‘After you.’

  Indian Tom blinks several times. His eyes, although bloodshot, are black as two deep holes. He is both drunk and sober at the same time.

  ‘Very well,’ he says and slams down his final card on the table. It is a king of diamonds. ‘Beat that.’ Finally he smiles, revealing the wide space in his mouth where his teeth should be.

  Black Johnnie’s eyes well up but I can’t tell if it is from relief or despair.

  ‘Very well,’ he says and tosses down his last card. It is an ace. The ace of hearts.

  ‘I win,’ he says simply.

  Indian Tom’s smile freezes on his face as he looks from the card to the captain’s face and back again. And then he sits back and with a tiny shrug, exhales.

  ‘Just as we stated at the start of the game, Ace is low. So I win.’

  Black Johnnie blinks and then leans across the table and speaks softly.

  ‘You jest,’ he says. ‘Everyone knows that in three card brag, the ace is high. A different rule was never mentioned.’

  But Indian Tom just shakes his head.

  ‘Men,’ he says. ‘You remember me stating the rule quite clearly?’

  His shipmates, as one, swear that the rule was stated. They hustle shoulder to shoulder and come a little closer. Their hands rest on the hilts of their cutlasses. I see Black Johnnie’s hand hover over his musket. But he would not stand a chance against so many. As he realises this, his shoulders seem to fall. His mouth has become tight. He will not meet my eye.

  ‘A wager is a wager,’ he says.

  Before he can pull out his musket and turn this into a losing fight, I pull the brass tin out of my pocket and show it to them.

  ‘Here,’ I say. ‘What’s inside here is worth more than a fleet of ships!’

  ‘Silas?’ the captain says. ‘You took my tin?’

  ‘I did,’ I say.

  And yet it does not contain what Black Johnnie thinks it does. And I have given my word to James. I cannot let it go. Not here. Not now.

  ‘Silas?’ he asks again a little louder. Everyone in the tavern turns to look at me. This is worse, much worse than I could ever have imagined. What will Black Johnnie say when it is opened? A tear falls from my eye before I can stop it.

  ‘It’s all right,’ the captain says quietly, patting me gently on the back. ‘I forgive you. Just give it to me.’

  Slowly, with a sinking inside my heart, I hand it over.

  ‘I do love a hand of cards now and then…’ Black Johnnie says, as he places the tin in the middle of the table. For a moment no one moves. And then Indian Tom reaches out. ‘…But not with a cheat like you, Sir!’ the captain shouts. One hand grabs the tin and chucks it to me, the other grasps Indian Tom’s wooden stump. With a yank he twists it up and over, throwing the pyrate off his chair, to fall flat on his face on the tavern floor.

  The captain’s hand is around my wrist and I am whisked through the tavern doorway and out into the night before the pyrates, their reactions slowed with too much rum and beer, can follow us.

  ‘Run, Silas,’ he yells at me. ‘Run for your life!’

  16. TO THE SEA!

  Outside, the dark is not dark anymore. St Pierre is lit up by brilliant bursts of orange that shoot out of the jagged lip of the volcano. The town seems to have woken up. Hundreds of people have come out of their houses to gaze up at Mount Pelée. They stand in their nightshirts here, there and everywhere, so we have to dodge left and right to avoid them as we run to the quayside. But whatever slows us down also slows down our pursuers who, judging by the shouting and the yelling of oaths, are a good deal more clumsy on their feet than we are.

  ‘Almost there,’ shouts Black Johnnie over his shoulder. ‘If we can just make it to the rowboat.’

  For what? I think. How shall we escape in a rowboat?

  And then, like many moments in my life, everything seems to happen at once. The ground starts to shake violently underfoot. The road in front of me heaves up and splits. I am on one side, the captain is on the other. I realise I’ll have to jump. I step backwards and my foot lands on something hard that crunches, like a snail shell. I look down and see that it is not a snail, but a huge black centipede, as long as both my arms put together. I let out a scream that is echoed by the high-pitched whinny of a horse in its stable. A dog starts to bark frantically and then yelps in pain. Up ahead, Black Johnnie has reached the jetty.

 

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