Chapter 2
London, England
Word had spread of his arrival. Cheering throngs lined the banks of the Thames as his ship, the Defiance, proudly edged her way toward the naval docks.
Devlin O’Neill stood square on the quarterdeck, unsmiling, his arms folded across his chest, a tall, powerful figure as still as a statue.
For the occasion of this homecoming—if it could be called such—he was in his formal naval attire.
A blue jacket with tails, gold epaulets adorning each shoulder, pale white britches and stockings, highly polished shoes.
His black felt bicorn was worn with the points facing out, as only admirals had the privilege of wearing the points front to back.
His hair, a brilliant gold, was too long and pulled back in a queue.
The crowd—men, women and children, agile and infirm, all London’s poorest classes—raced up the riverbanks alongside his ship. Some of the women threw flowers at it.
A hero’s welcome, he thought with no mirth at all. A hero’s welcome for the man one and all called “His Majesty’s pirate.”
He had not set foot in Great Britain for an entire year.
He would not be setting foot there now, had he a choice, but it had become impossible to ignore this last summons from the Admiralty, their fourth.
His mouth twisted coldly. What he wanted was a steady bed and a pox-free woman who was not a whore, but his needs would have to wait.
He did not wonder what the admirals wanted—he had disobeyed so many orders and broken so many rules in the past year that they could be asking for his head on any number of counts.
He also knew he would be receiving new orders, which he looked forward to.
He never lingered in any port for more than a few days or perhaps a week.
His glance swept over his ship. The Defiance was a thirty-eight-gun frigate known for her speed and her agility, but mostly for her captain’s outrageous and unconventional daring.
He was well aware that the sight of his ship caused other ships to turn tail and run, hence his preference for pursuit at night.
Now top men were high on both the fore and main masts, reefing sails.
Fifty marines in their red coats stood stiffly at attendance, muskets in their arms, as the frigate cruised toward its berth.
Other sailors stood with them, eager for the liberty he would soon grant.
Forecastle men readied the ship’s huge anchors.
All in all, three hundred men stood upon the frigate’s decks.
Beyond the docks, where two state-of-the-line three deckers, several sloops, a schooner and two gunships were at birth, the spires and rooftops of London gleamed in the bright blue sky.
The past year had been a very lucrative one.
A year of cruising from the Strait of Gibraltar to Algiers, from the Bay of Biscayne to the Portuguese coast. There’d been forty-eight prizes and more than five hundred captured crewmen.
His duties had been routine—escorting supply convoys, patrolling coastal shorelines, enforcing the blockade of France.
Nights had been spent swooping upon unsuspecting French privateers, days lolling upon the high seas.
He had been rather wealthy before this past year, but now, with this last prize, an American ship loaded with gold bullion, he was a very wealthy man, indeed.
And finally, a smile touched his lips.
But the boy trembled and remained afraid. The boy refused to go away. No amount of wealth, no amount of power, could be enough. And the boy had only to close his eyes to see his father’s eyes, enraged and sightless in his severed head, there upon the Irish ground in a pool of his own blood.
Devlin had gone to sea three years after the Wexford uprising, with the Earl of Adare’s permission and patronage.
Adare had married his mother within the year, although his baby sister, Meg, had never been found.
The earl had fabricated a naval history for Devlin, enabling him to start his career as a midshipman and not as the lowliest sailor far below decks.
Devlin had quickly risen to the rank of lieutenant.
Briefly he’d served on Nelson’s flagship.
At the Battle of Trafalgar, the captain of the sloop he was serving on had taken an unlucky hit and been killed instantly; Devlin had as quickly assumed command.
The small vessel had only had ten guns, but she was terribly quick, and Devlin had snuck the Gazelle in under the leeward hull of a French frigate.
With the French ship sitting so high above them, her every broadside had sailed right over the Gazelle.
His own guns, at point-blank range, had torn apart the decks and rigging, crippling the bigger, faster ship immediately.
He’d towed his prize proudly into Leghorn and shortly after had received a promotion to captain, his own command and a fast schooner, the Loretta.
He had only been eighteen.
There had been so many battles and so many prizes since then. But the biggest prize of all yet remained to be taken, and it did not exist upon the high seas of the world.
The heat of highly controlled rage, always broiling deep within him, simmered a bit more.
Devlin ignored it. Instead of thinking of the future reckoning that would one day come with Harold Hughes, now the Earl of Eastleigh, he watched as the Defiance eased into its berth between a schooner and a gunship.
Devlin nodded at his second in command, a brawny red-haired Scot, Lieutenant MacDonnell.
Mac used the horn to announce a week’s liberty.
Devlin smiled a little as his men cheered and hollered, then watched his decks clear as if the signal to jump ship had been given.
He didn’t mind. His crew was top-notch. Some fifty of his men had been with him since he’d been given his first ship; half of his crew had been with him since the collapse of the Treaty of Tilsit.
They were good men, brave and daring. His crew was so well-honed that no one hesitated even when his commands seemed suicidal.
The Defiance had become the scourge of the seas because of their loyalty, faith and discipline.
He was proud of his crew.
Mac fell into step with him, looking uncomfortable in his naval uniform, which he seemed to have outgrown.
Mac was Devlin’s own age, twenty-four, and this past year he had bulked out.
Devlin thought they made an odd duo—the short, broad Scot with the flaming hair, the tall, blond Irishman with the cold silver eyes.
“Ach, got to find me land legs,” Mac growled.
Devlin smiled as the land heaved under them as high and hard as any storm swell. He clapped his shoulder. “Give it a day.”
“That I shall, a day and seven, if you don’t mind.” Mac grinned. He had all his teeth and only one was rotten. “Got plans, Cap? I’m achin’ meself for a lusty whore. Me first stop, I tell you that.” His laughter was bawdy.
Devlin was lenient with the men—like most ships’ commanders, he allowed them their whores in port, but he preferred them to bring the women aboard, so the ship’s surgeon could take a good look at them. He wanted his crew pox-free. “We were in Lisbon a week ago,” he said mildly.
“Feels like a year,” Mac grunted.
Devlin saw the post chaise waiting for him—he’d sent word to Sean by mail packet that he was on his way back. “Can I offer you a ride, Mac?”
Mac flushed. “Not goin’ to town,” he said, referring to the West End.
Devlin nodded, reminding him that he was expected back aboard the Defiance in a week’s time to set sail at noon, with all three hundred of his men.
His rate of desertion was almost zero, an astonishing fact that no one in the British navy could understand.
But then, with so many spoils taken and shared, his crew were all well off.
Thirty minutes later the chaise was clipping smartly over London Bridge.
Devlin stared at the familiar sights. After days spent in the wind and on the sea, or at exotic, sultry ports in the Mediterranean, North Africa and Portugal, the city looked dark and dirty, unclean.
Still, he was a man who liked a beautiful woman and refused a common whore, and his wandering eye took in more than his fair share of elegant ladies in chaises, carriages and on foot, shopping in the specialty stores.
His loins stirred. He had sent several letters ahead and one was to his English mistress.
He fully expected to be entertained that night and all the week long.
The London offices of the Admiralty were on Brook Street in an imposing limestone building built half a century before.
Officers, aides and adjutants were coming and going.
Here and there, groups of officers paused in conversation.
As Devlin pushed open the heavy wood doors and entered a vast circular lobby with a high-domed ceiling, heads began to turn his way.
Portraits of the greatest admirals in British history adorned the walls, as did paintings of the greatest ships and battles.
His mistress had once said his portrait would soon hang there, too.
The conversation began to diminish. An eerie quiet settled over the lobby; Devlin was amused.
He heard his name being whispered about.
“Captain O’Neill, sir?” A young lieutenant with crimson cheeks saluted him smartly from the bottom of the marble staircase.
Devlin saluted him rather causally back.
“I am to escort you to Admiral St. John, sir,” the freckle-faced youth said. His flush had somehow deepened.