Blood Diamond: A Pirate Devlin Novel by Mark Keating

then an arched coffin of a passage revealed itself, where Peter had to bend some, his lamp the only source of light and even that guttering in the diminished air.
    One hundred and twenty feet long, stretching beneath the street – as long as the Shadow bow to sternpost, though a longer, narrower walk with the damp walls scraping at their clothes, cobwebs pasting them with dust and flakes of stone.
    Squealed alerts ran ahead of them and twisted away from their feet, Hugh stamping and cursing at the sleek, fat bodies that tried to ride on his shoe buckles.
    Then a smaller space emerged as the men who carved out the hole lost interest in its finale. Dandon wondered if it was even possible to turn around as his head went into his neck and they sidestepped along.
    Peter Sam’s grunts echoed his discomfort from the van, while his weapon across his back chipped at the stone overhead. Maybe the final drag had been so designed to force the bellman to carry on, his only option to move forward to the gaol and the condemned, to recite his grisly words outside the cells and recall them to their doom.
    Just as every breath became dust the lantern’s light shrank to a square. It went no further; a wooden door stood before them. Peter passed the light back to Hugh. He reached for the ringbolt handle but he had no room to force this one – his great strength was reduced to useless nothing in the suffocating confines.
    But the iron turned and the door opened like a sea-chest before him, darkness beyond. Richard Maynard’s voice rang out behind Dandon. ‘One presumes the dead have no need for locks, Gentlemen. May I enquire as to what you fellows intend now you have reached the gaol?’
    Dandon was impressed by the man. He had been assaulted and mildly kidnapped, but had piped up like a constable once it was clear that these men had no designs upon his church.
    No light within, the lamp pushed away the dark to reveal another passage. No windows. Still very much below ground. An iron latticed door slowly grew discernible some twenty feet ahead, and four similar doors stretched towards it along their right. The condemned cells were now empty after the day’s events. They awaited Tuesday and fresh company.
    Dandon recalled the plan Adam Cowrie had mapped for them. This passage and its iron door led to another which passed two stairs, one to the wards above, the other to the sessions house beside the gaol. Its principal purpose was that prisoners need not be taken out into the street when summoned, where escape or rescue might occur. Similarly, when condemned, they could be taken directly to the last rooms of Newgate without passing any of their fellow inmates or even a ray of daylight to warm them before their final journey. He took out the crude drawing but cursed as Peter carried away the lantern to scowl at the iron door that mocked him. This one would not move aside so easily.
    ‘Hugh,’ he called behind him, not deigning to whisper. ‘Bag. To me.’ And Hugh shouldered off his satchel with a grin.
     
    George kicked about the ribs and kidneys as Devlin tried vainly to roll away. George giggled and sweated with every blow.
    Wild yelled above all the moans from the rooms and cellars about them. ‘Your name! Tell me your bloody name!’
    Devlin had heard the giggle before. There had been a giant Scotsman once, a real giant. He had giggled and had wide white eyes as he beat on Devlin in a garden in Charles Town in the Carolinas. Devlin feared nothing now and had taken beatings all his life. And once there had been a giant Scotsman. Once. No more.
    George took a breath and a wipe of spittle and Devlin grabbed the planted foot and then the back of the leg and then George was flying. Wild watched him slap to the wall and floor and pulled Devlin tighter.
    ‘Bastard!’ But he kept back. ‘ George !’
    George was up and went for the head, away from the reach. A soft noise, again and again. Devlin covered his head and coiled up as best he