Flint and Silver

by John Drake

  For a long and indeterminate time, there was only confusion and pain. Then there was simply confusion, and then there was the first small clearing of the fog, which was an awareness of being out of the stinking hold, in a hammock slung under the fo'c'sle. There were wind-sails rigged to bring fresh air from above decks, and there was the sound of voices. One voice was Selena's, the other was Cowdray's. Long John couldn't move or speak, but he could listen.

  "Why not?" she said.

  "The amputation is too high."

  "So how can he walk?"

  "With a crutch."

  "What?" The voice was angry. "What? That's no good. No good at all! What sort of a doctor are you? A horse- doctor?"

  "God damn you, girl! Look here…" And Long John felt them right beside him, laying hands on his bandages. He stirred, trying to let them know he was listening, but the movement was too slight.

  "See?" said Cowdray. "The stump ends not twelve inches from the iliac crest. A peg-leg's no use on that. Perhaps in London or Paris something might be done: a false limb, sculpted, and jointed with springs at the knee and ankle, and secured with a harness. But not out here, beyond Christian civilisation. There are not the tools nor the craftsmen." Cowdray shrugged. "He'll have to go on a crutch."

  "Huh!" said Selena. "Long John's no man for that. He'd rather die!" she sneered. "You no-account, useless butcher!"

  "Hold your tongue, madam!" cried Cowdray, stung to anger. "He either goes on a crutch or on his belly. Long John Silver is become a one-legged man, and he must make the best of it."

  * * *

  Chapter 22

  30th June 1749

  Elizabeth's longboat

  The South Atlantic

  Ship," said Hastings, or at least he tried to. On half a pint of water, per day, per man under a scorching tropical sun, it became hard to speak. He reached out a weary hand and pushed at Povey until the other woke. "Ship," he mouthed, and pointed. It was so hard to concentrate. It was all he could do to hold the rudder and steer, as the boat plunged onward under a steady blow.

  Povey raised his head and blinked dry eyes at the heaving waves.

  "Ship!" said Povey. He saw it. He saw topsails and mainsails. It was a ship.

  "Corporal, Mr Boatswain," croaked Hastings, "rouse the hands!"

  But nobody moved. Not properly. Bennet, the acting- corporal, managed to turn his head and at least tried to get up. But that was all. Every man aboard was roasted and feeble, and crumpled in the bottom of the boat, half-conscious and slowly dying. They looked more like the dead of a battlefield than living men.

  "Smoke," said Povey.

  When the men still had their strength, Hastings and Povey had set them various tasks, mainly to keep up their spirits. One of these was the construction of a smoke beacon: a wooden bailing bucket filled with sun-dried, unpicked cable mixed with flakes of tar and wood shavings, rigged to be set alight and hoisted up a spar as a signal to any ships they might encounter.

  "Here, Povey… take the tiller," said Hastings.

  "Aye-aye, sir."

  Hastings crawled towards the bow and the smoke beacon. It was slow, hard going, over the barely moving bodies of moribund men. They moaned and cursed, and some clutched at him and had to be shaken off. He'd got halfway before he realised he was wasting his time, and turned back weeping in frustration.

  "What is it?" said Povey as Hastings fought his way back and tried to shake Corporal Bennet awake.

  "Go way!" said Bennet.

  "What is it?" said Povey again.

  "Tinder box," said Hastings. "Bennet's got it. Dunno where."

  Hastings searched the big limp form without success.

  "Where is it? Where is it?" said Hastings.

  "Give him a drink!" said Povey. "Wake him!" With enormous difficulty, Hastings did so. Struggling to the near-empty water butt, lowering the dipper through the bung-hole, filling a cup and contriving to return without spilling it.

  But someone saw him do it.

  "Here!" said an angry voice. "Ain't time for water-rations."

  "Wot?" said another.

  "Pinchin' the soddin' water, they are!"

  "Bastards!"

  The dead began to wake. And they woke angry.

  "Here!" said Hastings, pouring water into Bennet's mouth.

  Bennet's hands came up to the cup and his eyes opened.

  "Why's he gettin' a bleedin' drink?"

  "Bloody lobster!"

  "Corporal Bennet," said Hastings, "look - a ship! Where's the tinder box? We have to light the beacon!"

  "Ship?" cried the living dead. "Where?"

  "There, you idle lubbers!" cried Hastings and pointed to it.

  "We're saved! We're saved!"

  "Here it is, sir," said Bennet, hauling his tinder box out from the depths of his breeches.

  "Quick, man!"

  Corporal Bennet did his best. He crawled forward - now with ready hands helping him on his way - while those who could were sitting up waving their shirts and raising a thin shout. There wasn't a man aboard capable of standing up on his legs.

  "Can't open the bugger," Bennet sobbed, his weakened fingers fumbling with the lid of the tinder box as he sat.

  "Oh Jesus," cried Povey, "she hasn't seen us! We'll lose her."

  A groan went up from the longboat as the distant ship ploughed onward with no sign of having spotted them.

  "Give me that!" said Hastings, snatching at the tinder box. "I'll do it!"

  "No!" said Bennet, determined to complete his task.

  "She's passin' us by! She's leavin' us!"

  Bennet heaved afresh at the box, which sprung suddenly open, scattering its contents over the bottom of the boat - except for the vital piece of flint, which went over the side with a tiny splash.

  "AHHHH!" said Bennet as salvation sank into the depths.

  "No!" gasped Hastings. "Who's got a tinder box? Who's got a flint? Search, you buggers! Search!"

  There was a desperate moaning and muttering and a clumsy fumbling as the men did their utmost to find that which wasn't there.

  "Hasn't anybody got one?" said Hastings, "Not even you bloody marines? Ain't you all supposed to carry spare flints?"

  "Oh!" said one of the marines, his dulled mind clearing. He dipped into a pocket. "Here you are, sir," he said, and held up a big square musket flint.

  "Pass it here!" screamed Hastings, and hand-to-hand the flint sped back to Corporal Bennet, who was busy retrieving steel and tinder and a stump of candle from the bottom of the boat.

  Then, hands trembling, Bennet struck steel and flint together, shed sparks on tinder, raised a red glow, blew it into a flame, lit the candle and dropped it into the beacon and ran the beacon up its spar. Soon, white smoke was streaming on the wind and the boat was dry, croaking cheers from stem to stern.

  "She's seen us!" cried Povey. "Look, she's coming about!"

  The cheers redoubled and then died. The ship was most definitely coming towards them, but she was flying the banner of Spain.

  * * *

  Chapter 23

  25th June 1752

  Aboard Walrus

  The South Caribbean

  It was night. Walrus was plunging and twisting in heavy seas. Sharp-bowed as she was, she was a wet ship in a blow and the fo'c'sle was battened down tight.

  Jobo had lashed the wounded into their hammocks and Long John swayed and swung with the others. He was boiling hot and delirious. The wound throbbed and burned, and worse than that he was tormented by the knowledge he was now a cripple. He groaned and wept and prayed to the God he'd long since abandoned. He begged for his leg to come back. He cringed and sobbed and implored the maker of the universe to make him whole again, and not turn him into a pitiful one-legged ruin.

  And when he couldn't get that, he begged for death. He yelled and swore and called out for an end to it all. He'd have done it himself, there and then, if only he'd had a loaded pistol. So he called out to them all to bring him one. He called to Jobo,
and Israel Hands and to Selena. Nobody came, except in his mind. And so he dreamed of Selena. His sanity was hanging by a thread at that moment, but he had just enough wit left, and enough humour too, to cackle with laughter when the desire stirred within him as it always did when he thought of her.

  "Well, John Silver," he said, "there's still one limb sound out of the three." And he thought of the first he'd learned of her, even before he'd met her. He thought of a bill posted on a wall in Charleston harbour, South Carolina:

  He slept for a while, dreaming of her, and then woke suddenly. Flint was there. Silver could tell by the cackling of the parrot and the uneasy scratching it made as it shifted its claws on the cloth of Flint's coat. He opened his eyes. He tried to force away the dull nausea and weakness. It didn't do to be weak in Flint's company.

  "John!" said Flint, in what passed for tones of anxious inquiry. "How are you, shipmate? Missing the limb?"

  Long John fought to remember where he was and what was happening. He looked around. He was under the fo'c'sle, in a hammock. He peered at Flint's blurred figure with the green shape of the bird bobbing and darting its head and nuzzling at Flint's ear.

  "John, my dear fellow," said Flint, "'Tis your old comrade Joe Flint, come to call." There was a smile on Flint's face and a hard fright gripped Long John as he realised that he was alone with Flint. The other hammocks were gone, their occupants either recovered or dead.

  "How long have I been here?" said Long John.

  "Long enough, old friend," said Flint, his big white teeth gleaming in the darkness. Flint could charm the angels when he wanted.

  "Jobo," called Long John, "fetch the rum, you lazy sod!"

  "He's not here, shipmate," said Flint, leaning over the helpless man. "I came down specially, my chicken, just to catch a word with you in private."

  "Jobo! Israel! Geor-" Long John's thin shout, barely more than a whisper, was shut off by Flint's right hand.

  "Now isn't this pleasant?" said Flint. "Just two old comrades together. What a shame it can't last."

  Flint produced a knife with a remarkably long and narrow blade. He shifted so his left hand covered Long John's mouth, clamping like a vice, while the right hand took the blade. Carefully Flint positioned the tip of the stiletto inside one of Long John's nostrils, and there came a fluttering and flapping of wings as Flint's parrot took itself off and found its way out of a hatchway.

  "There," said Flint softly, "I'll do it as quick as possible, shipmate, for old time's sake. But it has to be done, you see, and it has to be done right, so that nobody shall know." He tensed for the strike: the swift thrust, crunching through bone and into Silver's brain, and then a vigorous corkscrew to mangle and mince. It could be done in a second. Silver would hardly feel it… would he? And in any case, too much had passed. Too much had changed, and there was no room left for sentiment. Flint tensed again. Sweat broke on his brow. He looked at Silver's yellow-white face and his staring eyes. Flint blinked. It could be done and must be done. For a third time he tensed to strike…

  "What are you doing?" screeched a loud and furious voice.

  It jolted Flint like a blow. He was proud of his ability to detect those who tried to creep up on him unexpected, and it was galling to be caught out. Perhaps it was because he was so absorbed in his work. But he moved quick enough and the stiletto flickered out of sight.

  "Selena, my dear," he said, without looking round. Long John heard the quick steps and saw her head and shoulders loom above him beside Flint. He saw Flint's big smile and her fury.

  "Israel Hands!" she called. "Come here this instant!"

  More footsteps and Israel Hands appeared. Now there were three of them, blurred and swimming in front of him. It was like a play, a performance in which Long John Silver had no part. They were there: Flint who hated him, Selena who he hoped did not, and Israel Hands who'd been drooling at the mouth for Selena these many months past, but didn't dare touch her, and who now did her bidding like a slave.

  Selena ignored Flint. There was no reasoning with that one. She spoke to Israel Hands.

  "He must be watched night and day," she said, pulling Flint's hand off Long John's brow, where Flint had quickly placed it to give an appearance of affection and concern.

  "Aye-aye, Miss Selena," said Hands.

  "You fix that, do you hear?" she said. "You and your mates: watch on, and watch off, by the ship's bell, all shipshape and Bristol fashion - d'you hear?"

  Selena had never been to Bristol. She didn't even know it was a place, let alone what its fashion might be. But she'd been long enough among sailors to learn their language and to bark it out with authority. Flint snorted with laughter at her doing so, but Israel Hands did not. He knuckled his brow and stamped a foot in the lower deck's most formal salute.

  "Aye-aye, Miss Selena," he said.

  "Now, get out of here!"

  "Aye-aye, Miss Selena," said Israel Hands, and vanished.

  Selena glared at Flint. Flint was considering this interesting turn of events. This was his ship. His to command. And yet it was not. It was his and Long John's. Each had his following. Just as Billy Bones was Flint's man, so Israel Hands was Long John's, and each with about half the ship's company behind him. Thanks to the recent skirmish, there were less of each now, but numbers were still equally divided. Flint cursed behind his gleaming smile and wondered how long it could go on.

  He broke off as shouting and laughter came from the quarterdeck. He frowned, cocked an ear and attended for a while. He judged it was merely some horse-play that the men were indulging in. Nothing to worry about. He turned to Selena.

  "Bless you, my dear," he said. "I'll leave you to minister unto this poor Christian, for I fear the Almighty may have forgotten the bearings of him where he lies at anchor." He looked down at Long John. "Isn't that so, my old chicken?" And then he was gone.

  Selena leaned close to Long John and took his hand. The hammock swayed.

  "What did he do?" she said. "Are you hurt?"

  "No," said Long John with great effort, delighted at her interest. A little spark of joy twinkled deep inside him, driving away the dark of pain and weakness that was bearing him down.

  "Drink…" he said, and she disappeared and came back with a pannikin of water.

  "Here," she said, and raised his head so he could drink. Then she laid him back and wiped his brow. The lovely ebony face never smiled. It showed no expression at all. She was a hard creature to read. But her actions spoke, and she stayed for a while, standing guard until Israel Hands came back with Cowdray the surgeon and Jobo the surgeon's mate, who was dripping wet and swaying on his feet.

  "Ah, Mr Silver," said Cowdray, "I rejoice to see you awake." He blinked guiltily and added, "I regret that you were left alone. I ordered this wretch to stay with you." He looked disparagingly at Jobo. "But it would seem Captain Flint gave him a bottle and a guinea, and told him to get drunk."

  "Aye," said Israel Hands, "but we found the bugger, put a bowline under his arms and heaved him over the side on a line to the yardarm, then all hands hauled him up and down and dunked him till he was sober." He leered at Jobo. "You're right enough now, ain't you, shipmate?"

  "Aye…" said Jobo uncertainly.

  "You'd better be!" snapped Selena. "You," she said to Israel Hands, "stay with him. I'm putting you in charge!"

  Cowdray's eyes widened, as Flint's had done, to see a black slave-girl giving orders among men, and Long John tried to laugh. But the effort sickened him and he fainted.

  When he recovered, only Israel Hands and Jobo were there. They were bickering and yarning and playing dice for each other's share of the loot. Long John looked at them in fright. He doubted if the pair of them together could keep Flint off, should he choose to come back.

  * * *

  Chapter 24

  3rd July 1749

  Morning

  The Governor's Mansion

  Puerto España, Trinidad

  George Hastings and David Povey sat in the
incredibly cool, elegant room and clutched their drinks. Remembering the long thirsty days, Hastings took a swallow. It was some sort of fruit juice, but like no fruit he'd ever tasted. He emptied the goblet and set it on a table.

  Don Felipe Avilia Carreño, Governor of Trinidad, caught his eye and smiled. He spoke slowly, carefully, in Spanish, trying to make himself understood.

  Instantly Hastings struggled to his feet, and Povey got up beside him, blinking and frowning.

  "I'm sorry, sir," said Hastings, "it's no good - we can't speak Spanish."

  "No-no-no!" said Don Felipe and rushed forward to help them back into their seats. Though much recovered, they were still very weak. But at least they were clean - their filthy clothes having been removed and laundered while they slept. Even their uniform coats had been carefully brushed and the brass buttons polished.

  Don Felipe turned at the sound of quick footsteps from

  the corridor outside, and doors swung open to admit a lady followed by two maids.

  Once again, Hastings and Povey shot to their feet, this time entirely appropriately, for they needed no Spanish to tell them that they were in the presence of a great lady.

  As Dona Alicia Maria O'Donnell de Avilia Carreno entered, doors closed smoothly behind her, maids deployed left and right to stand as statues, and her husband the governor stood forward, bowed and kissed her hand. She was a woman in her forties, statuesque and of regal bearing.

  Hastings and Povey stood to the strictest attention of which they were capable, and bowed as Don Felipe presented them. She smiled.

  "I came as soon as I could," she said in excellent English - easy for a girl who'd grown up in Dublin. "Mr Hastings, Mr Povey - you are heroes! You shall be returned in triumph to England, at the head of your men, and my husband shall send a letter telling of everything that you have achieved."