by John Drake
That was shrieked at them in fury. The men bit their lips and avoided his eye. Flint had never screamed at them before. He'd always been smooth as silk and slick as grease. He'd never visibly lost his temper. His voice had been soft as a mother's kiss, even when smashing fingers with a belaying pin. They didn't understand this. It was frightening. So they pulled like red-hot buggery and were back aboard in no time, even with the current in their faces.
There, Selena was shut up down below again, in the cabin smeared with Smith's blood. She found herself some clothes and sat with her head in her hands, and made the best of it. At least she was safe with Flint aboard. And it was no good swimming back to the island. She would have to be patient and hope for better days.
Up on deck, Mr Cowdray was summoned with his instruments, and he washed and dressed Flint's wounds on the quarterdeck, blathering Latin and claiming that soap and sunshine cured all, and wielding a razor to clear the skin for sewing.
"There, sir!" said Cowdray, after a busy half-hour, for he was proud of his work, and felt that no man could have done a better job of putting Flint's scalp back into place. He finished with a neat bandage and a word of warning.
"There will be some scarring, sir, at the brow, near the hairline. But mostly there will be little to be seen once the hair grows back."
Flint nodded. He'd borne the surgery manfully, since his mind had been far away while Cowdray was cutting and stitching. He'd been pulling himself back from the edge. He'd been very close last night, and even closer this morning, for there are worse depths than those which swallowed Taylor and Howard: depths which are ever-waiting for a man with a mind like Flint's. But now he was back. He was back and safe, and the edge was far away, so he thought.
"Will you take a pull of rum, Captain?" said Cowdray. "It's usual at such a time." And Cowdray's assistant, Jobo, held out a bottle.
"No thank you, Doctor," said Flint. "I need a clear head, and a word with the hands." He looked Cowdray seriously in the eye. "For we have been betrayed, Doctor."
"Betrayed?"
"Betrayed by John Silver - that unconscionable scoundrel - who put ashore a landing party, in secret and at dead of night - and murdered all my dear comrades, leaving me the sole survivor."
"No!"
"Yes! And therefore I must take this ship into action against his, if we are to have any chance of reclaiming our buried goods, the which he is resolved to steal and keep for himself and his men - for they are as bad as he!"
"In breach of his oath and his articles?"
"I heard him say it, sir! When I was forced to hide in the woods, and he did not know I was near!" Flint bowed his head in sorrow. "I know we did not part as friends, yet still I had thought more than that of John Silver."
"Good God Almighty!" said Cowdray, horrified. He raised his voice, "Gather round, you men. Come closer! The captain has fearful news!"
* * *
Chapter 48
9th September 1752
The forenoon watch (c. 10 a.m. shore time)
Aboard Lion
The southern anchorage
A nine-pound shot was only half an inch wider than a six: about four inches as compared with three and a half. But the greater weight of shot, and the heavier powder charge behind it, gave the nine-pounder gun its famously long reach, and a far greater capacity to smash timbers and beams. The six-pounder was a good enough gun for grape and canister, or for chain-shot to dismast, but the nine-pounder was a proper ship-breaker.
"Can I fire, Cap'n?" pleaded Israel Hands, "before them buggers comes into range of us?" He crouched down and took two more sights over the barrel of his beloved Spanish gun: one sighting through the top notches to train the gun, and a second, for range, through the side notches.
Range was the hard one. Training was easy: just a matter of pointing of the gun at the target, by sighting through the top-centre notch on the breech-ring, and the top-centre notch in the muzzle-ring.
But range had to be judged - which meant guessed - and then the side notch on the muzzle-ring had to be lined up with one of a series of side notches at the breech, giving from one degree to five degrees of elevation. As Israel Hands had never yet fired the gun, he was ranging by guesswork and the hope that the two and a half degrees he'd chosen would reach Walrus, which he guessed was about four hundred yards away.
"Can I fire, Cap'n?" said Israel Hands again, and blew on the match-cord in his linstock to make the end glow nice and red.
"No," said Silver, "not yet. All they've done is make sail."
"But that's against -"
"Silence on the gun-deck!" bawled Silver, and stumped about behind Israel Hands and his gun-crew. Silver was in anguish. It was torture. His was the final decision. Should he fire on Walrus or not? Should he take the final step that would set jolly companions to murdering each other?
Israel and the rest looked at Silver and waited. The ship was at general quarters. Guns were run out and loaded. Decks were sanded and the ship's boys crouched ready to run cartridges from the magazine. The larboard spring was bent to the capstan, and hands stood at the bars to swing Lion's battery to bear on any quarter. She was as prepared as ever she could be.
Silver looked at Walrus. He'd been studying her through a glass since just after dawn when Flint's signal had gone up. He'd seen Allardyce take a boat ashore and come back with Flint: just Flint and none of the burial party. Just Flint, and Selena in Flint's blue coat, the sight of which set Silver's mind wrenching and churning and doubting all over again, wondering what in Heaven and Hell was going on.
And then Walrus had upped anchor and made sail! And all without a word sent over to Lion. Silver had immediately made ready to fight, knowing that, with springs on his cables, he couldn't be out-manoeuvred, and equally that there was no way out of the anchorage for Walrus other than past Lion, for on Walrus's side it ran to shoals and sandbanks.
He'd not set sail either. With the navigable waters of the anchorage over half a mile wide, it was possible that Flint would pass well clear of Lion and avoid a fight, heading for the open sea, but Silver couldn't see him doing that. That would mean leaving the island free and open for Silver to go ashore and search for the goods. And Joe Flint would poke his own eyes out before he'd do that.
"What's he doing?" said Silver, and put his glass on Walrus again. There was the breath of a southwesterly wind in the anchorage where the steady westerlies swirled around, and Flint - having recovered his anchors and cables - was creeping towards Lion under topsails and jib.
"Please let me knock a spar off him, Cap'n," said the gunner, wringing his hands. "Please, Cap'n…"
"Aye!" said the gun-crew.
"Aye!" said all hands.
"What's he doing?" said Silver. "Look! He's going about…"
Walrus was turning. She wasn't bow-on any more. She was turning her broadside towards Lion.
"DOWN!" cried Silver, and dropped to the deck as white gouts of powder smoke burst out of Walrus's side, followed a heart-beat later by the thunder and flash of her guns.
Voom! Voom! Two shots from Walrus sped high over Lion, harmless and aimless, and the rest went totally unmarked.
"BOOOOOM!" said the Spanish nine at last, as Israel Hands concluded that no further orders were required, and dipped his linstock.
Silver struggled to his feet in the swirling smoke as the nine-pounder crew leapt to their work, sponging, ramming, and running out: five men each side, and a second gun captain, ready with a powder horn to prime the touch-hole. It was blessed relief for John Silver, and he felt it. No more doubts and agony. Just a straight fight.
"Left! Left! Left!" cried Israel Hands with his left arm extended, and ten men hauled on tackles and heaved with handspikes to train the gun.
"Right!" cried Israel Hands, throwing out the other arm - it was always left and right to avoid confusion with the ship's larboard and starboard. Then it was "Left-left!" and finally "Well!" as the smoke-shrouded silhouette of Walrus lined up with the gun. T
he elevation he kept at two and a half degrees, and fired again.
Boom! The gun bounded back and sent another shot on its way, to the cheers of all aboard Lion. With ten men for a gun-crew, Israel Hands got off yet another round before Walrus replied with a broadside.
"Block-headed buggers!" yelled Israel Hands into Silver's ear, and pointed at Walrus. "They're out of bloody range! They couldn't hit St Paul's bloody Cathedral from there." He smiled like the sunshine. "But I bloody well can!" And he turned to his gun-crew again. "Go on, my fine boys!" he cried. "With a will now, lads!"
"Heave… Heave… Heave!" they chanted, pulling together to run out the gun. BOOOOM!
Silver got himself out of the way and into the stern, for a better sight of Walrus, clear of the Spanish nine's smoke. Lion's people were leaping and yelling and waving cutlasses. They were like the crowd at a cock-fight, all merry and bright and cheering their gunner and his men.
BOOOOOM! At the very instant Silver put the glass to his eye and focused, a nine-pounder shot tore into Walrus, showering wooden splinters across the deck and bowling men over. It looked like Israel had got the range. Then Walrus fired again, and missed with every round, and Israel Hands fired twice more, sending shot crashing into Walrus's hull. Silver could see the damage Israel was doing. Men were being killed, and at least one gun had been knocked over and blown clear out of its carriage.
What's up with you, Joe? he thought. You ain't moving. You're just making a target of yourself. And why are you firing so slow? He looked again and, just for an instant - though he wasn't sure - he thought he saw Flint aiming a musket upwards, and shooting at something, and others beside him doing the same. Then the smoke of Walrus's guns covered them up.
"Shiver me timbers!" said Silver. "We'll wreck and sink him if he don't move sharper than that. And him not laying a finger on us." He shook his head in disbelief. "What are you doing, Joe?"
It was too easy. Silver couldn't believe it. Something was wrong. Flint wouldn't just give up. Nor would he give an enemy the chance to shoot him to pieces and not hit back. Silver was still wondering when he smelt smoke. Not powder smoke. Wood smoke.
He turned. In the middle of Lion's quarterdeck was a small raised skylight that lit the ward-room just forrard of the stern cabin. The glazed windows were open, and smoke was pouring out, glowing red with the reflection of flames beneath. It was the worst of all a seaman's fears: the ship was on fire.
* * *
Chapter 49
9th September 1752
The morning watch (c. 10 a.m. shore time)
Aboard Walrus
The southern anchorage
"Commence firing!" said Flint, and hugged himself in delight as Walrus's seven gun captains touched off a harmless broadside, and the guns roared and the smoke billowed and the ship crawled forward, and round-shot flew God knew where.
Voom! Something flashed between Walrus's masts with a ponderous, heavy note, but Flint ignored it. He'd made his plans. He was full, fat and happy with them. He had no concerns at all.
"And again, my bully boys!" cried Flint. "Give 'em another!" He was himself again: Captain Flint, sparkling clean in fresh linen, bedecked with arms, and the neat bandaging hidden almost entirely by his hat. He was so pleased with himself that the headache of his wounds was blown away on the four winds.
He ran his glass over Lion and picked out Silver, just visible through a cloud of smoke. It seemed Lion had returned fire - Silver was clustered together with some of his men, in the waist.
Ah, John, my fine fellow! he thought, there's you with guns run out and matches burning, and springs on your cables, and ready in all respects for action - not knowing that the real danger is creeping up behind you! Flint smiled. And all I have to do is persuade you to open fire, and then keep out of the way of your shot. All else has been arranged.
He smiled in complete satisfaction… which departed with hideous speed as a gun fired aboard Lion and a shot struck Walrus with a rending crash, and two men died instantly and another three were ripped open and thrown down, bleeding savagely. Flint put his glass on the smoke and felt the first, dismaying fright. Lion was supposed to be out of range. Walrus's six-pounders were close to useless at this range and Lion's little pop-guns should be utterly outclassed.
There was a flash as Lion's gun fired again. That was no four-pounder! It was something very much bigger. And where had that new gun-port come from?
"No!" said Flint, in the horror of realisation. It was that poxy Spanish gun, the one Israel Hands had taken out of the treasure ship. Flint realised with profound shame that he'd forgotten it. The pit opened and beckoned as guilt and self- loathing fell upon him, for this was his own fault, his very own fault and could not be unloaded on to any other person.
CRASH-CLANG! Ten feet away, a six-pounder vaulted backwards out of its mounting, spraying iron fragments in all directions and throwing more men dead and wounded on to the deck.
"Cap'n!" said Allardyce, running up to Flint and yelling over the din of gunfire. "They're hitting us, Cap'n. Permission to make sail and get out of range?"
Flint turned to look at Allardyce, on the point of saying yes. But a flash of green caught his eye. It was the bird. It had flown out to the ship. It was nestling in the maintop. Flint shook with anger. There was the cause of all his ills!
"Small shot!" cried Flint. He stamped and roared and shouted with such passion that, beneath his bandages, stitches parted and fresh blood began to flow. "Fetch me some small shot and a fowling piece!" He leapt on to a gun-carriage and grabbed the mizzen shrouds. "There!" he screamed, pointing at the parrot. "There's the swab!"
"What is it?" said Allardyce nervously to one of his mates.
"It's the Cap'n's parrot," said the other. "Look, it's come back!" But there came another rending crash and the two men ducked in fright with their hands over their heads as another nine-pounder ball ripped into Walrus.
"Cap'n, sir!" cried Allardyce, "we got to get her under way!"
"Damn your eyes and bones, you mutinous bugger!" said Flint. "I said fetch me some small shot and a fowling piece!"
The men looked at one another in fright.
"Well? Well?" cried Flint.
"Don't rightly know that we've got any, Cap'n," said Allardyce. "Not small shot. And we surely ain't got no fowling piece on board."
Flint's hands were around his throat in an instant, throttling and spattering blood from his fresh-opened wound.
"Then get me a bloody musket, and cut up a ball with a knife. Cut it into many pieces and load it well, or I'll cut the liver and lights out of you!" He turned on the rest of them who'd left their guns and their duties and were gazing in horror at their captain. "And all hands, out with your barking irons and shoot me that bloody bird!"
He set an example by dragging a musket out of a rack by the mainmast and blazing away at the unfortunate parrot, which abandoned the maintop and fluttered to the fore- topmast.
His deeply puzzled men fired a reluctant volley at the creature who had been Flint's pride and joy. They all hated it, but none had dared lay a hand on it. Not in Flint's sight, anyway. And now, since none dared oppose him, men were loading and firing at it as if nothing else was happening, while Flint sat on the deck, making parrot-shot out of musket balls, in company with Allardyce and one or two others who were more afraid of Flint than they were of death.
And CRASH! - another round from Israel Hands, who'd got the range nicely and was hitting Walrus at a comfortable, steady rate of about one shot every two minutes. They could have fired much faster, but Hands had a firm deck under his feet, and a good crew, and a target that was sitting still and not hitting back.
It was just a matter of time before Walrus was knocked into splinters.
* * *
Chapter 50
9th September 1752
The morning watch (c. 10 a.m. shore time)
Aboard Lion
The southern anchorage
The boom and rumble of a gun
reached Billy Bones, where he sat in his chains. The sound came down through two decks, loud and clear and unmistakable, and it set the very ballast stones a-tremble.
"Ah!" said Billy Bones, throwing off the leg-irons that he'd long since filed through and had left in place only for appearances, to keep Silver's men happy when they came down to feed him and to empty his slop-bucket. He frowned, for they'd done that none too often. It was usually the nippers they sent down to do it and the little bleeders delighted in spilling the stew on Billy Bones's legs - God an' all his little angels help 'em if Billy ever got his hands on 'em!
He stood up and stretched. He'd been four days down here. He was cramped and stiff. He'd been sat on his behind the whole time, unable - in his irons - even to take a step, and afraid to take them off to exercise for fear of losing them in the gloom and blowing the gaff. Now he wriggled his toes for the pins and needles, and he rubbed his arms and worked his shoulder joints. He grumbled and mumbled a bit, but he was a stoic beast. He was no more capable of self-pity than a cart-horse or an ox.
"Now then!" he said, as he took a good grip of the iron bar that had held the shackle-loops to his ankles. It was about eighteen inches long and three-quarters of an inch thick. He felt the weight of it. Not really big enough, should it come to fighting, but it would have to do. Then he felt in his pockets for the tools that Flint had given him. The file had done its job, and now it was time for the other.
BOOM! Billy Bones looked up at the deckhead as a gun went off above. Oh yes! Lion and Walrus were at it hammer and tongs - not that he hadn't guessed it already, what with Silver bellowing, and the crew clearing the decks and hoisting out the boats. Billy Bones grudgingly approved of that. It was man-o'-war practice, was hoisting out the boats: getting them out of the way of shot, and ready for use in case of need, especially in shoal waters like this, where a captain might need to haul his ship out of danger by putting out a kedge anchor.
