by John Drake
He took a step forward, wincing at the stones under his stockinged feet, and he paused and looked at the big ship's lantern that had been his sun and moon the past few days. He was tempted to take it, but he had much to do and couldn't do it heavy laden. He looked about and made plans.
They'd put him next to the well that fed the ship's pumps - the well and the shot locker. There was a little area of naked ballast down here, but the rest of the hold was taken up with water-butts and other heavy stores. It was crammed and dark. He pursed his lips and thought heavily… and started forward.
Round the well he went, and up on to the water-butts and aft, where a half-deck began, packed with more stores, then up a ladder, now in darkness beyond the feeble light of the lantern. He stopped for an instant to get his bearings. There should be only a thin bulkhead, now, between him and the wardroom.
BOOM! The gun fired again, and Billy Bones heard Lion's men cheering and the unmistakable sound of Silver's crutch thumping the deck.
"I'll show you, John Silver," he thought, "won't I just!" And he felt in the darkness for the hatchway that he knew was there… There it was. He ran his fingers round the coaming and tried to get the iron bar into the small gap. It was too big to fit. But never fear: out with the file, a bit of scraping and cutting, and he'd opened up a gap for his lever. A moment later he'd forced open the hatch. It wasn't properly locked, just fastened with a wooden catch on the other side.
Light stabbed his eyes. After almost a week in the gloom, the brilliant tropical sun was blinding and painful - even when it had to make its way down through a skylight and into the shadowy wardroom. Billy waited, blinking and rubbing his eyes. Everything was bright and loud, and a companionway led straight up to the quarterdeck, just to his left, letting in more light. The crew were yelling and cheering, and Israel Hands was calling out as he trained a gun… "Right! Right! Right!"
Billy Bones hesitated a moment. Lion's crew were all around him. They were only a few feet away…
BOOOOM! The gun fired and the men cheered.
Billy bent to his task. This wasn't really a wardroom. Not like the real thing on board a warship. They just called it that as a sort of joke. It was a narrow space, lit from above, with cabins on either side for the ship's officers: little boxes four feet wide and just over seven feet long.
Quickly, Billy pulled all the doors open. He dragged out everything from the cabins - especially papers and small timbers - and scattered them on the deck. Then he found a knife and ripped open all the straw mattresses he could find and shoved some of them in a pile and dragged others into the stern cabin, aft of the wardroom, and heaved the cabin furniture on them, and opened the stern lights.
From his own cabin he dragged his old sea-chest, and hauled it back through the hatchway and into the hold. Then he opened it, pulling out the papers that Flint had given him, and a gallon bottle of olive oil. That went all over the pile of rubbish in the middle of the wardroom and stern cabin, and slopped towards the hold.
Then Billy Bones got himself back into the hold with his box, and looked out through the rectangle of light before producing Flint's final gift. It was - or had been - a gentleman's pocket pistol, one of the tiny, box-lock kind with a screw-off barrel that enables it to be loaded at the breech. With the barrel removed and the wooden butt cut away, there was very little left of it: just a few inches of steel mechanism.
In that condition, and loaded only with powder and wadding, it was useless as a pistol… but excellent as a firelighter.
Billy Bones cocked the lock and held the thing close to the trail of papers that led aft from the hold. As Flint had ordered, he had a nice, dry pile of torn and crumpled papers for his target, and the oily papers were stacked behind that.
"The oily ones won't take the spark, Billy-boy!" Flint had said. "So the dry ones must be first, and the oily ones must feed from them."
Billy marvelled at Flint's wisdom. Was there nothing he didn't know? He thought of that last conversation with Flint aboard Walrus, when - not that he knew it - Flint had been so astonishingly honest with him. All others had received lies tailored to their tastes. But Billy Bones had received the truth.
"I'll not share it, Billy," he'd said. "Not a penny, not a grain of dust!" He hadn't even said, "We'll not share it." He took Billy Bones so much for granted that he didn't make the small effort of pretending to include Billy Bones in his plans, not even when talking to Billy face to face. He'd laughed and pulled Billy's nose and allowed him plain sight of the Great Truth: the goods were not to be shared at all. Not among one hundred and forty-seven, nor among seventy-four, nor twenty- five, nor even two. The goods were all for Joe Flint.
"The only part I have not yet fully arranged is how I shall proceed on sighting England," he'd said.
"England, Cap'n?" Billy had said, as ever wallowing in Flint's wake, and trying to keep up.
"Aye, Mr Bones, England! For we shall need a ship to carry the goods home, and the ship will need a crew - even the reduced crew that will have survived the perils of the seas so far as the sight of Plymouth, God help their precious souls! But nonetheless there must be some hands to haul on lines, and they will expect their shares. Even I wonder what shall be done with them!" Flint had laughed merrily. "But something shall be done, trust me, Mr Bones!"
And Billy Bones did trust Flint. In his mind there was no future without Flint. There was only service to Flint. In so far as he'd ever even thought about a future when Flint owned a palatial mansion and rolling acres, Billy Bones only assumed, vaguely, that he would be provided for as chief and favourite retainer.
But these were abstract matters, and Billy Bones was a practical man. He squeezed the trigger. The lock sparked, flame spurted, and the fire was under way. He waited to make sure that it was really taking hold and then backed away, dragging his sea-chest, and leaving the hatchway open for the draught.
He looked back at the red flames and felt the heat on his face. The wardroom's little cabins were made of thin, pine boards and the doors were painted canvas stretched over frames. There was no better place to start a fire, and he knew it. It was then he felt his moment of doubt… Billy Bones was a seaman from the crown of his greasy head to the dirt of his blackened toenails, and he had just done a thing for which a seaman's God would damn him to a seaman's Hell, and even Jesus bloody Christ would never forgive him.
Despite being armoured in his loyalty to Flint, the guilt arose. No man knew better than Billy Bones how terrible a monster is fire afloat. Landsmen in their ignorance wonder how a ship can burn in the midst of endless water, but not seamen. They know the truth. A ship was made of seasoned timbers, pitch and tar and canvas and rope - all of which burn like the Devil, especially in the tropics.
But he'd done it now, and that was that. Lion was doomed, and now it was time to save Billy Bones. He pulled the collection of cork and netting out of his box. He closed the box and said farewell - a sad wrench, for it contained his all and everything. Then he went forrard in the hold. He fumbled and groped in the dark. He made his way through narrow corners and dark ways, and broke through one or two closed hatches, and kept himself as quiet as could be when he went by the magazine, where a man was working, and one of the ship's boys was running down every couple of minutes for a powder charge.
Billy recognised the little bastard as one of the shit-sloppers, and had to hold back. This was no time to draw attention on himself. He looked aft, and thought he could see a red glow, though there were bulkheads in the way. He sniffed for smoke… none just yet.
Then the nipper was gone, scrambling up a ladder with his cartridge box, and Billy pressed on and got himself as close to the bow as he could, and just beneath the main deck, where he could be out and on to the fo'c'sle and over the side in a trice… when the moment came.
"You must wait your moment, Billy-boy," Flint had said. "Let the fire be in the stern and yourself in the bow, and then it shall be a clear run for you, over the rail, once all eyes are elsewhere."<
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As usual, Flint was right.
"Ship's a-fire!" roared Silver. "Ship's a-fire! Alllllll hands! Alllllll hands!"
Billy Bones heard him. Everyone heard him. There was a rumble of feet. Even Israel Hands and his crew abandoned their gun. Every soul in the ship leapt to face the deadliest danger of all.
Up and out into the daylight climbed Billy Bones, and with no man paying him the slightest attention, he waddled forward on his stiff, awkward legs, encumbered in his cork floats. He stopped at the rail and looked at the backs of Lion's people fighting the blaze, and Silver's tall figure in command, and the nine-pounder gun that had been making all the noise, and the smoke-clouded, distant Walrus and the sweep of the southern anchorage, and the blue skies and the hot sun. Finally… finally… he forced himself to gaze upon the hideously wet and terrifying expanse of the deep salty element upon which he'd floated all his life, but always in a ship or a boat. He'd never attempted to swim, nor wished to swim, nor could even bear the thought of swimming. He gazed upon it in dread, for he, who was a sailor, was terrified of water.
At the stern, Silver and his men were fighting heart, soul, mind and strength with pumps and hoses and buckets. Nobody looked forrard as Billy Bones crouched hidden in the fo'c'sle, trembling like a virgin on her wedding night.
If courage and loyalty are virtues - which they are - then Billy Bones showed virtue that day: valiant courage in the conquest of fear, and selfless loyalty to his cause. He showed such courage that some might forgive him for spending it in the service of so cruel and worthless a cause.
Billy Bones stood up, he held his nose and - with a sob - he jumped.
* * *
Chapter 51
9th September 1752
The forenoon watch (c. 10 a.m. shore time)
The southern anchorage
Selena came up on deck and looked around. Walrus seemed ruined. Dead bodies lay ripped and gutted, wounded men screamed and groaned, and Flint - armed with a bloodied cutlass - was busy killing two more who were busy trying to get away from him.
She'd left the stern cabin through fear, having stayed there only through fear. The door was smashed and couldn't be locked, but she'd been afraid of the crew, even with Flint aboard. She hadn't the strength to swim for the shore again, and she'd huddled in a corner when Walrus's guns had fired. The sound of that had been bad, but not as bad as the sound of the cannon ball that had come in through one side of the cabin and out at the other, ploughing a furrow across the deck on its way. That was too much. She just ran.
"Black spot?" cried Flint. "I'll give you black spot!" And he caught one of his victims a slice across the back of the neck and ran the other through the chest.
Walrus's main deck was a jumble of shattered wreckage. The ship had been heavily pounded, half the guns were dismounted and the men were surly and muttering. For the moment, discipline was broken, and Flint - having just despatched two of his men - was in the centre of a ring of the rest. Some twenty men stood loosely around him, armed with axes and pikes and cutlasses. They weren't exactly threatening him, not quite, and they were wary of him - desperately wary - and kept out of his way. They knew Flint and they feared him, and they were trying to find their courage. They were shifting and moving all the time, none willing to be in the front rank, each seeking protection behind some heap of wreckage, or clambering on it for the advantage of height.
As men do - when they lack the courage to fight - they went to law instead.
"You can't do that, Cap'n!" cried Allardyce, pointing at the two dead men, "It ain't according to articles!"
"No!" said the rest.
"And you're bugg'rin' mad, you are!"
"Aye!"
"Shooting at bugg'rin' parrots!"
"Aye!"
"And we ain't bugg'rin' having it! We's gennelmen o' fortune, we are!"
"Aye!"
"And you must take the black spot and you may not harm him as brings it."
"No!"
"'Cos it ain't according to articles!" roared Allardyce.
"Rubbish!" cried Flint, with the blood of his wounded scalp streaming down his face. "There's no mention of any black spots in the Book of Articles!" That was true. Flint knew it for a fact. Allardyce was thrown into doubt, because he couldn't read and was nervous of Flint, who could.
"Well… well… then… it's according to tradition,'" said Allardyce, who was one of those who'd been a King's Navy seaman. "It's… it's… according to the immemorial traditions of the service!"
"Service?" shrieked Flint, incredulously. "Service? You blasted nincompoop!" His temper snapped. He charged. Allardyce had the sense to run, but three others attempted to fight. It was a very brief combat. One found his right hand off at the wrist. One found himself bleeding to death from a slashed throat. One found nothing at all, being cut down, stone dead, on the instant.
Which marked the end of the mutiny. Those whom Flint had killed or wounded had been the boldest, the ones who'd actually dared to face him in arms. Now there was only groaning and bleeding from the survivors, and muttering from those who were whole. Nobody looked Flint in the eye, and nobody mentioned black spots again. They sat around in groups and did nothing. Flint wiped the sweat and blood from his eyes, caught sight of Selena, and gave a mad, mocking bow.
"Look!" she said, and pointed. They'd all been so busy with fighting one another they'd not seen the fire that was blazing aboard Lion. The stern was leaping with red flames.
"Ahhhh!" said Flint, and seized advantage in the instant. "There, my lads!" he cried. "See what your captain has contrived. Those swabs aboard Lion are roasted pork. Our ship's saved, and it's double shares of the goods for every man jack of us!"
They cheered him for that. They cheered and they jumped to his orders when he called on them to clear the decks and make all shipshape.
"Selena, my dear," said Flint, in a manner that was quite like old times, "you may not have noticed - not being truly a seafarer - so I shall tell you: while we are somewhat knocked about in the hull, we are entirely sound in our masts and sails!" He looked in satisfaction at Walrus's pristine rigging. "Israel Hands always did prefer roundshot below to chain- shot aloft, and today that will be the ruin of him!"
So Selena watched as Flint achieved the impossible. He turned the half-ruined Walrus back into a fighting ship. Wreckage was cut free and heaved over the side, with the dead and the dying. Small arms were reloaded, and able seamen promoted to fill ratings made vacant by death. Dismounted guns were hauled from the larboard ports, and others brought over from the starboard side, to assemble a complete seven-gun battery, and the guns were loaded…
"With, cannister, my dear," said Flint. "Which means a flannel bag filled with a good, round hundred of musket balls." He smiled. "Which is the best possible thing for men struggling in the water, having left their burning ship."
"Long John," said Israel Hands, "there's a dozen thirty-pound powder kegs down in the hold, just forrard of the magazine. We've got to abandon ship!"
"No!" said Silver. "We've lost her and no mistake, but I'm thinking of us ashore with nothing to eat but our boots and belts. So I want them stores!" He pointed to the men heaving Lion's stores out of the hold and into the skiff. The jolly-boat was already pulling for the shore with a full cargo.
"Go to it, lads!" cried Silver. "Jolly companions one and all! Heave together, boys!"
"Aye!" they cried, in their sweat and struggle, as Long John Silver did what the gods had made him for. He led his men in the face of danger and inspired them to do their best. He stumped about, cheering them on, slapping backs and calling them by name, and even managing a laugh as Lion burned beneath him and the decks grew fearfully hot. No King's officer, bred by years of training, could have done it better.
He had a team at the pump with a hose rigged and spouting into the open cavity where flames roared out of the stern. Beside them was a bucket-brigade of a dozen men, heaving sea-water onto the flames. At the same time, all hands that
could share the task were trying to get Lion's stores of food and drink, and tools and arms, out of the ship and into the boats.
"Long John," said Israel Hands, "the fire's at the magazine. I've been down and cleared it, but them powder kegs is just forrard and they're already hot to the touch. We've got to leave the ship, John!"
"No, dammit! We're over seventy hands aboard of this ship, and the ship's lost and ourselves marooned, and I want pickles and pork and biscuit for all hands, and rum too, if we're to be stuck on that bloody island."
"But the powder, Long John, it won't wait!" Israel Hands was frightened. Nobody knew the strength of gunpowder better than a master gunner. If a dozen kegs went up in a ship with seventy men, there wouldn't be enough wood for kindling nor enough meat for seagulls.
Long John looked around. There was nothing more that could be done on deck. The hands were working well… and none had remembered the cargo of powder in the hold. Best not to tell them about that. All men have their limits.
"Mr Gunner," said Silver, "you were right to remind me that that-there powder is a danger to the ship." He clapped Israel Hands on the shoulder. "So let's you and I get it out of her!" That wasn't at all what Israel Hands had been hoping to hear, but he didn't dare show cowardice in front of Long John.
"Aye-aye, Cap'n," said Israel Hands miserably, raising a knuckle to his brow.
"And bring your hammer and chisel, Mr Gunner," said Silver. "It's time we let Mr Bones out. Can't let the bugger burn!" He turned to the men and raised his voice, "Keep at it, lads!" he cried. "Mr Hands and I have some instruments to recover." He looked around. "And you, George Merry, and you, Black Dog, come along o' me, for I'll need your help."
And down they went, down into the hot smoking dark - except that the hold wasn't dark any more. It was full of red light. It had never been so bright, not since the ship-builders had planked over the deck above, and shut out the sun. Silver led the way, with Israel Hands behind, and Tom Merry and Black Dog at the rear. Silver led one-legged, for his crutch was no use in narrow spaces and on ladders, and he'd left it up on deck.
