by John Drake
"She'll run like a stallion in this. She'd run under bare poles — " he looked at the men at the wheel "- so long as they don't tire."
"Shall I send up fresh hands?"
"No! Can't risk it. They'd take time to get the feel of the helm, and we could be broached-to and rolled over while they do."
Billy Bones nodded. The wheel was a double, with spokes radiating out from either end of the drum round which the steering tackles were rove. That meant two big wheels, one ahead of the other, such that four men — one to each side of each wheel — could steer as a team in heavy weather. It was a task best left to those who'd got the knack of it, working with these particular shipmates, under these particular conditions.
"Aye-aye, Cap'n," said Billy Bones.
"So," said Flint, "there's something else we can do in the meanwhile, for we're no help to these excellent men at the helm."
Billy Bones couldn't actually see the leer on Flint's face. It was too dark for that, but he knew it would be there, and he trembled in a fright that had nothing to do with the storm.
For a storm was nothing to Billy Bones. Standing on a wet wooden slope with the wind shrieking in his ears was nothing to him. Likewise, the cold seawater that got under his collar and ran down his neck. And neither did he fear the tremendous power of the elements that could take a ship, and break it and sink it and drown him. All that was meat and drink to Billy Bones. He'd faced it all his life, and if ever he pondered on so philosophical a matter as his own death — why, Billy Bones would naturally expect it to come at sea, in a storm, and a fitting seaman's death it would be an' all! So he wasn't afraid of the weather… only Joe Flint, the infinitely charismatic Flint, whom he feared and worshipped all at once, as if by evil enchantment.
Meanwhile Flint was speaking:
"Stand to your duty!" he yelled to the helmsmen.
"Aye-aye, sir!"
"Mr Bones and I am going below."
"Aye-aye!"
"We shall soon return."
"Aye-aye!"
Beckoning Billy Bones to follow, Flint made his way through the dark night and the screeching wind, with the rain and spray lashing his face so hard he could barely breathe, and the ship heaving up and down, twenty feet at a time, beneath his feet. Sight was nearly useless and he went by feel, storm- lines, and seaman's instinct.
There was no hatchway on the quarterdeck, so he descended the larboard gangway ladder to the maindeck, and groped his way aft beneath the quarterdeck, where there was shelter at least from the wind and wet. Around them the great guns strained and heaved in their lashings, ever seeking the opportunity to snap a rotten tackle and break loose for a playful plunge about the deck, grinding and smashing and killing…
Except that there was nobody to kill, only Flint and Billy Bones; the few others aboard were either up above or down below. The main deck, the gun deck which was the raison d'etre of a man o' war was unnaturally empty of men.
In the darkness, Flint went just aft of the capstan and forrard of the bulkhead that divided off the captain's quarters and slipped carefully down the ladderway to the lower deck. And there he paused, with his back against a cabin door, until Billy Bones came rumbling after him.
There was no weather at all down here, and the mighty voice of the wind was shut out by solid oak that admitted only a dull, demonic wailing. But all the wooden music of ship's noises was playing: the creaks, squeaks and grumblings of eight hundred tons of carpentry, fighting to stay together while the wind and the sea tried to pull it apart.
Flint tingled with sudden excitement. He blinked in the black darkness, relieved only by a few feeble lanterns. Pulling off his tarred frock, he dumped it under one of the lanterns so it could easily be found; tarred clothes rustled and made a noise, and were awkward. Billy Bones did likewise. Flint sniffed. It still smelled vile down here, but better than it had done. There were only a few sufferers still alive in their hammocks, and the hands had got ahead with their swabbing. Flint peered in the darkness and made out the shape of a few hammocks up forrard. He grinned. They were of no concern. His interests lay aft.
Just astern was the bulkhead, and the door that led to the gun-room: province of the ship's gentlemen, where Lieutenant Hastings and the Reverend Doctor Stanley were laid in their cots, deciding whether to live or to die of the smallpox.
Flint sniggered. This hadn't been possible before. Even with only twenty men in the ship, there had always been someone to see and to notice, some servile clown bringing food or drink for the poor gentlemen. Flint laughed. Billy Bones jumped. Flint pulled his nose.
"Nobody here but you and me, Mr Bones," he said. "It will be so easy!" And he crept aft, opened the door to the gun-room and passed inside… soundless, purposeful and malevolent as a vampire. Clump! Clump! Billy Bones followed, and Flint frowned at the spoiling of the moment.
"Shhh!" he said.
"Sorry, Cap'n."
Flint looked round. There was one lantern only. The gunroom had no natural light. It was mainly occupied by a great table running fore and aft, with a little passageway on either beam and rows of doors leading into the tiny cabins that lined up against the ship's sides. The place was crowded with the traps and tackles of the ship's officers: quadrants, swords, books, old newspapers, gun-cases and silver mugs hanging on hooks. It smelled of snuff and claret — not surprising, considering the quantities of these stimulants that had been consumed in this small space.
"Cap'n," said Billy Bones, "I wants to say summat."
"Shhh!" said Flint.
"But, Cap'n — "
"Shut up!" Flint was listening… for breathing… coughing… anything.
"I wants to say — "
"Ah!" Flint darted forward and pulled open a door. It was canvas stretched on a wooden frame. The cabins themselves were made only of thin pine boards. "Fetch the lantern, Billy-my-chicken," said Flint, entering the dark space. Just seven feet long by six feet wide, it was barely enough to hold a few sticks of furniture and a bed where a man lay stretched out, his mouth open, the sweat glistening on his face. He was unconscious but alive, and sleeping soundly.
"Cap'n, you're a fine seaman, as all hands agree, and — "
"Oh, shut up, Billy! D'you know — I do believe this one would survive!"
"- and you know as how I'd follow you wherever you lead — "
"Bring the lantern. See! The skin's not peeling off any more."
Billy Bones brought the light and he and Flint looked down on Dr Stanley. The chaplain didn't look the same without his clerical wig, but it was him all right, and he was definitely not dying.
"Cap'n!" said Billy Bones. "I akses you… not to."
Flint frowned. "Not to what, Mr Bones?"
"Not to do it, Cap'n."
"Shut up, Billy! Just you hold his arms."
"Don't, Cap'n. Please."
Flint turned to look at Billy Bones as he stood with the lantern raised and his dark, ugly face gleaming in the amber light. Bones was shaking with fear, but he looked his master in the eye and begged:
"Don't do it, Cap'n. Let's be better men than that!"
"What's wrong with you?" said Flint. "Brace up!"
Billy Bones shook his head. "No, Cap'n. I ain't gonna do it."
And there, alone in the heaving, groaning dark of the lower deck, Billy Bones faced the Devil coming out of Hell as Flint turned the full force of his personality upon him: the maniac personality, hidden by a handsome face, which was Flint's fearful strength. It was his strength even above the fact that he moved so swift and deadly in a fight that he was terrifying in a merely physical sense. But it wasn't that which frightened men who looked into Flint's eyes. It was something else, something uncanny and deep, and which now burst forth in its fury: scourging and burning… and shrivelling Billy Bones's honest little attempt at humanity into futile, smoking ashes.
Billy Bones could never recall what it was that Flint said to him — for it was all done with words, and never a finger raised — but those
few minutes in Dr Stanley's cabin became the evil dread of nightmares that woke Billy Bones, sweat- soaked and howling, from his sleep for the rest of his life.
After that — having been disciplined — he was made to hold Stanley's arms while Flint smothered the good doctor with his own pillow for the crime of being too clever by half. Next, Flint found the cabin where Lieutenant Hastings lay: just eighteen years old and already dying. Billy Bones was made to hold his arms too. Billy wept as he did it, but could not resist.
"And now only Mr Povey is left…" said Flint, and smiled.
Chapter 9
Early morning, 23rd March 1753
Upper Barbados
The Caribbean
The four forts that guarded Williamstown bay mounted between them nigh-on fifty twenty-four-pounder guns, and they were excellently placed, high above the sea, with a clear field of fire into the channel whereby ships entered the bay.
They were capable of resisting anything less than a major battlefleet, and even one of those couldn't be sure of forcing an entry: not with one pair of forts at the mouth of the bay, where it narrowed to less than a quarter of a mile's width, and the second pair placed to sweep the approaches just north of Williamstown's harbour. Thus, the last time the attempt had been made — British intruders vs Spanish defenders — the fleet was driven off trailing blood and wreckage, and the town was taken only by landing five thousand redcoats at Porta Colomba, ten miles to the south east, and marching them overland with a siege train.
"Huh!" said Israel Hands, as Walrus came through the jaws of the bay, right under the guns of the outermost forts. "Wouldn't believe this was safe haven for the likes of us!"
Long John frowned, irritably.
"And why not?" he said. "Ain't we flying British colours like them?" He pointed up at the forts. "And haven't we just saluted King George with all our guns?"
"Aye," said Israel Hands. And forcing a grin, he waved a hand at the smoke still hanging about the ship. "But you know what I mean, Cap'n. It's all down to Sir Wyndham, God bless him!"
Sir Wyndham Godfrey, governor of Upper Barbados, was a figure of fun among sailormen. He'd been a scourge of piracy until the bribes grew too great to refuse, and now he closed his eyes and opened his hand, such that men chuckled at the thought of him, and Israel Hands was hoping to cheer up Long John by the mention of his name. But Silver merely sniffed and turned away, stroking the parrot and staring at nothing.
Hands sighed. He'd been like that, had Long John, ever since Selena went off aboard Venture's Fortune to make her fortune in London. It weren't right for a seaman to take it so hard when he lost his doxy. There was always more of them. You soon forgot. Especially when you dropped anchor in a new port.
"Bah!" he said, and stopped fretting over John Silver, and looked instead at all the busy activity aboard Walrus: anchors were off the bows and hung by ring-stoppers at the catheads, bent to the cables flaked out on deck ready for letting go. The ship was scrubbed clean from bow to stern and under easy sail as she came up the dredged channel.
All hands, with the exception of Long John, were delighted at the prospect of going ashore. This was especially true of the two redundant navigators, who stood grinning at approaching freedom. But the shore party would not include the McLonarch, who was locked up below, or Mr Norton, who had been allowed above decks to check the course to Upper Barbados, only to be locked up again as soon as it was sighted. He was now the most miserable creature aboard.
Putting his glass to his eye, Israel Hands focused on the town, less than a mile away, with its whitewashed buildings tiers and layers of them, rising up the flanks of the bayside mountain still known by its Spanish name of Sangre de Cristo blood of Christ — for the rosy colour it took in the sunset, as did the white houses themselves. He shifted the glass to the excellent dockyards, which included dry docks capable of receiving anything up to a ship of the line.
And he looked at the offshore anchorage, which was full of every imaginable kind of vessel, with countless masts and yards, and busy boats pulling to and fro. There was one ship ahead of Walrus in the channel, coming into the wind to anchor, while yet another was astern of her, coming through the jaws of the bay.
It was a wonderful sight. After so many weeks at sea, alone on the empty ocean, it made any man cheerful to see such life. Overhead the gulls wheeled and called, the sun shone bright and hot, the sky was blue, the wind was fresh… and Long John was eating his heart out in despair.
Bugger! thought Israel Hands.
Later, with Walrus moored, Israel Hands took his place in the launch with six oarsmen done out in their best rig, and Long John, Allardyce and Dr Cowdray in the stern. These chosen ones would make first contact with the shore authorities — just to be sure, just to be careful — for there was much to be done and arranged before any of the rest of the crew would be allowed to partake of the whoring and boozing and fighting that was any seaman's honest amusement, fresh ashore… especially gentlemen o' fortune.
"Give way!" cried Allardyce, and the boat began pulling for the harbour. All aboard looked back at the strange sight of the ship which had been their home, now seen in its entirety, bobbing at anchor among the innocent merchantmen… not that all of them were quite that innocent. Walrus wasn't the only ship with a black flag in her locker. Not in Williamstown Bay.
"Look!" said Allardyce. "She's down by the head. You'll have to haul some guns astern, Israel."
"Not I!" said Hands merrily. "Shift the sodding cargo aft!"
Allardyce grinned.
"What cargo?" he said. "Only cargo we've got is dollars!"
"Clap a hitch!" cried Silver nastily. "Who knows what bugger's listening!"
They looked round the harbour. There wasn't a human being within earshot. They made faces behind Silver's back and fell silent.
Ashore, Silver, Allardyce and Israel Hands went to the harbour master's office, while the six hands — chosen for their ability to stay sober — were let off the leash, bar one unfortunate who was left to guard the boat.
Dr Cowdray set off into town by himself in search of medical stores, and replacements for some of his worn-out instruments. Having found what he wanted, he then spent a pleasant couple of hours in the cool, shady streets, shaking off hawkers and beggars, enjoying the sight of women and children after so long in the company of men, and looking into the shops, especially bookshops. Then he searched for a tavern — a respectable one — for a drink and a meal, for the rendezvous was hours away yet.
He knew he had found just the place when he clapped eyes on the Copper Kettle. Situated on the shady side of King William Square, it looked bright and clean, with a long awning and tables in the fresh air. The clientele was entirely respectable, with waiters in long white aprons attending, while the vulgar populace was kept back by a fence of neat white posts with chains slung between. Cowdray stepped forward with purpose, but:
"Oh!" he said, and stopped with his bundle of books and his brown paper parcel of medical gear. He dithered and stuck his load under one arm so he could wipe the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. In amongst the respectable patrons of the Copper Kettle, seated at a table, his parrot on his shoulder, was Long John Silver. In his current foul mood, the captain made the worst imaginable company.
Cowdray stood in the hot, scented air of a tropical spice- island. It would soon be noon, and the sun was fierce. The streets were emptying as people headed indoors… and Cowdray was thirsty… then… Ah! Debate was irrelevant. Silver had seen him.
"Captain!" said Cowdray, advancing across the square, through the gate in the fence, to take the seat beside Silver. The latter nodded miserably. Cowdray unloaded his goods, and took off his hat in the welcome shade.
"Pffffff!" he said, and fanned himself with his hat.
"Salve, Medicus!" said the parrot, greeting Cowdray in Latin as she always did. At least the bird was pleased to see him.
"Salve, avis sapiens!" said Cowdray. "Hallo, clever bird!"
"Ain't she, though?" said Silver, stroking the green feathers. "And you love Long John, don't you?"
"Love Long John!" she said, and bobbed and nodded and rubbed her head against his with every sign of affection. Silver smiled, a real smile, and he turned to Cowdray to make apology.
"Sorry, Doctor," he said, "I ain't no use at present, not to man nor beast."
"Not you, Captain!" said Cowdray stoutly. Another sigh was Silver's only response.
Then a waiter came, and they ordered food and drink, and sat silent for a bit, and the victuals were served, and Silver went heavy on the drink, and at last the two fell into conversation. Perhaps it was the rum. Perhaps it was because Cowdray wasn't properly a gentleman o' fortune, and he certainly wasn't a seaman, and he was a surgeon — the one who'd saved Long John's life by taking off his shattered leg — but Long John's misery and trouble began to tumble out bit by bit.
"What am I to do, Doctor?"
"In what respect?"
"Taking prizes? Winning dollars? Choosing allies?" Silver shook his head. "All of it, Doctor. Living my bleedin' life! What soddin' life? What am I? Who am I?"
"Oh!" said Cowdray. He was a surgeon, but like any medical man he knew that men can be wounded in the mind as badly as in the body, and that such wounds could be severe. He glanced at Silver. To Cowdray, Silver was still young: thirty- two? Thirty-three? Cowdray could almost have been his father; moreover he liked Silver and wanted to help. He thought of something to say, to get Silver talking… to explore the wound.
"You let the prize go," he said, "Venture's Fortune. Why did you do that?"
"Had to," said Silver morosely, "or we'd not be refitting in that dockyard yonder."
"Is that arranged?"
Silver nodded. "It was just a matter of money," he said. "And plenty of it."
"Why didn't you keep the prize?"
Silver shrugged. "We'd get away with that once or twice, but he'd find out in the end."
"Sir Wyndham Godfrey?"
"Aye. He issues these Protections. I saw one in Cap'n Higgs's desk." Silver shook his head irritably. "You see," he said, "if we… I… am to follow this life, we need a port."
