by John Drake
It was a glorious moment, and even more so when Cap'n Flint the parrot swooped down from the maintop where she'd been hiding, and planted her claws on Long John's shoulder.
"Ah," he said, "my old matey! I've missed you."
"Long John!" she said, and squawked, and rubbed her head against his cheek, and Long John clapped Israel Hands on the shoulder as he ran up beaming from the gun-deck and turned and called out to all aboard:
"Three cheers! Three cheers for Cap'n Silver…"
Perhaps they cheered. Silver didn't notice. For he'd noticed something else. A flicker of movement on the beach. A smaller figure than the rest. And once he'd put his glass on the figure… he stopped breathing, and forgot all else in the entire universe.
"Selena!" he said.
Chapter 37
Dawn, 26th February 1753
The southern anchorage
"Huh!" thought the two hundred and forty tars already landed from the three sloops. These unfortunates stood bleary-eyed and exhausted in their neat ranks, for Commodore Scott-Owen was so determined to dazzle the world with the efficiency of his squadron that the crews of Bounder, Leaper and Jumper had been obliged to work through the night filling their water butts. Thus they were able — immediately, promptly and at dawn — to be off about their special duty of sailing around the island to complete the search for Flint and his ships.
Taking advantage of the heavy traffic of boats, the sloops had landed half their crews, as ordered, while the profoundly miserable other halves must remain aboard, where they consoled themselves with the thought that Flint's treasure would be in his ship and not ashore, and that they would therefore be first to find it! All of which was a nonsense, because not a man among them would get their hands on treasure, which would be immediately bound up in the rigmarole of a Court of Admiralty. So the prospect of finders keepers, losers weepers was miserably minimal. But young men don't think like that. They think they're immortal and in control of their fate.
All this withstanding, Scott-Owen had indeed worked wonders in landing three hundred and ten officers and men, fully armed and in all respects ready for service ashore, in so short a time, while his three sloops were working out of the anchorage under a breath of wind, and completing the pincer movement with which he hoped to seize the villain Flint… and of course Flint's treasure — of which, as commodore, he would get a walloping fat share.
A merry thought, but he banished it from his mind — most of the time anyway — and harried his officers to further triumphs in the bringing ashore of stores and the establishing of a proper base camp. Which work proceeded in a spirit of great cheerfulness until about an hour after dawn, when faintly but unmistakably there came the thud and rumble of explosions from within the island. Men looked at each other wide-eyed and wondering, and the excitement grew intense.
Scott-Owen turned to his officers.
"Mr Hastings," he said, "I had not intended to march so soon, but hearing that — " he nodded towards the sounds "- I shall throw a flying column inland. You will take half the marines and an equal number of seamen, and bring me a report on what is occurring inland."
"Aye-aye, sir!" said Hastings, brimming with delight at an independent command, convinced that treasure lay under every rock, and quite unable to prevent himself looking at his rival — the lieutenant of the starboard watch — with a pitying grin.
Nine-Fingers watched the column of Englishmen, and easily kept pace with them. These English had been spotted by the young men guarding One-Leg's fort. The newcomers were King George's men, as could plainly be seen from their flags. The young men had sent a runner for Nine-Fingers, who was chief — under Cut-Feather — for the south of the island, and Nine-Fingers had come with two dozen good men, only to find that the young men had suffered heavily in their attempt to stop One-Leg escaping, and a grave dilemma must be faced.
Nine-Fingers was now falling back from the trees at the edge of the beach, with a total of thirty men around him, mostly men of the Deer Clan, all cousins and brothers, bred up in the same long house. They were good men. They moved through the woods as their fathers' fathers had done. They slipped like smoke. They passed like thoughts. They were gone like a dream.
These men, and Nine-Fingers, followed the clumsy, lumping, stamping Englishmen as they marched into the woods and away from the beach where they had landed There were redcoats and blue-coats: at least two-dozen soldiers, followed by two dozen men from the ships, and they made enough noise to frighten every beast in the woods. They trampled and slashed, and beat down paths where a sensible man could have passed without disturbing a leaf. Nine-Fingers knew without looking that they'd be leaving a trail that a blind man could follow.
And they stank! They smelt of rum and meat, and the hot, sweat of the white man who — for his own unknowable reasons — must wear thick clothes in a hot forest when doing heavy work. And their leaders shouted and called out, and gave orders to the men. They made such noise! Always noise.
Nine-Fingers shook his head. Why did they do this? Why were they such fools in the woods? There were white men who'd learned the proper ways. They weren't all like this. But these thoughts were useless. Nine-Fingers had to make a decision. He was an old man of forty-five years, and acknowledged to be wise. He thought deeper…
It was Dreamer's word — known to all the People — that there should be no war against the white kings. Not King George of England, King Louis of France nor King Ferdinand of Spain. It was Dreamer's word that a great war was coming between them, and that they should be encouraged to kill one another to their heart's content, with the People standing aside. But if Nine-Fingers allowed this amazing column of noise- makers to go unhindered, they would be standing at Dreamer's side within the day. And Dreamer might not be ready. So Nine-Fingers made his plans. He sent word to Dreamer and made the best of a thoroughly bad job.
The column was halted. It was halted because Lieutenant Hastings and Mr Midshipman Povey were arguing. They did it very discreetly but it was an argument nonetheless, and the marine sergeant and the other mids stood aside and pretended not to notice, and told the seamen to sit down and rest while the marines stood guard.
"We've been going an hour at least," said Hastings, "and all's well!"
"That's 'cos we've been lucky!" said Povey. "Lucky, that's all!"
"Dammit, Povey, I'm in command here!"
"Oh, shut up, George — I'm talking sense. We should throw out scouts!"
"Don't you damn-well talk to me like that! I'm your bloody superior!"
"George, listen! I've read about frontier warfare…"
"This ain't the bloody frontier!"
"Yes, it is. It's the bloody forest. It's the bloody same."
"No, it bloody ain't. This ain't bloody America and we ain't fighting Ind-"
He never said the word.
BA-BA-BA-BANG-BANG!
Thirty muskets fired point-blank from so close among the trees that anyone other than hopeless, useless, utterly incompetent woodsmen must have seen the fierce brown bodies hiding there.
Smoke, flame, screams and a dozen men went down bleeding and smashed, or bowled over, dead where they sat at ease.
More shrieks, fearsome and wild, and blood-chilling, as Nine-Fingers and his men closed in hand-to-hand to finish the job their gunfire had started.
It was a perfect ambush against wretchedly unprepared men. By all the conventions of frontier warfare it should have ended in the disintegration and flight of those ambushed, for the conventions of frontier warfare were always to run when ambushed, thus preserving arms and men, and falling back to a rendezvous point to re-form and carry on the fight another day.
But British seamen and marines didn't do that. There was nowhere to run in a ship-to-ship fight, and they were trained to grip like bulldogs and never let go.
George Hastings knew no tradition other than that, and he drew on it.
"Away borders!" he roared. "Oraclaesus!"
" Oraclaesus!" cried P
ovey, and the other mids — those that were left — and the sergeant of marines would've said the same, but he was down on his back with a musket ball in his belly and a Patanq warrior smashing in his face.
"Oraclaesus!" screamed the marines, and charged with musket and bayonet, the long barrels more encumbrance than use in forest fighting — which was why the Patanq had dropped their muskets to go in with knife and hatchet, screaming like fiends — and the marines went down, hacked and stabbed and dying.
"Oraclaesus!" screamed the seamen, and leapt up and drew pistols and cutlasses and charged as they'd have done when boarding the wreckage-strewn ruin of a battered ship, and this time the advantage in arms was with them.
Bang! Bang! Two shots per man from the neat, handy pistols, and Patanq warriors went over, struck by heavy service charges, and a hail of pistols was thrown at heads when empty, and the tars charged roaring and bellowing and laying on with twenty-seven-inch blades fresh from the grindstone, which outclassed and out-reached the puny knives and hatchets of their enemies.
The combination of thundering fire and razor steel hurled the Patanq back into the woods, and those of them that could fled silently away, leaving their muskets behind.
It was over in seconds.
Twelve seamen and marines were killed.
Another twenty were wounded, of whom five soon died.
Sixteen Patanq were laid out dead.
Eight Patanq, badly wounded, were trying to crawl away.
Shuddering from the fight, wondering if he were still whole and alive and not quite believing it, feeling his body to make sure, and finally rousing himself, Lieutenant Hastings ran round pulling his men off the wounded enemy, saving five from vengeful slaughter. He was joined by Mr Povey: they had both survived unharmed, if horribly shocked.
Nevertheless, they did their duty. They ordered firelocks reloaded. They put out scouts. They tended the wounded. They secured their prisoners, tending their wounds also. They fell back slowly, to the beach and the squadron, judging — rightly — that it was unsafe to penetrate the island interior except in full force.
And all the while they wondered why they were fighting American Indians on a tropical island, but could think of no reason.
Thus Nine-Fingers secured his objective of throwing back the noise-makers and giving time for Dreamer to prepare. This was doubtless a comfort to Nine-Fingers in the Spirit World, to which he was sent by three pistol balls and a tremendous cut to his shaven skull.
But Dreamer was warned and could act.
Chapter 38
Morning (there being no watches kept nor bells struck)
26th February 1753
Aboard Walrus
Under way and outbound in the northern inlet
"John, what is it?" said Israel Hands.
"It's her, matey, it's her!"
Israel Hands didn't have to ask who he meant. There weren't no women but one on the island, and even if there'd been a thousand there'd have been only one for John Silver.
Oh, bugger me blind! thought Israel Hands, for Walrus was sailing bold and sharp and the hands were leaning over the rail yelling piss and derision on all those in her wake — even the nine hands that had been Flint's — and all the world looked sweet as ninepence for a bold new cruise and nobody hanged by the king or scalped by the savages. Oh no, he thought, for he knew what was coming. He'd known Long John too long. He knew what he'd do next.
Silver trembled with emotion. He stumped to the rail, he clung to the mizzen shrouds. He stared at the tiny figure on the beach. It was her, it was her, it was her…
And the first wave that hit him wasn't fear of cold steel and hot lead from those ashore, nor even fear that the crew wouldn't obey should he order the topsail backed and the ship hove to. For who should blame them as wouldn't risk their lives for another man's doxy, nor pull an oar in a boat that set out to fetch her? It was too much to ask, but even that wasn't Silver's first concern.
What really frightened him was the fear that now he'd found her… would she want him? Flint was a cracking fine man when all was said and done. Handsome as the devil, with all the air and manners of a gentleman, and well bred besides: a vastly finer man than a rough-handed, rough- speaking, cripple.
He looked again, the spy-glass trembling in his hand. She was standing, with her hands by her sides. It wasn't as if she was jumping up and down and waving. Not as if she was calling out to him, even if she knew he was there. He hadn't the slightest idea what was in her mind, and he was afraid. What in God's name would she think of him?
He sobbed. He actually sobbed as he reached up to pet the beloved bird with its fond gentleness towards himself, and its soft feathers and bright eyes… but which made so grotesque a figure of himself, together with his hideous disfigurement. What sort of a creature was he, that went on a wooden stick and had a parrot on his shoulder? Mr Joe with his eye-patch looked a rakish devil that the girls really would admire. But not John Silver. Not him. He was in despair. He didn't know what to do.
The gunfire woke Selena. Having fallen asleep curled up under a bush, with her pistols in her hands, she'd slept badly. As she got to her feet she was cold and damp, hungry and thirsty. She'd run into the forest the previous evening leaving Flint and Bentham fighting. She'd run even though she knew it couldn't be for long. Flint would send the Patanq after her and nobody could hide from them… But they didn't come. And she began to wonder: maybe Flint had other ideas?
Selena sighed, stuck the pistols in her belt and pushed through the trees and undergrowth towards the beach, following the direction of the noise. She was acting on sheer curiosity. And where else could she go, in any case? She couldn't hide, she'd got no food or drink. She was as much trapped in the forest as if chained to Flint.
She gasped as she saw what was happening. Two boats were alongside Walrus. Distant figures were climbing aboard, and the ship was full of gunfire and smoke. But that wasn't why she gasped. Even at such distance there was one figure — seen in a flash as he went up the ship's side — that was different from all the rest. He moved differently. He was a one-legged man. He was Long John Silver.
Selena stepped out of the bushes not caring who saw her; not that anyone was looking — Flint's camp was in uproar, yelling and hollering and launching boats. And Flint wasn't there. Where was he? No matter. She stepped out and stared. She stared as Walrus cut her cable and swung in the current. She stared as Flint's men were blasted with swivel-fire that beat off their boats. She stared as Walrus got under way and battered Hercules and headed for the open sea, with cheers sounding from Silver's men.
She stared and stood with her hands by her sides and all the dark thoughts that she'd suffered during seven months with Flint rising to a crescendo. What did she want? Who did she want? And had she a ha'porth of choice in the matter? And clamouring loudest of all was the thought that white men didn't keep faith with black women. Not when pretty black girls could be bought for fun and sold for fieldwork as soon as they stopped being pretty. They were good for whores or mistresses, but what else? What could Selena expect from John Silver… when he was white and she was black?
"Mr Bosun," cried Israel Hands, "back topsail, and heave to! And I'll have a boat's crew mustered this minute to go ashore, loaded and primed for action!"
"What?" said Silver.
"What?" said the crew, and they scowled and growled.
"Belay that!" said Israel Hands, and jabbed a thumb at the big man that stood beside him. "This here's Long John Silver. Him what saved us when Lion was lost. Him what kept us together on this blasted island. Him what never lies, and what leads from the front, and what brung us safe from death, and here aboard a fine ship!" He glared at them all, and Mr Joe instantly came up and stood beside him.
"Ah, you buggers!" said Israel Hands. "Stand forward now, says I! Stand forward any one of you as won't pay what you owe when Long John needs a favour! For I'm going with him wheresoever he leads, and I'll have a boat's crew mustered and ready, a
nd I'll pistol the first man as hangs back!"
The launch was manned and pulling for shore in seconds, being already in the water and dragged alongside of Walrus by the lines and grapnels used for boarding. Silver was at the helm, Israel Hands was coxswain, and six good men, well armed, were at the oars, while Mr Joe — to his intense disappointment — was left aboard ship, together with Black Dog, just to make sure that the thought of abandoning the launch never occurred to any of those embarked, God bless their darling souls!
Besides that, Mr Joe was told to open up a steady, aimed fire at Flint's camp and boats, to keep them busy and out of Silver's way. Thud-boom! Thud-boom! Walrus's maindeck, sent six-pound shot whizzing through the camp, ripping canvas, ploughing sand, and even scoring a lucky hit on one of the grounded boats, which sent the remnants of Flint's men running for cover — such as they were, for there weren't very many of them now. With twenty-four massacred by the Patanq, plus the losses they'd taken from Israel Hand's battery when they sailed in, and those killed in the battle for Walrus… there were now just two men aboard Sweet Anne, ten aboard Hercules and nine men and three boys running in terror.
Them… and another four on special duties with Flint… elsewhere.
So John Silver could look over the heads and shoulders of his chanting, heaving oarsmen and see a safe, cleared beach and no threat from the shore at all. Not until the boat's prow was seconds from the shore, and the hands already pulling shallow to avoid fouling the bottom, and Selena standing like a statue, giving no sign of any feelings at all — but at least not running away — only then did ferocious war-cries shriek from the trees a few hundred yards up the beach, followed by a dense mass of Patanq warriors charging towards Selena and the oncoming boat.
