Pieces Of Eight js-2

by John Drake

"Pah!" said Lieutenant Comstock, aboard Jumper. "Stupid sod!"

  But they muttered these observations under their breath, and then set about blasting their crews as idle, no-seaman lubbers who couldn't keep proper station on the flagship, nor probably a proper watch neither! For all aboard the three ships were young men wound up with excitement. Maybe it would be them that found Flint? Maybe they'd be the ones, the lucky ones, God bless them one and all!

  So they bowled along, with the miserable island to starboard, the merry breeze a-blowing, and their slick, copper-plated hulls gleaming and plunging, and their bowsprits dipping, and their banners flying. And they poked into every inlet, and they looked at every cove, and they searched every beach, and in all three ships there were men in the tops and men along the rails with telescopes and peering eyes, never neglecting to keep a watch on the larboard beam besides, for you never knew, did you? And wouldn't it be a tragedy on the face of the waters for a ship to slip past on the seaward side and get away full of wicked miscreants and treasure?

  By mid morning they'd passed the shoals that lay off the northern coast, where a great hill rose up, the second biggest of the three that lay in a line, north to south of the island, and round they came, navigating the northernmost, out-jutting peninsula at the top of the island, and were working southward towards a great mile-wide inlet that opened up some four or five miles ahead. Heffer stared and a prickling excitement arose. Ah! That was better. That was a real anchorage. Best they'd seen yet. That's where they'd be if they were anywhere! Then from Bounder's bow a gun threw white smoke and a flat boom, warning of an urgent signal.

  "Damn!" said Heffer, as Bounder's flags went up. He put his glass on them. "Bugger!"

  The flags spelled "Enemy in sight. Larboard bow."

  "Bugger, bugger, bugger!" said Heffer, knowing he'd have to report that Bounder spotted them first. Let's hope it's a mistake, he thought, searching with his glass. But one of his mids was quicker.

  "It's a boat, sir. A launch. Heading north out of the eastward side of the island. It can't be Flint, sir. Not in a boat, sir… it's all right, sir!"

  "Good lad!" said Heffer. The boy had his heart in the right place.

  He trained his glass where the mid indicated and caught the boat in the bobbing, spherical field. There it was… a big launch under sail… three… no, four… no, six men aboard.

  Enemy in sight indeed! Rubbish! That weren't no pirate ship, now, was it? And there couldn't be no treasure aboard neither. Not the amount Flint was s'posed to have, anyway! Just six men… and something under a tarpaulin… hmm… Heffer wavered… perhaps…

  "Make to Bounder,'" cried Heffer.

  "Aye-aye, sir!"

  "Pursue the enemy."

  "Ah-ha!" cried Lieutenant Simon Clark, and snapped his fingers and danced for joy as he read the flags. He was independent! Detached from the squadron! Oh joy! Oh bloody rapture! Please God Almighty that the launch should fly like the wind, and have to be chased over the horizon, 'cos then Bounder would be out of sight of the commodore and Gordon bloody Heffer! Them and all the rest of the squadron, and he wouldn't have to share a penny piece with any of them! And Simon Clark, acting captain, would surely get his full two- eighths, as laid down in the Cruizers and Convoys Act of 1708, God bless it, God bless it, God bless it! It and the splendid men who'd shoved it through Parliament for the benefit of honest sailormen. Lieutenant Clark was fairly licking his lips at the thought of all the wealth that was going to be his…

  Assuming, of course, that the launch had anything of value aboard. Oh…

  Clark calmed himself. He cleared his throat. He stopped jumping and grinning. He adopted the gravitas of a sea-service officer.

  "Helmsman!" he cried. "Put me alongside of that launch. Mr Bosun, make all possible sail!"

  So Bounder parted company with Leaper and Jumper… or would have done, had not the three sloops — now crossing the mouth of the northern inlet — realised at that moment what was coming out to join them.

  Chapter 41

  Afternoon, 26th February 1753

  The forest

  North of the southern anchorage

  Again the Patanq attacked the Royal Navy. As before, the volley of musket fire came sudden, and terrifying from close at hand. It came out of the trees with no warning, no drum roll, no hoisting of colours: no chance whatsoever for a man to stiffen the sinew and summon up the blood. It was all the worse for the fact that every man was strained to the utmost, trying — and failing — to keep a good watch on the wall of greenery through which the invisible enemy passed like the breeze: unseen, unknown and unheard.

  Men fell, men trembled, men stood dismayed, and all of them looked over their shoulders, which was the first thing anyone did who was thinking of running. But not Commodore Scott-Owen. He went where the danger was worst, to where the column had been hardest hit. He drew his sword and raised it high.

  "STAND FAAAAAAST!" he cried. "Marines rally to…"

  Crack-Bang! Two muskets fired from the trees, and Scott- Owen went down with a ball in the chest and another in the brain. He was dead before his sword left his fingers.

  Which was very nearly the end of it. The men groaned dismally as their much-loved leader fell. It was too much. They were out of their element, being hit repeatedly by an enemy they couldn't even see, and who — having once made that mistake — never again attempted to fight hand-to-hand. One second more and the whole two hundred and one of them — which was all that remained of the two hundred and fifty who'd started out that morning — would have been streaming back through the woods, heading for the safety of their ships. As it was, they stood dithering, staring into the suffocating forest and clutching their firelocks as if they'd strangle them.

  Bang! Another shot from the woods. Another man fell.

  "Ahhhh!" cried the seamen and marines, and started to run.

  "No!" cried Mr Midshipman Povey. "Down! Everyone down! Get low!"

  And he ran up and down the column, pushing men down on their haunches. Lieutenant Hastings, ever in his wake, caught the idea at once and did the same, then so did the rest of the mids and lieutenants, till the whole force was crouched down among the undergrowth.

  Then Mr Povey did something extremely brave. He stood up and yelled at the top of his voice. It was brave because — as he was soon to explain — he was taking a terrible risk.

  "Officers to me!" he cried. "Officers, mids and sergeants… and corporals, too!" There were others present who outranked him, some considerably, but in face of danger, they responded to pure leadership, even coming from a lad of fifteen who wasn't a lad but a man because he'd been bred up in a manly service.

  So they scrambled and ran and plonked down beside Povey and looked at him: a ring of blue-coats and red-coats, who gaped at the first thing he said:

  "Take your bloody coats off!"

  Povey was busy wriggling out of his own blue coat with its white-lined collar, marking him out as a midshipman, and its gleaming brass buttons.

  "What?" said the senior lieutenant, aghast. "Never!"

  "We've got to… sir!" said Povey, remembering rank just in time.

  "Why, in God's name? You'll have us strike colours next!"

  "Aye!" growled the rest, and Povey nearly lost them.

  "Sir," he said, "don't you see — the bastards are shooting our officers!"

  "What?"

  "Yes! The sods aim at the officers. Look round, sir. We set out with five lieutenants, a dozen mids, and two sergeants and corporals of marines — and nearly every bloody man they shot was one of them!"

  "Despicable!" said the senior lieutenant.

  "And now they've shot the commodore himself!"

  "Filthy swine!"

  "Mind you," said Povey, "it's exactly what we do in close action, with sharpshooters in the tops aiming at the enemy's quarterdeck."

  "That's entirely different!" said the senior lieutenant.

  "Aye!" they all said, and nodded furiously.

 
"It's this that's different, sir," said Povey, pointing at the jungle all around. "Land ways ain't no good afloat, and maybe sea ways ain't no good ashore!"

  "Hmmm," they said, considering this fearful heresy.

  "So, off with your coats, gentlemen — let's not give the buggers something to shoot at. And off with the marines' coats, too, lest they should stand out."

  "What do we do with 'em?" said a voice. "The coats?"

  "Drop 'em in the sodding jungle!" said Povey. "Who cares? It's our sodding lives we've to worry about, not our sodding coats!"

  "Oh," said the voice.

  "And another thing," said Povey, "no saluting! No 'Aye-aye, sir'! No stamping feet! Nothing that tells the swabs who to shoot at. Are we agreed… sir?"

  "Yes," said the senior lieutenant, not overly delighted at this display of sparkling talent in a midshipman. "Anything else? Do say if there is, Mr Povey."

  "Yes, sir!" said Povey instantly. "Next time the sods shoot at us, everyone falls flat like this — " He jerked a thumb at the crouching seamen and marines. "And we don't just blaze into the forest, we mark our targets — if any presents — and shoot 'em…" Povey concentrated furiously. "And… and… scouts ahead, and a chosen team of our quickest and most active men standing by ready to charge into the enemy's smoke to drive him back when he attacks, but without pursuing too far and getting lost!"

  Povey was inventing — re-inventing — forest warfare. He was improvising as he went. It was a remarkable achievement. Without him, the landing force would have given up its attempt to penetrate the island. But now they pressed onward, and with significantly fewer losses when the Indians attacked again.

  "Where are they?" whispered the senior lieutenant, for now the two of them were out in front of the column with the scouts. They were flat on their bellies, looking over a slight rise in the ground where the forest opened into a clearing. This, they knew from experience, to be a deadly dangerous place. Just the sort of spot where the Indians lay in wait.

  "I think they've retreated, sir," whispered Mr Povey, who persisted in acting as second in command, and was so good at it that the senior lieutenant had given up trying to stop him. The senior lieutenant sighed. Povey was a precocious little sod, but his ideas were saving men's lives.

  "Why would they do that?" said the senior lieutenant. "Retreat?"

  "Perhaps they were ordered to, sir."

  "Ordered? They're bloody savages!"

  "Don't fight like savages, do they, sir? More like men under discipline."

  "Hmm. Yes. So we'll press forward…"

  The senior lieutenant didn't actually say "Shall we?" For the sake of his rank and dignity, he suppressed the words. But his expression spoke volumes, and Mr Povey smoothly added diplomacy to his growing repertoire.

  "Aye-aye, sir. I'm sure you're right, sir," he replied, with all the modesty and respect he could muster. He said it as if it wasn't the blinding obvious thing to do, and just what he was about to say himself.

  So they crept forward with the six men of the vanguard, as they'd dubbed them — picked because they were the nimblest — making remarkably little noise for sailors, though still enough to alert every Patanq on the island, had any been listening. And every few minutes they paused in their creeping for runners to go back and fetch the main column. In this manner they made good ground, in perfect safety, until…

  Thud! A ship's gun fired some miles ahead.

  "What's that?" said the senior lieutenant.

  "It's a gun, sir!" said Povey.

  "I know that, you impertinent little swab. But what is it?"

  Povey couldn't resist it. The words leapt out:

  "I'll go forward at the run, sir! I'll take the vanguard and explore. There's something afoot, sir. I think the Indians have gone, sir, so we'll be all right — I mean, if that's all right with you, sir?"

  "Go and be bloody damned!" said the senior lieutenant. He was a big man, heavy and strong, and if he had to be a soldier — which he didn't want to be — he'd rather be a grenadier and stand fast, than a blasted light infantryman mincing all over the field. "Oh, get on with it, you pushy little bastard!"

  But Povey missed the last part for he was already gone. Off with the vanguard, running towards the sound of the gun. It was hellish exciting, dashing through the trees: a bit like fox hunting, only better, 'cos foxes weren't full of doubloons, and it was wonderful to run and not crawl, and Povey was convinced the Indians were gone and not hiding.

  And he was right. Ten minutes later, he and the other runners burst out of the forest and on to a beach, and gaped at the sight of three ships: one getting under way and two more anchored, and an old wreck besides. Further up the beach, there were tents and boats and men clambering aboard, and on the water there were more boats being cast off and others abandoned, and the decks of one ship were swarming with Indians, and there…

  There! There! There! Painted clear and bold on the stern of the big schooner that was heading for the sea was the name Walrus — that very same Walrus they'd so closely missed in Charlestown!

  "God bli' me!" cried Povey. "It's Flint! We've found him!"

  Chapter 42

  Late Morning 26th February 1753

  The northern inlet

  There was no doubt who held the power. It was Dreamer.

  He held the power but he wasn't in command. That was Long John Silver. It was as obvious as the fact that he stood head and shoulders taller than any other man there.

  Dreamer had the strength, for his men swarmed all over the beach and throughout Flint's ruined camp, catching Flint's men where they tried to hide and hauling them out. Still more Patanq stood in arms around Silver — dozens and dozens of them — while Silver had just nine men ashore and another twenty-two aboard Walrus. But Dreamer was desperate to get off the island, and was gabbling nonsense about the dangers it held, which meant getting his entire force off the beach, and into Walrus — now the only undamaged ship in the anchorage.

  And that was seaman's work, so everyone looked to Silver, and stood round him yelling and shouting for his attention, and pointing this way and that, and pulling at his cuffs, and even Walrus was suddenly demanding attention by firing a signal gun, and her crew jumping up and down and pointing out to sea.

  "John!" said Israel Hands. "They've seen something!"

  "Mijnheer"" said a bearded man. "I was forced into this. I am no pirate!"

  "Demons, One-Leg!" said Dreamer. "We must escape them!"

  "What demons?" said Silver. "And who's the bloody Dutchman?"

  "He is Red Beard," said Dreamer, "the Wayfinder!"

  "Who?"

  "He came to us out of Flint's camp. He came of his own free will."

  "Did he now?"

  "John!" said Israel Hands. "It's the navy!"

  "Red Beard shall find our new lands," said Dreamer. "If we escape the demons."

  And all the time, Selena clung to John as if she'd never let go, and he clung to her, and stroked her hair and kissed her hands… for it was pure, shuddering relief that Dreamer wanted him safe and sound, and her too, and every seaman he could find. For Dreamer's one concern was to get his men back to their womenfolk, who it seemed were even now aboard a fleet of six ships anchored beyond Flint's archipelago. And then — this was the nonsensical part — once the Indians were off the island, they'd be safe from demons. That's what Dreamer was saying.

  Silver looked at the fierce little man, jabbering and stamping, and his men beside themselves with excitement, their eyes rolling and teeth gnashing. The warriors were groaning and swaying, and wildly dangerous: one false word would set them off, butchering every man that wasn't one of them. It was uncanny. It made Silver's flesh creep.

  And it was too much, too fast, for Silver to make sense of. And in particular he was struggling to make sense of Dreamer, who clearly knew something — but for the life of him Silver couldn't get a grasp on it, for he'd never met such a creature before.

  "What bloody demons?" said Silver. "
What the blasted hell are you talking about?"

  "John!" said Israel Hands. "For Christ's sake, look — it's the bloody navy!"

  "Navy?" said Long John. "Where?"

  "There!" said Israel Hands.

  "Shiver me timbers!"

  Just visible, out to sea, about a mile from the mouth of the inlet was a big sloop. It was flying British colours.

  "ALLLLLLL HANDS!" roared Silver. He shouted to rattle the t'gallant masthead, and even the birds in the trees fell silent. "Now then," he said, "we've to get aboard and under way this instant — and God help him as dawdles!" He turned to Dreamer. "How many men have you got?"

  "One hundred, and half a hundred, and a little more."

  "Well and good — Mr Hands!"

  "Aye-aye, sir?"

  "Take command of the beach. Man every boat you can, and get these buggers aboard — all of 'em — and tell Mr Joe to see 'em stowed wheresoever makes best sense. At the double, mind!" Silver looked at those few of Flint's men now standing under guard. "We need seamen, so I'll take them too. And as for the rest — " he looked at the faces peering from Sweet Anne and Hercules "- them buggers must take their chance along of Billy Bones and Ben Gunn, for we ain't got time to take all."

  The job was done quickly, with five boats passing to and fro, and Dreamer sending out his swiftest runners to call in Cut-Feather and his men. Finally there were just two boats ashore, one pulling away, loaded with Patanq and seamen, and one with Silver and Dreamer climbing aboard, and Selena and Israel Hands waiting with four men at the oars.

  "Is that all your people, Dreamer?" said Silver.

  "It is all of them."

  "So let's be gone!"

  "Wait!" cried Dreamer. "Look!"

  Five Patanq warriors were sprinting along the beach towards the boat. Dreamer stared at them, and said something in his own tongue. He said it sharp and amazed.

  "What's that?" said Silver. "Who's them?"

  "My trackers!" said Dreamer. "Sent to find Flint — "

  "Flint? Where is he? Where is the bastard?"