Skull and Bones

by John Drake

  "You blockhead! You deadeye! You swab!" cried Flint, and wrenched free, and leapt up with the knife in his hand and death in his eyes. He would have fallen on Billy Bones, but Black-Ear pushed between them with wide eyes and arms raised.

  "No, Sun-Face!" he cried. "The white men come! From the camp! We must be gone. Listen!"

  And the Mingos, as one man, raised their long guns, and aimed at the shouting that even Flint could hear now. The white men's camp was roused, and looking for its leader, but Flint was still shaking with rage. He pushed past Black-Ear to get at Billy Bones… and stopped in his tracks, confounded, astounded and doubting the sight of his own eyes, for Billy Bones wasn't cringing as ever he'd done before in the face of his master's wrath. He was stood firm with a drawn pistol in his hand. It wasn't raised, but it was ready, and there was a surly determination on Mr Bones's face that Flint had never, ever seen before.

  "Billy, Billy," said Flint, in a mad voice. "Don't ever tell me what to do." And in the unhinged fury of the moment he took a step forward and raised the knife, and positively gaped as - incredibly - Billy Bones cocked and levelled, aiming straight at Flint's heart! They stared at one another. Only God Almighty knew which was the more amazed by what was happening, and neither moved. But the Mingos did. They ran.

  "Sun-Face!" cried Black-Ear, and "Sun-Face!" again, because Flint was ignoring him. "Come now! We must be gone!"

  And there came the crashing of bodies charging through undergrowth, alongside the shouting of Washington's men.

  "What?" said Flint, thick-headed with anger.

  "Cap'n," said Billy Bones, "we got to go." He lowered the pistol.

  "Go?" said Flint.

  "Now!" said Black-Ear. "The whites are bad trackers, but even they can follow when the light comes. We must go… now!" And finally Flint moved, for it was his own deepest, most profound wish to get out of this detestable wilderness and make his way to the coast, and life, and everything that was important.

  "Huh!" he said, and threw the knife away, and stared at Billy Bones until the other dropped his eyes. "Lead on!" he said to Black-Ear.

  "Come!" said Black-Ear and set off, and left George Washington groaning on the ground where his men soon found him, allowing him to enjoy other adventures: some, of no little consequence, and all thanks to Billy Bones who was soon suffering agonies of self-doubt for defying the man he'd followed like a dog, and still admired beyond all reason.

  But even that wasn't as bad as the pain of the pace Black- Ear set through the woods, for it wasn't only the men of Washington's expedition that might be after them. Black-Hair feared far more the Hurons, whose territory this was and who would pursue with skills far greater than mere white men, and would punish those they caught with infinite cruelty.

  The first days were the worst. Flint and Billy Bones strained to keep up while Black Dog was near death, for he was older than them and a stranger to exercise of any kind.

  "Mr Black," said Flint as the wretched man begged for rest when first they camped for the night, in a cold circle without a fire, for that might have betrayed them. "I appreciate your predicament," said Flint, "and I have a solution."

  "God bless you, Cap'n," said Black Dog, clutching Flint's arm and shedding tears of relief. But Billy Bones saw the look on Flint's face and shuddered. "See here," said Flint, pulling out one of his small pocket-pistols. "It's primed and loaded."

  "Loaded, Cap'n?" said Black Dog, with round eyes.

  "Yes, my dear fellow," said Flint. "If you place it 50…" Flint opened his mouth, and inserted the pistol barrel, and paused for the manoeuvre to be appreciated. Then he removed the weapon and offered it to Black Dog with a smile. "If you aim upwards at the brain," said Flint, "why, a single shot will see you off without the least trouble."

  Black Dog groaned. "But why?" he said with fresh tears, this time unhappy ones. "Why should I do that?"

  "Because, Mr Black," said Flint, "if you cannot keep up, you shall be left behind, and if you are left behind you shall be discovered by the Hurons, in which case you will be grateful for so swift and painless a deliverance from their attentions."

  Black Dog kept up after that. He staggered and scrambled and wept, but he kept up and was fortunate that he had to run no more when Black-Ear found what he'd been looking for: a hidden place where a small clan had a settlement, with lodges and canoes by a tributary of the Potomac. The clan was equally fortunate, for the men were away hunting, while the women and children fled into the woods at the barking of their dogs, and were saved.

  So Black-Ear's men stole all the food in the settlement, and took two canoes, built of birch bark and willow, and caulked with pine-gum. They were neat little vessels: delightful for their lightness and buoyancy and the ease with which even one man alone could drive them forward with a paddle. So all hands went aboard, and they proceeded downstream - with a grateful Black Dog semi-conscious on his back - moving this time, not at a miserable dozen miles per day, but at five or six times that speed on the rushing, living highway that led to the Chesapeake and the Atlantic Ocean. And even when they faced rapids and waterfalls, so light were the canoes that they were easily carried overland to the lower waters, where the swift, easy journey continued.

  Moving night and day, they soon came down into the white man's lands, and either avoided settlements or passed through them at night, until the river broadened mightily, and the little canoes had to hug the shallows of the shoreline, and finally - at night - the lights of a small fishing village were visible on the bank ahead. Black-Ear turned and ceased paddling and spoke to Flint.

  "Sun Face! This is Morgansville. The place of which I spoke."

  "Good! Will there be ships?"

  "Yes. Sea-ships. For fishing and trade. But not many."

  "No fort? No soldiers?"

  "No. It is a small place."

  "Then here we must part," said Flint.

  Billy Bones watched as Flint's intuition drove him to ceremony. Even Billy Bones knew how formal Indians could be, but Flint had them all go ashore, and drag the canoes from the water, and make a fire and sit around it. There, Flint thanked Black-Ear and his men for their help, and gave each a gold piece.

  Then Black-Ear spoke in praise of Flint, and drew a knife, and the two men stood, and Black-Ear slashed his palm, and Flint offered his own hand to be cut and clasped by Black- Ear to mix their blood, and the Mingos sighed and Billy Bones and Black Dog winced.

  "My brother!" said Black-Ear.

  "My brother!" said Flint.

  And Billy Bones saw the unnatural perversity that a man who'd been a king's officer, at ease in the salons of London, and a matchless navigator, mathematician and seaman… was happiest among wicked savages.

  But later Flint played the role of civilised man as he led Black Dog and Billy Bones into Morganstown, all three on their best behaviour, affecting mild harmlessness and good nature, and bowing and smiling and paying in gold, and there - by Flint's charm - they were so well received, and spent so handsomely in the one small tavern that next day Flint had a word with a Mr Davison - a shipmaster - such that Flint and his men went aboard Davison's ship, The Merry Jane: an ugly little blunt-bowed lugger, more used to the crab fisheries than the deep seas, which made a slow and lumbering passage out of Chesapeake Bay, and south down the coast of America, much delayed by foul weather.

  Nonetheless, in early July she came up the Savannah River and dropped anchor by the town, with Flint mightily relieved to see that Walrus wasn't among the ships moored there, which gave him the chance to put certain proposals to Jimmy Chester… without John Silver being around to interfere.

  * * *

  Chapter 35

  Morning, 13th July 1754

  Aboard His Catholic Majesty's ship San Pedro de Arbués

  St Helena Sound

  The Carolinas

  A week's sail north of Havana

  The flagship doubled to the task of launching the longboat. This complex task first required the removal of the
ship's other boats, which nestled one-inside-the-other, in the longboat. Thus a great triple block was bent to the mainstay; then a hundred men - chanting and hauling to the music of a pipe - whisked each boat aloft, such that it could be swung aside, by lines bent to the main yard, and set down out of the way, enabling the great longboat itself to be drawn aloft.

  Standing behind the gilded balustrade at the break of the quarterdeck, in the blue coat, red waistcoat, and gold-laced hat of his king's sea service, and with his officers respectfully in his lee, Capitán de Navio Adolfo Peña-Castillo watched in satisfaction as his men went about their duties. Many were not even Spaniards, for the ship had been thirty years on Caribbean duties, and there were as many Indians as white men on the lower deck. But all his officers were Spanish, and all hands were proud of their Havana-built ship, for she was so stoutly made, of such massive Cuban mahogany, that she was believed to be invulnerable, and in all her service no enemy shot had ever pierced her sides.

  Peña-Castillo glanced at the two big frigates that made up his squadron: Andrés de Fez and Lepanto: splendid names both! The former celebrated an Andalusian admiral, and the latter the battle whereby the navies of Spain and her allies had smashed the Turk and saved Christendom. These fine ships were hove to with backed topsails at the mouth of St Helena Sound, for there was plenty enough depth to float the flagship, and Peña-Castillo was pleased personally to confront the English schooner that was trying so hard to avoid him, and which had sailed past the supply ship, concealed between Tercero and Quarto islands, and darted into another inlet further up the sound, like a rat into a rabbit hole.

  In all this, there was a pleasing satisfaction to Peña-Castillo, who was a logical, intellectual man - talents profoundly unusual in a sea officer - since he was merely sufficient in seamanship, but came of excellent family, was ruthlessly hardworking, and was gifted with a powerful mind nourished by extensive reading. Behind his back, his men called him el cerebro gordo.… the big fat brain.

  And now San Pedro de Arbués, with all way taken off, was slowly rolling as the heavy longboat finally heaved aloft and went down into the water with a coxswain and a dozen men aboard, oars raised like standing soldiers, in as neat a piece of drill as a seaman's heart could desire.

  "Señor Capitán," said a teniente, stepping forward and touching his hat.

  "Ah," said Peña-Castillo, "Burillo!"

  "Permission to disembark, Señor Capitán?"

  "Permission granted!" said Peña-Castillo. "And remember my orders!"

  "I shall search as you bid, Señor Capitán!"

  Teniente Burillo was an aggressive, heavy young man, ever ready to urge the men to their duties with a kick, but he was diligent and active, and in every way ideal for his allotted duty. He saluted again, and ran off beckoning to a dozen of marines standing ready with their muskets, and an equal number of seamen with pistols and cutlasses. These swarmed over the side and into the big boat, and took their places. Burillo nodded. It was well done. Finally - raising his hat to the image of San Pedro in its shrine under the quarterdeck - he went over the side himself, and took his place in the stern, with the sides of the great ship looming over him, and her masts, yards and sails shadowing out the sun.

  "Give way!" he said, and the longboat pulled towards the English ship, which was less than a hundred yards off, anchored in the midstream of one of the sound's many rivers, where she affected to be harmless and at peace with all the world. Burillo smiled. She'd better be peaceful! He had nearly forty men in the longboat, and San Pedro was broadside on, with her main battery run out and bearing directly on the schooner… which of course placed the longboat in the line of fire… but Burillo shrugged. This was a risk that went with the sea life!

  Clank-clunk! Clank-clunk! Clank-clunk! The longboat surged forward, the schooner drew close, and Burillo nodded in appreciation of her fine lines, broad spars and sharp prow. Everything about her said "speed". She was neat and shipshape, well found and in all respects fit for action, being pierced for fourteen guns: a heavy battery for a ship of her size. Fortunately, in this present moment, the gun-ports were secured, no black muzzles were in sight, and no hostile move threatened. But…

  "Oh yes," muttered Burillo, "she's a privateer, all right. A blind man could see it… a privateer or a pirate."

  Meanwhile, there were men peering out from the schooner, and grinning and waving in the most friendly manner. And there was a tall man with a green bird on his shoulder. He was waving from the quarterdeck.

  Bump! Boom! The longboat came alongside the schooner, and Burillo leapt for the main chains and hauled himself aboard, with his nimble seamen instantly following, and the marines with their encumbering muskets coming over the side seconds later. Burillo glanced around him. The schooner was in excellent order: neat and polished and lines coiled down. More than that, the men now standing looking at him had been busy with holystones, mops and buckets, scrubbing the decks… decks which were already white and gleaming.

  There were only a dozen men on deck, and it seemed to Antonio Burillo that he was master of the schooner… but you never knew with the English. He saw the careful looks on his men's faces as they looked round with firelocks raised.

  Good! he thought. But, bump… bump… bump! Here came the tall man.

  "Good day to you, Señor Teniente!" he said in ready Spanish.

  Burillo looked at him and saw that he was a cripple. His left leg was entirely gone, and he leaned on a long crutch that thumped the deck as he moved. He was a strange figure, for a huge green parrot sat on his shoulder, and he was indeed tall, towering over Burillo and smiling politely out of a pale, English face with yellow hair showing under the handkerchief that was bound round his head… his hat being already doffed and held respectfully in a big hand.

  "Good day," said Burillo. "Who is captain here?"

  The tall man bowed.

  "I am," he said. "John Silver, at your service! John Silver of the good ship Walrus."

  Burillo frowned. He was puzzled. The Englishman spoke good Spanish, but with a strong Portuguese accent.

  "Silva?" said Burillo, mistaking the word. "Da Silva? Are you Portuguese?"

  "English, senor, but born of a Portuguese father. Da Silva was his name."

  "So," said Burillo, "what is your business here, Capitán Da Silva?"

  The tall man smiled. He shrugged his shoulders. He reached up to the parrot, which gently nipped his fingers with a beak that looked capable of snapping a marlin spike.

  "I am a dealer in skins, Señor Teniente. I am here to trade with the Indians."

  "Ah," said Burillo. "And have you any aboard?"

  "Indians, Señor Teniente?"

  "No… Skins."

  The tall man smiled regretfully. "I fear not, senor, for business has been bad."

  "How unfortunate."

  "Indeed, senor. And might I ask your business… here in British waters?"

  Now Burillo shrugged. He shrugged and smiled.

  "The ships of our squadron were damaged by foul weather. We seek shelter to make repairs and to rest our men."

  "Ah," said Silver, looking at the immaculate perfection of the Spanish ships.

  "There is also the matter of piracy, Capitán Da Silva," said Burillo.

  "Piracy?" The tall man recoiled in horror.

  "Indeed. Spanish ships have been lost off the Carolinas," said Burillo, "and my squadron serves the duty of all civilised mankind in seeking to extinguish piracy by capturing the pirates… and hanging them."

  Silver forced another smile.

  "Might I offer you a glass of wine in my cabin, Señor Teniente?" he said. "And perhaps I might present my officers?"

  "Perhaps," said Burillo. "First, might I look at your beautiful ship? And in any case, it is my pleasure to offer you the hospitality of my commander, Capitán Peña-Castillo, aboard our flagship." He gestured towards the huge bulk of San Pedro which so utterly dominated the sound.

  "Look at my ship? A pleasure, seno
r!" said Silver, and led the way, pointing out features of interest while Burillo stared at everything comprehensively, especially the decks and the gunports, and eventually made his way aft and found the lockers where the ship's flags were kept. There were rows of them, carpentered into the taffrail, neat as bookshelves, each deep, narrow recess closed by a square wooden flap that hinged upwards.

  "Looking for anything, senor?" said Silver, his smile fading.

  "Yes…" said Burillo, and glanced up to make sure that his men were close by.

  Clap! Clap! went the wooden covers as Burillo's busy fingers raised and dropped them. Then…

  "Ah!" said Burillo. "What's this?" and he hauled out a large black flag. Turning to Silver, he held it up. "Isn't this the skull and bones?" he said. "The flag of piracy?"

  "Mother of God!" said Silver, and piously crossed himself. "How did that get there?"

  Soon Capitán Da Silva was making his way up the ponderous sides of San Pedro, a feat he managed with surprising ease: his crutch swung from his shoulder by a lanyard, and the big green bird left aboard his own ship. Having clambered over the massive rail, he wedged his crutch under his arm, and looked up and down the decks of one of the most powerful ships in the Americas, for the broadside guns were indeed twenty-four-pounders, which were indeed run out and shotted, and matches burning beside them in tubs. Meanwhile the decks were thick with men - hundreds of them: far too many even for so big a ship as this, for as well as seamen and marines, there were Spanish infantrymen, in their French- looking white coats with coloured turnbacks, and all of them peering in patronising curiosity at the creature Teniente Burillo had brought aboard.

  "Follow me," said Burillo, and led the way under the break of the quarterdeck, into the depths of the ship, and towards the stern. Nudged by the muskets of the Spanish marines, Silver hopped after him, pausing only to cross himself as he passed the shrine of San Pedro. Burillo stopped at the ornate, carved door that led to the great cabin. Two more marines were on duty. They saluted.