“They’ll not play, Dick melad,” he said as he came through the gate. “That captain’s a blind fool. But we can wait. We’ve got food, and we’ve got the ship.”
We walked back to the beach, and rowed to the point where the others were waiting. They were bearing and wearing the weapons they had recovered from the sea bed. Each had a cutlass and a musket. They had an assortment of knives, powder horns and pistols, and even two boarding pikes.
“Now, lads,” said Long John, “We’ve a job to do.”
“Aye, let’s go and skewer them,” said George, slashing the air with his cutlass. “I’ve a score to settle with Smollett.”
“Belay that, George,” said Long John sharply. “There’ll be no skewering of no one. Leastways, not yet. Lie up in the trees round the cottage, and see if you can plug someone. Who’s the best shot? Caspar, I believe that’d be you. Put a ball into that cottage maybe four times an hour. After a day of that, if they ain’t dead, I’ll see if Smollett speaks so high and mighty.”
He looked to the rest of us. “Now don’t you go blasting away your powder. It ain’t going to last forever. Shoot at what you see, no more. Caspar’ll do the scaring.”
“What’ll you be doing, Long John?” we asked.
“There’s no use me coming with my timber leg and all. I’m going to set myself down here and maybe make some stew. Two men can come and get it after nightfall. Oh, and stay awake after dark. We don’t want no more broken heads. Now, get on with you.”
“That’s all slop, Long John, and you know it.” George Merry was furious. “We ain’t going to lie up nowhere. These flies’ll sting us mad. And there’s only a few with the Captain. I don’t fear them, if you do.”
Long John sprang forward and, picking up George by his shirt front with one hand, held his knife under George’s nose with the other. “I’ve had enough of you, George Merry. One more squeak out of you, and you won’t have a gizzard to whistle through. D--- you, won’t you keep your mouth shut for once? You’ll lie up in those trees from now to Christmas if I tell you so. Now get out of here!” Long John threw him to the ground.
George was insanely angry. He started to get to his feet, “Why you—”
With a whistling crack Long John’s crutch struck him on the knee. George screamed and rolled over, clutching his leg in pain. “George, you’re stupid. Get him up and away, the rest of you. And I don’t want to hear no wild shooting.” Long John turned his back and went to the fire.
We trailed down the beach, taking the limping George with us.
The Assault
As we drew near to the cottage, we left the path and attempted to make our way silently through the forest. Off the path, the trees supported a tangle of creeping plants with thorns like brambles, and we needed a good deal of time and persistence to force a way through. A short detour like that is difficult at any time. For our party, with the necessity for silence pressing on us, it was a nightmare. I do not suppose we travelled this way for more than a furlong but it seemed much more. We ducked under low branches, pirouetted out of the grip of trailing vines, and clambered over the rotten trunks of fallen giants. In time, the forest darkness to our left eased a little as we came alongside the cottage and its garden. We were breathing heavily from the effort of moving silently through such a maze, and our nerves and ears were straining. At this point Israel nearly brought the expedition to an end by starting a wild pig from its sleep. Woken in confusion, the frightened animal ran back along the line of us, searching for an opportunity to break for the depths of the forest. You may imagine how our hearts leapt in terror as its low dark shape crashed past us.
It was impossible to believe we had not been heard but as we stood as still as statues listening to the noise of the pig running away from us, we heard not a sound from the cottage. Our rigidity slowly relaxed as nothing but the unending whine of the multitude of insects filled our ears.
Israel waved us to our places. I had to continue my journey to the far side of the garden and, once there, crawled forward until I could see the cottage through the leaves. The world lay at rest, with not even the insects disturbing the peaceful, sunlit garden in front of me.
Still no sound and no movement came from the cottage, and the heaviness of the air threatened to send me to sleep. The biting gnats that sometimes plague the beaches were absent, and nothing moved in the forest. I waited for the first of Caspar’s shots at our enemies.
It came from somewhere to my left with all the suddenness of a thunder clap, and it must have passed through the cottage for I heard a cry of surprise and the sound of a pan falling. Then silence again. I settled down to wait for the next shot, reflecting on just how terrible the same wait must be within the cottage. I am sure the occupants were lying on the floor in the hope of safety.
Butterflies of many colours played up and down, in and out of the shadows and sun light shafts at the forest’s edge. One of them, coloured a brilliant blue and fawn and much larger than our English beauties, was opening and closing its wings on a fence post in front of me. It was a time of unspeakable stillness. The butterfly rose, and then returned to its post to continue sunning itself. I thought to myself how strange it was, amongst all this richness of plant and insect life, there were no blackbirds or thrushes to sing sweetly.
After what seemed a very long time, Caspar gave another shot into the cottage. This time the smoke rose from the undergrowth on the far side of the garden. I waited again for the next shot.
When it came, it brought a hail of balls in its wake.
There was an immediate reply from the cottage, then several more shots from the forest on my left. As I watched, a party of our men led by Job Anderson broke cover and crashing from the undergrowth, started to climb the garden fence. They were red-faced from effort and shouting crude war-cries to make their assault seem more terrifying. As they came up to the fence they threw their cutlasses over and scrambled up after them. Job was first across, with George behind him. The others quickly joined them. O’Brien slipped as he clambered over and fell back into the long grass.
I was surprised into wooden immobility as I watched them storm screaming across the garden to the back wall of the cottage. Here they were caught in a quandary for shout as they might, the woven walls were fully strong enough to resist a brutish onslaught. George laid hold of the barrel of a musket that had been poked through the cottage wall, and wrestled pointlessly with an unseen opponent for possession of the piece. All our men were shouting insensate oaths and meaningless cries, until the voice of Israel overbore them and called them to the front of the cottage where they might hope to affect an entry.
My attention went to O’Brien, a short man, who was still struggling to get himself and his cutlass over the fence. I heard myself shouting to him to throw the cutlass over first. He did not hear me. How could he from so far, across such insanity? He eventually seized on a thick branch to heave himself up, only to find it was dry. He fell heavily back into the grass again as it broke.
The cottage itself was a hornet’s nest. The defenders gave volley after volley, obviously having more than one musket each but heedlessly Israel and his men ran in and out of the thick cloud of smoke that now obscured everything. The firing stopped abruptly and only the sound of blows and running footsteps could be heard. Men shouted and strained behind the fog, steel rang on steel and I could hear heavy panting. From the far side of the cottage, there came the noise of a scrambled rush. Then the Captain’s voice called to his men and all was quiet.
Slowly, the smoke drifted away to show two bodies lying on the grass. Both ours. Job Anderson had been cut down at the end of the cottage and lay sprawled in a pool of blood. I was shaking and confused. My musket was still loaded. It seemed there had been no time to use it.
My first thought was to get to the others, and I crept back through the forest, calling in a low voice. Israel and O’Brien were kneeling by Johnny. He had received a grazing wound on the head from a musket ball and lay consci
ous but helpless while he was bound up.
“Long John will string us up for this,” muttered Israel. “That’s seven men dead, yesterday and today, and Johnny here fixing to join them. More than seven!” He continued with the bandaging.
“What will we do?” asked O’Brien, never a man to follow his own path.
“I dunno, and that’s the truth,” said Israel, “But first you and I’ll carry this one to Long John. Dick, go and find the others and lie low. Tell Caspar to keep popping shots over like Long John said. If he’s alive. If not, do it yourself. There’s muskets over there.” He gestured to a large tree trunk.
As I went for the muskets, they picked up the groaning Johnny and started off with him. They took his arms about their shoulders and, weak though he was, his legs made some show of helping. It would be a long hard trip back, and only Long John’s anger at the end of it.
The others started to appear from the forest, white of face and uncertain. They were as shaken as I, and immediately went on to help Israel and O’Brien. After such a disaster, they could not bear to be separated from their friends. I can well understand how a regiment of fine soldiers can fall to pieces in defeat. We all felt as weak and spineless as jellyfish.
Lacking any other ideas but reluctant to return to Long John, Caspar and I took two muskets each and crept from place to place around to cottage, Caspar firing through the woven walls. There were no shots in reply so the Captain, whose voice we agreed we had heard at the end of the fight, still had his men under control. It crossed our mind that there might now be more of the cabin party than of us.
As the sun started to set biting insects came out in abundance. In every tree there were large crickets harping, making an unceasing and maddening tumult. We could see flickers of firelight from the cottage, but heard no voices. We used the fire to aim our shots by but apparently hit no one.
In the end, the darkness of that unfriendly forest, the night noises and hunger eventually drove us to creep back down to the beach. Fumbling down the dark tunnel the path had now become, we saw first the grey luminescence of the sea and then gladly stepped onto the soft sand of the beach. A fire was burning at the point and beckoned us in. Sure enough, there were our friends with fish cooking over the embers, passing around rum punch. What a contrast their lively faces made with the hang-dog bunch that had crept away earlier on. Now the battle was safely distant, the good food and companionship made its memory milder.
In spite of our foreboding, Long John seemed pleased to see us. “Sit down, sit down, melads,” he cried. “Here, move your carcasses and make way for two gentlemen as know how to do their duty. D’ye get any of them?” He listened as we told of our shooting, and questioned us closely about the action itself. “D--- fool, Israel Hands,” he grumbled. “As good as murdered those men, he did. Smollett did himself proud seeing them off. But you didn’t see the Squire or any of them fall, no?” He seemed to be taking the bad news calmly.
The storm of Long John’s wrath had blown itself out again. Israel had been sent off with O’Brien to the Hispaniola on anchor watch as punishment, and Long John himself cared for the rest of the crew. True to his vast character, he had put yet another set-back behind him and was concentrating on preparing his flock of wayward helpers to try again on the morrow.
He let us talk on, passing the punch around, taking his grilled fish and biscuit until we had all relaxed and forgotten the difficulties of our position. Then he put Chips Morgan to watch, garnered the rum bottles and warned us for an early start.
We were woken in the blackness of a tropical night, a time soft and smooth, warm and almost friendly. Our plan was much the same as the previous day, except this time Long John would come with us.
The path up from the beach to the cottage was a black as a bat’s wing, and we worked our way up holding the belt or shoulder of the man in front. I own that I had little stomach for what we were about to do. We had been light-hearted enough the day before, but now the thought of that cottage made my mouth dry and my inside tremble.
The cottage appeared as no more than a dark shape in the starlight when we arrived. Long John had us sit down quietly and ordered Caspar to put a shot through it to wake the occupants. He continued to shoot at intervals, moving from tree to tree. The rest of us lay still and waited for the dawn.
As the light came Long John hid us more securely and passed out biscuit to breakfast on. Then, when there was enough light to see by, we all started to fire our pieces at the cottage. The effect of a slow but incessant fire must have been crushing for the Captain and his men.
After about a quarter of an hour, when our muskets were too hot to handle and we were all begrimed with powder, Long John passed the word to cease fire. He hailed the cottage.
“Ahoy there! Anyone still living in there?”
“We’re living, Silver,” replied a voice. “And we’ll live long enough to see you hang for this.”
“Oh, my gamecocks! Still got fire in you? Well, you’ll have to catch me before you can swing me, and that’s not so easy, wooden leg and all. Enough of that. I want another talk with the Captain under a flag of truce, that’s why I’m a-calling you.”
At first, there was no reply, presumably the occupants were consulting, and then the voice came again, “Step up then, Silver, but no one else.”
Long John passed the word again. “Don’t nobody shoot, nor move nor anything, or I’m a dead man.” He fought his way through the undergrowth to the path and swung up to the gate. Working hard, he made his way up to the cottage past the bodies of our comrades and stopped outside. The Doctor came to the door to parley.
There was no altercation this time, but a long and complicated negotiation. The Doctor would speak a little with Long John, and then step back out of sight. Then out again for more discussion, and back again, and out again. Both started to gesture to the back of the garden, and towards the beach until, at last, Long John offered his hand. The Doctor hesitated and then shook it. With a smile on his face, Long John started back down the path.
“Come round here, lads,” he shouted. “Caspar too. Stand you just outside the gate. Point that thing at the sky, Tom Morgan, you lubber. Uncock it. In fact, uncock everything. I don’t want no stray shots now.”
We gathered at the gate pointing our uncocked muskets at the sky. Long John had obviously struck a good bargain. “It’ll go like this, boys. I’m going back up there and the Doctor, bless his soul, is going to give me the chart.” He waved our questions aside. “Later, later. Them and I are going to walk over to the back end of the garden and they’re going to leave over the fence. Once they’ve got clear, you can come in. Just stand there like a line of bollards until I give the word. They’ll have a pistol on me, and they’re shy. You do any more than just stand there, and they’ll plug me for sure.” He went back up to the cottage.
So Long John finally had his way. As the inmates of the cottage filed out we found we were looking at a small group of strangers.
The Doctor and the Squire were smaller, beaten. The Captain had been wounded and was helped along by Gray. And Long John looked taller and finer. Well he might, for he had at last got his hands on what we had been searching for—the chart, freely given to him by the Doctor as they passed through the fence. He called us over and we rushed up to the cottage. Inside it was dirty and strewn with scraps of straw and firewood. A metal pot with a shot hole in it had been up-ended in the centre, as if it had been used as a table. The supplies which had been carried from the ship were stacked along the wall. At one end lay a body with a bloody kerchief over its face. One of the Squire’s servants.
I do not think any of us noticed that Jim Hawkins had not been with the Captain’s party.
“We’ve done it, boys,” Long John exalted. “See what happens when you listen to your old captain? And if them dead men such as Job outside had more than ballast in their heads, they’d still be here along o’ us.”
We were all crowding round for a look at the chart
but Long John was afraid of getting it torn in the rush. “Belay that,” he said. “I shall keep it. Now, Caspar, cut along to the ship and warn Israel and O’Brien to keep a weather eye on the shore. I doubt the Captain’ll try to get aboard, but he might. And then come back here. Dick, run up to the point and get two shovels. We’ve folk that want burying all over. And Caspar’ll help you bring Johnny here where we can tend him.” As we left, Long John was getting Chips, Morgan and George to clear up the cottage.
Indeed, there were not many of us left, but we were enough to sail the ship to Port O’Spain, and there was always the consideration that the less that sit down to supper, the larger the shares of pie will be. So we had a happy trip, jogging down the earth path, winding along under the dark jungle. Through the arched trees I saw the sea, of a calmness and blueness that you never see in England. The white line of coral sand grew to either side and the ragged heads of the coconut palms were still for once. As we broke out onto the strand we realised immediately that something was wrong. The ship was missing.
Scan the horizon as we might, it was nowhere in sight. What could Israel have done? The two of them could hardly have sailed it away. We hurried up to the point that we might see farther. It was no good. The sea was empty and unfriendly. Loading up with shovels and some provisions, we turned back. With Johnny hanging from our shoulders, the way seemed harder and longer now.
Back at the cottage, Long John seemed little put-out. “Israel will have had his reasons,” was all he would say. “He’s moved the ship out of harm’s way, that’s all.”
That night the positions were reversed. We held the chart and slept in the cottage. The Captain’s party was sleeping under the stars.
Where Gold Lies Page 11