Pieces Of Eight js-2

by John Drake

  "So what's this, Ben Gunn?" said Silver, deeply puzzled.

  "It's like when I was a lad, Cap'n, and they was burying old Mrs Abercrombie, and they dug in the wrong place an' broke open a coffin of one old sod what'd died of it thirty year ago, and the stink came out, an they all got it: the grave- diggers, their famblies an' all, an' I got it too 'cos I smelled the stink, an' most on 'em died, but I didn't and I got these here — " He pointed a dirty finger at the marks in the middle of his cheeks.

  "You had the smallpox, Ben Gunn?"

  "That I did, Cap'n, an' I've told all, fair an' square." He laid a hand on the book. "An' there's a deal more in here, the which I ain't the scholar to read." Blinking and trembling, he raised a hand in salute. "An' now I've done my duty like a seaman, and begs leave to be excused and stood down from this watch."

  "Aye," said Silver, "but what about Sarney Sawyer and his men?"

  Gunn wouldn't say. He simply drew in on himself and muttered that it weren't his fault, not at all. Silver frowned. This was bad.

  "Take him away," he said to the sentry. "Get some food and drink inside of him, then maybe he'll tell us what's happened."

  "You leave him to me, Cap'n," said the man. "I'll get it out of him!"

  "No," said Silver, "none o' that or I'll have the bollocks off you!"

  "Aye-aye, Cap'n."

  Ben Gunn was led off. Silver looked at the book. It was a diary, written in a good, round hand, in Portuguese — the language of his own father, who'd always used it at home. So Silver spoke Portuguese fluently. Reading it was more difficult. It was something he'd not done since childhood. But he persevered, and old skills returned… and soon he found that there was not one dull word in the entire book, which was the journal of Father Lucio de Setubal, a Jesuit priest, and sole survivor of an expedition that landed on the island in 1689 and which was ruined by mutiny and pestilence.

  Chapter 17

  Evening, 28th November 1752

  The northern inlet

  The island

  "Now, lads," said Silver, "you must follow me, just as if we was goin' over the side to take a prize!"

  "Aye!" they said: twenty men, every one a volunteer, and every one with a loaded musket and a belt full of pistols. They stood round the tall figure of Long John Silver in the thinning forest, in the fading light, with the waters of the inlet visible through the trees, and just a glimpse of the wreck of the Elizabeth.

  "I've told you what has to be done, and why," he said. "So, are you with me?"

  "Aye!" they said, but they said it half-hearted. Silver looked them over and wondered how far he could trust them. He wondered if they'd obey orders should it come to the last extreme. And could he even rely on himself?

  "Maybe we won't have to do it, lads," he said. "But follow my lead." He turned to his two best men: Israel Hands and Billy Bones. "You, Mr Gunner, to one side, and you, Mr Mate, to the other, and all hands to advance in line-abeam between you, so soon as we's on the sand."

  "Aye-aye, Cap'n."

  "With a will, lads!" said Silver and led them out of the forest, and on to the beach, where they could see the glowing fires and huddled figures of the camp set up by Sarney Sawyer and his men, some two hundred yards off.

  "Shoulder-to-shoulder, now," said Silver. "And no man fires before I gives the word. Come on, lads!"

  They moved forward with Silver a few paces ahead, and Billy Bones and Israel Hands dressing the line as they went. It was an uncanny moment, for the enemy they faced wasn't mortal… and the light was going. The figures round the campfire stirred and murmured. But they didn't get up as they should have done. They didn't wave, and shout, and joke. They were a circle of grey faces, listless and slow, and not making enough noise to be heard even over the soft crunch of footsteps in the sand.

  Then one of them did get up and swayed and staggered and moved towards the oncoming line of men.

  "Cap'n!" said a boy's voice. "Cap'n, you've come!"

  "Avast!" cried Silver, raising his hand. The marching line stopped and the steel barrels came up together. "Is that you, Ratty Richards?" said Silver. "Stay put, boy!"

  But Ratty Richards kept coming, and round the campfire others were moving. They were hauling themselves up. They were leaning on each other. They were getting to their feet. In a second they'd be coming forward.

  "We sent a runner, Cap'n," said Ratty, "but he never come back."

  "Stay there, Ratty!" cried Silver as the boy slowed but kept walking.

  "But, Cap'n…"

  "Drop anchor, my son!" cried Silver fiercely. "Not another inch!"

  Ratty Richards stopped. He was only ten yards away. Silver tried to make out his features. He tried his utmost. But in the near darkness he couldn't see Ratty's face… not properly.

  Still Silver raised a pistol and lined up the barrel on the centre of Ratty's chest. The pistol shook because Silver's hand was shaking.

  "Make ready!" bawled Silver, and clack-clack-clack went the locks.

  Ratty Richards gaped at the line of muskets, every one aimed at himself.

  "But it's me, Cap'n," he said. "It's me!"

  Silver groaned. It all depended on an old book. A book written by a poor devil tortured with loneliness. They'd all- died of it, had the Portuguese. All those that went ashore. All but Father Lucio and three others who proved naturally immune. That was nine out of every ten who'd been touched by the monkeys. Then the galleon sailed so her crew shouldn't catch it, and never returned, leaving the old Jesuit to bury the other two as they fell to old age, and himself the last of all, in his little house by the graveyard, weeping and raving in his journal.

  Weeping and raving… and one other thing.

  He killed every monkey with scarred hands.

  De Setubal had learned that there were two tribes of monkeys, which never met, for they detested each other. One tribe — the one his shipmates had found — had the smallpox, while the other did not. Over the years, he trapped and caught every infected monkey. He grew very cunning at this and he did the foul job with kindness, where he could. Thus he caressed those he caught: he calmed them and stroked them and fed them… then killed them at night, and buried them in secret, so the rest shouldn't see. It was his personal mission to save others from the pestilence, should ever anyone return to the island. But to him it was like killing children. It drove him mad in the end, and he died cursing God.

  Silver shuddered at the thought of it, and peered over the trembling barrel and tried to decide if it was possible for the same pestilence to jump out of the ground after sixty years and infect the second monkey tribe, because he still couldn't get a good look at Ratty Richards's face, and he dared not move closer.

  Ratty stood wondering and puzzled, looking as if he might step forward at any minute, and he was only a few paces off…

  "Go on, Cap'n!" cried Billy Bones. "Drop the sod!"

  "Aye!" said some.

  "No!" said others.

  "How do we know he's got it?"

  "Looks all right to me!"

  "Aye!"

  And the line of muskets wavered, and wobbled… and came down. Ratty was the youngest of them all. They could see no harm in him. Not in Ratty Richards.

  "Hallo, Ratty!" said a voice.

  "Hallo, Ratty!" they cried. "Here we are, lad!"

  "Stand off, Ratty," Silver pleaded. "Stay there, sonny, I'm beggin' you…"

  But Ratty Richards blinked and stepped forward. And behind him the men round the campfire began slowly to walk towards their captain. Silver could see them. It wasn't just Ratty. They'd have a dozen in their arms in a minute or two.

  Silver thought of Father Lucio who'd gone mad… who might have been wrong… who might have been mistaken…

  But what if he'd been right?

  "Hallo, Cap'n," said Ratty Richards, "I don't half feel buggered…"

  BANG! Silver's pistol flashed and roared. It jumped in his hand and put a twenty-bore ball into Ratty Richards, eleven years old, who could work
in six fathoms of water. By God's grace in an evil hour, the ball struck him instantly dead. The small body dropped like a stone and never moved.

  "Bastard!" said a voice.

  "Bloody bastard!" said another, and Silver's men muttered and started towards Ratty's body.

  "NO!" cried Silver at the top of his voice, and hauled out another pistol. He was tortured with guilt for the thing he had done. It would be his burden and nightmare forever, and it would change him. "Not another step! You've seen me kill a child, here, so d'you think I'd think twice about shooting any of you?"

  They growled and cursed but stood fast while Silver hopped as close as he dared to Ratty Richards's body, and finally got a good look at the pale face, staring up at the stars.

  Ratty was heavily disfigured. It was worse than ordinary smallpox, and that was bad enough! The rash was continuous. Whole, thick sheets of skin were peeling off the face, and arms and neck, and every other inch of skin that Silver could see. Blood wept and crept out from the cracks between the dying skin, and red-raw flesh gaped naked and oozing where the skin had dropped off.

  "Ugh!" said Silver, and leapt back. He'd been right. The old book was right. But in that dreadful moment it didn't make him feel any better. "Keep clear o' that!" he said, pointing at Ratty's body, but he needn't have bothered. They'd seen him jump. "Now, let's get this thing done," he said, and led them through the darkness. He led them to within hailing distance of the camp, but no closer.

  On both sides, a lesson had been learned. Silver's men raised their muskets, and those by the campfire made no attempt to move.

  "Where's Mr Sawyer?" cried Silver.

  "Here, Cap'n," said a weak voice.

  "He's bad, Cap'n," said another voice. "He can't get up."

  "Then listen to me, shipmates," said Silver. "I've always told you the truth, good or bad, and this time it's bad." He paused, searching for words. "It's the smallpox, only worse. It's something brewed on this island. You got it off Ben Gunn's monkey, and anyone as comes nears you gets it too, 'cept only them what's had it before, like Mr Bones, here. So we brought you all the supplies we could carry, and plenty o' rum, but you've to stay here and not move. I mean it, lads, I'll shoot any man as tries to come near the rest of us!"

  There was a long silence. Then Sarney Sawyer spoke in the darkness.

  "Are you leaving us to die, Cap'n?"

  Silver looked away. He was deeply ashamed. And it didn't help that he could see no other way.

  "Yes," he said finally. "It's that or lose all hands."

  "Can't nothing be done, Cap'n?"

  "No." Silver struggled for words. The best he could manage was: "But we did bring you the rum."

  "Thanks, Cap'n."

  "Sarney?"

  "Aye-aye, Cap'n?"

  "We'll be gone in the morning, but a few hands has volunteered to keep watch. Some of them what's had the smallpox. They'll be keeping watch… understand?"

  "Aye-aye, Cap'n," said Sarney Sawyer. "But me an' these poor lads here… we been low for days, Cap'n, heaving of our guts up, an' aching. So set your guards if you must, but we ain't going nowhere."

  Nor did they. Of the twenty-four Silver had left behind at the northern inlet, all but one died within a week. The body of the runner — a ship's boy sent out for help — was found later, near the swampland where he'd fallen, too sick to move, and slowly died. Like all the rest, he was buried — at Silver's orders — in the old Portuguese graveyard, together with the skin and bones that had been Father Lucio.

  If ever there was a tribute to John Silver's leadership, then it was that graveyard, since all the disgusting work of corpse-hauling and burial had to be done by the half-dozen hands who — like Ben Gunn and Billy Bones, but not Silver himself — were immune to smallpox, having had it and survived it, and this work they did because they trusted Silver; who'd told them it was the proper way to honour their fallen comrades, every bit as much as standing to attention with hats off as a man's body went over the side, beneath the flag, sewn in his hammock, to the sound of the bosun's call.

  Now Silver had only forty-eight men to defend the island. Forty-nine, if he included Ben Gunn, who was anchored somewhere downwind of peculiar. Silver searched to the depths of his imagination for a plan, something that might suit. He remembered the words of the men whom he'd served under in the past, especially Captain England and Captain Mason. Good men and true. Gentlemen of fortune! He wondered what they'd have done, if placed as he was.

  He wondered, but found no answer. So what was he to do?

  Chapter 18

  11 a.m., 20th November 1752

  The Golden Fish Tavern

  Bay Street

  Charlestown, South Carolina

  The room was long and narrow: the basement of a ship chandler's warehouse. There were two rows of tables, the floor was spread with sawdust. Candles were needed even in daytime, and the clientele were sailormen: shipmasters, mates and bosuns. It was a place where deals were made and news exchanged. It was passing clean and smelled of tobacco, tar and beer.

  "Where's Bentham?" said Flint, following Neal down the stairs into the room.

  "Through there," said Neal, pointing to one side. "See the door?" Flint frowned, fearing a trap. "It's all right, Joe," said Neal, "there's other doors in there. T'ain't the only way out." Neal was nervous. He was taking a risk. He was telling Flint only as much as was needed to get him to this meeting. The rest Flint must find out for himself…

  "Who are they?" said Flint. "We agreed one man each!" Three big men in long coats and black hats were sitting outside the door, holding pint-pots. They looked like ship's officers.

  "They're all right, Joe," said Neal. "One's Cap'n Parry of

  Sweet Anne, the other's Dan Parker, second mate aboard Hercules…" He smiled weakly. "They wanted to see the famous Captain Flint."

  "Oh," said Flint. He shrugged. He didn't mind. There could be no false names here… and besides, he was flattered. "So who's the third — the ugly one?"

  "Brendan O'Byrne," said Neal, "Bentham's first mate."

  Flint nodded as Parry and Parker got up and left, touching their hats to Flint and gazing in awe as they passed.

  "Mr O'Byrne," said Neal, "this is Captain Flint."

  "Cap'n!" said O'Byrne. But like Billy Bones he worshipped one man only, and wasn't impressed. "Cap'n's in there," he said, looking at the door. It was a very thick wooden door and nothing could be heard beyond, until Flint opened it… then there were voices and laughter: women's laughter, and squeals…

  Flint looked inside and turned on Neal with a face like doom. Neal shook.

  "What game is this?" Flint demanded.

  "Joe," said Neal, "Danny has his own ways, but he's a good 'un — trust me."

  "What… damned… stupid… game… is this?"

  "What d'you mean, Joe?" Neal's voice cracked in terror.

  "Bentham! Don't you know what he is?"

  "Of course," said Neal. "Didn't you know?"

  Flint's expression answered. It took a desperate flood of words to persuade him to enter the side room, which surprised Neal, because he knew exactly what was in there along with Danny Bentham, and he couldn't see why Flint didn't step forward at the double with a smile on his face.

  The trouble was that there were some things even Charley Neal didn't know about Flint. When Flint bought Selena off Charley, and herself a little darling, it had seemed to him proof that Flint was a man towards women. Thus Charley had no inkling there was a certain something that Flint had never been able to do with a woman, no matter how much he tried. And he had tried.

  So Flint stood on the threshold, afraid to advance, afraid to retreat. He dared not hold back for fear men would think him a eunuch, but he dared not go forward and be proved one. Long seconds passed. Neal stared in growing disbelief as Flint dithered and quivered. Joe Flint that had no fear of any man. Joe Flint that every man was in terror of.

  But then… maybe… Looking into the room, Flint found tha
t… just possibly… he wasn't quite so lost as he'd feared, for he felt that something might be stirring that had long been dormant.

  Finally he summoned his courage, stepped forward, and slammed the door shut behind him.

  The room was bright lit. Bentham was in shirt and breeches on a couch with two tarts from the top end of the Charlestown trade. Both were stark naked except for laced- up riding boots, tight black gloves and little feathered hats tied with ribbons under the chin. They were exceedingly well chosen by Bentham himself, who was hopelessly addicted to the flesh. That's where his money went, and he knew how to spend it.

  One girl was white, the other black, and the white girl was laughing while the black girl rode on Bentham's back, one hand inside his shirt and the other cracking him with a riding whip.

  "Take that, sir!" cried the black girl.

  "Ow!" cried Bentham, and flinched at the blow.

  Flint gulped. There was definitely something awake below, even if he was in a fury with Neal over Danny Bentham not being what "he" was supposed to be — as witnessed by the scene in front of him, with Bentham's open shirt revealing what it was that the black girl's hand was squeezing!

  "Cap'n Flint?" cried Bentham, spotting his guest and shaking off his rider. "Is it you, Cap'n?" Throwing the whores aside, he — she? — stood up, hitched breeches, tucked in his breast, and stepped forward with a smile.

  Bentham was big: taller than Flint, and handsome and friendly and on his uttermost best behaviour. Flint was taken aback, and allowed Bentham to shake his hand, and sit him down and offer him a glass and a girl.

  "Which d'you fancy, Cap'n? All charged to me, of course."

  "The black one," murmured Flint, his mind fevered.

  "Nancy," said Bentham. "They're all called Nancy or Poll," he laughed, and the girls simpered and giggled, and Flint gasped as Nancy sat her silky-soft, dark, warm self in his lap and curled her smooth arms round his neck and stuck her tongue in his ear.