Pieces Of Eight js-2

by John Drake

  "Get off!" he said. "Bring a line," he said to one of his men. "Let the monkey up!" Flint might be a bloody-handed pirate, but there was no harm in a monkey, now, was there?

  The line dropped over the side. Flint reached out for it. He missed. He tried again, and York's first mate spoke.

  "Cap'n! Boat pulling out of the passage, sir!"

  "Where?"

  "There, Cap'n."

  York put his glass on the boat. There were four oarsmen, pulling like maniacs. There were two men in the bow, one an Indian. There were two men in hats and long coats — officers, obviously — in the sternsheets… and one of them looked like Mr Van… Indeed, it was Mr Van!

  "What's this, Mr Flint?" said York.

  "What?" said Flint, reaching again for the swinging line.

  "That boat! That's Mr Van on board of her!"

  "Ah!" said Flint, catching the line at last. "Good! I'm pleased to hear that!"

  "Why?"

  "Because…" said Flint, and pulled at the monkey's arms where they clung to his neck. But the monkey wouldn't budge. It cried out.

  "Because of what?" said York. "What's a-going on, Mr Flint?"

  "Just a moment," said Flint, and wrenched the monkey's arms free. The creature howled in pain and all the women cried out in pity. "Get on, damn you!" said Flint, and shoved the line into the monkey's hands.

  Clank! Clank! Clank! The sound of the boat's oars could be heard.

  "Flint!" said York. "What's going forward?"

  "Nothing, dear sir."

  Flint whacked the monkey. It shrieked. It jumped three feet up the rope and sat there hanging on, and chattering.

  "Pull him up, dear sir!" said Flint, managing a lovely smile.

  "Pull him up, Ayorka!" said the women.

  Clank! Clank! Clank! The boat was two hundred yards off, the oarsmen hauling themselves off their benches with clenched teeth and muscles straining, and driving the boat onward at a tremendous rate of knots. York frowned. Something was wrong. Mr Van was waving. The Indian was lying in the bow.

  "Flint," said York, "what's Cap'n Van doing in that boat?" "I'll tell you as soon as I'm aboard, sir." "Pull him up! Pull him up!" cried the women. The seaman with the line shrugged and hauled it in hand over hand. He couldn't see no harm in no monkey, neither. So up it came.

  Chapter 45

  Afternoon, 26th February 1753

  Alongside Lord Stanley

  With the Patanq fleet

  "Yes!" said Flint as the monkey clung to the line and the line was hauled in. "Go on, my little fellow!" he said, even as his neck ached from looking up and the boat swayed under his feet, bumping against the massive hull of the collier.

  Flint could hear muttering from the four men behind him, nervously fingering their muskets and eyeing the progress of Silver's boat, which was coming on fast. It was still two hundred yards off, though; already they were too late. His plan was secure. The Indian women — hordes of them — were hanging over the side, chattering and giggling. By some quirk of good fortune, they'd all been brought together in one great mass, instead of different ships, as he'd been expecting — for that would have posed a problem even Flint had no solution for, though he'd been wrestling with it for days now.

  He watched the monkey on its way. Up, up, up it went.

  "A present for you, my ladies," said Flint. And they laughed and he laughed, and they stretched out their hands, each trying to be the first to snatch the pretty little creature from off the rope. To snatch it and stroke it and comfort the poor thing from its dreadful fright, from hanging over the fearful wet sea.

  Chk-chk-chk! said the monkey, which was, in all truth, terrified. And everyone was reaching out for it, with Sally leaning out the furthest and Captain York grinning and hanging on to her behind, and she stretching… and stretching…

  "Yes…" said Flint.

  And her fingertips were closing towards the fur…

  "Go on!" said Flint.

  Smack-crack! The ball arrived before the sound of the shot, thumping into the small, furry body, knocking it clean off the rope, and spattering blood all over Flint. But whether by pure blind chance or the grace of a beneficent God, no blood, no fur, no tissue, no nothing came aboard Lord Stanley, nor did any of it touch those aboard.

  The dead monkey plummeted into the mighty ocean which, forever and uncomplaining, swallows the filth of the land.

  The women screamed. York cursed. Flint stood speechless with the blood spatter unwiped from his face…

  A hundred yards away, with oars backed and the boat stopped and steady, Dreamer was rising to his knees, his long- rifle in his hands, and the white smoke clearing from the bow. Then the boat was rocking as all aboard cheered and reached out to clap him on the back.

  But Flint wasn't done. Never one to give up, he fought on, even if what he was now doing was driven purely by spite — for there was no chance now of his ever getting aboard Lord Stanley. Not with York bellowing at him, and Van Oosterhout, Dreamer and John Silver yelling too, and their boat under way again, and Flint's four men grabbing at him and demanding to be off, so that Flint had to flatten one of them to show the others… And when that was accomplished he got back to battering open the monkey-cage with the butt of his pistol, so that he might let out the other three, and throw, hurl, cast — whatever it took to get them aboard that ship and exact his revenge on the Patanq.

  Silver's boat charged forward, backed oars, and within moments five muskets and six brace of pistols crackled and roared, and men went down all around Flint, but not before they'd fired too, each man with two brace, and a musket each, and two blunderbusses in the boat besides. Sparks and smoke and wadding flew in every direction in the ferocious fire-fight that ensued, at a range so close that it was all but impossible to miss, and not one man in either boat escaped unharmed.

  Aboard Lord Stanley the women screamed and screamed, while York and his crew gaped at the battle — and took cover. When the firing stopped, they got up and looked, and saw two boats wallowing in their own powder smoke, and men sprawled out and bleeding and twitching.

  Flint's crew were finished: all of them dead or rattling out their last breaths. Flint himself was pierced through the arm and leg, but not seriously. Aboard Silver's boat, Dreamer was hit low in the body, Van Oosterhout in the chest and hand, Silver had two deep shot-furrows gouged across his belly, and Mr Joe — who'd been burned by powder flash — was in the water, where he'd jumped to put out his burning clothes. Of the other four men, only one was still conscious.

  Still Flint wouldn't give up. He stood. He raised his pistol butt, and smashed open the monkey cage.

  "Kill him!" cried Van Oosterhout to York. "Cold shot — drop cold shot on him!"

  Obediently York ran to the shot rack beside one of his ship's few guns.

  Flint seized a shrieking, wriggling monkey. He threw it at the ship, but it fell back into his boat. He chased it.

  "Stop him!" cried Silver, and Van Oosterhout seized a boat hook and tried, one-handed and dizzy with pain, to hook on to Flint's boat.

  "No! No!" said Silver. "We can't touch him! Not him or them monkeys. It's death to all hands!"

  Van Oosterhout dropped the hook and fell back, too sick to do more.

  York's men began to heave six-pounder shot at Flint, but missed with every one. As projectiles rained into the sea around him, Flint grabbed another monkey and tried to throw it into the ship. The frightened creature bit him viciously, causing him to fumble and drop it, and as he staggered the boat slid under him, out away from the ship, and away from Silver's boat.

  "Reload!" said Silver, snatching up a musket even though he was light-headed from loss of blood. "You there!" he croaked to York. "Never mind cold shot — get a bloody gun into action!"

  Dreamer clutched the wound in his side and said nothing. The injury was painful but he knew it would not kill him. And he saw that Flint would escape. Silver was feebly trying to load. Van Oosterhout was barely moving. The men on the great shi
p were fumbling with a cannon. And Flint's boat was drifting clear. Flint, the left handed twin, the Devil in flesh, was escaping with his demons. And if he escaped, he could return another day.

  Dreamer leapt out of the boat. He came down with a splash and swam the few strokes to Flint's boat. He tried to board. Flint struck at Dreamer with an empty pistol, but he wasn't quite himself. Hysterical with rage, he missed his stroke; Dreamer seized his hand, pulled Flint into the water and scrambled aboard. He chased the monkeys and struck them down with his hatchet, covering himself with their blood, guts and spittle. It was slow work because the monkeys were swift and agile and had to be caught.

  Flint's knife took Dreamer by surprise. He hadn't seen Flint climb back aboard — but even if he had, he'd not have stopped what he was doing. As Flint seized him, he brought down the tomahawk one final time, before Flint's knife stabbed into him, and kept on stabbing and stabbing and stabbing until finally Flint heaved him out of the boat.

  When he saw the dead monkeys, Flint let out a cry of rage and pain as if in the utmost desperation of his entire life, and damned all the world and those within it. Then he took two oars in his hands and began pulling with all his might.

  The single shot that Silver managed with his musket achieved nothing. Neither did Lord Stanley's hastily loaded gun, which York and his men were firing for the first time in years. Flint pulled for the open sea. Then he got the launch's sail up and ran westward into the mist-shrouded archipelago.

  York and his men launched their own boat. They came alongside Silver's and found Long John and Mr Joe holding one end of an oar, with Dreamer — still alive in the blood- clouded water — clinging to the other. The two pirates were faint and weak, but they were hanging on.

  "Leave go, shipmates," said York, clambering into the boat beside them and putting a hand on the oar. "We've got him now. We'll bring him aboard and look after him!"

  "No!" said Silver.

  "No!" said Dreamer.

  "Why not?"

  "He can't come aboard," said Silver.

  "No," said Dreamer.

  "Why not?"

  "Smallpox."

  York had many questions, but Silver just shook his head.

  "So why are you hanging on to him?" said York finally.

  "Dunno," said Silver, but he did know. And so did Dreamer, and they looked at one another as long as they could, and Silver hung on, and Dreamer hung on… until Dreamer could hang on no more. Finally, when his time was come, Dreamer slipped loose, and drifted off and quietly sank. Silver watched him go. Silver took off his hat.

  "And so we commend his body to the deep," he said. Then he turned to a sorely puzzled York. "It's what we say, lad," said Silver quietly, "us gentlemen o' fortune." He looked at the spot where the waves had closed over Dreamer. "You don't let a man like him die all alone."

  Chapter 46

  Two bells of the forenoon watch

  28th February 1753

  Aboard Lord Stanley with the Patanq fleet

  North of the archipelago

  The council held on the quarterdeck was a long one, even though some of the chief participants sat heavily bandaged in their chairs in the front rank, while the rest — and a great crowd of them it was, too, made up of warriors, seamen and gentlemen of fortune — sat or stood behind them, with those who'd signed articles shouting their comments whenever they wanted, as was their right, while the Patanq were shocked at such chaotic informality and spoke only when the ceremonial pipe was in their hands.

  All of which was a considerable trial to the wounded.

  Van Oosterhout had been lucky. Lucky in the man who treated him and who undoubtedly saved his life. Summoned from Walrus, Cowdray probed the Dutchman's chest wound, found the lung untouched, and removed a pistol ball, the shank of a brass button, and a bit of Van Oosterhout's coat. Thanks to Cowdray's obsession with boiling instruments before surgery, and with total cleanliness thereafter, a very dangerous wound was cleaned and drained, and healed well. Van Oosterhout was up and about the next day. He was even able to help Israel Hands bring Walrus safe through Flint's Passage, and out to join the Patanq fleet.

  Mr Joe was lucky, too. His burns were superficial, and Cowdray laid on goose-fat and clean bandages, and healed him without scars.

  Silver was lucky to be alive at all, but less lucky in his wounds. Cowdray cleaned the broad gashes across his body, but couldn't close them with stitching, because they were too wide. Despite Cowdray's best efforts, the wounds swelled and grew hot and painful. They would take weeks to recover fully.

  With Silver quieter than usual, the discussion was led by Israel Hands and Cut-Feather, and agreement was slow despite the profound gratitude of the Patanq nation, and a procession of sachems who came forward, one by one, to kneel before Silver and Van Oosterhout, and pronounce their thanks. The problem, as ever in this wicked world, was not high principle, but low money, for Flint's five chests had been opened and found to contain an astonishing amount of silver and gold — plenty enough and more for the Patanq nation to buy its new lands in the North.

  There were many and different ingenious plans to split this wealth and ensure equal shares. But they were all too clever by half, for no man trusts a scheme he can't understand. Not where gold and silver is concerned. And so it rolled on, until John Silver, fed up and ill, and with Selena at his side pouring him drinks, called for silence.

  "See here!" he said, sweating with the effort. "There's five chests of Flint's what's been brought aboard this ship. Ain't that a fact?"

  "Aye!" they said.

  "And four of 'em's dollars, and one's doubloons, and a few choice gemstones, too. Am I right?"

  "Aye."

  "So how's this — I'll take one chest of dollars, and a good handful of stones, and that's my whack. Me and my crew."

  "Hmmm," they said.

  "And all the rest — all of it — why, that goes to the Patanq nation, with Mr Van to be paid such sum as the nation thinks proper on safe arrival of the nation in its new home!"

  There was much more argument, especially from Van Oosterhout, who'd have preferred a chest of his very own, right now. But Silver's plan was followed. It might not have been philosophically perfect, but it was simple, and everybody understood it.

  Next day at dawn Lord Stanley and the Patanq fleet weighed and sailed on a fair wind, and with a great number of new lives already aboard, what with the joyful and vigorous reuniting of so many husbands and wives after long parting, such that the fleet had rocked at its moorings the night before. And if, in due course, some of the women — like Sally — were delivered of children a little paler than their husbands… well, nobody minded.

  Walrus sailed at the same time, bound for Williamstown, Upper Barbados, possibly the last port in the Caribbean where she could drop anchor without fear of King George. For this purpose she had aboard two of the Patanq fleet's best navigators, men who'd been to Upper Barbados enough times to be sure of finding it again, especially with the help of the charts and detailed sailing instructions given them by Van Oosterhout.

  "What do we do when we get there?" said Selena that night, as she lay in Silver's arms.

  "Dunno, my girl, but I'll do it with you, whatever. And I'll not be parted from you again."

  "No more the gentleman of fortune?"

  "No."

  "Really?"

  "Aye."

  "Pieces of eight!" said the parrot from her perch. Perhaps she knew Silver was lying, for he certainly was… he who'd never lied before.

  John Silver was becoming a different man.

  Chapter 47

  Dusk, 4th March 1753

  The southern anchorage

  The island

  It was Mr Povey who saw the launch come round the great eastern headland and into the anchorage.

  Captain Baggot, who'd taken command on the commodore's death, had lookouts everywhere, for he was keen to demonstrate his own efficiency — and secretly delighted at the opportunity to do so. But the
greatest incentive of all was his utter conviction that Flint's treasure could yet be found on the island.

  With such a tremendous prize in his sights, Baggot had worked wonders. Leaper had been saved from the flames, but condemned and gutted, and her crew embarked aboard other ships. Bounder was salvaged and repaired, and got off her sandbank. The dead were buried, promotions made to fill dead men's shoes, and all made tight and shipshape. Even now, the wounded were busy either recovering or dying, as best pleased them, such that the tented hospital on the beach was emptying day by day.

  Meanwhile, Baggot had two good longboats sounding and charting the fog-bound north of the island where Walrus had last been seen, and it was his personal guess that there was some safe passage to be found there, else why would Flint have gone so boldly in?

  Above all, Baggot would not be downhearted. Total losses were less than a hundred men out of six hundred. Them and one sloop. Why, on his circumnavigation of '40 to '44 the famous Anson lost his whole damn fleet but one ship, and he'd still come home laden with gold and earned a peerage.

  So men were on watch everywhere. This was Baggot's favourite ploy. He had small scouting parties out all over the island, and the two sloops were constantly on patrol off the coast. At least it was clear now that the savages, wherever they'd come from, were gone with Flint; they would be dealt with just so soon as the mysterious, foggy north was properly charted.

  Thus it happened that Mr Midshipman Povey was in command of the beach when the launch came in under sail. It was pure chance that he was on duty at that hour, with his glass and his lookout station and his five marines and five seamen, when the launch came round the headland.

  Who's this, then? he thought, focusing on the boat. But he couldn't see who was aboard. In fact, there didn't seem to be anybody aboard, except that it couldn't sail itself — obviously — so there must be someone in the stern, only… the sail was in the way. He was almost sure it wasn't one of the squadron's boats.