Skull and Bones

by John Drake

  "Uch! Uch!" said Laurence, staggering back.

  "Flint! God bless my eyes and limbs!" said Bland. "What is it?"

  "Tell him not to fire on Walrus!" said Flint, unhinged in his fury.

  "Nor shall we!" said Bland, turning to Laurence. "Lieutenant! You shall concentrate your fire upon the second ship, until such time as the enemy may attempt a landing, then you shall fire on his boats! Is that understood?"

  "Yes, sir!" croaked Laurence, gawping at Flint, and rubbing his neck.

  "Go on then!" said Bland.

  "Yes, sir!" said Laurence, and staggered off to his gunners.

  "God bless my precious soul, what's the matter with you, Flint?" said Bland.

  "Nothing," said Flint.

  "Huh!" said Bland, and stepped back a pace as Flint, who'd been so reasonable a gentleman until now, stared into his eyes with such an expression as would befit some basilisk of mythology rather than a civilised man. Bland gulped and shuddered. To say that Flint was mad was to say that the sea was wet. The hairs stood up on the back of Bland's neck.

  "Ah… hmm…" said Flint, seeing Bland's reaction and recovering himself such that the manic light went out of his eyes. "Just don't fire on Walrus!" he said. "Don't do that…"

  Bland was bright enough to realise that - as far as Flint was concerned - there was far more aboard Walrus than some papers that led to treasure! Wealth and riches made a pretty pair, but a man didn't go galloping mad for them. No, there was something else that Flint valued more than life and soul. Bland wondered what it was.

  Teniente Burillo looked up. He was overjoyed to see the Spanish colours that gleamed in brilliance against the blue sky. He smiled and tried to look around him, but he couldn't.

  He could only look up. Nor could he stand or move, nor even hear very well, for all the vast bustle and commotion around him sounded strangely flat and quiet. Then Aspirante Alvarez's face filled his vision. It was pale and shouting and horrified.

  "Teniente! Teniente…" said Alverez's mouth, but Burillo could no longer hear.

  "TENIENTE!" screamed Alvarez, who was old for an aspirante, being an incompetent seaman who'd failed to distinguish himself at sea. He was pot-bellied, pop-eyed, the butt of his comrades' jokes, and now he knelt beside the smashed, limbless torso of his commanding officer, where it lay in a pool of its own entrails. "Ugh!" said Alvarez, shuddering as the life went out of Burillo's face and his eyes closed.

  "Get your men in hand!" cried a voice at his elbow, and Alvarez looked up to see the English-Portuguese captain with his long crutch towering over him, his coat-tails swirling as he reached down to haul Alvarez to his feet. "Get up! On your feet," he commanded, "for there's no man left but you!"

  Alvarez stood. He looked around him. It was blood and death on all sides. At least thirty men were dead or laid in pitiful ruin: moaning, slobbering, and broken - and that included all the officers, even the other aspirantes. Meanwhile men ran hither and thither, some trying to bring the longboat alongside, others - the seamen - trying to work the ship and make good her damage. They worked with a will, Spanish beside English, in the manner of their trade, but the soldiers were near despair, and if they'd been ashore they'd have run away.

  Then the guns thundered again: the guns up in the English battery, and Alvarez shuddered as the shot flew overhead and screams, crashes and falling timbers sounded astern, from La Concha. Instinctively, Alvarez thanked God for the respite, and then was ashamed for wishing death on his comrades. But the English captain was shaking his shoulder and shouting again.

  "I'll sail the ship," said Silver, over the din of gunfire, cries and screaming. "I'll con her to anchor, but you must take command of your men or we're lost. I can't sail her out, for the wind's against us, and we'd have to kedge or warp, which is too slow and they'd sink us! So the only hope is for your men to take the battery. It's that or the ship's lost - and all aboard of us! Can you do that? Can you do it, senor?"

  "Yes," said Alvarez. But his face said "no".

  "Huh!" said Silver, and grabbed hold of one of his own men, and gabbled at him in harsh, barking English, before turning back to Alvarez. "We're hit below the waterline, which I must attend to… So, can you do it, senor? Take that battery?"

  "Yes," said Alvarez in a tiny voice, and he shook as the guns fired again.

  "Come on," said Silver, desperate to put heart into the little swab, desperate to save the ship and the woman he loved. "Santiago!" he said. "Go on, boy, shout it out!"

  "Santiago!" said Alvarez, mouthing the war cry of Spanish Christendom.

  "No," said Silver. "SANTIAGO!" And he yelled with all his might.

  "Santiago!" echoed some of the Spanish soldiers, turning round.

  "There! Go on, my son," said Silver.

  "Santiago! Santiago! Santiago!" cried Alvarez, and the Spaniards cheered.

  Better yet, a big sargento named Ortiz - a veteran with a fine moustache - got up from where he'd been sitting in misery with an arm off at the elbow, lashed a line around the stump, and came and stood beside Alvarez.

  "Santiago!" cried Ortiz in a deep bellow.

  "So!" cried Alvarez, and found his way to his duty. "Bring the longboat alongside." He said it weakly, anxiously looking for reassurance at Sargento Ortiz, who nodded firmly, such that Alvarez drew breath for a real shout: "All hands to boat drill! All hands fall in by the larboard rail!"

  The men cheered again. One of them picked up the regimental colour that had gone down when the standard-bearer fell. He raised it, and waved it, and emotion filled them all, as they did their country proud, in the skill and efficiency with which they hauled in the longboat, dropped Spanish seamen into her to man the oars, then filled her with every last man she could hold, which was fifty soldiers and ten oarsmen, the boat being an exceptionally big one, which like San Pedro de Arbués that owned her, was built in the style of the last century.

  Alvarez went over the side last of all, and all aboard cheered… and all aboard were lucky, for the plunging shot and howling grape that sizzled down from the battery was concentrating exclusively on La Concha, which now slewed crab- wise with yards dangling, sails trailing, blood running from her scuppers, and a slaughterhouse of dead and mangled humanity cramming her decks among the shattered gear, shards and splinters.

  And yet, even La Concha was manning her longboat. Smashed and bedraggled as the ship was, the men aboard hadn't given up, and their own shouts of "Santiago!" echoed across the water to sound beside those of Aspirante Alvarez and his men. Soon two boats were pulling for the landing and the stairs, crammed and manned to the gunwales, and enjoying a brief respite from the fire of the battery, as if the guns didn't know which target to choose, allowing the Spanish seamen to pull their hearts out…

  Clunk-clank! Clunk-clank! Clunk-clank!

  But then the black muzzles found their way, and roared together and shot flew through the air again.

  "Where's this bastard shot-hole, then?" said the carpenter's mate as he dashed forward to find Silver, Israel Hands, Mr

  Joe and all the rest who were free, waiting for him in the companionway outside the stern cabin.

  "There ain't none," said Silver. "But them Dagoes is going to be gone in a brace o' shakes, and most of our lads is in irons below. So I've summoned all hands, for this is our chance to take back our ship!"

  "Aye!" they said.

  "Aye!" said Silver, and he thought long and hard, and listened to all the noise and fury around him. The soldiers were all on deck, yelling encouragement to their mates in the longboat, while below decks all was quiet.

  "Have you got your tools, Mr Carpenter?"

  "Aye-aye, Cap'n!"

  "And you, Mr Gunner?"

  "Aye-aye!" said Israel Hands.

  "So let's strike the chains off our lads, and be a crew once more!"

  "Aye!" they all said.

  "And set sail!" said a voice.

  "Aye!" they roared.

  "No!" said Silver.

  "What?"<
br />
  "We'll take the ship, and break out the fire-arms and man the guns!"

  "Aye!"

  "But then…we must hold hard, and stay put."

  "Why?"

  "First, because we don't know who's going to win the fight up above, and whoever wins'll be master of that battery, the which we can't get away from, without the wind changes, for we'd be sunk before we could warp out!"

  They nodded. It was true.

  "But," said Silver, "there's more…"

  "What?" they said.

  "Have we come this far to walk away penniless, shipmates?" said Silver. "Penniless, when we could be rich men riding in carriages? You all know I've only half the papers that lead to the treasure, while that bastard Flint has the rest."

  "Aye!"

  "So are we gentlemen o' fortune or bumboat men? Shall we let Flint keep us from what's ours?"

  "No," said the old hands. But some of the youngsters were silent, for not all had sailed with Flint, and to them, his treasure was a fine tale but not reality.

  "So what would you do, John?" said Israel Hands.

  "What would I do? Why," said Silver, "I'd let the Spanish and the Savannians knock seven bells out of each other, and while they're at it - perhaps tonight - then a band of us shall go ashore, find Jimmy Chester - him as will lead us to Flint - and get them papers off the swab, and his silver case too, if we have to cut it out of him while we roast his arse on a fire!" Silver growled in venom and spite, he clenched his fist and stamped his crutch on the deck. "And by thunder, I'll do it an' all," he said.

  There was another silence, then Israel Hands spoke again.

  "Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n," he said, touching his hat formally, "but this is for all hands to decide, in council. For we're gentlemen o' fortune, like you said, and there's some what'd wish to take their chances with the battery, or sail upstream, past their reach, and wait for a better wind."

  "Aye!" said the others, and Silver nodded, for he had no choice.

  "So be it," he said. "Let the council be held!"

  * * *

  Chapter 39

  Morning, 20th July 1754

  The Savannah River

  The longboat bumped into mooring posts at the foot of the timber stairs. The men cheered. Alvarez shrieked in relief and joy. They'd made it! They'd come ashore! They'd got under the reach of the slaughtering, murdering battery. They couldn't be hit any more! And thump-bump-crunch, the second longboat - La Concha's - was alongside and crammed with yelling mouths, glittering bayonets and black moustaches. The second boat had been badly hit by grape and there were dead and wounded rolling in her bilges, but she still disgorged a load of fighting men.

  "Santiago!" cried Alvarez.

  "SANTIAGO!" they all roared.

  "Follow me!" cried Alvarez, swept away by the triumph of the moment, and he made ready to jump for the stairs with sword in hand.

  "Aspirante," cried Sargento Ortiz, grabbing his arm, "shall we not send the boats back for more men?"

  "Oh! Ah!n cried Alvarez. "Soldiers of Spain, follow me! Seamen, return for another load!" And then he was off, fired with fury, erupting with passion, and for once in his life leading from the front with his men following after, boots

  pounding, muskets clattering, swarming, tumbling out of the wallowing boats, with the seamen urging them on, and thundering up the wooden stairs that creaked and swayed under their load, and pouring out at the top, with Alvarez leaping with excitement and the civilian population of Savannah shrieking and screaming and running in all directions: men and women, children and adults, black, white, red and mulattos of every shade scattering. Some ran to their houses, some to the forest - but mostly they ran pell-mell towards the heavy grey timbers and the smooth, looming earthworks of Savannah's fort… and never a blow struck in defence of the town and never a glimpse of a red coat… except a hundred yards off to one side, where the troops in the now- silent battery stood in their smoke and peered through the embrasures at the Spaniards, now firmly in control of Savannah's stairs.

  "Cease firing!" cried Lieutenant Laurence, hoarse with shouting, deafened by his guns, and eyes streaming from powder smoke. "They're under our fucking reach and it ain't no fucking good!"

  And the men gulped and sweated, and stood by their hot black guns and trembled with the effort they'd put out in serving them. They'd hit one of the boats, and mauled it badly, but now they couldn't depress their guns any lower. They couldn't even see the boats.

  Laurence sighed. Left to himself, he'd have stood back and waited for a target, but Flint was on him like the wrath of God, with Colonel Bland after him, at first for fear Flint had lost his temper again, and then understanding and yelling agreement wildly.

  "Listen!" cried Flint, seizing hold of Laurence, "they'll come ashore up that blasted staircase! I shall drag out two guns to bear upon it! You will stand by your remaining guns, laid on your last sight of the boats, and stand by to fire as they emerge to collect more men! You will ensure that fire is properly controlled such that each boat is pounded, and you will not - under any circumstances - fire upon Walrus!"

  "Yes! Yes!" cried Bland, nodding his head off at Flint's words, and marvelling that ever he'd doubted the sanity of so superb an officer, so steady under fire, and so much a master of the hour.

  But Flint wasn't done, for the swirling clouds of his personality always had contained - amongst all the rest - a very fine officer indeed. So he clapped his hands behind his back as a sea-officer should and turned on Colonel Bland and gave him his orders.

  "Colonel!" he said.

  "Sir!" said Bland instinctively.

  "You will take command of all your forces and engage the enemy!" Flint nodded towards the Spanish troops that were driving Savannah's people before them, led by an officer who leaped and cavorted and waved a sword over his head.

  "You will bring the garrison from the fort!"

  "Sir!" said Bland.

  "You will send out your woodsmen to fall upon the enemy's rear!"

  "Sir!" said Bland, and saluted.

  Without a word, without hesitation, Bland dashed off towards the fort where his men were waiting, while Flint took command of two gun crews and began hauling guns out of their emplacements and around the earthworks to face the river bank, the stairs and the Spaniards. It was heavy work and slow, because the guns' small wheels constantly bogged down in the soft earth. But with Flint leading, the gunners persevered.

  "Heave-ho! Heave-ho!" cried the Spanish oarsmen, and they backed water to clear the stairs, then each helmsman steered for his ship, for Walrus and for La Concha, and without the weight of a cargo of men the big boats made better speed. From the two ships came cheers and cries to urge them on. Even the wounded in La Concha's boat did their best to cheer, and gave up groaning.

  "Heave-ho! Heave-ho!" The boats pulled for their ships, and came out from under the protective brow of Savannah's river bank… and once more into the sight of the eighteen- pounders, which opened up, at maximum depression, with a bound and a roar and a bank of smoke. But this time it was three guns, not five, with two firing at La Concha's boat and only one at Walrus's. More than that, the soldiers aboard Walrus had the sense to open fire with her two-pounder swivels, which, small as they were, had the advantage over her carriage guns in that their mountings allowed unlimited elevation, enabling an aim to be taken - by squint and by guesswork - at the battery up on the river bank.

  Following the example of their comrades, those aboard La Concha likewise loaded the swivels mounted on her gunwale and aimed up at the battery and cracked and banged in company with Walrus's fire, sending a steady stream of iron shot whistling up at the earthworks… where they did no harm at all to the eighteen-pounders or their solid defences, for most missed entirely or buried themselves in the earthworks, but one or two lucky shots howled over the heads of the gunners, reminding them of mortality and making them flinch.

  More important, with eight or more swivels burning powder, a nice cloud of whit
e smoke began to roll around the anchorage below Savannah's stairs, making it hard for the gunners in the battery to see what they were aiming at.

  "Damnation!" cried Lieutenant Laurence. "Load grapeshot! No more solid ball!"

  "Sir!" cried his gunners, for it was good sense. Grape might not sink a big longboat as a roundshot shot would, but it greatly increased the chances of a hit. And soon Laurence's men were cheering as water foamed in a deadly circle all around Walrus's longboat, now re-filled with Spanish soldiers and pulling for the shore, and a good dozen one- pound iron balls crashed into the boat such that blood, bone and flesh leapt into the air and cascaded down and smeared the living survivors with the guts and slime of their mates, and fragments of teeth, skin and hair, and pieces of fingers and limbs.

  But the boat didn't go down! It wasn't holed so bad that bailing couldn't save it, and most of the oarsmen survived and pulled on with desperate strength, and the dead and dying hanging over the sides between the heaving oars, and a greasy trail of blood and tissues trailing aft like the slime of a monstrous slug.

  "Aspirante!" cried Sargento Ortiz. "The battery! We must silence the battery!" Ortiz was weakening. He'd lost much blood. The stump of his arm was pounding horribly, and seeping and dripping, and Ortiz was gasping from chasing Aspirante Alvarez and trying to get the little sod to take command of the men, who'd soon be breaking doors and looting if they weren't stopped.

  "Oh!" said Alvarez, and looked around, and saw the empty streets and the few running figures, and his grinning, gasping men, and Sargento Ortiz's accusing face. And then… B-Boom! the battery fired again, and Alvarez remembered and rushed back to the river bank and looked down at the dead and dying and the wreckage floating in the Savannah River. Five hundred men had mustered in arms on the maindecks of Walrus and La Concha. Of these, as Alvarez could plainly see, a good hundred were already dead or ruined, and now the oarsmen were losing their stroke aboard one of the boats, and looking over their shoulders for the smoke and flash of the battery's guns, and the other boat was landing more men at the bottom of the stairs, and the river was filling up with smoke from the battery, and - Alvarez gaped in surprise - swivel guns were firing from the two ships.