Pieces Of Eight

by John Drake

  Zoom! A round-shot tore through Walrus's rigging. SPANG! A line parted and a sail flapped high above the deck. On instant initiative, without orders, the topmen leapt like acrobats, fearlessly splicing the line and making it good, and the ship drove on, barely faltering. Then voom! - another shot and POP-RRRRRRIP the fore t'gallant was punctured, and by ill chance it tore from top to bottom. Walrus staggered and the crew groaned.

  "Bring her about, Mr Allardyce!" Flint cried, rising to the occasion. "They're going to catch us anyway, so let's die like men! Bring her about and open fire with every gun in the ship!"

  They cheered him for that. With the wind on her larboard quarter, a touch of the helm brought Walrus foaming round, and Flint hove to by backing the fore topsail. The ship now had no way on at all, and it was Walrus's broadside of seven six-pounders against the frigate's two nines.

  Seeing the change of artillery, Allardyce and Dark Hand raced to the stern-chaser in its hacked-out port. Without a word said between them, they tore the wampum belt from the gun, and ran to the rolling, heaving maindeck, now jammed with men scrambling to their guns.

  "Which gun?" said Dark Hand.

  "Buggered if I know," said Allardyce.

  "That one!" cried Dreamer, running forward and pointing to number four.

  "Why?" said Allardyce.

  "It is the centre," said Dreamer. "It will inspire the rest."

  "Get off my gundeck!" screamed Flint.

  "Please, Cap'n, please," begged Allardyce. "It worked before!"

  VOOOOM! ZOOOOM! More shot whizzed overhead. More lines parted. A spar shattered. Flint cringed and looked to larboard. The frigate was now just over a cable's length off. Every detail of her rig and gear could be seen, and the figures of the men manning her, all of whom seemed to be cheering and waving.

  "God damn you!" said Flint, and looked at Allardyce and the two Indians: three faces, two red, one white, different as any creatures could be… but united in their stupidity and superstition. Mad laughter seized Flint again. "Go on, then!" he said. "Gunners - to your pieces. Steady-aimed fire!"

  The men cheered again. Dark Hand and Allardyce tied the belt around number four gun, stepped back, and the gunners fired, each in his own time, the whole roaring broadside. Dense, rolling smoke hid the enemy for long seconds. And then… there she was again: whole and unharmed.

  "Bugger!" said Allardyce, who'd expected every spar blown off the frigate's masts.

  "Jump to it there!" cried Flint. "Reload! Fire at will! A thousand guineas to the man who hits her hardest!"

  But nobody fired. They were leaping in the air and shrieking for joy. Yet another squall was blasting out of the darkening sea, bigger than any so far, and it struck the frigate a mighty blow, all the worse for her towering masts that reached high up into the full strength of it. She nearly went over as her bulging fore and main topsails blew out thunderously and shredded into streaming rags, while yards and topmasts snapped like gunshots as much of her top gear went over the side. In minutes the big ship had lost way and was wallowing helpless. The same blow fell upon Walrus, and she rolled as if to dip her yards, but she was nowhere near so lofty as the frigate and therefore missed the worst of it. In no time she recovered and drove onward, wounded as she was, and even picked up speed.

  Allardyce cheered and threw his arms around Dark Hand and danced for joy, and even Dark Hand smiled, and thumped his hands against Allardyce's back.

  "There, Cap'n!" said Allardyce. "What d'you say now to Indian magic?"

  "Bah!" sneered Flint. "It wasn't your gunfire. It was a squall."

  "What? Just in the instant we needed it?"

  Flint turned away. It was no use arguing with ignorance. But then he smiled. What did it matter what Allardyce believed? Him and a herd of Indians? What mattered was that the sun was half under, the frigate well astern, and her squadron out of sight. Flint scanned the darkening horizon.

  Ah-ha! There were Hercules and Sweet Anne, waiting like little lambs, half a mile ahead, with their topsails backed, ready to take up station on the flagship. Either the squall had missed them or they'd survived it as Walrus had. And now they were standing by, eager for their chance of a dip into the island's treasure!

  Flint nodded in satisfaction. He would escape the navy now. The frigate must make good her damage and resume company with her sloops, and he'd lose her before she could do that, even without the cover of night. So he could risk showing lights for Bentham and Parry to follow… and so… and so… to the island.

  Once there, he planned to see the colour of John Silver's insides, for it wasn't just gold Flint was after - not him, God bless his precious soul! Flint would never again make the mistake of leaving enemies behind.

  This time - as Billy Bones would have said - them as die'll be the lucky ones.

  * * *

  Chapter 26

  Two bells of the first watch

  27th November 1752

  Aboard HMS Oraclaesus

  The Atlantic

  Commodore Richard Scott-Owen was such a splendid officer that he was a little too aware of his own splendidness.

  He owed everything to talent, coming as he did from a modest family of Deptford ship builders; prosperous but plebeian craftsmen who'd sought gentility for their brightest son by getting him into the king's sea-service, where his progress had been gratifyingly rapid. Blessed with the good fortune to be a lieutenant on HMS Baltimore under "Black Dick" Howe - one of the best-connected officers in the service - he so distinguished himself as to become Black Dick's favourite protege and an instant and popular choice to command the elite squadron sent after former-lieutenant Flint.

  Scott-Owen had thereby acquired so much self-assurance, that he remained calm when the Charlestown thunderbolt struck:

  Flint himself had actually been in harbour - anchored within sight of the squadron - while Scott-Owen was dancing at a ball, and now had taken fright and sailed!!

  According to Governor Glen a patriotic merchant named Pimenta had, by chance, discovered Flint's activities and informed the authorities. On hearing the news, Scott-Owen calmly ordered the squadron to sea, and left the bawling and hauling to those beneath him. He had fine ships, fine officers, and could walk the quarterdeck, hands clasped behind him, while the squadron got under way at the speed of the Devil with his arse on fire.

  He further remained calm while his sloops stopped every ship in Charlestown roads to enquire after Flint's whereabouts, and learned that he was travelling in the company of fellow villains Bentham and Parry. Having discovered where they'd gone, and set off in chase, Scott-Owen continued pacing his immaculate quarterdeck among glittering brass, shining steel, towering canvas and hundreds of subordinates who treated him with more respect than Catholics did the Pope.

  He remained calm all the while, and serious too, because that's what he thought a sea officer should do. There was no place for vulgar displays of emotion in the king's service. Inwardly, though, Richard Scott-Owen was leaping up and down and turning cartwheels for such a perfect realisation of his chosen profession as few men could dream of.

  He was only twenty-nine, after all, and was constantly attended by Lieutenant Hastings and Mr Midshipman Povey, who were even younger than he and buzzing with excitement at being close on Flint's tail. These two had once been Flint's shipmates. They'd been cast adrift by him in a longboat, a torment they'd miraculously survived, having been picked up by the Spaniards off Trinidad. As a result, they hated Flint something poisonous.

  So Scott-Owen could hardly contain his excitement. Only the world and the oceans were his limits. Only God and the wind could stay his hand. There was no squadron equal to his, from Newfoundland down to Brazil. It was wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. But then… calamity. God and the wind did stay his hand. With Flint in sight from the maintop, the wind failed and it was boats-away and rig for towing. And when that wasn't enough, a word from Scott-Owen - still calm - set the entire squadron's boats towing Oraclaesus alone, to ensure an adva
ntage in speed over the pirates. The sloops could always catch up later. Having spent endless hours exercising his gun-crews, Scott-Owen was keen to give them their first opportunity to fire in anger. And what could be more congenial than firing into a proper enemy, one deserving a pounding and yet too weak to be dangerous in return, with all the world praising you for doing it?

  Wonderful indeed.

  Alas, it was then that God really turned nasty. After a tow lasting a day and night, and the longboat smashed and men lost to a chance hit, the wind returned and Oraclaesus began overhauling the pirates hand over hand. As Scott-Owen gave the order for boarders to stand by, Flint had the impertinence to bring his ship broadside on, firing off his pop-gun battery without so much as a drop of harm, when suddenly the weather turned foul. In a matter of minutes the squall had carried away everything above the topsails on both fore and mainmasts. It snapped the forestay, unstepped the foremast and threw Oraclaesus into chaos… thus ruining Scott-Owen's entire wonderful world.

  "Move your fucking bastard sodding selves!" shrieked Scott- Owen, laying on with his speaking trumpet across the backs of the tars as they scrambled to clear the appalling wreckage of smashed spars, tangled rigging and heavy canvas that lay across the ship's lee side. "It's all your bloody fault," he screamed at the sailing master, "for carrying so much sodding sail, you sodding bastard. I'll bloody-well break you for this, you bugger!" The ship rolled heavily as the sea hauled on the trailing wreckage. "Get out of my fucking way!" yelled Scott- Owen at Mr Midshipman Povey, who happened to crash into him as all aboard staggered and stumbled.

  Scott-Owen stamped and screamed and swore. He dredged up every foul curse and dirty word from his memory. He ran around shoving men to their duties who were already doing their best. They needed no orders. They knew what to do. They cut away the remains of the royals and stunsails. They fixed and spliced and mended. They made good. They jury- rigged. They brought up fresh spars. They worked all night, until men fell exhausted at their labours and had to be dragged clear of harm's way. They were an exceptionally fine crew. They were prime seamen to a man. They did their duty. They put their ship in order.

  And Scott-Owen sulked horribly.

  Morning came: grey, red-eyed and stubbled. The ship - temporarily - was at peace with herself and the elements. All had been done that could be done. She had sail aloft, she was answering the helm, and the Atlantic was no longer coming aboard over the rail.

  Thus Scott-Owen stood on his battered quarterdeck, attended by his equally battered, equally tired officers, while the ship's people peered back nervously from the waist. Some two hundred and fifty men - mostly in their twenties, and all of them volunteers - awaited his judgement on the damage. Scott-Owen sighed. There might be no serious leaks in the hull, but the totality of reports from the ships specialists - bosun, gunner, carpenter, sailmaker, blacksmith, and the rest (including the much-abused sailing master) - was that urgent repairs were needed in port. She was good for fair weather, but another blow like last night's would take the foremast out of her.

  Scott-Owen, now himself once more, was ashamed. He'd been eighteen years afloat and knew that the sea was his worst enemy, far more dangerous than the Frogs or the Dons, and there was no point complaining. He sensibly made no reference to any harsh words he might… perhaps… possibly… just… have uttered, and the crew sensibly forgot them and forgave their captain for losing his temper. He was, after all, a very splendid young man and they were proud of him.

  "Charlestown, gentlemen," said Scott-Owen. "We are fortunate to be so close to a major port. We shall refit there."

  "Aye-aye, sir," they said, and touched their hats.

  As word spread, a deep groan rose among the foremast hands, their happy thoughts of prize money fading away. They all believed that Flint's ships - being pirate ships - must be crammed with Spanish dollars, and it was bitter hard to lose them.

  Three days later, Oraclaesus anchored in Charlestown harbour, accompanied by Leaper, Bounder and Jumper. It had been a slow passage, for the frigate had been forced to sail tenderly, taking care of her wounds, while the three sloops had been required to live up to their names and dash about the ocean to find Scott-Owen. Their entry into harbour was less showy with a damaged flagship, but still neatly done. And the commodore was relieved to see a sheer hulk in the anchorage, for this highly specialised vessel would be vital in lifting out and re-seating the foremast.

  Scott-Owen went ashore at once to consult with the governor, anxious to ensure that every possible co-operation would be given to re-fit Oraclaesus and sequester all necessary stores and ship's fittings. Money at least was not a problem, since Scott-Owen had a substantial war chest aboard for precisely such emergencies.

  It was at the governor's residence, with Mr Povey and two marines in attendance for dignity's sake, that Scott-Owen took the first step towards the tremendous surprise that was awaiting him in Charlestown.

  Governor Glen wasn't in. Which left the governor's butler facing a dilemma.

  "Sir," he said, "my master is gone out -" he looked around to check for eavesdroppers "- on most secret business."

  "Oh?" said Scott-Owen. "Is it the king's business?"

  "Yes, sir!" said the servant, not quite adding Of course.

  "Then what it?"

  "I do not know, sir."

  "Hmm," Scott-Owen looked at him. Servants usually knew everything.

  "Then where's he gone? Can you not tell me that? My own business is also urgent."

  The butler paused. The butler pondered. He reached a decision.

  "My master is gone to the lock-up, sir."

  "The what?"

  "The cells where the constables secure felons, sir."

  "And where might that be?"

  The butler told him, and Scott-Owen dashed off through the streets of Charlestown in full dress and silk stockings with his marines and midshipman scuttling astern.

  The gaoler at the lock-up - a dingy stone building in the base of one of the town's many bastions - was awestruck at the arrival of so magnificent a person, and bowed low. In his suit of grubby clothes and leather apron, he looked like a tradesman as he stood in his dirty little vestibule with its entrance barred by a half-door and a small wooden counter. The place reeked of damp.

  "Yes, Commodore. Yes, sir," he said. "The governor is already here, sir. Down in the cells, sir, with Constable Carleton and Constable Denny."

  "What the hell is he doing here?" said Scott-Owen, and saw the same, shifty look on the gaoler's face as there'd been on the butler's. "Pah!" he said. "Where is he? This way, is it?" There was a short corridor, leading into the building. The gaoler nodded. Scott-Owen turned to the marines. "You wait here," he said.

  With Mr Povey in his wake he plunged into the corridor, which led to a double row of six cells, three on each side, with heavy studded doors. One of the doors was open, and voices could be heard from within. Voices and the sound of blows.

  "Last time, cocky!"

  "I dunno. I dunno." "Right!"

  Thump! "Aaaah!" Thump! "Aaah!" Thump! "Aaah!"

  Scott-Owen darted forward. One big fellow was holding a seaman - identifiable as such from his slops and striped shirt - while another laid into him with meaty fists. The man doing the beating had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves for the work, while Governor James Glen stood looking on. The victim had already taken a considerable battering and his eyes were mostly closed, and blood smothered his face.

  "What in God's name is going on here!" roared Scott-Owen in his best mast-head bellow. "Marines - to me!" The clatter of hobnails on stone flags was soon followed by a pair of muskets with bayonets fixed, while Povey drew his dirk - a blade more ceremonial than functional, but it was all he had. "Release that man at once," cried the commodore, "in King George's name!" As a red-blooded Englishman his every sympathy was with the under-dog. Especially when he was a seaman.

  The two bruisers jumped as if scalded. They let go the seaman, who slumped t
o the floor. Then, mouths open in surprise, they turned to Governor Glen.

  "Ah!" said Glen. "Dear me. Dear me." He frowned. He thought. He smiled ingratiatingly. "Commodore Scott-Owen," he said, "I'm delighted to see you. I should have sent after you had you not come by yourself!"

  "What?" said Scott-Owen, who immediately launched into a rant on the iniquities of torture and the war that must soon be fought against France and Spain, the natural homes of such vile and detestable practises… et cetera, et cetera.

  Glen let him finish. He was a far more complex creature than Scott-Owen. He waited patiently till the young officer ran out of words. Then he spoke:

  "Commodore," he said, "this is one of Flint's men."

  "Who is?" said Scott-Owen.

  "Him -" said Glen, pointing at the seaman. "Tommy Farrell's his name."

  "He's a pirate?"

  "Indeed! One of Flint's chickens. He got drunk in a tavern and boasted of it."

  "Did he?" said Scott-Owen. Glenn nodded.

  "He was arrested yesterday." Glenn looked at the bruisers. "Wasn't he?"

  "That's right," said one of them. "By me and Constable Denny, here."

  "Aye," said the other. "Me and Constable Carleton." They nodded.

  "We been looking for scum like him," said Carleton.

  "Since Constable Granger disappeared," said Denny.

  "But they found something bigger," said Glen.

  "What do you mean?" said Scott-Owen.

  Glen spoke quietly to Scott-Owen. He tried to whisper, but everyone heard every word.