by John Drake
"He knows something… about Flint's treasure. Can we speak privately?"
"Oh!" said Scott-Owen, who, for all his rapid promotion, had been unlucky in the matter of prize money - which is to say he'd never had any. "Oh!" he said again. "Perhaps we might step outside?"
They did. Governor Glen and Commodore Owen stepped out into the bright cool sunshine, and took a stroll up and down, and talked. It was mainly Glen that talked and Scott- Owen that listened. Mr Povey, the marines, the constables and the gaoler watched them. Their eyebrows shot up at one stage when Scott-Owen stopped in his tracks, grabbed Glen's arm, and said:
"HOW MUCH?"
"Shhh!" said Glen. They carried on talking. They talked for quite a while. Finally they shook hands like brothers, smiled like sunshine, and each dashed off in a different direction, bent on the common cause of getting Oraclaesus to sea in such a time as would amaze not only mankind but Almighty God Himself.
Later, aboard Oraclaesus, Scott-Owen summoned all officers to his stern cabin. Not only were all the lieutenants, midshipmen and senior warrant officers of the flagship present, but the commanders and first lieutenants of Leaper, Bounder and Jumper too. It was a sea of blue coats and gold lace, with every chair taken and men standing at the back and sides. The excitement was intense, because A GREAT SECRET was to be revealed - which, like all secrets, was already leaking furiously, to the point there was hardly a creature aboard the four ships that didn't have a good idea what was going on.
"Gentlemen," said Scott-Owen, "earlier today I met with the Honourable James Glen, Governor of the Royal Colony of South Carolina."
"Ah," they said.
"I also met one Thomas Farrell, lately a pirate on board Flint's ship Walrus." "Oh?"
"This miserable creature has been persuaded - we need not ask how - to reveal that Flint has amassed a great treasure and has buried it on a secret island." Everyone looked at Lieutenant Hastings and Midshipman Povey, now sitting like greyhounds in sight of a rabbit. "Aye, gentlemen," said Scott- Owen, "is it not it a treat that we have on board the only two British officers who've been on Flint's island and know where it is?"
"Huzzah!" they cheered.
"And is it not a treat that our very duty is to chase Flint, when it's certain that it is to this secret island that he's bound… and… and… It's a fortune in prize money to all hands once we lay hold of him!" "HUZZAH!"
"Mr Hastings, Mr Povey," said Scott-Owen, "will you give us the benefit of your knowledge? Show us where it lies - this secret island!" Scott-Owen indicated a number of large charts, unrolled and flattened out with weights on the cabin table, representing the Caribbean, the Americas, and the Atlantic.
"Aye-aye, sir!" said Hastings and Povey, and passed through the press to stand at the table, where they re-iterated the discussion they'd had so many times since being cast adrift by Flint three years ago. There were grins and nudges from most of those present, because Hastings and Povey had bored all hands with their constant discussion of the location of Flint's island, and nobody had paid attention, since there'd been no reason to go to there: they were chasing Flint, whose natural home was the Caribbean or the Americas, where rich prizes could be taken. What would he want with a lonely island in an empty ocean?
So they'd thought! But now, everything was different, and Hastings and Povey were allowed their moment of theatre.
"Well," said Hastings, "Flint cut us loose a day's sail from the island."
"And we were in Trinidad on July the second."
"After thirty-two days at sea under sail."
"Which means we could have covered anything up to three thousand miles."
"Which we didn't, 'cos we were becalmed a lot of the time."
"And discoursing."
"You were saved by a Spanish frigate, were you not?" said Scott-Owen.
"Yes, sir, San Dominico, Captain de Oveira, on course for Port of Spain."
"And you'd been heading west?"
"Yes, sir. Hoping to make the Windward Isles." "So where was your starting point?" said Scott-Owen. "Where's the island?"
Hastings and Povey looked at one another. Hastings was the elder. He was a lieutenant while Povey was a midshipman. But Povey was a first-class navigator and Hastings was not. Hastings glanced at the chart and nudged Povey.
"Ah-hm!" said Povey. "As best as I can guess, sir…" and he leaned forward, and stretched out his hand, and every man present ceased breathing. "It'd be about - here!" And he stuck his finger on the chart.
Scott-Owen picked up a pencil, moved the finger slightly, and marked the chart with a firm, bold cross.
* * *
Chapter 27
Three bells of the afternoon watch
24th January 1753
Aboard Walrus
The northern archipelago
It was cold. The sea was lively. The wind was erratic, there was mist and fog, and Joe Flint was on the limit of his skills. He was attempting to lead three ships southwards through the vast horseshoe of dangers that guarded the island to the north, east and west. He did so because he had to, having guessed that Silver would discover the archipelago and pay less heed to danger from the north, offering Flint his only chance of a surprise landing, since the island's two anchorages were unsafe to enter at night, and the southern anchorage would certainly be watched.
So he was taking Flint's Passage: a death-trap of swirling waters, vicious rocks, mist and hungry sandbanks, some displaying the wooden bones of ships, barnacled, weed-draped and rotting. The route was made all the more dangerous because it was impossible to see much more than a ship's own length ahead, for there was always fog here, no matter what the weather all around.
Flint himself led the way, taking Danny Bentham's longboat - the best in the flotilla - and the best of the men, the best compass, and his own chart. He had a lead-line going in the bow, and men probing with pikes besides, for the dangers were hidden, being constantly awash, and many ships had run unknowing to their ruin hereabouts, especially at night or in bad weather, with timbers smashed and cargoes lost, and men drowned and never heard of again.
Even to those who knew the dangers it was fearful work. Flint was dripping sweat as he concentrated on finding the way, with a dozen men at the oars and Allardyce at the tiller, steering to Flint's hand-signals, and doing his best to keep the boat on course against the fierce, ever-changing currents.
"Back larboard, back larboard… Pulltogethernow!" cried Allardyce.
"By the deep four!" cried the leadsman.
"Back starboard, back starboard… Pulltogethernow!"
"By the mark five!"
Close behind the longboat came Walrus, Hercules and Sweet Anne in line astern, under close-reefed topsails, creeping onward with lookouts posted, anxious faces peering over the rails, and each helmsman placing his ship exactly in the wake of the one ahead, knowing certain shipwreck lay in wait on either side. Flint, meanwhile, looked back constantly to make sure the flotilla was following on the true course, and - seeing the lumbering hulls, and the extreme narrowness of the "safe" channel - even he wondered if he wasn't making a mistake.
Aboard Walrus the fo'c'sle was crowded. Men pointed and muttered and argued the best course through the hazards - but they offered no advice to Flint. They knew better than that. Among them, Dark Hand and Dreamer stood talking in their own language. They watched these ship matters, but left them to the white men. They had other issues.
"Why do we follow him?" said Dark Hand, looking at Flint.
"Because he knows the way," said Dreamer.
"No! Not this path through the angry waters. Why do we serve his purpose?"
"Because he will pay us in gold."
"But he is the Devil. He is our Devil as well as the white man's."
"We have no Devil."
"But you dream of our Devil. And you say his name is Flint."
"His gold will save our people."
"But he is evil."
"It will buy us our new lands."
Dreamer said nothing, for he didn't know. But who could blame him? No philosopher born has ever solved that particular puzzle.
Next to Dreamer and Dark Hand, and in their own different world, Selena and Cowdray were also discussing Flint.
"Are you saying he hasn't come near you?" said Cowdray.
"Yes," she said.
"But he treats you like a princess. We all assumed -"
"Then don't assume!"
"But I thought you'd come to an… er…"
"To a what?"
"To an accommodation. To a friendship."
"Huh!" she said.
Cowdray moved closer and whispered, "Is it still Silver, for you?"
She said nothing.
"Ah!" he said, but she looked away.
"What choice have I got?" she replied at last, staring at Flint.
He was standing upright in the bows of the big longboat, chart in hand, making quick darting movements of his hands to guide the boat. He was leading the whole flotilla and the four hundred men embarked. He alone bore the responsibility.
Whatever his flaws, he was unquestionably a remarkable man and Selena wondered where her future lay.
Late afternoon, 24th January 1753
Foremast Hill lookout station
The island
At the summit of Foremast Hill, George Merry and Whitey Lowery had a stock of victuals, a good tent and a fine view in all directions, especially to the north. And now they wrestled for their fine telescope.
"Gimme that!" said Whitey.
"Garn!" said Merry, and pulled away. But Whitey was the stronger. He snatched the big glass, set it to his eye, adjusted the focus… and tingled in excitement.
"Shag my tits!" he said. "It's Walrus herself, with Flint aboard and flogging the arse off all hands!"
Merry gaped in amazement. He wasn't the sharpest pin in the cushion.
"What?" said he. "Can you see the swab?"
"No, you blockhead, but it's Walrus all right. I'd know her anywhere. Walrus and two others: a snow an' a sloop." He shook his head. "Long John was right an' all! Flint's come back with a bleedin' army!"
"Stap me," said Merry. "Just six days after the timber calendar ran out. That's precious close, ain't it? Long John got that right, near enough!"
"Buggered if I know," said Whitey, and looked at the distant flotilla: white sails and grey smudges of hull in the disturbed waters some fifteen miles north. "We got to pass the word. They'll not make landfall this night, but'll need to drop anchor offshore. Here!" He passed the telescope to Merry and slung a canteen of water over his shoulder. "You got the watch, George Merry. I'm off!" And he took off down the hill.
Next morning at dawn, Whitey Lowery was one of thirty men lying in hiding behind the earthworks in the northern inlet. Long John, Israel Hands and Mr Joe were there too. While most of the hands - including Whitey - were snoring deeply after a forced night-march, they were awake. But at least all hands were present and correct, likewise the six nine-pounders, with charges rammed and waiting.
"D'you think they'll see us?" said Israel Hands.
"No," said Long John, "they won't be expecting us. Leastways, I hopes not!"
"We'll find out, soon won't we?"
"Shhhhh!" said Silver. "They'll hear us!"
So they sat quiet, these three that were too excited to sleep.
They had just over an hour to wait.
Then the steady chanting of a leadsman was heard, and the clank of oars, and a longboat entered the mouth of the inlet at its northernmost corner.
"Beat to quarters, Mr Joe!" said Silver.
"Aye-aye, sir!" said Joe, standing and saluting formally. Then he ran from man to man: no fuss, no bother, no shouting. He roused them all, and the men stretched and ran to their stations, gun-captains priming touchholes from powder horns, then taking glowing matches from the match-tub to secure into the ends of their linstocks. Not a word was said. Every man knew his duty.
"Look!" said Israel Hands, telescope to his eye. "Damn my soul if that ain't him!"
Silver raised his own glass and nodded. It was Flint, all right, conning the boat.
"John," said Israel Hands, "we've loaded grape over the round-shot. We can smash the bastard as he passes!"
"No!" said Silver. "Wait!"
"Please, John."
"No! We must hit the ships, and them aboard. Not just a boat… look!"
First a bowsprit, then an entire ship came round the headland astern of the longboat, and entered the inlet.
"There's your target, Mr Gunner," said Long John.
"Ahhh!" said Israel Hands and nudged Mr Joe, for a great moment was coming.
They'd placed the battery very carefully. It was on the southern side of the inlet where the waters ran wide but shallow, and the deep channel - where ships must pass - was close to the rocky shore, such that the muzzles of the guns - hidden with palm leaves and driftwood - were less than fifty yards off, and placed to inflict murderous harm on any vessel coming in to anchor. Israel Hands of all people knew how vital it was to reserve the first fire, with carefully loaded guns, against an enemy that wasn't expecting it. You didn't waste that on a boat. But he was sorely tempted by the sight of Flint coming steadily into the arc of the guns' fire - for the guns were trained far round to the right, to enable as many salvoes as possible to be delivered before the target should pass beyond them to the left.
"Look'ee there," whispered Silver. "He's taking good care not to send Walrus in first!"
Three ships were coming to anchor in the tree-lined inlet with its white sands and circling gulls and lapping waves and bright cheerful light. The first was a medium-sized sloop, the next was Walrus herself, then a big snow. Shouts echoed across the water as the men aboard called out to each other and pointed out the sights. It was an idyllic scene… for the moment.
"Go to it, you sods," said one of Silver's men. "Ain't you just got it coming!"
"Silence between decks," hissed Silver. "I'll slit the next bugger as speaks!"
Now the longboat was right in front of the battery and still hadn't seen it. Silver watched Flint sweep his glass round the bay looking for just such a surprise as was waiting for him. But the front and sides of the battery were well hidden, and even Flint never spotted them.
"Please, Cap'n," whispered Israel Hands, "just a drop of grape…"
"No! We'd warn off the rest."
"Oh, bugger!"
"Shut up!"
Then the longboat was clanking past, and the sloop was coming into line. Men were at the rail and in her rigging, grinning and merry. But some were not grinning and merry. Some were tall and dark, and wore feathers and carried long guns.
"John!" said Israel Hands. "He's brought soddin' Indians!"
"So what? Who'd you think he'd bring - the bleedin' foot- guards?"
Israel Hands said nothing more. He pointed at the sloop. He looked at Silver. Silver nodded.
"See if you can't sink the bastard and block the channel."
Israel Hands beamed in delight.
Long Hatchet stood with his half-brother Fine Shirt, gazing in wonder at the shores of the island, which appeared to be sliding steadily past while the ship remained still. It was joyfully smooth after the constant motion of the past weeks and the hideous sickness as the wooden planks shifted beneath a man's feet.
"A happy day!" said Fine Shirt. "Soon we'll be done with ships."
"Let it be very soon," said Long Hatchet.
"What's that?" said Fine Shirt, and instantly whistled the bird-call that gave warning, such that every Patanq aboard Sweet Anne cocked his gun. "There!" he said. "See? There are men moving! On the shore, behind the green branches and that long mound."
"Men made that mound!" said Long Hatchet.
"And he didn't see it," said Fine Shirt. "Sun Face didn't see it." He looked at Flint, in the long boat ahead of the ship. "Sun Face Flint is supposed to be -"
F
ine Shirt's words were lost in pulverising detonations as the shore-battery fired. It deafened and battered, and the muzzle-flash shrivelled men's hair. The smoke burst out in clouds and the shot pounded and crunched, not one single round missing its target, but smashing and tearing.
Fine Shirt was dismembered, Long Hatchet decapitated, and a dozen of their kindred instantly killed. A rain of sundered timber and wrecked gear came down, and the air was split with the screams of those so horribly wounded that not even Patanq stoicism could still their tongues.
Flint spun round, deafened and shocked. He saw the battery! He saw John Silver! And Danny Bentham, aboard Hercules saw the wounding of his precious second ship. The two stared in horror, but neither could do a thing to stop the gun teams from sponging and ramming and delivering their second salvo.
Aboard Sweet Anne, Captain Parry did what he could. Staggering through the smoke, clambering over mutilated men, he brought the gunwale swivels into action, he made the Patanq return cannon fire with musketry, he got together a crew for one of the maindeck six-pounders, and was giving the order to fire when a couple of grapeshot came aboard and struck him in the left hip, blowing the contents of his bowels and bladder spattering out through his right hip, and dropping him howling and unheard under the concussion of the busy guns that were beating his ship to pieces.
Only Sweet Anne's motion saved her. Israel Hands's crews did their best, serving their guns like men-o'-warsmen, but the two-hundred-ton mass of the ship, still with way on - even with rigging broken and helm shot away and the hull slewed sideways to the channel - ran slowly past the battery, streaming blood and entrails. No matter how hard they tried, the gunners couldn't train their pieces to bear on the target.
Meanwhile Walrus and Hercules backed topsails and came to rest clear of the battery, and immediately began hoisting out their boats, bosun's calls and chanting crews sounding out over the anchorage in competition with the Hell's choir of howling that rose up from Sweet Anne's reeking, slippery deck.
"Where's Flint?" said Israel Hands, running from his guns to John Silver, who'd stood out from the battery for a good view.