Flint and Silver (35 page)

    Certainly
Lion
had not the slightest chance of defeating
Walrus
without the long Spanish gun: not with
Lion's
eight four-pounders facing
Walrus's
fourteen six-pounders.
Walrus
would simply stay out of range of
Lion's
guns, and batter her into a wreck. But she couldn't do that with nine-pounder balls smashing through her timbers.

    Israel Hands smiled happily as he went to supervise the bringing-up of his gun. Unlike most others aboard, he hoped with all his heart that it
would
come to action.

Chapter 36

5th September 1752

In the hold

Aboard Lion

    Billy Bones was happy. He was happy even in dank, dungeon darkness, with the flesh of his beam ends mortified by the ballast stones. He was happy because he was filled with wonder at Flint's wisdom, and his miraculous ability to foretell the future.

    "Now then, Billy-my-chicken," Flint had said at their most recent parting, when Billy had been "searching" for his gold piece, giving them opportunity for a private word. "Billy-boy, did you bring that old box of yours?"

    "Aye, Cap'n, according to orders." Billy Bones smiled a slow smile. "But I told them buggers - Silver and them - I told 'em I was hoping you'd let me stay on board of
Walrus,
which is why I fetched it with me."

    "And no doubt they laughed - and more fool them," said Flint. "Now, here's a present for you. Something of my own creation, which you must cram into your old box, even if it means throwing out your Bible, your prayer book and your certificate of confirmation."

    "What?" said Billy, immune to the subtleties of irony.

    "What,
sir,"
said Flint. "Will you never learn?"

    "No, sir…
Yes, sir!"
said Billy, wrestling with the syntax.

    "Here," said Flint, opening a locker and removing a bulky construction of netting and cork. "You must keep this ready at all times, Mr Bones."

    "What's it for, Cap'n?" said Billy, trembling, for he'd already guessed.

    "Rather ask
who
is it for," said Flint.

    "Is it to make me float, Cap'n?" said Billy.

    "Well done, Mr Bones! And here are two more presents. Each, as you will see, is quite small and is provided with a linen wrapper, for these items must be secreted about your person, Mr Bones. They must be kept within those sacred corners of yourself into which no sane man would intrude his hand, were you to be searched."

    Billy Bones sweated with the effort of keeping up. Flint sweated with the effort of not laughing in his face.

    "Begging your pardon, Cap'n," said Billy Bones, "but… where might that be?"

    "In the safe haven of your drawers, Mr Bones, taped with sticking plaster between your most private and intimate parts. I seriously doubt that anyone will want to look there."

    "Oh!" said Billy.

    "Oh, sir."

    "Oh, sir!"

    "Good," said Flint. "And now you will appreciate the need for wrappers, since both these objects have nasty sharp corners. Let us look at this one first." He produced a length of flat, dark steel about the size of a man's finger.

    "Why, it's a bit of a file, Cap'n," said Billy Bones.

    "Very good, Mr Bones. Indeed it is. And can you guess its purpose?"

    "No, Cap'n."

    "It's purpose, Mr Bones, is to release you from your leg irons."

    "Leg irons, Cap'n?" Billy's lower lip trembled.

    By now, he'd been tried almost to his limits by Flint's teasing. He did so much want to understand. He did so much want to serve his master. Unfortunately, his master did so much want to torment him.

    "Yes, Mr Bones: leg irons. Those that - sooner or later - will be clapped upon you by our friend Mr Silver."

    Billy Bones blinked in relief. This was better. Flint had left the ocean of fantasy and was steering towards the firm shore of fact.

    "Silver, the swab! But why, Cap'n?"

    "Because, Mr Bones - for reasons which I shall shortly explain - he dares not harm you but dares not leave you free."

    That was days ago, and all of Flint's predictions had come true. Silver had badgered Billy Bones to discover Flint's plans until Bones could stand it no more and had defied Silver on his own quarterdeck before all hands, refusing to go below when ordered. Hence the leg irons. Hence Billy Bones's present accommodation down here with the ship's rats for company.

    And they'd searched him, just as Flint had said. They'd searched for weapons and for anything else worth stealing. They'd had the silver buckles off his breeches, the baccy and clasp knife out of his pockets, and his hat and coat were Devil-knows-where. But none of 'em had delved where Flint said they wouldn't. Billy Bones shook his head in religious awe at Flint's abilities. Billy Bones - no less than any other - could see that there was something uncanny about Flint, but Billy Bones worshipped the fact.

    So he rummaged down below, took a firm grip, summoned all his courage and hauled. He yelped and shed tears as the sticking plaster came off, uprooting shoals of coarse black hairs.

    "Oof!" said Billy Bones, and brought out the two packages, still warm from their recent lodgings. He opened one and took out the file. He felt the rough steel edge with his thumb, and he turned to his leg irons, squinting in the candlelit gloom. His orders were to begin working on them at once, and to leave them seemingly sound, yet ready to be broken open at the chosen moment. At that time, Flint's second little present would come into action.

Chapter 37

6th September 1752

Forenoon watch (c. 8 a.m. shore time)

Aboard Walrus

The southern anchorage

    Mr Ewyn Smith, acting-first mate aboard
Walrus
, had a mincing prettiness that at first had made the crew afraid to turn their backs on him when squeezing past in a tight place. They'd warned the ship's boys to steer clear of him too.

    But they soon stood easy in that respect. Experience showed that his tastes did not turn to the art of jumping too low at leapfrog, and for a while they accepted him as one of them. After all, they were not a fastidious or particular crew. But then they noticed that Mr Smith was always to the fore when things were shared out, and always to the rear - though bellowing loudly - when boarders went over the side.

    Finally, what with him being pompous, and older than them, and a genuine scholar with book-learning, and, worst of all, what with him being suspected of saying his prayers at night - they got the final measure of him and settled on the name
Parson,
which he loathed and they loved, and was therefore a perfect choice.

    Unfortunately, that name was now forbidden, since on elevating Mr Smith to his present rank, Captain Flint had made it blindingly clear that any who uttered the word "Parson" from hereon would incur his displeasure. Some of those too slow to take heed were now doing their duties with hands bandaged by Mr Cowdray, following severe bouts of Flint's game, and the rest had taken note. But they still called the fat sod "Parson" when Flint wasn't about.

    And this was most appropriate, for Parson happened to be just exactly what he was - or had been - until his appetite for young girls had led him astray. Now he stood by the tiller of a pirate ship in a large black hat and a long blue coat, focusing his glass on the shore and wondering what Flint was up to. Mr Cowdray was beside him, also studying the shore with a glass, and so were some of the hands, in the waist. They were studying the shore and telling their mates what was afoot.

    There'd just been a cry of "All hands!" from the shore, faint but audible. Everyone had heard it, and now Flint and the others seemed to be dragging a body across the sand.

    Smith looked around the deck nervously. There was a great deal of muttering and discussion going on.

    "What do you think, Mr Smith?" said Cowdray. Smith blinked at the surgeon, and envied him his light straw hat, loose calico slops and bare legs. He looked cool, while Smith was sweating in his broadcloth and felt.

    "Well, sir?" said Cowdray.

    "I could not say, sir," said Smith.

    "There was pistol-fire last night," said Cowdray. "Do you suppose there is disaffection among the burial party?"

    "Hmm," thought Smith, who knew a great deal more than he was prepared to share with Cowdray. He pondered the offer made him by Flint, and wondered if he'd live to enjoy it. He certainly hoped so. Then a stir and more muttering among the men told him that Selena had come on deck.
How apposite,
thought Smith, and looked at the slim, dark figure in her long enveloping shirt and loose britches.

    She'd gained sufficient sense to wear many more clothes now than previously she had. There wasn't the delicious gleam of flesh that there had been. But she was still a most tasty little dish, and the clothes meant all the more pleasure in peeling off the layers before getting your teeth into the meat. And then… Smith had been assured by a considerable authority that she bounced like a rabbit once you'd got the skirts off her. She was only a two-legged animal, after all, and full of red-hot juices. Mr Smith had worked up a considerable lust for Selena.

    Maddeningly, as ever she was avoiding his eye. She looked at Cowdray.

    "Miss Selena!" said Cowdray. "Good morning, my dear."

    "Mr Cowdray," said Selena and smiled briefly.

    Clearly she liked the surgeon. Smith didn't like that.

    He looked her over again and, as usual, his memory went back to those happy days in Cheshire, when he'd had an excellent living, a fine church and a large and prosperous congregation; a congregation that sent its sons and daughters to him to be prepared for confirmation by His Grace the Bishop of Chester - Mr Smith's cousin, friend and patron.

    Happy days indeed! The boys he'd crammed into classes and got rid of as soon as he could. He'd no use for them. But the girls… Ah, the girls! Those he'd given special and personal tuition in his own house.

    Mr Smith grew dreamy-eyed at the thought of their fair skins, smooth necks and plump, round thighs. He sighed at the thought of how he'd tickled them to make them laugh, and how they'd come back, day after day, told by their mothers to be good girls for the parson, and how he'd accustomed them, stage by stage, to him nibbling their ears, pinching their titties, and putting his hand first on an ankle, then on a knee, and then ever upwards, always tickling and laughing, until finally - it usually took a few weeks - it would be a full, bouncing rogering, with him sat in his favourite parlour chair with his britches open, and them with their skirts up and bare legs astride his lap, and their round mouths gasping, "Oh! Oh! Oh!"

    What a tragedy it had to end! But there had been so many swollen bellies and tearful girls telling identical tales that there came a time when his stern denials were no longer believed by their parents. With the bishop's help, and the Church's zeal to avoid scandal, he'd shifted parish several times and carried on as before. But finally, thanks to a farmer named Berwick who'd had a plump young daughter, six big sons, and many friends, the Reverend Mr Smith had been obliged to leave his house by the back door, while the mob came in through the front, and even then he'd taken a charge of shot to the nether regions, of which much remained forever embedded beneath his skin.

    "Mr Mate," said Selena. She stood blinking in the fierce sunshine, and Smith realised she'd been speaking to him, and he'd not been listening. This time she was staring straight at him and saying something. He was pleased at first.

    "Look," she said softly and nodded towards the men, gathering among the packed tackle and gear that crammed the deck. For the moment, they'd lost interest in what was happening ashore, and were lazing in the shade under a sail rigged as an awning. There they were sitting on the guns, chewing tobacco, grinning and muttering, and all of them were looking at her.

    "You need to talk to them again," she said. He looked at the men, and ran a wet, red tongue round his lips - a disgusting habit of his.

    "I'm sure these good fellows know their duty," he said.

    "You need to talk to them. Even the boys." She pointed to the shore. "Tell them Flint's just over there. He
will
be back soon."

    "Bin gone five days, miss," said one of the hands, who'd sidled up close enough to hear. He turned to his mates with a grin. "We heard shooting last night, didn't we, mates? Maybe they done for the cap'n and he ain't never coming back!"