Flint and Silver (7 page)

    Selena herself served Neal and Flint.

    "Selena!" said Neal, taking his rum punch.

    "Mr Neal!" she said, and "Sir!" to Flint, who was handsome, with a most beautiful smile and gorgeous clothes. He was by far the finest man she'd ever seen.

    "My dear," said Flint, looking her over.

Ah ha!
thought Charley Neal, spotting advantage. "Be nice to the captain," he mouthed at Selena. But Selena had other work to do, so this duty passed for the moment.

    Meanwhile Selena cast an eye over Flint and his crew - and was fascinated by what she saw. She was surprised at how young they were. Aside from some of the officers, they seemed mostly in their early twenties. They were tanned like old leather, and dressed in their best shore-going rig: white ducks, buckled shoes, coloured shirts and stockings, and silk handkerchiefs bound round the skull. They were tattooed and pierced with gold earrings, and each man bore enough arms to start a small war.

    But what marked them out from common seamen even more than the pistols and blades was the fact that every man had the authentic look of trouble about him. Savannah was no place for weaklings, but even by Savannah standards, Flint's "Chickens" stood out as hard cases. Fortunately, today they were in the best of spirits.

    When, after some hours, they managed to drink themselves unconscious and things became quiet again, Flint and Neal withdrew to Neal's house to discuss business, leaving Selena and her crew to clear up the mess. She was in the storeroom, sorting out full bottles from empties, when a sound made her turn around. Selena jumped when she saw the man. This wasn't one of the drunken swine from the main room, risen on his hind legs to search for more drink; he was stone-cold sober and his clothes were fresh. She'd not seen him before. And yet she already knew him. Or at least she'd heard of him. Flint and his men were the talk of Savannah, and she'd heard plenty about them from Charley Neal, whose business it was to know what went on among his dangerous clients. These men could have one leader one day, and another on the next. Neal had to be ready for such changes and did his best to keep up with the various plots and rivalries.

    So Selena already knew quite a lot - by reputation - about the man who'd just come in. He was very tall, with yellow hair, long limbs and large hands. His face was wide and his eyes large and intelligent. He was remarkably neat and clean, and everything in his manner and bearing told her that here was a man quite out of the ordinary. He looked down into her eyes and smiled.

    "John Silver at your service, ma'am!" he announced, and bowed like a courtier, sweeping off his hat.

    "Long John!" she said. "You're the one they call 'Long John'."

    He smiled again, as if pleased with her.

    "The very same, ma'am," said he. "An' a smart little thing you are an' all, to spy me out so quick. Smart as paint, you are, I saw it the instant I clapped eyes on you." He cocked his head on one side in surprise. "And gifted with the speech of a lady, too! Now I wonder how that might be?"

    Selena shrugged off this potentially dangerous question and threw back one of her own.

    "Long John Silver," she said, "the one that Captain Flint is afraid of?"

    "What?" said Silver, surprised. "And where should a pretty little thing like yourself hear such wicked lies?"

    "From the trash in there," she said, glancing towards the big room with its stupefied inhabitants. "They say you were great friends once, but he's afraid of you now."

    "Ah, well, there we have it," he said, nodding wisely as if perceiving some happy explanation of what had seemed like bad news. "'Tis clear that some of the poor lads…" he ticked off names on his fingers: "George Merry, Mad Pew, Black Dog and some others…" He frowned and shook his head like a parson reflecting on favourite pupils who can never
quite
get the catechism right. "And even Mr Billy Bones himself… 'Tis plain that some o' my shipmates just cannot keep a hitch on their jawing tackle, once the first bottle has gone down."

    But then his smile came back and he reached out a long arm and patted Selena's bare shoulder in avuncular fashion.

    "So there y'are, my dear. Weren't no cause to believe none o' them. Not at all."

    Selena frowned in her turn and shook off his hand. She didn't follow the logic of his argument, nor really what he was talking about.

    "But whilst we're on this tack," said he, genuinely curious, "just what were those lubbers a-saying about old Long John? And why in heaven's name should Joe Flint be afeared o' me?"

    "Because you want to take the ship from him," she said, repeating what she'd heard from a score of drunken lips.

    "Shiver me timbers!" said Long John, staggering back with every convincing show of horror and amazement. "Me heart fair bleeds to hear of such wickedness from so sweet a child as yourself." He grinned and shook his head. As far as Long John Silver was concerned, there was no captain other than Flint, whatever might be the gossip on the lower deck, and whatever Flint's little weaknesses.

    But then Silver moved a pace closer and ran his hand lightly down her cheek. She twitched away as she realised that he only wanted what all the others wanted. She tried to slip by him, but he was too quick and kept between her and the door.

    "I can prove my loyalty to the dear captain," he said, manoeuvring her into a corner, "for if I had wanted the ship, then… why, I'd have took her!" He seized Selena's wrists and pulled her close. "For I'm a man as takes what he wants, my dear."

    "But you can't!" she said, once more quoting from the drunken gossip of Flint's men. "Because you can't set a course, not with charts and quadrants and dividers."

    Silver's face worked horribly as Selena's words stuck a red- hot iron right into his most tender, most shameful, and most agonising weakness.

    "Can't I?" he snapped.

    "No!" said she. "You can't, because it's gentleman's work, which Captain Flint can do because he is a gentleman!"

    "Flint?" he choked. "Flint… is… a…
gentleman?"

    "Yes," she said. But he did not reply. The spasm of laughter was so uncontrollable that he could barely breathe, let alone speak.

Chapter 6

30th January 1749

Aboard HMS Elizabeth

The island

    With the entire crew looking at him in judgement, and the ship fast aground in proof of his guilt, Captain Springer reddened and seethed and trembled.

    Springer was not a clever man nor a gifted one, nor even one with any particular aptitude for his career. He'd only gone to sea in the first place because his seafaring father had sent him, and he'd learned his seamanship through hard work and hard knocks.

    He had managed, through a certain dogged bravery, to win promotion in action. He was well aware that he was lucky to have risen as far as he had, and that his skills were few: he knew how to stand the enemy's fire and how to keep the lower deck to its duties; he knew how to run down his latitude to a destination… and that was it. He hadn't the cleverness of Flint, and nowhere near his skill as a navigator, and now he felt himself the victim of some plot of Flint's. Well, he was having none of it. It weren't his fault, so it had to be someone else's.

    "You bloody lubbers!" he roared at everyone in general. "You whore-son, bastard, nincompoop parcel of landsmen…"

    He raved and swore, ignoring the cries of the men who'd been thrown overboard by the impact of the ship's running aground. It was lucky for them they were in such shallow water or they'd have surely drowned. He damned and blasphemed and blasted and cursed, and comprehensively lost the respect of his people in a rage of temper that every one of them knew ought rightfully be directed at himself.

    "Sergeant Dawson," he screamed, at last and inevitably, "rouse me out that sod of a helmsman and I'll see the backbone of him at the gratings before five minutes is out. And all the lookouts too, and all the shit-heads that went overside… and… and…"

    He cast about in anger and every man wisely dropped his eyes, though one was too slow, "
And that sod there!"
he cried. "Him as dares to look his lawful captain in the eye in that insolent manner!"

    This was a desperately bad course to steer.

    For one thing, Springer was ignoring the accustomed usages of ship's discipline that required the boatswain and his mates to administer discipline. To employ the marines was an affront to every seaman aboard, as well as being a naked display of direct rule by musket and bayonet. Even worse was Springer's singling out Ben Gunn the helmsman - a man so respected by the entire ship's company that it would be deemed a severe insult to the lower deck to flog him, unless his dereliction of duty was severe and was obvious to all hands, whereas in this case it was
physically impossible
for Ben Gunn, in his station at the whipstaff, even to have seen what hazards the ship might be running on to.

    What Springer was doing was bad and despicably stupid.

    But one after another the five men were stripped, triced up and given two dozen - including Ben Gunn, despite growls of anger from the crew, to which Springer responded by ordering his marines to level their muskets at the hands. This was utter madness, and even the marines were groaning as the cat fell, stroke after stroke, on Ben Gunn's skinny back. When he was taken down, the poor creature was no longer the same man, for his pride was broken and his mind was wounded far worse than his body.

    To say, therefore, that
Elizabeth
was an unhappy ship would be a very masterpiece of understatement. The mood of the ship's people was even worse than it had been under Flint; then, at least there had been moments of laughter. Everything that later happened on the island stemmed directly from Captain Springer's staggering failure of leadership. An explosion was now inevitable. But for a few weeks the disease festered under the skin and no eruptions were visible. This was thanks to the urgent need for action to get the ship afloat again.

    First, Springer tried to warp her off. In theory this was a simple task which involved passing a hawser ashore to be made fast to a strongpoint such as a mighty tree. The hawser would then be bent to the capstan and all hands would heave the capstan bars around to haul the ship off the sandbank.

    In practice, the effort failed. Despite the disciplined effort of teams of men passing the line ashore in the launch, sweltering their way along the shoreline to find a suitable tree, and despite the combined strength of every man aboard, pushing their hearts out on the capstan bars,
Elizabeth
never budged. Springer had brought her in at the flood of the high tide, such that there'd never be another inch of water to be had under her keel to lift her off. In fact, each time the tide went out, she appeared to settle in deeper. So each high tide, Springer tried another trick, each more desperate that the last, each seeking to give the capstan a better chance to pull the ship clear.

    "Give a broadside, double-shotted, to shake her off, Mr Flint!" cried Springer. "That'll break the suction." So the island echoed to the boom of
Elizabeth's
guns. But the ship never moved. "I'll lighten her, Mr Flint," said Springer. "Strike all topmasts! All boats out of the ship, and all spare sails and spars." That failed too. "Guns and carriages ashore, Mr Flint," said Springer wearily on the fourth day. "And all stores out of the hold. Everything that ain't scarfed and bolted into the hull." But, despite the enormous labour,
Elizabeth -
now more hulk than ship - simply wedged herself deeper into the sand.

    As the boatswain's pipe delivered the final call of "'Vast hauling" and a hundred sweat-drenched men collapsed at the capstan, Springer chewed his knuckles in despair. Around him his officers were glaring at him in open contempt and the men were seething with hatred for Springer, and with fear at the prospect of being unable to get off the island. The crew were exhausted. The ship was gutted. Ashore lay a vast pile of ship's stores: arms and artillery, food and drink, clothing and tools, all under a miniature town of spar-and-canvas tents above the tide-line. And in the midst of it all Captain Springer was helpless, hopeless, guilty and angry. For the first time in his career, he did not know what to do.

    And so, Lieutenant Flint, who'd watched incredulous as his captain dug himself into the pit, saw that his moment had come. Thanks to Springer's disgraceful behaviour certain wicked temptations had been laid before Lieutenant Flint, which even
he
fought off at first, but when they came knocking at his door, grinning and winking, day after day after day… Well, finally he gave up the fight and embraced them.

    "May I speak, sir?" said he, all humble and respectful.

    "Damn your eyes, you evil sod," said Springer, "this is all your doing."

    "Aye-aye, sir," said Flint, ignoring the words, which in truth had no meaning anyway. Springer wasn't even looking at him.