Skull and Bones

Chapter 9

Early morning, 23rd March 1753

Upper Barbados

The Caribbean

The four forts that guarded Williamstown bay mounted between them nigh-on fifty twenty-four-pounder guns, and they were excellently placed, high above the sea, with a clear field of fire into the channel whereby ships entered the bay.

They were capable of resisting anything less than a major battlefleet, and even one of those couldn’t be sure of forcing an entry: not with one pair of forts at the mouth of the bay, where it narrowed to less than a quarter of a mile’s width, and the second pair placed to sweep the approaches just north of Williamstown’s harbour. Thus, the last time the attempt had been made – British intruders vs Spanish defenders – the fleet was driven off trailing blood and wreckage, and the town was taken only by landing five thousand redcoats at Porta Colomba, ten miles to the south east, and marching them overland with a siege train.

“Huh!” said Israel Hands, as Walrus came through the jaws of the bay, right under the guns of the outermost forts. “Wouldn’t believe this was safe haven for the likes of us!”

Long John frowned, irritably.

“And why not?” he said. “Ain’t we flying British colours like them?” He pointed up at the forts. “And haven’t we just saluted King George with all our guns?”

“Aye,” said Israel Hands. And forcing a grin, he waved a hand at the smoke still hanging about the ship. “But you know what I mean, Cap’n. It’s all down to Sir Wyndham, God bless him!”

Sir Wyndham Godfrey, governor of Upper Barbados, was a figure of fun among sailormen. He’d been a scourge of piracy until the bribes grew too great to refuse, and now he closed his eyes and opened his hand, such that men chuckled at the thought of him, and Israel Hands was hoping to cheer up Long John by the mention of his name. But Silver merely sniffed and turned away, stroking the parrot and staring at nothing.

Hands sighed. He’d been like that, had Long John, ever since Selena went off aboard Venture’s Fortune to make her fortune in London. It weren’t right for a seaman to take it so hard when he lost his doxy. There was always more of them. You soon forgot. Especially when you dropped anchor in a new port.

“Bah!” he said, and stopped fretting over John Silver, and looked instead at all the busy activity aboard Walrus: anchors were off the bows and hung by ring-stoppers at the catheads, bent to the cables flaked out on deck ready for letting go. The ship was scrubbed clean from bow to stern and under easy sail as she came up the dredged channel.

All hands, with the exception of Long John, were delighted at the prospect of going ashore. This was especially true of the two redundant navigators, who stood grinning at approaching freedom. But the shore party would not include the McLonarch, who was locked up below, or Mr Norton, who had been allowed above decks to check the course to Upper Barbados, only to be locked up again as soon as it was sighted. He was now the most miserable creature aboard.

Putting his glass to his eye, Israel Hands focused on the town, less than a mile away, with its whitewashed buildings – tiers and layers of them, rising up the flanks of the bayside mountain still known by its Spanish name of Sangre de Cristo – blood of Christ – for the rosy colour it took in the sunset, as did the white houses themselves. He shifted the glass to the excellent dockyards, which included dry docks capable of receiving anything up to a ship of the line.

And he looked at the offshore anchorage, which was full of every imaginable kind of vessel, with countless masts and yards, and busy boats pulling to and fro. There was one ship ahead of Walrus in the channel, coming into the wind to anchor, while yet another was astern of her, coming through the jaws of the bay.

It was a wonderful sight. After so many weeks at sea, alone on the empty ocean, it made any man cheerful to see such life. Overhead the gulls wheeled and called, the sun shone bright and hot, the sky was blue, the wind was fresh…and Long John was eating his heart out in despair.

Bugger! thought Israel Hands.

Later, with Walrus moored, Israel Hands took his place in the launch with six oarsmen done out in their best rig, and Long John, Allardyce and Dr Cowdray in the stern. These chosen ones would make first contact with the shore authorities – just to be sure, just to be careful – for there was much to be done and arranged before any of the rest of the crew would be allowed to partake of the whoring and boozing and fighting that was any seaman’s honest amusement, fresh ashore…especially gentlemen o’ fortune.

“Give way!” cried Allardyce, and the boat began pulling for the harbour. All aboard looked back at the strange sight of the ship which had been their home, now seen in its entirety, bobbing at anchor among the innocent merchantmen…not that all of them were quite that innocent. Walrus wasn’t the only ship with a black flag in her locker. Not in Williamstown Bay.

“Look!” said Allardyce. “She’s down by the head. You’ll have to haul some guns astern, Israel.”

“Not I!” said Hands merrily. “Shift the sodding cargo aft!”

Allardyce grinned.

“What cargo?” he said. “Only cargo we’ve got is dollars!”

“Clap a hitch!” cried Silver nastily. “Who knows what bugger’s listening!”

They looked round the harbour. There wasn’t a human being within earshot. They made faces behind Silver’s back and fell silent.

Ashore, Silver, Allardyce and Israel Hands went to the harbour master’s office, while the six hands – chosen for their ability to stay sober – were let off the leash, bar one unfortunate who was left to guard the boat.

Dr Cowdray set off into town by himself in search of medical stores, and replacements for some of his worn-out instruments. Having found what he wanted, he then spent a pleasant couple of hours in the cool, shady streets, shaking off hawkers and beggars, enjoying the sight of women and children after so long in the company of men, and looking into the shops, especially bookshops. Then he searched for a tavern – a respectable one – for a drink and a meal, for the rendezvous was hours away yet.

He knew he had found just the place when he clapped eyes on the Copper Kettle. Situated on the shady side of King William Square, it looked bright and clean, with a long awning and tables in the fresh air. The clientele was entirely respectable, with waiters in long white aprons attending, while the vulgar populace was kept back by a fence of neat white posts with chains slung between. Cowdray stepped forward with purpose, but:

“Oh!” he said, and stopped with his bundle of books and his brown paper parcel of medical gear. He dithered and stuck his load under one arm so he could wipe the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. In amongst the respectable patrons of the Copper Kettle, seated at a table, his parrot on his shoulder, was Long John Silver. In his current foul mood, the captain made the worst imaginable company.

Cowdray stood in the hot, scented air of a tropical spiceisland. It would soon be noon, and the sun was fierce. The streets were emptying as people headed indoors…and Cowdray was thirsty…then…Ah! Debate was irrelevant. Silver had seen him.

“Captain!” said Cowdray, advancing across the square, through the gate in the fence, to take the seat beside Silver. The latter nodded miserably. Cowdray unloaded his goods, and took off his hat in the welcome shade.

“Pffffff!” he said, and fanned himself with his hat.

“Salve, Medicus!” said the parrot, greeting Cowdray in Latin as she always did. At least the bird was pleased to see him.

“Salve, avis sapiens!” said Cowdray. “Hallo, clever bird!”

“Ain’t she, though?” said Silver, stroking the green feathers. “And you love Long John, don’t you?”

“Love Long John!” she said, and bobbed and nodded and rubbed her head against his with every sign of affection. Silver smiled, a real smile, and he turned to Cowdray to make apology.

“Sorry, Doctor,” he said, “I ain’t no use at present, not to man nor beast.”

“Not you, Captain!” said Cowdray stoutly. Another sigh was Silver’s only response.

Then a waiter came, and they ordered food and drink, and sat silent for a bit, and the victuals were served, and Silver went heavy on the drink, and at last the two fell into conversation. Perhaps it was the rum. Perhaps it was because Cowdray wasn’t properly a gentleman o’ fortune, and he certainly wasn’t a seaman, and he was a surgeon – the one who’d saved Long John’s life by taking off his shattered leg – but Long John’s misery and trouble began to tumble out bit by bit.

“What am I to do, Doctor?”

“In what respect?”

“Taking prizes? Winning dollars? Choosing allies?” Silver shook his head. “All of it, Doctor. Living my bleedin’ life! What soddin’ life? What am I? Who am I?”

“Oh!” said Cowdray. He was a surgeon, but like any medical man he knew that men can be wounded in the mind as badly as in the body, and that such wounds could be severe. He glanced at Silver. To Cowdray, Silver was still young: thirty-two? Thirty-three? Cowdray could almost have been his father; moreover he liked Silver and wanted to help. He thought of something to say, to get Silver talking…to explore the wound.

“You let the prize go,” he said, “Venture’s Fortune. Why did you do that?”

“Had to,” said Silver morosely, “or we’d not be refitting in that dockyard yonder.”

“Is that arranged?”

Silver nodded. “It was just a matter of money,” he said. “And plenty of it.”

“Why didn’t you keep the prize?”

Silver shrugged. “We’d get away with that once or twice, but he’d find out in the end.”

“Sir Wyndham Godfrey?”

“Aye. He issues these Protections. I saw one in Cap’n Higgs’s desk.” Silver shook his head irritably. “You see,” he said, “if we…I…am to follow this life, we need a port.”

“Like this one?”

“This is the only bloody one, damn near! So we can’t upset him what owns it.”

“King George, you mean?”

Silver laughed and the parrot squawked loudly.

“And that’s another thing,” said Silver. “I’ve got to choose between them two under hatches aboard ship: Lord fancy-drawers-McBollock, and Mr Bow Street Norton, both of ‘em reckoning they’ve a king behind ‘em. So which do we favour?”

“You took Norton as a navigator…”

“Aye, but he might be useful as a go-between with the law.”

“I see,” said Cowdray. “And in the meantime you stole Bonnie Prince Charlie’s dollars…”

“And how long would I’ve been cap’n if I hadn’t?”

“Hmm,” said Cowdray. “Of course, Allardyce is for McLonarch.”

“Him and others! They worship the paper he wipes his arse on.”

“What do you think?” said Cowdray.

Silver sighed heavily. “See here, Doctor, there could be pardons in this for all hands. McLonarch has offered one, but only if Prince Charlie comes home…while maybe we could get one out of King George for handing McLonarch over – if Allardyce would let us.” Silver shook his head, and took another hefty pull from his tankard. “And there’s civil war brewing if McLonarch gets home, and no way of knowing which side might win…or even if we should try to stop it, for the bloodshed it would mean for all England.”

“I see,” said Cowdray. “But why need there be a decision now? We could take both men to England, ask questions when we get there, and decide then what to do with them.” He bowed his head in thought. “The great prize would be a pardon. That would be precious beyond riches.” He looked up, the evidence weighed, a decision reached: “We should go to England! Then, at worst, if the matter proves too complex, we could set Norton and McLonarch ashore in two different places – thus keeping Allardyce happy and ourselves still holding the dollars.”

“Bugger me blind!” said Silver, tipping back his hat and gazing at Cowdray in admiration. “Where have you been all these months, Doctor? You never speak at our councils and yet here you are, the sharpest man aboard!”

“I never thought the hands would listen to a sawbones,” said Cowdray.

“Well, I’m damned,” said Silver. “You almost persuaded me.”

“Oh? Will you not go to England?”

“I don’t know. The risk is so great. We might be found out. We might be taken…” He looked around King William Square. “This place might be up for bribes, but the Port of London won’t be. And the seas’d be thick with navy.”

“Well,” said Cowdray, looking sideways at Silver, “England is where your wife has gone…”

Silver groaned and rubbed his face with his hands, for that was the heart of his troubles, not the choice between McLonarch and Norton. It was the unspoken pain that not even Cowdray had dared mention until now.

“Did you hear what she said to me?” said Silver. “Aboard the prize?”

“No. I was down below, reducing Mr Miller’s fracture of the tibio-fibula.”

“Oh. How’s he doing?”

“Nicely, Captain. I am pleased to say that he will walk again on two legs!”

“Huh!” said Silver.

“Oh!” said Cowdray, mortified. “I do apologise. How thoughtless. I am so sorry.”

Silver sighed again.

“I tried to stop her,” he said. “Told her what I thought. Then she told me what she thought, which was ‘no more gentleman o’ fortune’…and so we fell to hammer and tongs again, and then that pretty-faced cow stepped up and took her part, and said she’d carry my girl off to England and make a great actress out of her. And she believed it, and so she went.”

“What pretty-faced cow?”

“The actress. She’s supposed to be famous in England.”

“Who told you that?”

“Cap’n Fitch and the rest, aboard Venture’s Fortune.”

“What was her name?”

“Cooper. Mrs Katherine Cooper of Drury Lane. Said my Selena was so beautiful – which she is – that she must succeed upon the stage.” He smiled sadly. “I hope she does.”

Cowdray shot bolt upright in his chair.

“Captain,” he said, “was this a small, very pretty woman in her fifties?”

“Aye. That’d be her.”

“And her name was Katherine Cooper?”

“Aye.”

“Katty Cooper?”

“I did hear that was her name…among friends.”

“Friends?” said Cowdray. “Friends be damned! Katty’s her professional name. She’s no actress! She’s Cat-House Cooper, the procuress! She ran the biggest brothel in the Caribbean, and made a speciality of importing fresh young black girls from the plantations. God help us…we’ve sent Selena to London to be made a whore!”

Chapter 10

An hour after dawn (there being no watches kept nor bells struck)

2nd April 1753

Aboard Oraclaesus

The Atlantic

Billy Bones ran from end to end of the lower deck. He’d already checked the hold.

“Ahoy!” he roared. “Shake out and show a leg!” And he beat a drum roll on the ship’s timbers with a belaying pin, brought down for the purpose. Finally he stopped to listen: there was silence except for the ship’s own creaking and sighing, almost as if she knew what was coming. “With me!” he said, and ran up to the main deck with two men in his wake, and roared out the same challenge.

He bellowed and yelled from end to end of the ship, past the silent guns, staggering under the sickening motion of the rolling, hove-to vessel that clattered its blocks and rattled its rigging and complained and moaned.

“Ahoy there! Show out, you lubbers!” cried Billy Bones. But nobody answered. The ship was empty except for him and his two men. Finally they checked the quarterdeck, the fo’c’sle and the tops…all of which they already knew to be empty. But Billy Bones checked them anyway. Only then did he give the order, and one of his men opened the lantern kept secured on the quarterdeck and took a light from the candle within, and lit the three torches: long timber treenails with greasy rags bound about their tips. Taking the torches, Billy and his accomplices doubled to the three carefully prepared fire points in the hold.

In each place a pile of inflammables had been assembled: crumpled paper, leading to scraps of small timber, leading to casks of paint, and linseed oil ready broached, and finally to stacked heaps of canvas and small spars: a vile mixture aboard a wooden ship, and one which made Billy Bones’s flesh crawl, for the time he’d done the same aboard Long John’s ship, Lion, for which action he was deeply ashamed. Old Nick would surely claim him for that deed when the time came.

But this was different. They were burning a plague ship under Captain Flint’s orders, to save poor mariners from certain death should any come upon her afloat and the miasma of the sickness still aboard – which, from the stink of her, it certainly was. Bones and his men had already set Jumper aflame for the same reason, and now it was the frigate’s turn.

Billy’s face glowed in the firelight as he waited a minute to see that the fire was really under way. Then, with the crackling flames eating hot upon his cheeks, he cried: “All hands to the boat!” And he leapt to his feet and got himself smartly up on deck. Not running, for that might unsettle the hands, but moving at a brisk pace to get away from the flames now roaring down below. And he was right not to run, for the two men were waiting on deck with round eyes and mouths open in superstitious dread of what they’d done.

Billy Bones took one last look – fore, aft, aloft – at the great and beauteous work of man that they were destroying: the soaring masts, the wide yards, the sweet-curving coppered hull and the mighty guns; the cables, anchors, boats and spars; the stores of beef, beer and biscuit, of oil, pitch and tar, of candles, tallow, rope and twine. God knows what she’d cost the king and the nation!

More than that, a ship was a community afloat, bearing the cooper’s adze, the tailor’s shears and the chaplain’s bible, together with all the small and beloved goods of her people: their books, letters and locks of true-love’s hair.

By Flint’s orders, all possible goods and stores had been taken off, including the squadron’s war chest of two thousand pounds in gold. All else had been left behind – including the personal wealth of her officers: their purses, pistols, jewels, watches and wines – for even when it came to such precious items as these, there was a limit to what could be crammed into a sloop one quarter the size of the big frigate. And in any case, so far as Billy Bones was concerned – now increasingly believing that he served the king once more – it was grave-robbing and an unclean deed to pillage the sea-chests of brother officers.

So all these wonders were put to the flames, including the contents of the ship’s two magazines: which – even leaving aside the ready-made, flannel cartridges – contained two hundred ninety-pound, copper-bound kegs holding a total of eight tons of powder.

“Go on!” said Billy, and the two hands were over the side at the main chains and scrambling down into the boat that was bumping and rolling alongside. It was a launch, chosen for speed, and six nervous men were waiting at the oars. Billy Bones’s two men made eight: enough to make the launch fly. He sighed, and followed at the dignified pace of the senior man. “Give way!” he cried at last, and the oarsmen threw their weight – heart, soul, mind and strength – upon the oars in their eagerness to escape the doomed ship and her brimfull magazines.

It was woven into Billy Bones’s nature to tell any crew of oarsmen to put their backs into it; to spur them on, just as a matter of principle…but even he could see that it wasn’t needed on this occasion. The hands were terrified and pulling like lunatics. For one thing, they could see what was happening astern. They could see the red flames pouring out of Leaper’s hatches, and the smoke curling up from Oraclaesus. But Billy Bones thought it beneath his dignity to look back, and he steered for the distant Bounder where Flint awaited with the new crew, and the new future.

They were nearly alongside of her when the first explosion came, and the oarsmen lost stroke as they gaped at the ghastly sight. Now even Billy Bones couldn’t resist looking, and he turned in time to see Oraclaesus break her back: stern and bow drooping, and midships blown clear out of the water by the enormous violence of an explosion that threw flame and smoke and fragments of smashed gear tumbling high into the air, including – hideous to see – the entire, massive, one-hundred-and-eighty-foot mainmast – topmast, t’gallant and all – hurled its own length and more, straight up, with the great yards snapping like cannon-fire and trailing a tangle of rigging and sailcloth…only to hang…and curve…and fall smashing and rumbling down into the blazing wreckage of the ship, throwing up sparks and flame and ash.

Billy Bones sobbed. He was a seaman born and bred, an embodiment of the sea life, and he couldn’t bear to see a ship – especially so fine a ship – come to such an end. As for the oarsmen, they’d served aboard Oraclaesus and she’d been their home and their pride: they threw their faces into their hands and wept…and the launch lost way and rolled horribly, with her oars to all points of the compass.

Soon after, Jumper exploded, the flames for some unfathomable reason taking that bit longer to find her powder. But there were no more tears, only dull misery, for Billy Bones had his men pulling again, and running alongside Bounder, where he went up the side and was received by tars saluting. Having lifted his hat to the quarterdeck, he made his way aft to report.

Flint – who didn’t share Mr Bones’s views on grave-robbing – was immaculate in a cocked hat and the gold-laced uniform coat of a lieutenant, with a fine sword at his side. He was standing at the windward side of the quarterdeck with his officers clustered in his lee as tradition demanded. These were Lieutenant Comstock, a lad of twenty, lately in command of Leaper and now rated first lieutenant; the red-coated Lieutenant Lennox, who was even younger; and finally Mr Baxter, ship’s carpenter, but rated a watch-keeping officer by Flint. There was also the equivocal Mr Braddock, who was no seaman at all. He’d been Captain Baggot’s band-master aboard Oraclaesus, and being in the captain’s personal service was excused fighting and flogging, and considered himself a gentleman.