Flint and Silver
Neal shook his head in wonder. How did a sixteen-year-old manage that? She’d run in the night, with no plan and nowhere to go in all this wild land with its scalping, cannibalistic savages. No doubt she’d bribed and paid her way, either with money or that other currency that God gave women for the temptation of men. That would have been easy enough. She was uncommonly shapely and her face was pretty as a doll’s.
“Ah well!” he said. He was over sixty and not greatly troubled by these things any longer. His passions focused on his strongbox. So he’d taken her into his household, claimed an honest quantity of her money, and made her his own legal property, safely secured with all necessary papers and her life’s history washed clean of all stain.
And now she was amassing her own small pile of gold, running the liquor shop – and running it well. As Charley Neal had anticipated, everything was ready to receive his guests. A host of horn tankards stood deployed like a regiment on parade. Corks were drawn and barrels tapped. The cook was blowing up the ashes of her fire while her helpers sliced the pork and slit the fish, and the shutters of the long windows were thrown open for the air, with shades of sail-cloth braced outside to keep off the sun. In one corner, the house band of musicians were already playing. There were two fiddlers, three pipers, a horn-blower and a mulatto drummer, groaning, twanging and battering away at a pace to set the pulses racing.
Thus entered Flint and Neal, followed by Billy Bones in the company of Mrs Polly Porter, owner of the biggest breasts in Savannah, who never laid down for less than gentlemen or those in possession of a Spanish Dollar. Then came Flint’s officers, his men, and all the lesser folk, until the house was filled to the very limit of its capacity to receive them.
It was instant bedlam. Selena and her girls were run off their feet, dealing with the wants of the mob and keeping eager hands out from under their skirts. Food and drink poured down throats, cash poured into the strongbox. Songs were called for, and roared out to shake the walls. Those who felt capable got up and danced. Men piddled in corners, fights flared and died, hogs scavenged scraps, and here and there a copulation beneath a table caused the pots to shudder above, while folk peered below the planks and urged the amorous couple to go to it.
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.
“I have a suggestion, sir,” said Flint.
“Bollocks!” said Springer.
“Aye-aye, sir,” said Flint. “But we can make Portsmouth yet, sir, and do our duty to the Commodore.”
“What?” said Springer, beginning to take notice. “Can’t you see it’s hopeless, you prick-louse?” Springer gestured at the ship. “She’ll never come free. Can’t you see that, you slimy sod?”
“Indeed, sir,” said Flint, “the ship is lost. But we can build another from her timbers. We have all the tools and the necessary skills. We could easily build a vessel capable of reaching Jamaica, let alone the Spanish Americas.”
Springer gaped at Flint, consumed with relief … and then with envy and hatred. Why hadn’t he thought of that? It was bloody obvious once it was pointed out.
“I further suggest, sir,” said Flint, “that you might consider bringing the men together at once to announce your decision, and that you might further consider the issue of double grog to all hands in respect of their exceptional labours.”
Billy Bones, standing as ever in Flint’s shadow, grinned to himself. He’d make sure everyone knew whose idea it was to get them back home.
“You back-stabbing bastard!” said Springer bitterly, and he glared at Flint. “It’s all you, you sod. It’s a plot!”
“Indeed not, sir,” said Flint, and permitted himself the hint of a sneer, for although there had been no plot before, there was one a-hatching now.
But Springer had no option other than to make the best of it. He had all hands piped to the quarterdeck rail, then he made his speech and ordered double grog. They cheered him for that, knowing there was a way home tomorrow and a roaring debauch tonight. Double grog meant a full pint of strong Navy rum per man, and even sailors got drunk on that.
For the next two days, Springer’s crew were the happiest tars in the service, since on the first day they were mainly unconscious and on the second they were recovering in a warm bliss of recollection. On the third day, Flint, Billy Bones and the boatswain’s crew set them to work with the aid of rope ends knotted tight and soaked in salt water to give a good whack. The crew had had their fun, and now it was time to put the captain’s (that is to say, Lieutenant Flint’s) plan into operation.
The carpenter and his mates set about erecting a small shipyard ashore and hacking planks and timbers out of the ship herself. Another team, under the gunner and his mates, erected sheer-legs, block and tackle, and with the steady labour of twenty chanting seamen, dragged cannon bodily up to the cliff-tops at the mouth of the inlet, and established batteries to command the sea approaches.
At the same time, half the marines under one of the midshipmen began exploring the island to determine whether any danger lay at their backs. The other half, under Sergeant Dawson, deployed on the outskirts of the shore-works, in open order with ball cartridge loaded, to give warning of any attack.
Meanwhile, the cook and his mates served up victuals, the cooper filled the ship’s butts with fresh water, the surgeon drew splinters and sewed up cuts, the sailmaker cut up Elizabeth’s sails and re-sewed them according to the new pattern designed by Lieutenant Flint, and the boatswain’s crew steadily stripped the rigging and fittings out of the ship, and set up a store tent ashore. And just to keep them busy, those men not already employed were sent out in a boat, rigged for sail, with another midshipman in command, to take bearings around the entire island, and to take soundings besides. This would enable a proper map to be made.
The true master of all these works was, of course, Lieutenant Flint, who excelled himself in the efficiency with which he flogged the men to it, and in the ingenious punishments devised for those who incurred his displeasure.
“Three days without water for you, my chicken,” for a boatswain’s mate who’d smashed his toes with a dropped roundshot, which Flint interpreted as malingering.
“The one to lash the other, by turns,” he pronounced on two seamen who’d dropped a compass out of a boat in twenty fathoms. “And to continue until one or the other drops,” he smiled. “So lay on, my hearties, for whichever beats the hardest will take less back.”
And so it went on:
“Gagging with a marlin spike, while lashed to a spar in the sun.”
“No grog until within soundings of England.”
“No sleep for two nights.”
“Ducking to the count of fifty.”
“To play Flint’s game, or take two dozen.”
The result of all this was, firstly, that – in the absence of a maintop – Cap’n Flint the parrot spent a lot of time perched among the trees; and secondly that Elizabeth’s crew were prevented from being mended and made sound by the busy works that Flint himself had set in motion. Under any hand other than Flint’s, the men would have recognised the good sense of what needed to be done. They would have rejoiced in the escape from marooning, and they would have given of their best.
Alas, Flint could not deny himself these vicious pleasures. As for Captain Springer, he was worse puzzled than he’d been when at sea with Flint. He still couldn’t put a finger on what was wrong with his first lieutenant, and was furthermore weighed down by the guilt of running his ship aground and not knowing how to get her off. So he took to skulking in his tent and emptying bottle after bottle to take away the despair. He left everything to Flint, unless Flint positively forced him to play a part.
One day, three weeks after they’d come ashore, Flint came to his tent with just such an intrusion.
It was hot, terribly hot. Springer’s tent, rigged under the shade of trees along the shoreline, kept out the sun, but not the still pressure of heat. As usual, all work had ceased for the middle hours of the day when the sun blazed fiercest. A cable’s length away, where the new vessel was growing, the steady thud, thud, thud of the carpenter’s adze had come to a halt, along with the battering of mallets driving in trenails, and the groaning of saws shaping the timbers afresh. All hands were asleep, save those unfortunates on watch. Clad in an open-neck shirt, wide ducks, bare legs, with the sweat glistening on his heavy face, Springer snored in his hammock.
Two figures came scrunching across the shimmering white sand and into the dark of Springer’s tent. Flint and Billy Bones were coming to call. Flint with his eternal parrot on his shoulder, and Billy Bones in his wake.
“Cap’n, sir?” said Flint, rapping his knuckles on the spar that acted as a tent post.
“Uh? What?” said Springer, starting out of his doze. Flint nudged Billy Bones and nodded his head quickly towards the empty bottles under Springer’s hammock. Bones leered back. They’d become very familiar, these two.
“Sorry to disturb you, Captain, sir,” said Flint, advancing into the tent with a paper rolled up in his hand.
“Damn you, you bloody sod,” said Springer with reddened eyes. “Whassit now, you rat-piss streak of piddle?” He reached for a pistol that he kept by him and cuddled its heavy brass butt.
Flint saw the movement and smirked. Springer’s face swelled and his teeth ground together. He hated Flint beyond reason, and the more so because he didn’t know why. But his fingers twitched and lay still. He was a law-abiding man, incapable of putting a pistol ball through another officer in cold blood. Anyway, he was half asleep, half drunk, and having trouble keeping awake.
“Here’s the chart, sir,” said Flint, displaying the finished map of the island. “You’ll see I’ve taken the liberty of naming the prominent features: Spy-glass Hill, Mizzenmast Hill, North Inlet, and so on.” He pointed with his finger: “And here, sir, you can see that there is a better harbour than this, to the south.” He nudged Billy Bones again, craftily so Springer could not see. “But, of course, we never got the chance to try it.”
“Damn you, you whore’s whelp … you walking abortion … you …” Springer mumbled on and Flint spoke over his incoherent curses.
“I’m glad you approve of the chart, sir,” he said sarcastically. “For it was drawn entirely by myself.”
He rolled up the chart and produced another paper showing the lines of the little sloop that the carpenter’s men were building. “But that is not why I am here, sir, disturbing your rest.” He made a show of presenting the plans to Springer. “Here’s our little Betsy, sir. She’ll be sixty tons, two masts, sweet as a nut, and able to bear six guns.” He flicked a glance at Billy Bones, then continued: “Six guns and maybe forty men. Fifty at the uttermost, sir. We cannot build her bigger.”