Flint and Silver (8 page)

    "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."

    "Damn you…" murmured Springer and fell completely asleep.

    "So most of the people must stay on the island, sir…" said Flint, making a pantomime of deference to the unconscious Springer, "… while
Betsy
sails to bring rescue to those who remain."

    It was the plain truth and Flint had known it from the moment he and the carpenter had designed the new vessel. There was only so much that make-and-mend initiative could achieve, and some of
Elizabeth's
timbers were rotten besides. The carpenter had been sworn to silence under pain of death at Flint's own hand, should the secret leak out, plus the promise of being one of those to be embarked in the new ship.

    But it would eventually become obvious to even the stupidest among the crew that there would not be room for all of them aboard
Elizabeth's
child. Any decent officer would therefore have summoned his men, given them the truth at once, and trusted to their good nature as seamen to understand that there simply was no other way forward. And any decent crew would have understood. But Lieutenant Joseph Flint had fallen so deeply into temptation that he was now driven by quite another logic than that which applied to decent officers who led decent crews.

    "Thank you, sir," said Flint, as Springer - lost in sleep - snorted and gargled like a hog. "Bah!" said Flint. "Will you just look at the swab?" He plucked out the pistol from under Springer's hand and turned to Billy Bones. "Give me your chaw, Billy," he said.

    "What?" said Bones, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

    "What,
sir!
" said Flint. "Just spit out your chaw, at the double now." Flint held out his hand.

    "Me chaw?" said Bones, tested beyond comprehension. "Into your hand, sir?"

    "Spit!" said Flint. "Now!"

    "Aye-aye, sir!" said Bones. He'd seen the look in Flint's eye and dared not disobey. So he leaned forward and spat out a plastic gob of black-brown tobacco, sticky and slimy with saliva. It splattered into the palm of Flint's hand. Flint smiled without the least sign of disgust. He squeezed and moulded the tobacco to his liking, then he filled half the barrel of Springer's pistol with sand, and rammed the sticky plug of tobacco down on top of it as a wad. Finally he deftly replaced the pistol without waking Springer.

    "There," he said quietly as he wiped his hands on Billy Bones's shirt. "Just in case he ever gets the courage, eh, Mr Bones?"

    "Aye-aye, sir," said Billy Bones.

    Then they walked out again into the fierce heat and the high, blazing sun.

    "We'll set them building the blockhouse tomorrow, Billy- my-chicken," said Flint, "and you can let the word out among the people that Captain Springer is going to abandon them."

    Billy Bones licked his lips. He blinked and trembled. He muttered and groaned. He summoned every grain of his courage… and he ventured to dispute the matter.

    "Bugger of a risk, this mutiny, begging your pardon,
Cap'n,"
said Bones, instinctively adding that last word - the supreme honorific of his vocabulary - in the hope that it might protect him. It was an arm raised in anticipation of a blow.

    "Billy-boy, Billy-boy," said Flint in a peculiar soft voice, without ever giving Bones so much as a glance, reaching instead to pet the green bird that clamped its claws in his shoulder and chuckled and nuzzled his ear. "Don't ever question my orders again. Not so long as you wish to live. Do you hear me?"

    Billy Bones was armed equally as well as Flint with pistols and cutlass. He was the bigger man, being taller and broader in the chest. He was a man in the prime of his strength and was used to keeping discipline over the scum of the lower deck. But he gulped and swallowed in terror, he bowed his head, he shook in fright. Then he took refuge in the seafaring man's universal safe response to the words of his betters.

    "Aye-aye, sir!"

Chapter 7

1st June 1752

Savannah, Georgia

    As Long John laughed, he took care to keep an eye on the girl. He laughed till his belly ached at what she'd said. He laughed wildly over the thought that - of all the warped and twisted fiends that came in nightmares - Flint might be a
gentleman.
It was the solemn way she'd said it. It was the innocence of it, God love her, with her plump little arse and her big eyes and her bouncing tits. So even with the tears blinding his eyes, Long John kept a close watch on her, and on the room itself, Charley Neal's liquor store.