Flint and Silver: A Prequel to Treasure Island

Chapter 12

His Catholic Majesty's sloop El Tigre came foaming across the enemy's bow and delivered her broadside of double- shotted six pounders one after the other, each gun captain choosing his moment as his own piece bore on the target.

Ten guns boomed and bounded back, gouting thunderclouds of smoke. Ten stabs of flame licked the victim's planking, and twenty iron balls tore through the air. Some missed and fell foaming into the sea, for even at close range it was hard for the gunners to time their moment precisely. But more than half of the Spanish shot crashed, ripped and tore its way from end to end of the island-built Betsy. At the stern, surrounded by whirling splinters and dying men, bawling at them to stand and fight, and damning their yellow livers, was Captain Joseph Flint, the celebrated mutineer, who was coming to the conclusion of an eight-month career as a pirate.

His performance in this trade had been erratic.

He had indeed taken some Spanish prizes and wallowed in slaughter. He had indeed got some gold under hatches; quite a lot in fact, and thus far, success. But he'd lost half his men in plots, counter-plots and the subduing of mutinies that were entirely caused by Flint himself. With independent command, all his old faults had swollen and grown monstrous large, to the degree that, for all his talents, Flint could never become a leader of men. He could only set one faction against another. If the Spanish navy hadn't very efficiently searched for him and caught him, then his own men would have done for him, soon enough, and he knew it. But that didn't concern Flint at this particular moment.

El Tigre had been battering Betsy for the best part of an hour. She was a better ship, better manned, better armed and with a loyal crew. All the Spanish captain was doing now was making sure there'd be no serious opposition when finally he led his boarding party over Betsy's rail. Either that, or he was attempting actually to sink her.

"We must strike, Cap'n!" cried Billy Bones into Flint's ear, over the thunder of the guns. Billy was grey-faced with fright, and crouched almost to the deck, as if that would save him from the hurtling shot.

"Strike?" cried Flint. "Strike to the Dons?" And he laughed hysterically.

"We're beat, Cap'n," said Billy Bones, and looked about the deck.

Dead and wounded lay everywhere, all over the shot- ploughed planks. Guns were dismounted and the foremast was working like a loose tooth. Those hands left fit were looking over their shoulders for somewhere to run. That was a bad sign. Next thing they'd be running below, out of reach of shot. Flint waved his sword.

"Death to him that shirks his duty!" he cried, and the men looked at him like the lunatic which he very nearly was. Then they cringed and stared as the foremast went rumbling over the side in a great crackling of parting stays and sundering shrouds.

El Tigre's men cheered wildly as she passed completely across Betsy's bow with the wind fair on her larboard quarter. She had totally outmanoeuvred the enemy vessel, which now lay wallowing like a drunken pig. Lieutenant De Cordoba, El Tigre's commanding officer, instantly put down the helm, aiming for the bold stroke of coming round through the wind to bring his un-fired starboard battery to bear. In this he was over-ambitious. Either that or unlucky, for El Tigre missed stays and hung in the eye of the wind, with her canvas flapping and roaring and De Cordoba stamping his foot in anger and screaming at his men.

Seeing this glimpse of hope, Flint drove his wavering crew to cut free the foremast and bring the shattered Betsy before the wind, under her after sails. Some furious minutes later, Betsy gathered way and rolled miserably downwind, discoursing heavily and needing constant helm corrections, and moving away from the Spaniard at a bare walking pace.

She'd covered less than a mile before El Tigre was got before the wind and came surging forward with the water foaming under her bow. Fear ran the length and breadth of Betsy and the men broke and tried to run away. But Flint cut down the first of them, and the others howled and ran back to their duty… for a while.

"'Tain't no use, Cap'n," said Billy Bones miserably, "them buggers is coming and we can't stop 'em."

"Billy-my-chicken," said Flint, "I'll run you through the liver if you say that again, I take my oath on it."

BOOM! A gun fired and another roundshot flew.

But it wasn't the Spaniard. Heads turned in amazement as a big, fast schooner came plunging down from the north. She was a mile away and closing fast. The lookouts hadn't seen her, for most of them were dead, and the others had eyes only for the immediate enemy.

"By God and the devil!" said Flint. "See her colours?"

"Stap me!" said Billy Bones. "The black flag, like our own!"

The schooner flew sable banners from her fore and maintop. Each displayed a grinning skull over crossed swords. She came tearing down, straight for El Tigre, which turned away from Betsy and made ready to receive the newcomer.

The two ships were very evenly matched. They were closely similar in size, in guns, and in the number and skill of their crews. A long engagement followed with much careful long- range shooting as each captain tried to place his ship to some advantage over the other. The result was a great burning of powder, but to little effect, since neither party saw any benefit in closing to a range where hits were certain, for neither would risk a lucky shot that left his own ship dismasted or harmed in her spars, such that the enemy could place their broadside under his stern and hammer him into surrender.

At first, Betsy took no further part in the fight, for she'd suffered grievous loss of life, and Flint's methods of rousing flagging spirits were of his own, highly ambiguous and uncertain nature. But eventually he got a spar lashed to the stump of the foremast, and set a sail upon it. Then, with the wreckage heaved over the side, and a few guns manned by crews who were more frightened of Flint and Billy Bones than they were of the Spaniards, Betsy made the best of her clumsy way towards the two circling, thundering opponents.

Flint was doing this only because they were now downwind of him, and Betsy was incapable of anything other than running before a fair wind. It was his fixed intention to pass through them, or by them, to make his escape, and he'd had guns manned strictly to assist this principal objective. But Lieutenant De Cordoba knew none of this. He only saw a second ship, flying the black flag, coming to join the one that was already his equal.

De Cordoba hung his head, heaved a sigh, and asked God and his king to forgive him. Most of his powder and shot was used up. His guns were so hot that the carriages were smoking. His men were exhausted. They were in no condition to fight two ships, especially if it came to close quarters, since the men of two ships must surely outnumber his one.

With utmost reluctance, De Cordoba therefore hauled out of the fight and ran before the wind. From his point of view, it was an un-heroic decision but a wise one.

But to Flint and his men, it was joy. It was relief. It was repeal, redemption and resurrection! They cheered and yelled with delight to see the Spaniard go. And other cheers came across the water from the schooner. This broke the first wave of delight. With El Tigre growing smaller with every minute, the schooner swung out her cutter and manned it, and the cutter pulled briskly across to Betsy.

When this happened, Flint, and those left standing of his crew lined the shot-broken sides of their ship and wondered if they'd been rescued or simply taken by a different enemy.

They were glad to see the Spaniards go, of course, for the Spaniards would've hanged the lot of them without so much as a trial. But what did the schooner want? Who were her people? They flew the black flag, like Betsy did, but what did that matter? It wasn't like one of King George's ships coming to the aid of another. Flint frowned and bit his lip, and considered the oncoming cutter. He'd never go to help another ship; not him! He'd take his Bible oath on it! But there was nothing to do but wait, for even the cutter was faster by far than the half-ruined Betsy, and soon it bumped and ground alongside, and men were scrambling aboard by the main chains.

The first of them was a tall man with a mane of fair hair starting out from under his hat. He had long limbs and an active, alert face. He had the air of a man used to authority. He shook his head at the damage done to the ship.

Flint stepped forward and the fair-haired man looked him over.

"English? Français? Portugês?" he said.