Flint and Silver: A Prequel to Treasure Island

Chapter 18

"That's the last of the rum, sir," said the boatswain. "Just enough for one tot. And there ain't a great deal left in the water-butt neither. You'll have to talk to the men, sir."

Hastings and Povey were clustered secretively round the empty rum cask, with Oliver, the boatswain — he of the kicked fingers — while the three marines, as ever, faced forward on the aftermost thwart, to divide the officers' stern from the men's foremast.

It was very, very hot, and all aboard were tired, thirsty and afraid. Eyes squinted against the glare. Lips were cracked and dry. The skin lay like brown paper on the backs of men's hands, and — worse still — there was almost no wind. They were as near becalmed as made no difference with the sails hanging useless and the rudder unable to bite.

"What will you tell 'em, Hastings?" said Povey.

"Better make it something good, sir," said Oliver.

Hastings fiddled nervously with a piece of flaked skin on his lower lip, daring himself to peel it off. He blinked and thought, and whispered to Oliver.

"How much water have we left?"

"Dunno, sir," said Oliver. "I don't dare fathom it, sir, for it lays forrard among the hands, and they'll see."

Hastings sighed. He stood, raised a hand to shade his eyes, and looked at the men. They weren't fierce any more. They sat listless and quiet. They were giving up. That was bad. Once they gave up, they'd start dying. Hastings sighed and sat down and reached for his log. It was a little Bible that his mother had given him in which he kept a record of the longboat's progress by scribbling in the margins with a bit of old pencil. He studied it briefly.

"Ah!" he said. "It's Sunday."

"Is it?" said Povey.

"Probably," said Hastings. "I don't know." He turned to Oliver: "Mr Boatswain, will you call the hands together for church."

"Aye-aye, sir!"

"Right, Povey, this is what I'm going to do, so be ready with the rum…"

Aboard ship, "church" meant all hands dressed in best rig and everything ready for captain's inspection. Under the circumstances, those aboard the longboat did their best. They tidied themselves and the boat, and the two midshipmen put on their uniform coats.

"Off hats!" said Hastings, when finally he stood up before them. "We will say the Lord's Prayer." And so they did, the familiar prayer profoundly moving some of the hands, who mumbled the words in thoughts of home and happier days, their faces wrenched with emotion. That done, Hastings asked the Almighty to send them a wind and bring them safe to Georgetown Barbados, or at least the French Antilles, and not to throw them into the pitiless hands of Spain.

"Amen!" said the hands fervently.

"Now then, men," he said, "we've had a run of bad luck, which was clearly due to our not giving a name to this ship."

"Oh?" they said.

"Therefore we shall give her a name, so she can be proud of herself."

"It's his mother's name," said Povey, standing, "which is a damn fine thing, because she's the most tremendous beauty. I know because I've seen her!"

"Ah," they said, nodding to each other.

"Thank you, Mr Povey, you may sit down," said Hastings, and turned to the crew. "We shall name her with a libation. "

"What's that?"

"It's a gift of wine — or rather rum."

Povey handed Hastings a small horn cup which contained the last rum in the boat.

"We shall give this libation to the ship and to the sea, so that it will bless her and bring us luck!"

"AYE!" said the men, touched to the core of their primitive souls. They nodded to one another, in uttermost, fervent approval. It was a sacrifice, and a worthy one.

Hastings turned and poured the rum carefully over the boat's bow.

"I name this ship Constance, and may God bless her and all who sail in her!"

And perhaps He did, for they got a good northeasterly wind within an hour of offering Him the rum.