Flint and Silver: A Prequel to Treasure Island

Chapter 26

Long John smiled and took the pistols from Israel Hands.

They were fond favourites of his: a matched pair by Freeman of London, whose name was engraved on the lock plates. Long John held them lovingly to his bosom and polished them with the cuff of his shirt. They were handsomely mounted: the escutcheon, the side-plates, and the fierce oval masks in the heavy butts, were all of hallmarked silver. The barrels were browned, the locks were blued and they were sharp and fast-acting. They were eighteen-bores, taking a twenty-bore ball for easy fit.

"Ah, John," said Israel Hands, "now you're a gentleman o' fortune again, I stake my 'davy." He was genuinely pleased to see Long John up and about at last and now complaining about the nakedness of going unarmed.

"Shiver me timbers!" said Long John. "How've I gone all these weeks without a pair of barking irons in me belt?" He shook his head.

"Here's powder and shot," said Israel Hands. "The flints are already screwed in place."

"Israel," said Long John, "you're the finest gunner as ever touched off a piece, I do declare." The two men laughed and Long John nipped his crutch firmly against his body with his elbow, and with some difficulty managed to load and prime with powder from a horn, ball from a pouch, and some scraps of old newspaper for wadding.

"Ahhh," said Long John, and sticking one pistol carefully into his belt at half-cock, he levelled the other at the horizon, far away over the bulwark, and squeezed the trigger.

The pistol boomed and jumped in his hand.

"Avast there," cried Billy Bones from his station beside the helmsman. "Who the buggeryandamnation's letting off without leave?"

"It's me, Billy-my-chicken," cried Long John, and the men laughed. Only Flint called Billy Bones by that name. The colour drained from Billy Bones's face and his big fists clenched like the roots of an oak tree. He took a step towards Long John, and all present held their breath. But Billy Bones looked at Long John's haggard face, still bearing the marks of his weakness, and he looked at the way Long John was propped up on one leg and a bit of an old spar; and he remembered everything that Long John had been… and Billy Bones sneered.

"Stand easy, me hearties!" he cried. "'Tis only the old cripple, playing with his pops. He'd better mind he don't blow the good leg off, a-pulling the other barker out of his belt."

That was a sparking sally of wit by Billy Bones's standards. The men laughed and Billy Bones turned smiling back to his duties… and never saw the angel of death that came shrieking down for his soul, and never knew that he would live on for many years more… only thanks to Israel Hands: a man that he'd never liked. For Israel saw the shame and rage in Long John's face and clapped a hand on the butt of the second pistol as Long John tried to draw it.

"Belay!" he hissed. "Back y'r topsail, John! Not now. For one thing we've signed articles and you'd swing for the bugger…" Israel Hands paused, for he'd another reason for keeping Long John alive. "And you ain't the only one as don't like Flint's plan for a-burying of the goods. Them as is loyal to you, why, we'll need you when we drop anchor at the island. We need you fighting fit, not… not…" he blinked and stuttered and fell foul of his own words, and served only to remind Long John of his loss.

"Look at me," said Silver, "I was a better man than him before this…" He stared down at where his leg should have been. "He's felt the toe of my boot, has Mr Billy Bones, and if I had my legs now I'd meet him hand to hand, like a gentleman of fortune, and according to articles."

"Aye, John," said Israel Hands, happy to think of better times, "you was the one for that, ever since England's time." He swallowed hard and delivered the kindly lie that he so much wanted to believe: "And you'll be yourself again, shipmate." He gripped the big man's arm and looked up into his face, willing him to go on.

"Aye," said Silver, wanting in his turn to believe. "If you say so, shipmate."

"That I do!" said Israel Hands.

And since it was plain truth that he wasn't the only man aboard that looked to Long John for leadership, for the moment Long John was content to bide his time and to eat hearty and drink deep and gather his strength, which was all to the good when, eight days later, Walrus ran into the warnings of such a storm as only the tropics can deliver.

The ship rolled deeply and her sails hung like dirty brown washing. The oozing swell lifted her smoothly up, and softly down. There was no wind and the sun was going down steaming red on a hot and oily sea. There hadn't been a whisper of wind for two days and even leather-faced, seasoned seamen were sickened with the ghastly motion. But now, something was coming. Even Flint's parrot could tell that a storm was in the making, somewhere under the horizon.

"All hands, Mr Bones," said Flint, "strike everything aloft. Rig hand-lines and extra lashings on the guns, and batten down hatches."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n," said Bones. "All hands!" he roared. "All hands!" Billy Bones never had to ask twice, and both watches poured up on deck and set to. The rigging filled with scrambling figures and the topmen raced to pass down every stick that could be struck and secured below, to give the storm the least possible meat to sink its teeth into.

"Ah, John," said Flint, coming astern to Silver in his accustomed place at the taffrail, "I assume you'll be going below with the surgeon and the womenfolk? Precious little you can do on deck." He smiled nastily. "And we wouldn't want you swept away… by accident… would we, now?" The two men stood and looked at each other, standing motionless among a furiously busy crew.

"Aye-aye, Cap'n," said Silver. He smiled too, but Flint could see the fury held back like water behind a dam. Flint chuckled to himself. He'd told Billy Bones and his other favourites to lose no opportunity of reminding Silver of his mutilated condition, and it was obvious that a good sore had been rubbed into Silver's hide.

"I'll be going below directly, Cap'n," said Silver. He sniffed the oven-breath air and looked at the sky. "It so happens that you're right, Joe, for two legs is better than one, when Father Neptune gets angry." Silver smiled all the harder and took Flint's eye. "Don't look like we're ever going to find this island o' yourn now, do it, Joe?" he said. "What with us being becalmed and now this." He feigned anxiety, as if a sudden thought had struck him. "Couldn't be as you've lost the bugger, could it, Joe? What with peering through your instruments and ruling little lines across your charts"

"Never fear, John," said Flint. "I know what I'm doing, and I know where I'm going." He leaned forward confidentially. "You must let me show you how the thing is done. The calculations are simple enough. A child could do it — should he have the aptitude. And it is, of course, the thing of all things that marks out a gentleman from a lower-deck hand." He grinned and Silver frowned, beaten at his own game. "Why look," said Flint, "here's Mr Bones coming, who hasn't the brains of a bullock munching grass. But even he can plot a course."

"Bastard!" said Silver.

"Mr Bones," said Flint, "help Mr Silver below decks. At the double now!"

Silver took the hint. With Israel Hands and the rest of Long John's men busy about the ship, the last thing he wanted was Billy Bones's assistance in making his way down ladders into the darkness of the ship's interior. Without another word, Long John lunged forward, past the helmsman, past Flint, around and between the scurrying hands, and plunged down the nearest hatchway. He'd become agile again. The crutch was slung from a loop of line passed over his shoulder, and he could get along fast by hopping on his one leg. It was faster than walking until he lost balance. But even that was getting better, and the falls were less frequent.

The hatchway ladder was a fearful challenge though, and only the threat of Billy Bones's attentions made him take it at speed. With the crutch dangling, he fell forward and caught the coaming with his two hands, and tried to swing his leg down the ladder. Thump-scrape! His shoe-leather slipped off the rungs and he half fell, half slipped and entirely bumped his way the six feet down to the deck, cracking his head, bruising his knee, and nearly dislocating his shoulder as the crutch jammed into the deck, driving the shock of the impact straight into his armpit.

Rumble-Boom! The hatch ground home over his head, cutting out the light, and a steady hammering told him that the carpenter and his mates were nailing it down tight against the storm. Long John groaned and sat upright. He was battered and bruised, but at least he was alive. Billy Bones would have killed him, given the chance: pitched head-first down the hatchway, and then Billy-my-chicken's foot on his windpipe till he was nice and quiet. Billy would do it if he could. He'd do it for Flint and he'd do it for himself, for the time he'd felt the weight of Long John's fists.

Long John groaned and beat the deck in shame and frustration. There would have to be a reckoning with Billy Bones, for it wasn't just Bones himself that had to be considered. Where Billy-boy led, others were following, and the very men who'd cheered when Long John first came up on deck were now sniggering behind his back at Billy Bones's mockery of the one-legged cripple. So if there wasn't a reckoning soon, then Long John's own followers would fall behind Billy Bones, leaving Long John entirely at Flint's mercy.

Again and again, Long John cursed the loss of his leg, and he cursed Flint, whose fault it was through his greed and refusal to listen to a word of good advice. But even then, and even in the depths of his despair, Long John grudgingly gave credit — if credit were the word — to an unknown merchant skipper who'd fought like the captain of a ship of the line.