Flint and Silver: A Prequel to Treasure Island

Chapter 48

A nine-pound shot was only half an inch wider than a six: about four inches as compared with three and a half. But the greater weight of shot, and the heavier powder charge behind it, gave the nine-pounder gun its famously long reach, and a far greater capacity to smash timbers and beams. The six-pounder was a good enough gun for grape and canister, or for chain-shot to dismast, but the nine-pounder was a proper ship-breaker.

"Can I fire, Cap'n?" pleaded Israel Hands, "before them buggers comes into range of us?" He crouched down and took two more sights over the barrel of his beloved Spanish gun: one sighting through the top notches to train the gun, and a second, for range, through the side notches.

Range was the hard one. Training was easy: just a matter of pointing of the gun at the target, by sighting through the top-centre notch on the breech-ring, and the top-centre notch in the muzzle-ring.

But range had to be judged — which meant guessed — and then the side notch on the muzzle-ring had to be lined up with one of a series of side notches at the breech, giving from one degree to five degrees of elevation. As Israel Hands had never yet fired the gun, he was ranging by guesswork and the hope that the two and a half degrees he'd chosen would reach Walrus, which he guessed was about four hundred yards away.

"Can I fire, Cap'n?" said Israel Hands again, and blew on the match-cord in his linstock to make the end glow nice and red.

"No," said Silver, "not yet. All they've done is make sail."

"But that's against — "

"Silence on the gun-deck!" bawled Silver, and stumped about behind Israel Hands and his gun-crew. Silver was in anguish. It was torture. His was the final decision. Should he fire on Walrus or not? Should he take the final step that would set jolly companions to murdering each other?

Israel and the rest looked at Silver and waited. The ship was at general quarters. Guns were run out and loaded. Decks were sanded and the ship's boys crouched ready to run cartridges from the magazine. The larboard spring was bent to the capstan, and hands stood at the bars to swing Lion's battery to bear on any quarter. She was as prepared as ever she could be.

Silver looked at Walrus. He'd been studying her through a glass since just after dawn when Flint's signal had gone up. He'd seen Allardyce take a boat ashore and come back with Flint: just Flint and none of the burial party. Just Flint, and Selena in Flint's blue coat, the sight of which set Silver's mind wrenching and churning and doubting all over again, wondering what in Heaven and Hell was going on.

And then Walrus had upped anchor and made sail! And all without a word sent over to Lion. Silver had immediately made ready to fight, knowing that, with springs on his cables, he couldn't be out-manoeuvred, and equally that there was no way out of the anchorage for Walrus other than past Lion, for on Walrus's side it ran to shoals and sandbanks.

He'd not set sail either. With the navigable waters of the anchorage over half a mile wide, it was possible that Flint would pass well clear of Lion and avoid a fight, heading for the open sea, but Silver couldn't see him doing that. That would mean leaving the island free and open for Silver to go ashore and search for the goods. And Joe Flint would poke his own eyes out before he'd do that.

"What's he doing?" said Silver, and put his glass on Walrus again. There was the breath of a southwesterly wind in the anchorage where the steady westerlies swirled around, and Flint — having recovered his anchors and cables — was creeping towards Lion under topsails and jib.

"Please let me knock a spar off him, Cap'n," said the gunner, wringing his hands. "Please, Cap'n…"

"Aye!" said the gun-crew.

"Aye!" said all hands.

"What's he doing?" said Silver. "Look! He's going about…"

Walrus was turning. She wasn't bow-on any more. She was turning her broadside towards Lion.

"DOWN!" cried Silver, and dropped to the deck as white gouts of powder smoke burst out of Walrus's side, followed a heart-beat later by the thunder and flash of her guns.

Voom! Voom! Two shots from Walrus sped high over Lion, harmless and aimless, and the rest went totally unmarked.

"BOOOOOM!" said the Spanish nine at last, as Israel Hands concluded that no further orders were required, and dipped his linstock.

Silver struggled to his feet in the swirling smoke as the nine-pounder crew leapt to their work, sponging, ramming, and running out: five men each side, and a second gun captain, ready with a powder horn to prime the touch-hole. It was blessed relief for John Silver, and he felt it. No more doubts and agony. Just a straight fight.

"Left! Left! Left!" cried Israel Hands with his left arm extended, and ten men hauled on tackles and heaved with handspikes to train the gun.

"Right!" cried Israel Hands, throwing out the other arm — it was always left and right to avoid confusion with the ship's larboard and starboard. Then it was "Left-left!" and finally "Well!" as the smoke-shrouded silhouette of Walrus lined up with the gun. The elevation he kept at two and a half degrees, and fired again.

Boom! The gun bounded back and sent another shot on its way, to the cheers of all aboard Lion. With ten men for a gun-crew, Israel Hands got off yet another round before Walrus replied with a broadside.

"Block-headed buggers!" yelled Israel Hands into Silver's ear, and pointed at Walrus. "They're out of bloody range! They couldn't hit St Paul's bloody Cathedral from there." He smiled like the sunshine. "But I bloody well can!" And he turned to his gun-crew again. "Go on, my fine boys!" he cried. "With a will now, lads!"

"Heave… Heave… Heave!" they chanted, pulling together to run out the gun. BOOOOM!

Silver got himself out of the way and into the stern, for a better sight of Walrus, clear of the Spanish nine's smoke. Lion's people were leaping and yelling and waving cutlasses. They were like the crowd at a cock-fight, all merry and bright and cheering their gunner and his men.

BOOOOOM! At the very instant Silver put the glass to his eye and focused, a nine-pounder shot tore into Walrus, showering wooden splinters across the deck and bowling men over. It looked like Israel had got the range. Then Walrus fired again, and missed with every round, and Israel Hands fired twice more, sending shot crashing into Walrus's hull. Silver could see the damage Israel was doing. Men were being killed, and at least one gun had been knocked over and blown clear out of its carriage.

What's up with you, Joe? he thought. You ain't moving. You're just making a target of yourself. And why are you firing so slow? He looked again and, just for an instant — though he wasn't sure — he thought he saw Flint aiming a musket upwards, and shooting at something, and others beside him doing the same. Then the smoke of Walrus's guns covered them up.

"Shiver me timbers!" said Silver. "We'll wreck and sink him if he don't move sharper than that. And him not laying a finger on us." He shook his head in disbelief. "What are you doing, Joe?"

It was too easy. Silver couldn't believe it. Something was wrong. Flint wouldn't just give up. Nor would he give an enemy the chance to shoot him to pieces and not hit back. Silver was still wondering when he smelt smoke. Not powder smoke. Wood smoke.

He turned. In the middle of Lion's quarterdeck was a small raised skylight that lit the ward-room just forrard of the stern cabin. The glazed windows were open, and smoke was pouring out, glowing red with the reflection of flames beneath. It was the worst of all a seaman's fears: the ship was on fire.