Flint and Silver: A Prequel to Treasure Island

Chapter 51

Selena came up on deck and looked around. Walrus seemed ruined. Dead bodies lay ripped and gutted, wounded men screamed and groaned, and Flint — armed with a bloodied cutlass — was busy killing two more who were busy trying to get away from him.

She'd left the stern cabin through fear, having stayed there only through fear. The door was smashed and couldn't be locked, but she'd been afraid of the crew, even with Flint aboard. She hadn't the strength to swim for the shore again, and she'd huddled in a corner when Walrus's guns had fired. The sound of that had been bad, but not as bad as the sound of the cannon ball that had come in through one side of the cabin and out at the other, ploughing a furrow across the deck on its way. That was too much. She just ran.

"Black spot?" cried Flint. "I'll give you black spot!" And he caught one of his victims a slice across the back of the neck and ran the other through the chest.

Walrus's main deck was a jumble of shattered wreckage. The ship had been heavily pounded, half the guns were dismounted and the men were surly and muttering. For the moment, discipline was broken, and Flint — having just despatched two of his men — was in the centre of a ring of the rest. Some twenty men stood loosely around him, armed with axes and pikes and cutlasses. They weren't exactly threatening him, not quite, and they were wary of him — desperately wary — and kept out of his way. They knew Flint and they feared him, and they were trying to find their courage. They were shifting and moving all the time, none willing to be in the front rank, each seeking protection behind some heap of wreckage, or clambering on it for the advantage of height.

As men do — when they lack the courage to fight — they went to law instead.

"You can't do that, Cap'n!" cried Allardyce, pointing at the two dead men, "It ain't according to articles!"

"No!" said the rest.

"And you're bugg'rin' mad, you are!"

"Aye!"

"Shooting at bugg'rin' parrots!"

"Aye!"

"And we ain't bugg'rin' having it! We's gennelmen o' fortune, we are!"

"Aye!"

"And you must take the black spot and you may not harm him as brings it."

"No!"

"'Cos it ain't according to articles!" roared Allardyce.

"Rubbish!" cried Flint, with the blood of his wounded scalp streaming down his face. "There's no mention of any black spots in the Book of Articles!" That was true. Flint knew it for a fact. Allardyce was thrown into doubt, because he couldn't read and was nervous of Flint, who could.

"Well… well… then… it's according to tradition,'" said Allardyce, who was one of those who'd been a King's Navy seaman. "It's… it's… according to the immemorial traditions of the service!"

"Service?" shrieked Flint, incredulously. "Service? You blasted nincompoop!" His temper snapped. He charged. Allardyce had the sense to run, but three others attempted to fight. It was a very brief combat. One found his right hand off at the wrist. One found himself bleeding to death from a slashed throat. One found nothing at all, being cut down, stone dead, on the instant.

Which marked the end of the mutiny. Those whom Flint had killed or wounded had been the boldest, the ones who'd actually dared to face him in arms. Now there was only groaning and bleeding from the survivors, and muttering from those who were whole. Nobody looked Flint in the eye, and nobody mentioned black spots again. They sat around in groups and did nothing. Flint wiped the sweat and blood from his eyes, caught sight of Selena, and gave a mad, mocking bow.

"Look!" she said, and pointed. They'd all been so busy with fighting one another they'd not seen the fire that was blazing aboard Lion. The stern was leaping with red flames.

"Ahhhh!" said Flint, and seized advantage in the instant. "There, my lads!" he cried. "See what your captain has contrived. Those swabs aboard Lion are roasted pork. Our ship's saved, and it's double shares of the goods for every man jack of us!"

They cheered him for that. They cheered and they jumped to his orders when he called on them to clear the decks and make all shipshape.

"Selena, my dear," said Flint, in a manner that was quite like old times, "you may not have noticed — not being truly a seafarer — so I shall tell you: while we are somewhat knocked about in the hull, we are entirely sound in our masts and sails!" He looked in satisfaction at Walrus's pristine rigging. "Israel Hands always did prefer roundshot below to chain- shot aloft, and today that will be the ruin of him!"

So Selena watched as Flint achieved the impossible. He turned the half-ruined Walrus back into a fighting ship. Wreckage was cut free and heaved over the side, with the dead and the dying. Small arms were reloaded, and able seamen promoted to fill ratings made vacant by death. Dismounted guns were hauled from the larboard ports, and others brought over from the starboard side, to assemble a complete seven-gun battery, and the guns were loaded…

"With, cannister, my dear," said Flint. "Which means a flannel bag filled with a good, round hundred of musket balls." He smiled. "Which is the best possible thing for men struggling in the water, having left their burning ship."

"Long John," said Israel Hands, "there's a dozen thirty-pound powder kegs down in the hold, just forrard of the magazine. We've got to abandon ship!"

"No!" said Silver. "We've lost her and no mistake, but I'm thinking of us ashore with nothing to eat but our boots and belts. So I want them stores!" He pointed to the men heaving Lion's stores out of the hold and into the skiff. The jolly-boat was already pulling for the shore with a full cargo.

"Go to it, lads!" cried Silver. "Jolly companions one and all! Heave together, boys!"

"Aye!" they cried, in their sweat and struggle, as Long John Silver did what the gods had made him for. He led his men in the face of danger and inspired them to do their best. He stumped about, cheering them on, slapping backs and calling them by name, and even managing a laugh as Lion burned beneath him and the decks grew fearfully hot. No King's officer, bred by years of training, could have done it better.

He had a team at the pump with a hose rigged and spouting into the open cavity where flames roared out of the stern. Beside them was a bucket-brigade of a dozen men, heaving sea-water onto the flames. At the same time, all hands that could share the task were trying to get Lion's stores of food and drink, and tools and arms, out of the ship and into the boats.

"Long John," said Israel Hands, "the fire's at the magazine. I've been down and cleared it, but them powder kegs is just forrard and they're already hot to the touch. We've got to leave the ship, John!"

"No, dammit! We're over seventy hands aboard of this ship, and the ship's lost and ourselves marooned, and I want pickles and pork and biscuit for all hands, and rum too, if we're to be stuck on that bloody island."

"But the powder, Long John, it won't wait!" Israel Hands was frightened. Nobody knew the strength of gunpowder better than a master gunner. If a dozen kegs went up in a ship with seventy men, there wouldn't be enough wood for kindling nor enough meat for seagulls.

Long John looked around. There was nothing more that could be done on deck. The hands were working well… and none had remembered the cargo of powder in the hold. Best not to tell them about that. All men have their limits.

"Mr Gunner," said Silver, "you were right to remind me that that-there powder is a danger to the ship." He clapped Israel Hands on the shoulder. "So let's you and I get it out of her!" That wasn't at all what Israel Hands had been hoping to hear, but he didn't dare show cowardice in front of Long John.

"Aye-aye, Cap'n," said Israel Hands miserably, raising a knuckle to his brow.

"And bring your hammer and chisel, Mr Gunner," said Silver. "It's time we let Mr Bones out. Can't let the bugger burn!" He turned to the men and raised his voice, "Keep at it, lads!" he cried. "Mr Hands and I have some instruments to recover." He looked around. "And you, George Merry, and you, Black Dog, come along o' me, for I'll need your help."

And down they went, down into the hot smoking dark — except that the hold wasn't dark any more. It was full of red light. It had never been so bright, not since the ship-builders had planked over the deck above, and shut out the sun. Silver led the way, with Israel Hands behind, and Tom Merry and Black Dog at the rear. Silver led one-legged, for his crutch was no use in narrow spaces and on ladders, and he'd left it up on deck.

"Billy-boy?" cried Silver, when they came to Billy Bones's little corner. But he found only a length of chain. He looked around.

"Where's he gone?" said Israel Hands.

"Bah!" said Silver. "Who knows. At least he ain't chained up here, a-waitin' for the flames."

He pressed on to the magazine — a small compartment sealed off from the rest of the ship. Its pine planks were dark and smouldering and giving up their resin in bubbling beads. It was very hot down here. Silver could smell his hair singeing, and the smoke stabbed his eyes.

"God help us!" said Israel Hands.

"Where's the powder, Mr Gunner?" said Silver.

"There, Cap'n." "Ah!"

Silver lurched forward, bracing his hip against the side of the magazine and reaching for the first powder keg, where it lay stacked on top of a line of water-butts.

"Back off, Mr Gunner," said Silver. "Get yourself to the companionway and hand this up to Mr Merry!"

Silver couldn't walk with the thirty-pound keg, not with one leg, so he rolled it towards Israel Hands. It was very hot to the touch, especially the copper bands that encircled it.

"Oof!" said Israel Hands, and heaved the keg up towards George Merry.

"Here," said Merry, "this ain't no instruments!"

Israel Hands's reply was so violently profane, so ferociously obscene, and bellowed in so menacing a voice, that George Merry — though not the sharpest man aboard — instantly understood that further discussion was inappropriate, no matter what he might be handed. He took the keg without a word, and passed it to Black Dog, who gave it to the team loading the skiff.

The second keg came out as quick as the first, but the rest came slower and slower, as Silver's arms tired and the heat and smoke grew unbearable. Israel Hands was shielded by the magazine, and George Merry was halfway up a ladder, but Silver was directly in line with the flames. By the tenth keg, the heat was singeing the cloth of his coat, and the magazine planks were smoking, getting ready to burst into flame.

"Leave it, Long John!" said Israel Hands. "If there's one loose grain on them kegs, they'll blow!"

"No," gasped Silver. "Job's nearly done," and he rolled number eleven and reached for number twelve. This was far back and almost out of reach.

"For Christ's sake, John," said Israel Hands, "leave the bugger!"

"No!"

Silver went back for the last keg. Only he, of all aboard, could have reached it. For any smaller man it was out of reach, back against the ship's hull, and even he had to stretch. A hiss of steam rose as sweat dropped off his chin and on to the copper bands of the cask. He flinched as a tribe of rats scampered past, across the water-butts. The fur was burnt off their backs and their tails were blistered.

"John! Give it up!" said Israel Hands.

"Cap'n?" said George Merry. "Walrus is making sail!"

"Uh!" said Silver. The heat was burning his exposed skin, the nearby flames were roaring in his ears, and his coat and stockings were smouldering. The final keg was nearly too hot to touch. He turned, and stooped to roll it to Israel Hands… and dropped it… and fell flat as he reached for it. Then he grabbed it once more and embraced it and crawled forward with it.

"Walrus is bearing down on us, Cap'n," said George Merry.

"Here!" said Silver. "This is a hot 'un. Heave it straight over the side."

"Ouch!" said Israel Hands at the feel of the keg.

"George Merry? You hear that?" he said.

"Straight over the side!" said Merry. "Aye-aye, sir."

"Ahhhh!" cried Silver, as smoke poured from his coat. Any material other than wool would have burned. But wool saved him.

"Get him out!" cried Israel Hands. "George Merry, lend a hand!"

Silver was exhausted. His limbs ached. He was crawling and unable to stand. Israel Hands and George Merry cleared the last keg, and heaved Silver up and away, and got him back on deck and threw off his coat, and poured a bucket of water on him to cool him down.

"Thank you, lads," said Silver, and gasped and spluttered. "Another one," he said, "right over me head," and "Aaaah!" as the water cascaded over his shoulders. They gave him his crutch and stood him up, and he saw the awe-struck respect in their eyes. But the ship was well and truly lost. More than a third of Lion, from the taffrail to the mizzenmast, was blazing.

"Allllll hands!" cried Silver, and they turned to face him. The pump fell idle, the bucket-chain stopped, the unloading of stores came to an end. The busy teamwork ceased and the flames thundered unchecked.

"Lads," said Silver, "the game's up. But well done every man of you, for I'm proud of you!" They grinned and called back to him, but he raised a hand for silence. "In a trice we'll be over the side, but first — as jolly companions one and all — I calls upon you to give three cheers for the old ship. Three cheers for Lion," he cried. "Hip-hip…"

Lion had been Silver's first command, and he'd have loved her anyway, even if she hadn't been so beautiful. So he'd spoken from the heart when he called for three cheers, not knowing that he was following the lead of many captains before him, and many after, in honouring his ship as he lost her. Likewise, there was hard practical sense in lifting men's spirits at such a time. Any decent captain hopes to keep his men together as a crew, and not as a broken mob.

"Now, lads," said Silver, "steady as can be… them as can swim, shall go over the side, and them as can't shall man the boats, and shall do it like British tars: old 'uns last, and young 'uns first. And now…" he paused and forced himself to speak the dreadful words: "Abandon ship!"

Even then he wasn't done. He went among them with a cheerful word for all as they set to work heaving over the side anything that would float: gratings, hatch covers, spare masts, and all the rolled-up hammocks that could be found. Then, just twenty of the seventy-one aboard went over the rail and swam, or clung to whatever they could grasp, and struck out for the shore with the current behind them.

With over fifty-one men and three boys still aboard, it took two trips of the jolly-boat and three of the skiff to get everyone ashore, with Silver the last man over the side, and the fire now raging forrard of the mainmast.

As the skiff pulled away from Lion, Silver sat in the stern sheets and glanced at Walrus. She'd proved to be no threat at all. The wind had failed her. She had no steerage way and her sails hung like washing on a line. She was harmless, just a cable's length off, and gently wallowing in the water. He put his glass to his eye and looked her over, from stem to stern… and nearly leapt out of the boat at the sight of Selena struggling in Flint's arms.