Pieces Of Eight

Chapter 25

It was a perfect, beautiful day, if somewhat cold and still: the sky cloudless, the sea a perfect blue, and everything sharp and clear, with only the creaking of ship's timbers to be heard… that and the rhythmic splash of oars, and the chanting of the coxswains.

Flint was sure now that he couldn't escape by towing. He had too few seamen and the Patanq had suffered badly. Totally unused to the work, their hands and backs couldn't stand it. Walrus was barely moving. He looked across to Hercules on the larboard beam, and Sweet Anne straggling to starboard. It was the same for them. And he looked at the big warship, now less than a mile away, her shoal of boats packed with jolly tars who were making light of the work because of the prize money that was almost theirs.

"Bring up a gun, Mr Allardyce," said Flint. "Best gun we've got. And have the carpenter cut me a port here — " he pointed at the taffrail. "And send me as good a gun-crew as we've got. Oh, to have Israel Hands aboard now!" He looked round.

The stern was packed with idlers who couldn't resist watching the oncoming doom.

"Get forrard," said Flint, "every blasted one of you!" The hands moved at once. But Selena, Cowdray, Dreamer and Dark Hand hesitated.

"Joe," said Selena, "can you sink her — the big ship?"

Flint laughed.

"With a six-pounder? I doubt we can hit her at this range!"

"What about when it gets close?"

"Then she'll come broadside-on and turn her guns on us till we sink or strike."

"So why bother?"

"'Cos it's my life and my neck, and him that wants 'em will pay in blood!"

"Flint," Dreamer stepped forward.

"What do you want, damn you?"

"Here — " said Dreamer. He unfastened his belt and held it out.

"What's that?" said Flint, scowling.

"Tie this round the gun," said Dreamer.

"Why?"

"He never misses," said Dark Hand, "with gun or bow."

Flint looked at the belt. It was about three inches wide, made of coloured beads worked into a bizarre, zig-zag pattern. It had a cheap, English-made brass buckle.

"It is wampum," said Dark Hand. "It is a great honour."

"Your gun will shoot true," said Dreamer.

"Good heavens!" said Cowdray. "Migraine! May I see?"

"The belt it is not for you," said Dark Hand. "It is for Flint."

"But the patterns on the belt are those of a migraine attack."

Flint's heart thundered. The blood boiled in his veins. Insanity sparked in his eyes. Here he was, facing death, and these morons were discussing beads! One more word and he'd be stabbing and hacking till there wasn't a living creature stood within reach.

Cowdray adopted his most solicitous professional manner. He bowed to Dreamer and addressed him as if he were an alderman with the piles:

"Are you afflicted thus, my poor sir?"

Flint burst. He laughed hysterically. He laughed till he staggered. Then he wiped his eyes, turned nasty again and thrust everyone bodily from the stern, except those following his orders. And these orders were followed, at the double. The chance to do something had put life into the men.

A maindeck gun was heaved out of its carriage and hauled aft in lashings by a dozen men. The carriage followed and the gun was re-seated while the carpenter and his mates hacked a square hole in the taffrail and drove heavy ringbolts into either side. Meanwhile Flint hailed Hercules and Sweet Anne, and set their carpenters thumping and cutting too.

Walrus spoke first, with a crash and a roar, her gun bounding back, checked by tackles rove through the ringbolts.

"Take your time, now," said Flint. "This ain't a race. See if you can't sink me one o' them blasted boats!"

Soon the other two ships were firing: a deeper boom from Hercules — a pair of them — for she mounted two nine-pounder bow-chasers and Bentham brought both to bear on the enemy.

"Let's see, now…" said Flint, aiming his glass on the frigate's bow. There was a big, gaudy figurehead — some monstrous creature of ancient Greece — and beneath it her name in gold leaf: Oraclaesus. And… yes… there was a pair of bow-chasers mounted, one to each side of the bowsprit. Come on, my boys, thought Flint, stand to, now!

For half an hour Walrus, Hercules and Sweet Anne pounded away. Shot screamed through the air, smoke rolled, the thud of the guns bounced across the flat sea. A flew splashes were seen, but no hits. This was not surprising, for the range was great, especially for the smaller guns, and even a nine-pounder was reaching a long way.

"Cap'n," said Allardyce, "can't we try that savage's belt? Can't do no harm, can it?"

"If you must," said Flint, barely noticing, still studying the frigate.

"It's in your pocket, Cap'n, beggin'-yer-pardon. Where you put it."

"Bah!" said Flint. There was no limit to the nonsense seamen believed, nor to Flint's contempt of them for it. He pulled out the belt and threw it on the deck at Allardyce's feet.

"Thank'ee, Cap'n," said Allardyce, snatching it up and running forward to bind the belt round the smoking gun, just behind the swell of the muzzle. "Go on, lads," he said, "give her a try with that!"

The gunners swabbed, reloaded and ran out. The gun captain took aim. He stood aside and dipped his linstock…

Boom! said the gun. Boom-Boom, said the two long nines in the same instant…

And delighted cheers rang out as a shot ploughed fair and square down the length of Oraclaesus's longboat, smashing flesh and timbers and sending broken oars overboard in a shower of fragments. The big boat slewed sideways and lost way. Groans and cries came over the water, the towline parted at the longboat's stern and — she being next to the frigate — the entire chain of boats was rendered impotent.

"Got 'em!" cried Allardyce. "How's that for Indian magic?"

But there were cheers too aboard Hercules and men clambering up on her taffrail, to drop their breeches and show their buttocks to the navy, claiming credit for the hit.

"Good!" said Flint, and looked at the activity around the frigate's bow-chasers. "At last!" he said. And soon… white smoke, followed by: Thud-bang! Thud-bang! VWOOOOOM as shot flew overhead. But in the boats ahead of the frigate, men staggered under the concussion of the guns, fired so close over their heads that they were surrounded by the flattened ripples beaten into the sea by the shockwave.

Now pull, you swabs… if you can! thought Flint. He'd been hoping for this. An actual hit was a bonus, but Flint wanted mainly to sting the frigate into firing, confidant that her boats couldn't tow half so well while she did. And he was right. The combined effect of the lucky hit — if luck it was — and the frigate's own fire so hindered her men that Walrus, Hercules and Sweet Anne pulled ahead another half mile before the frigate was properly under way again, with the towline re-rigged, and the ruined longboat cast adrift. And even then, the loss of their best boat and the hammering of Oraclaesus's guns meant that the tars were badly shaken, while Flint's, Bentham's and Parry's crews were pulling their hearts out, encouraged by the rumour that Indian magic was on their side, and they were hitting the enemy with every shot.

Scott-Owen, meanwhile, had seen his boats' crews cringe and falter when his guns fired, and eventually gave the order to cease firing. The range was too great now anyway. With the guns silent, the tars picked up stroke, pulled for England, and within an hour the navy was closing the gap again.

And then… all matters of boats and stern-chasers became irrelevant. The surface of the sea shivered and the rigging whispered as the weather changed again. The sky darkened, the wind returned but sultry and gusting, with squalls striking sudden and hard, the masts bending to the strain, such that no wise man set too much sail for fear of losing it.

At least there was no more towing to do. As the sails filled, exhausted men were driven — on all sides — to a different drill. No time for hoisting in boats; roles were reversed as each ship took hers in tow, recovering her men, while sails were trimmed. Flint put Walrus to her best point of sailing, leaving Bentham and Parry to follow as best they could. He didn't care if they kept up or not, for his life was on it, and there'd be other chances for the treasure if they got lost.

But they didn't. Danny Bentham wanted his share far too much for that.

Well and good, thought Flint, but what wasn't well and good was the brand-new, copper-bottomed frigate coming on under full sail like the angel of death. She was a magnificent sight, a thing of majestic beauty, with acres of canvas spread. It was obvious from the start that she could outsail Walrus, Hercules and Sweet Anne all three.

Van Oosterhout took the first possible opportunity to show Captain Foster the error of his ways. It was a necessary precaution, because once the Patanq men were taken out of his ship, Foster became a different man, and so did his crew. They breathed easy, they forgot their fear of the tattooed warriors and swaggered round the ship, shouting in big manly voices at the women and children — especially the women.

Van Oosterhout had guessed what would happen sooner or later, and had the good fortune to come up on deck from his calculations in time to catch Foster licking his wet lips and running a hand up the skirts of an Indian girl he'd got backed into a corner, with his crew laughing merrily all around him.

Ah, thought Van Oosterhout, all together. Good! and he darted through the crowd, seized Foster by the scruff of his shirt, twisted the cloth under his chin, and swung him round and down so Foster's head hung, pop-eyed, across Van Oosterhout's knee, and the rest of him struggled so hard and fierce that he throttled himself without putting Van Oosterhout to the trouble. Foster's crew stood astonished at the ease with which it was done, and each looked round hoping some other would baste the bloody Dutchman.

Van Oosterhout kept an eye on them, and when he thought they'd had enough — them and Foster — he dropped Foster's head with a clunk on the deck, stood up and looked around. He was not a particularly big man, but he had great physical presence. He was bony and muscular and quick in his movements, with fierce sandy moustaches that curled up on either side of his nose like the tusks of a boar.

"So!" said Van Oosterhout, and looked them all in the eye. He'd faced down Flint's men and didn't expect much trouble from this shipload of ruptured ducks. But you never knew with seamen. Cowards didn't go to sea. So he glared at them, waiting for a challenge. But none came. Foster's men muttered a lot, but they didn't do anything.

"Good!" said Van Oosterhout, and pulled Foster to his feet, where he stood red-faced and choking, weeping tears and rubbing his throat.

"Why'd yer do that?" he said, in deepest self-pity.

"To save you from skinning," said Van Oosterhout.

"What?"

"The Indians take the skin off any man who insults their women."

"The skin?"

"Yes. From here — " Van Oosterhout pinched the loose skin at Foster's neck. "Agh!"

"— they slit all round. Then they grip the edge of skin and they pull. Like this — "

Van Oosterhout mimed the hideous act of wrenching the skin off Foster's chest and shoulders. Foster fell silent. So did his men. Van Oosterhout nodded. It was a grand tale. It might even be true, for all he knew. Undoubtedly it would help Foster's men behave. Like everything Van Oosterhout did, it was neat, precise and accurate.

"So," he said, "remember: we meet the Patanq at Flint's island. Yes?"

"Aye," they said.

"See, that girl?" he pointed in the direction she'd gone.

"Aye."

"Perhaps you are lucky. Perhaps she don't tell her father. Yes?"

Silence.

"So," said Van Oosterhout, "Flint is gone. The English Squadron is gone. I have my orders. We bring all the captains of all the Patanq ships here on board and I tell them what we do." He pointed at Foster. "You — bring them aboard. At the double!"

Instinctively, Foster touched his brow and stamped his foot. "Aye-aye, sir!" he said, and Van Oosterhout had jump-to-it discipline aboard ship from that day on.

Two days later, in accordance what was agreed at the great council with the Patanq, Van Oosterhout took the Patanq fleet to sea. They sailed on the morning tide and all the women sang for joy at the prospect of following their men.

Flint was all but chewing his nails. Walrus was awake again under a roaring, heavily gusting wind that needed his constant attention. Hercules and Sweet Anne were keeping station, plunging and rolling under an increasingly lively sea. The red sun was reaching for the horizon and soon it would be dark. But Oraclaesus was gaining too fast; there was no time to hide in the night, and Scott-Owen obviously knew which ship had Flint aboard for the frigate's bow-chasers had opened up a steady fire on Walrus. Shot whooshed and hummed overhead and plunged heavily into the sea, throwing up spray. Walrus, Hercules and Sweet Anne fired back, but without success.

Flint stamped round the ship, ever trimming his sails, ever sending up more canvas, till the topmasts bent, the yards groaned and the rigging sang: highly dangerous in the erratic wind, for a sudden blow could carry away masts. But the alternative was certain capture and certain death, and every man did his best, with even the Patanq hauling on lines with the rest, the better and faster to get speed out of the ship. Yet for all that, every time a seaman looked back, be it from deck, rigging or tops, the frigate was visibly closer. A great fear was on them now, for there'd be no mercy shown to any of Flint's people if they were caught.

Zoom! A round-shot tore through Walrus's rigging. SPANG! A line parted and a sail flapped high above the deck. On instant initiative, without orders, the topmen leapt like acrobats, fearlessly splicing the line and making it good, and the ship drove on, barely faltering. Then voom! — another shot and POP-RRRRRRIP the fore t'gallant was punctured, and by ill chance it tore from top to bottom. Walrus staggered and the crew groaned.

"Bring her about, Mr Allardyce!" Flint cried, rising to the occasion. "They're going to catch us anyway, so let's die like men! Bring her about and open fire with every gun in the ship!"

They cheered him for that. With the wind on her larboard quarter, a touch of the helm brought Walrus foaming round, and Flint hove to by backing the fore topsail. The ship now had no way on at all, and it was Walrus's broadside of seven six-pounders against the frigate's two nines.

Seeing the change of artillery, Allardyce and Dark Hand raced to the stern-chaser in its hacked-out port. Without a word said between them, they tore the wampum belt from the gun, and ran to the rolling, heaving maindeck, now jammed with men scrambling to their guns.

"Which gun?" said Dark Hand.

"Buggered if I know," said Allardyce.

"That one!" cried Dreamer, running forward and pointing to number four.

"Why?" said Allardyce.

"It is the centre," said Dreamer. "It will inspire the rest."

"Get off my gundeck!" screamed Flint.

"Please, Cap'n, please," begged Allardyce. "It worked before!"

VOOOOM! ZOOOOM! More shot whizzed overhead. More lines parted. A spar shattered. Flint cringed and looked to larboard. The frigate was now just over a cable's length off. Every detail of her rig and gear could be seen, and the figures of the men manning her, all of whom seemed to be cheering and waving.

"God damn you!" said Flint, and looked at Allardyce and the two Indians: three faces, two red, one white, different as any creatures could be… but united in their stupidity and superstition. Mad laughter seized Flint again. "Go on, then!" he said. "Gunners — to your pieces. Steady-aimed fire!"

The men cheered again. Dark Hand and Allardyce tied the belt around number four gun, stepped back, and the gunners fired, each in his own time, the whole roaring broadside. Dense, rolling smoke hid the enemy for long seconds. And then… there she was again: whole and unharmed.

"Bugger!" said Allardyce, who'd expected every spar blown off the frigate's masts.

"Jump to it there!" cried Flint. "Reload! Fire at will! A thousand guineas to the man who hits her hardest!"

But nobody fired. They were leaping in the air and shrieking for joy. Yet another squall was blasting out of the darkening sea, bigger than any so far, and it struck the frigate a mighty blow, all the worse for her towering masts that reached high up into the full strength of it. She nearly went over as her bulging fore and main topsails blew out thunderously and shredded into streaming rags, while yards and topmasts snapped like gunshots as much of her top gear went over the side. In minutes the big ship had lost way and was wallowing helpless. The same blow fell upon Walrus, and she rolled as if to dip her yards, but she was nowhere near so lofty as the frigate and therefore missed the worst of it. In no time she recovered and drove onward, wounded as she was, and even picked up speed.

Allardyce cheered and threw his arms around Dark Hand and danced for joy, and even Dark Hand smiled, and thumped his hands against Allardyce's back.

"There, Cap'n!" said Allardyce. "What d'you say now to Indian magic?"

"Bah!" sneered Flint. "It wasn't your gunfire. It was a squall."

"What? Just in the instant we needed it?"

Flint turned away. It was no use arguing with ignorance. But then he smiled. What did it matter what Allardyce believed? Him and a herd of Indians? What mattered was that the sun was half under, the frigate well astern, and her squadron out of sight. Flint scanned the darkening horizon.

Ah-ha! There were Hercules and Sweet Anne, waiting like little lambs, half a mile ahead, with their topsails backed, ready to take up station on the flagship. Either the squall had missed them or they'd survived it as Walrus had. And now they were standing by, eager for their chance of a dip into the island's treasure!

Flint nodded in satisfaction. He would escape the navy now. The frigate must make good her damage and resume company with her sloops, and he'd lose her before she could do that, even without the cover of night. So he could risk showing lights for Bentham and Parry to follow… and so… and so… to the island.

Once there, he planned to see the colour of John Silver's insides, for it wasn't just gold Flint was after — not him, God bless his precious soul! Flint would never again make the mistake of leaving enemies behind.

This time — as Billy Bones would have said — them as die'll be the lucky ones.