Flint and Silver: A Prequel to Treasure Island

Chapter 30

The brig Susan Mary, now to be known as Lion, was smaller than Walrus and had all the differences below decks in terms of cabins, provision for storage, depth of the hold, et cetera, with which the individual shipwright shows the world that he can do his work better than any other. So there was a considerable bother of cursing and complaining among Captain Silver's men as they moved into their new home. Nothing was quite like what they'd been used to, and each thought the others were depriving him of the cosiest berth and the snuggest corner.

As soon as he got aboard, Israel Hands, who had been Flint's gunner and was now Long John's, elbowed and cuffed his way into a cabin, declared it his own as a senior officer in this commission, posted his mate to guard it, and went to examine the planked wooden cupboard that passed for a magazine aboard this ship. There was just room for him to get inside of it and sit down upon a bench facing a table with rows of pigeonholes above it.

Israel Hands sucked his teeth philosophically. So it had come to this. Israel Hands, who'd once served aboard ships where the magazines held cartridges for twenty-four-pounders, and ninety-pound powder kegs stood shoulder to shoulder in rows, was reduced to this. Ah well, he thought, at least there was a magazine: a proper place set aside for the powder, and lit through a double-glass window by a lantern burning outside. And there was a proper door to it, so that the gunner might keep out lubbers who'd otherwise wander in with lighted pipes in their mouths and blow the ship to splinters.

For that matter, there was plenty of powder aboard too, for the ship's cargo of plantation goods included a dozen thirty-pound powder kegs — far more than the ship herself needed with her pop-gun battery.

He cocked his head and listened to them on the deck above his head, fighting over where they should sling their hammocks. He grinned at the thought of the bruises and broken heads. None of that need trouble Israel Hands now. He was third man in the ship, after only Long John and Billy Bones. So he grinned and began to examine the flannel cartridges for the four-pounders which were Lion's main battery.

He was thorough in the work, which he did mainly by touch, taking the fat sausages of powder out of their pigeonholes and running his fingers up and down their seams, feeling for leaks. He didn't trust any other man to do the job. Israel Hands was greedy and violent, and there was a certain depravity within him or he'd never have been where he was today, but he was also a careful and diligent man, or he'd never have been rated as gunner — a job which punished slackness by the loss of the entire ship in one great thundering roar.

He thought over what had happened, particularly the split between Flint and Silver. What an amazing piece of luck it had been that they'd found the brig when they did. Otherwise there would have been one or two aboard Walrus whose livers would have been tickled while they slept, for that was the way Israel Hands preferred to do business, what with its being such a safe and quiet way. Given the choice, Israel Hands would have started with Billy Bones, because he kissed Flint's bum-hole every day of the week and twice on Sundays. And now Billy-boy was first mate under Silver! There was a turn of events, and no mistake.

In all, seventy men and three boys came across with Long John into Lion. Mostly the men were from the old East India days, when they'd been shipmates under Captain Mason; these included Blind Pew, whom Silver had asked for despite his part in the recent debate, for he was still a better sailmaker than his mates. Every spare sail from Lion's lockers was being brought up and bent to the masts to replace those shredded by the sea, and more would have to be made.

Among the rest who chose to go with Silver was a small group who'd been with Flint aboard Elizabeth: George Merry, Tom Allardyce, and Israel Hands himself. This was a little victory for Long John Silver, since not one of his old East India shipmates had stayed aboard Walrus under Flint. Israel Hands paused briefly in his work. Silver was an odd bugger for a pirate, what with his articles and his "gentlemen of fortune" and his sparing of prisoners and women.

Israel Hands knew more about this than most, for his own father, after whom he was named, had served under Black- beard forty years ago when it had been butchery on all sides and no quarter asked or given. Israel Hands shrugged his shoulders and reached for another cartridge. Silver might be lily-livered, but his ways meant the crew pulled together. Besides, Israel's father had been lamed for life by Blackbeard firing off a pair of pistols under the table just for fun: exactly the sort of mad game Flint enjoyed. It was one more reason why Israel Hands preferred Silver.

When he'd finished with the cartridges and set aside a few he wasn't happy with, Israel Hands locked the magazine and went on deck to look at his guns. Silver and Billy Bones were getting her under way in Walrus's wake, and men were running in all directions making sail.

Israel Hands went over to the nearest gun and knelt beside it for a close look. He was pleased to see that it was of the same quality as everything else about this sweet little vessel. It was an English-made iron gun, quite new, with a good carriage and fittings, and in all respects shipshape and fit for service. There was shot in the racks and a fresh cartridge ready in the waterproof locker by the gun. A neat wooden tompion kept wet out of the muzzle, and a sheet of lead was lashed over the touch hole, while rammers, crows and a linstock were secured nearby.

"Aye," muttered Israel Hands, "pretty enough to look at, but only four-pounders and too few of you." Lion mounted just eight of these guns and the one bright star in Israel Hands's night was the Spanish nine, that by grovelling pleading before Long John, he'd got shipped aboard of Lion, along with its carriage and tackles, though these parts were lying in the hold waiting for the carpenter to find time to cut a port into the bow, though the tiny fo'c'sle was already crammed with bowsprit, catheads and other fittings to the point that even Israel Hands admitted to himself there was no room in the bow for a gun of that size.

He admitted it to himself but thought it wise not to mention it to anyone else, for he wasn't going to be separated from his darling for so small a thing as that, especially considering the unpleasant and unavoidable fact that Lion was seriously under-gunned in comparison with Walrus.

"Mr Hands!" a voice calling his name brought Israel Hands out of his contemplation. It was Silver himself. "A word, Mr Hands." Israel Hands stood up and walked slowly towards the quarterdeck, conscious of his dignity as gunner before the common crew.

"At the double, you idle bastard!" roared Silver, his face like thunder. Israel Hands jumped and ran up the ladder and presented himself. From the look on Silver's face, he judged it expedient to salute, navy-fashion, and take off his hat.

Silver and Billy Bones were side by side, and Silver was now dressed in a long blue coat and cocked hat, just like Billy Bones, except that Silver's hat and coat were newer, less faded, and better than Billy Bones's. Since Long John had never had such a coat before, Israel Hands guessed — correctly — that Mr Bones had been required to give up his spare suit of clothes so that Captain Silver might not look less of an officer than his first mate.

Both Silver and Billy Bones were in the foulest of tempers and clearly itching to find a man to discharge their anger upon. Israel Hands vowed that he would not become that man. He stood to rigid attention and answered with the uttermost politeness and subordination.

"Now see here, you lubber," said Silver, frowning tremendously upon Israel Hands.

"Aye-aye, sir!" said Israel Hands, staring straight in front of his face, arms plumb down by his sides.

"You've been used to festering in your bed all night when it comes to a blow," said Silver.

"Aye-aye, sir!" said Israel Hands, finding tears to weep, for it was true. A master gunner did not stand watches, nor turn out when "All hands" was piped. It was a dearly beloved privilege of his rank, and he could guess what was coming next.

"Well, you can belay all that, you lazy sod!" said Silver. "You shall stand watch-and-watch with me and Mr Bones, here, d'you understand? You're less use than a turd in a teapot, but you're the only bugger we've got, and we must make shift." Silver and Billy Bones peered intently at Israel Hands. For once they were united in a common cause: that of avoiding twelve-hour watches on deck.

"So," said Silver, "are you man enough for the work, Mr Hands? Don't worry about quadrants and dividers — " he turned to Billy Bones "- Mr Bones shall set our course to Flint's island. Either that or we'll follow in Flint's wake. But we must have another man to stand watches." Pausing only briefly to consider what would happen should he say no, Israel Hands forced out his answer.

"Aye-aye, sir!" he said, though his heart was breaking. But it would just have to break. He knew that Billy Bones was furious at being taken away from Flint, while Silver was mad jealous over Flint's black girl, and couldn't bear the thought of Flint ramming and boarding her whenever he pleased. Israel Hands didn't dare anger either of these fearful men, let alone both together.

"Aye-aye, sir," mocked Silver. "And you can start by standing watches together with me and Mr Bones until you learn enough of the business not to lose the ship."

Fortunately Israel Hands didn't lose the ship. And in a week or two he became a passably competent watch-keeping officer: not gifted, but sufficient for the purpose. And Billy Bones didn't lose the ship either, and nor did he lose Walrus, though he frequently remarked on how much sail she was carrying, and how she forged ahead of Lion:

"You'd think the bugger was trying to leave us behind!" he said on one occasion, training his glass on the schooner as her topmen set the t'gallants in a strong blow. "What's Flint doing, carrying that much sail?"

"Aye, Mr Bones," said Silver, coming up astern of Billy Bones, "what's he doing indeed?"

"Cap'n!" said Bones, nervously touching his hat and flicking his eyes left and right to check that all present had seen him give proper respect. After a few days aboard Lion, finding that he woke up in the mornings without a cut throat and walked the decks without being heaved overside, his fears had diminished. But he was still taking care not to give offence.

Silver put his own glass on Walrus and thought for an instant that he saw Flint. It looked like Flint — a slight black figure in a big hat — waving at the men, as if to urge them to their duties. But the ocean was heaving and rolling high as the mainsail, and sight of Walrus came and went through the glossy green waves, so he couldn't be sure.

"Hmm," said Silver, "I think you're right, Mr Bones. He's trying to leave us hull-and-topmasts under!"

"Never!" said Billy Bones instantly, but then he thought hard and bit his lip and dared — very politely — to look Silver in the eye. "Why would he do that?" he said.

"Mr Bones," said Silver, "I leave that to your imagination. But ain't it just a fine thing that our little Lion's so neat and sweet and could sail the arse off Walrus?"

It was true. It was a source of pride to all on board, and a wonderful discovery it had been. Walrus was built for speed and had never met her match — until now. For Lion was a thoroughbred from stem to stern. She cut the water like a knife, she was sweet to the helm, she rode the waves like a lady, and she could easily have overhauled Walrus, had there been the need. For a second time, John Silver fell in love. If Walrus was Flint's darling, then Lion was his.

So Lion easily kept station astern of Walrus, and in due course the two ships found the island, which — to his credit — Billy Bones would have managed all by himself, even without Walrus to follow. Flint typically saw no good in any man, and Billy Bones was nowhere near as stupid as Flint thought. Mr Bones, in his slow and methodical way — indeed, with many crossings out and corrections — had managed to multiply two times two and get the answer to four every time. And now the two ships were creeping into the southern anchorage, following — at Flint's insistence — a launch taking soundings all the way.

All hands with no immediate duties took to the rigging for a better view of what they were approaching. This was Flint's secret island; the island that had no name; the island that had been the site of so much bloodshed. There'd been much discussion of this on the lower decks of both ships, and many of the hands were already cursing the island as unlucky — as well they might, for some of them had done things there that left them with guilt hanging round their necks like anchor cables.

It was not a happy landfall, not on either ship, and the anchorage seemed to echo the island's ugly reputation. It was entirely land-locked and buried in woods, with great trees right down to the high-water mark. Two little rivers emptied into the bay, though not cleanly, as proper river-mouths, but rather they permeated into oozing swamps. The foliage around that part of the shore was of a poisonous brightness, and a stagnant smell rose up from it: the smell of sodden leaves and rotting wood, where fungus flourished and slimy things crawled.

Nonetheless, Walrus and Lion dropped anchor, and at the beginning of the morning watch on the day after, a grand council was held, according to articles.

As eight bells sounded, the ships were anchored with their sails hanging limp. It was a hot, still day and the weight of the sun pressed down like a soft pillow laid on an old man's face to smother him. The wind was too tired to move and every decent beast or bird crept out of the sun to sleep.

Only the busy mosquitoes were at work. They came up with the steam of the island's marshes and set forth with fever and yellow-jack to kill jolly sailormen, but they couldn't kill Flint's men, nor Long John's neither. These survivors of past epidemics were either naturally immune or too repulsive even for insects to bite.

All hands were gathered aboard Walrus, and since this was an exceedingly important occasion, they were turned out in the splendour of their full dress: silken sashes and soiled coats, ruby rings and filthy fingernails, ostrich plumes and sweat- stained hats, glittering earrings and knocked-out teeth. And of course, they were heavily armed. At minimum, every man bore a brace or two of pistols and a cutlass, and on top of that there were hatchets, dirks, muskets, knives, and such other arms as the individuals fancied.

Flint, as always, wore the blue coat and bright buttons of an officer, and a hat so laden with gold lace that it was a wonder his head could support it. Unlike his men, he was sparkling clean. His bucket-top boots were shiny and sleek. His shirt was white with fresh-water laundering and his chin was close shaven. Under his arm was a double-barrelled coaching carbine, and gripping daintily on his shoulder, the brilliant green of his parrot, ducking and bobbing its head and occasionally muttering in Flint's ear.

Long John Silver, while not aspiring to the elegance of the Commodore, as Flint now called himself, was his usual, neat self. He too wore a blue officer's coat and, while he must now lean upon a crutch instead of standing square on two feet, his tall figure overshadowed Flint. His free hand — the one not encumbered with the wooden staff — was grasping his belt conveniently close to his pistols. So Silver and Flint looked at one another, and smiled careful, political smiles. Each man was backed by his followers, and each man — at a purely personal level — was almost sure that he could draw and fire and drop his rival before the other could reply… Almost sure, but not quite.

As the two factions crammed aboard Walrus, Selena stood apart and aligned with neither. She wore the same clothes she always wore, the outfit she'd settled on, by native wit, as being the most suitable for a single woman among so many men: loose britches to the knee, and a shirt that covered both arms and throat, worn outside the britches both for coolness and to hide the shape of her figure. Nonetheless, when Silver's party came over the side, they ogled her fiercely and whispered to one another, grinning and licking their lips.

At first, Silver couldn't take his eyes off her, looking for some sign, or a look, or a smile. But he got none, and so he forced himself to pay attention to Flint. This was just as well, for Flint looked at nothing other than Long John Silver.

The meeting between the two men was very painful, and all present felt the strain of it. What's more, the peace between the two sides was straining like an anchor cable that's a whisker from snapping under load. One false word on either side would have been sufficient to start a slaughter. It was an unholy business, totally unlike the moments before normal fighting, when the two sides are strangers. This time, it was old shipmates facing one another.

In some cases there were friendships between the men in either party. In other cases there were scores to settle and injuries to repay. Furthermore, should it come to the extremity of cold steel, then each man had a very good idea who was better in a fight than himself. If it came to it, the thing would be a nasty little civil war. In preparation for it, men felt for their weapons and measured their chances:

Can't fight my old mate Conky Carter…

I'll pistol that bastard Jos Dillon. Thieving sod…

I'll not face Billy Bones. Any o' the others, but not him…

He's a lead-footed swab, that Black Dog. I'll do for him…

For Flint and Silver, upon whom depended the decision to fight or to talk, the strain was heaviest of all. Each man still felt the pain of a shattered friendship, and grief at the loss of so great a comradeship. But more than that, each was afraid of a world without the other. They'd grown so used to depending on one another that they were frightened to be alone, and so they stood ten feet apart and stared into each other's faces, wrapped so deep in their own thoughts that they visibly started when Billy Bones came forward and raised his voice.

"Gentlemen of fortune, and jolly companions all!" he cried. "Silence on the lower deck and let no man strike another, on pain of the yardarm, during this free council of free men."

Billy Bones had long since swallowed and digested all the lore and custom of those who'd sailed under Mason and

England. As far as he was concerned, it was the official way for things to be done. In front of him was a small table, spread with the skull and crossed bones of the black flag. On this was laid — like a Bible on an altar — the Book of Articles under which the company sailed. Billy Bones now respected these things as once he had respected the Union Jack and King George's head on a guinea piece.

"Hats off and give silence for Commodore Flint!" he cried, and there came a rustle of movement as hats were removed.

And then, with the beginning of these formal proceedings, miraculously the tension lifted and everyone let go of their knives and pistols and muskets, and all hands relaxed. Such is the power among men of the images and symbols of authority that Billy Bones was not so far wrong after all.

And so the great debate began.