Pieces of Eight

They surged forward, led by the matriarchs who even the warriors must treat with respect. They shouted and yelled and urged the children forward, elbowing aside the Craven County Militia, who grinned indulgently and opened ranks to let them through. After all, who were they to stand in the way of Indians about to board ship and sail away for ever? So the militiamen grinned, the young girls shrieked, the children laughed, and the watching regiments cheered in delight as the women and children of the Patanq nation ran headlong down to the shore.

The sachems and warriors maintained their dignity, keeping a steady pace and manly bearing. But Harper saw that some of them were in doubt and arguing noisily.

Oh no! he thought, and a tingle of fright shot up his spine. Don’t let them baulk at the last moment. Please no. Not after all this…

“Colonel,” said his second-eldest, “what’s going on, sir? Some of their chiefs are stopping.”

“No they’re not,” said the colonel. “They’re just puzzled. Most of these have never seen the sea before, nor ships neither. They’re surprised, that’s all.”

He wanted it to be true, but it wasn’t. As the arguments grew, the sachems came to a halt, and nervous conversations began among the colonels behind Harper, and among the troops too. Up and down the lines of infantry, men stopped cheering and began fingering their muskets and wondering if they might have to use them. Harper took a deep breath. He couldn’t let all this come to nothing.

“You two follow me,” he said to his sons, “the rest of you stand fast!” He was digging in his spurs and riding forward, wondering what he’d have to say, what he’d have to offer them, when he saw Dreamer raise his hands and lift up his voice to address the sachems in the Patanq tongue. “Whoa!” said Harper to his horse, and patted her neck. His heart thumped as Dreamer spoke, and spoke…and then the sachems were following behind the medicine man like lambs, down towards the shore and the boats and the laughing women.

The fearful moment had passed.

Dreamer turned to face Harper and lifted his hand. Harper raised his hat and bowed, and rode back to his place at the head of the colonels, heart thumping and head dizzy with relief.

At dusk there was a formal council. Dreamer and his sachems sat down with Colonel Harper, the other colonels and the leaders of the city of Charlestown. To the white men it was long, incomprehensible and tedious. But it was necessary. It was part of the passing away of the Patanq nation from its homeland.

Next day the Patanq embarked. And it took all day to get them out and aboard the six ships, for there were serious matters of precedence to be considered, and families and clans to be kept together. There were long discussions, led by Dreamer, and the sachems, while Colonel Harper and the rest of the South Carolinians did no more than stand by and watch.

But some of the white men–while they were glad the Indians were going–were puzzled as to the reason.

“Why are they doing this, Colonel?” said his second-eldest, as they sat on their horses and looked on.

“They have their reasons, Lieutenant.”

“Where are they going?”

“North! At least, that’s what they told me.”

“But why are they going? They’ve been fighting us on and off since white men came here. Why should they give up their lands and pay in gold to be taken into ships and carried away?”

Harper sighed.

“Boy, you’ve asked me that a hundred times these past months, and I just don’t know.”

“But this has been planned for over a year, and you’ve spent weeks among them. Didn’t you ever ask?”

“’Course I did, but they’d never tell me.”

“Not anything? Not at all?”

Harper paused and gazed out across the harbour, where busy boats slid across the water like insects with flashing limbs, and the decks of the six ships swarmed with excited Indians. Only a couple of dozen Patanq remained ashore, climbing into two big boats with oarsmen ready, helmsmen at the tillers…and Dreamer looking on, determined to see all his people safely away before he stepped into a boat himself.

“I don’t know the truth of it, boy,” said Harper, “but it’s all to do with him.”

Chapter 6

Dawn, 1st October 1752 The southern anchorage The island

Billy Bones was pumping ship among the trees, only his broad back visible as he turned away for privacy, fumbling with the falls of his breeches and aiming at the roots of a big palm. Grunting in relief, he let loose a stream like that of a brewer’s dray horse.

“Can you trust him, Cap’n?” said Israel Hands, a hundred yards off, preparing to help launch the jolly-boat. It was rigged for sail, with provisions for a week, two men standing by as crew, and Long John ready seated in the stern-sheets. Silver shrugged his shoulders.

“We got to trust him, shipmate. There ain’t no other way.”

“Then let me come along o’ you.”

“Can’t do that, matey. There’s too much to do and too few to do it. I want you out with your party, along o’ Sarney Sawyer and Black Dog and their crews. I want this island mapped and charted, and not an inch that we don’t know the bearings of.”

“But, John, it might be half a year or more before we sees Flint again.”

“Not him, Israel!” Silver thumped the gunwale. “Not him, my cocker! He’ll flog all hands to their duties, and whistle up the Devil if need be.” He shook his head. “No, he’ll be back before you can blink, and we has to be ready.”

“Then take the pistols off Billy-boy. At least do that,” said Israel Hands.

“No,” said Silver, “them are to show we trust him.”

“But we don’t.”

“Israel!” said Silver, taking hold of his arm. “Yes, we do, and I’ll tell you for why…” He nodded in Bones’s direction. “I saw the look on the bugger’s face when he opened his sea-chest and saw the cargo untouched. He piped his eye like a babby.”

“Looks as though he’s done,” said Israel Hands, for Bones was now busy shaking off the last drops. Heaving everything back into place, he turned towards the boat, making fast his britches as he stumped across the sand, head down, lips pursed.

In addition to restoring Bones’s pistols and cutlass, Silver had issued him with a blue coat and tricorne to signify that he was, once more, an officer and jolly companion. Now he gazed upon these icons of resurrection.

If a thing’s worth doing… he thought. But even then he knew that Billy would turn traitor the instant he caught sight of Flint.

“Come aboard, Mr Bones,” said Silver with a smile.

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” said Billy Bones, touching his hat with utmost respect. The broad nose occupying the centre of his rough, heavy face was a constant reminder of the need to show respect to Silver, for it was Silver who’d flattened it, in past days aboard Walrus. Billy’s piggish eyes blinked nervously as–seaman born and bred–he gave a hand to shoving the jolly-boat out till she floated, before leaping aboard with the others.

The two seamen immediately took up their oars in the rocking boat, set them in the rowlocks, feathered, and looked to Silver for orders.

“Give way!” said Silver, and the boat shot forward, clear of the shore. “Take the tiller, Mr Bones, and set a course for Foremast Hill.” He looked at the oarsmen. “We’ll set sail, just so soon as she’s clear o’ the inlet. Wind’s fair from the west.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n.”

Out they went, pulling through the land-locked waters where–surrounded by hills and jungle, and shielded by the mass of a craggy islet that was the island’s companion–the winds blew feeble and erratic. As soon as they cleared the narrows and came about, with the heights of Haulbowline Head on the starboard beam, the fifteen-foot boat began to lift and plunge, and all aboard her felt their spirits lift as the fresh salt smell, the wind and spray and the wheeling gulls blew away the foetid heat of the enclosed anchorage.

“Make sail, lads,” said Silver, and in came the oars, and up went a gaff and headsail, to fill in the steady westerly blow, driving them onward. The speed was exhilarating. Too small for deep sea work, and dangerously stretched even for a coastal cruise, the jolly-boat–chosen for the job because she was all they had–was rising to the occasion magnificently.

“Fine sport, there!” said Silver, pointing to the honking, trumpeting sealions that frolicked–fat, black and slippery–among the breakers pounding the rocks off Haulbowline Head.

“Fine for them, Cap’n,” said Billy Bones, with a broken-toothed grin, “but not for us.” It was the first time Silver had seen him smile. “And there’s the Cape of the Woods to clear, half a league ahead, so I’ll steer a point to windward, to give us sea-room.”

“Well and good, Mr Bones,” said Silver approvingly. “I see you knows your island.”

“Aye, Cap’n, ’deed I do. When I was here under…” His words died.

“Tell the truth and shame the Devil, Mr Bones!” said Silver. The two seaman were looking on with round eyes. “When you was here under Cap’n Flint…”

Billy Bones swallowed, studied the sea rather than Silver, and went on, “When I was here…before…we…that is he… charted her from north to south and east to west, and all the seas around.”

“So he knows the island well?”

“Every blessed inch.”

“And the seas to the north? Does he know what lies there?”

Bones bit his lip and mumbled. If ever a man wore his thoughts on his face it was Billy Bones, and Silver knew he’d touched on something important. But he let it pass, and waited until they’d forged further out to sea, where more of the island’s mysteries became visible over the line of cliffs.

“Mr Bones,” he said, “d’you see Spy-glass Hill, there, fair on the starboard bow?” he pointed at the great hill–more of a small mountain–that rose above all else on the island: heavily wooded at its roots, but almost naked near the peak.

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“And d’you see how it’s flattened at the top?”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“And I s’pose you know why Flint–who gave it its name–called it Spy-glass?”

Billy Bones said nothing.

“He called it that, Mr Bones, because it’s the finest lookout point on the island, except for one thing. D’you know what that is?”

“No, Cap’n…well…yes, Cap’n.”

Ah, thought Silver, so you’re coming about, Mr Bones.

“What is it, then?” he said.

“You can’t see to the north,” said Bones. “There’s a spire of rock in the way, right at the top. The Watchtower he called it, but it was one of his jokes. It’s smooth as a church steeple, and you can’t climb it, and short of months of work by engineers with gunpowder, you can’t get rid of it, nor get round it, nor cut a way to the top.”

“Thank you, Mr Bones,” said Silver. “So the Spy-glass is blind to the north.”

“That she is, Cap’n.”

“And can’t be cured. Not without months of work, as you say.” Silver paused. “So! How long have we got, Mr Bones? You’re the navigator. You know Flint better than any man. Where’s he gone? How long till he gets there? And how long till he comes back?”

There was a lengthy silence as Billy Bones considered his loyalties. Finally–Silver had been quite right–what brought Bones round was the thought of all his precious things, given back to him, safe and sound, in his old sea trunk.

“It’d be Savannah first, Cap’n, to get money out of Charley Neal, his agent.”

“Aye,” said Silver, who knew Charley Neal as well as Flint did.

“Then maybe to Charlestown, which is only a day’s sail north, given fair winds. It’s a big enough seaport for him to get more ships and men, and take on powder and shot and so forth.”

“And then back to us here?”

“Aye.”

“So how long till we see his blessed face?”

Billy Bones closed his eyes and did heavy sums in his head. He alone, of those on the island, knew exactly where it lay. Silver, Israel Hands, and one or two others could make a rough guess, but Billy Bones knew. After much pondering, he spoke.

“Best he could do is about three months, I’d reckon. But it could be much longer if there’s hurricanes, or if he’s becalmed, or if…”

“Or if there’s fire, wreck or mutiny,” added Silver, laying a hand on Billy Bones’s shoulder. “I know, Mr Bones. Three months is what I’d have guessed myself, but thank you for your opinion, the which I value greatly.”

After that, Silver sat quiet and studied the island as it sped past: cliffs and shingle, grey vegetation streaked with yellow sands, and an occasional mighty pine rising like the spire of Salisbury Cathedral. For some reason, Silver thought it a miserable sight. Bones was busy with his steering, but Silver saw the same solemn mood on the faces of the two seamen, and that weren’t right! They had a fair wind, a lively boat and should have been merry. Seamen lived for the moment, mostly, and the present moment was jolly enough.

It was the island, he thought. It depressed him and he couldn’t think why. He looked at its hills and plains and jungles. It was like Jamaica, with every landscape from Norway’s to Africa’s, yet perverse, for in the southern anchorage the noon-day heat would sizzle your eyeballs, but at night and in the morning it could be thick with chilly fog.

And then John Silver bowed his head as depression led to despair, because it led to Selena, the woman he loved, and that with a fierce intensity for her beauty and her dainty grace, and her sweet little face looking up at him as she said John. Flint had taken her. She was away with him to Savannah and Charlestown. Silver groaned. The last he’d heard, Flint couldn’t do his duty where women were concerned, but you never knew with him. You never knew what he’d do next. He might be ramming and boarding her this minute!

“Shite and corruption!” cried Silver.

“What?” cried the others, looking around in alarm. “What is it, Cap’n?”

“Uh!” said Silver, snatched from his thoughts. “It’s the leg,” he lied, “the one as ain’t there. It pains me sometimes.”

“Ahhh,” they said, and nodded.

“Happens sometimes,” said Billy Bones. “Take a pull o’ the rum, Cap’n.”

* * *

After a few hours’ steady sailing they arrived at a vast sandy beach near the north end of the island, which offered a good landing place for Foremast Hill: the shabby, northern relation of the mighty Spy-glass. They dragged the boat beyond high tide, and took a rest and a meal in the shade of the shoreline trees–mainly pines and live-oaks, with thick broom bushes between, a world as different as could be from the jungles of the southern anchorage, for a strong wind blew off the sea here, and it was cooler by far.

Later they trudged to the modest summit, no more than a few hundred feet, Silver as agile as any of them, hopping smartly along on the hard, stony ground, and merry again too. It was work that drove his pain away, not rum, and there was plenty of work to do.

“Here we are then, mates,” he said cheerfully when they reached the top and paused to gaze at the splendid view around them–shimmering ocean, deep-blue dome of sky, rolling hills and forests–while insects chirped, birds sang, and the heavy breakers rumbled against the island’s shores. “This is a good spot for a lookout,” said Silver. “And I shall station men here with stores and a glass, even though it’ll be a fair run to bring news to us…” Then he saw that Billy Bones wasn’t paying attention. Bones was peering fixedly towards the northern inlet, the island’s other anchorage, clearly visible below. He was staring at the wreck of a ship, a big three-master in a state of utter ruin.

“Mr Bones!” said Silver sharply. “Won’t you join us?”

“Beg pardon, Cap’n,” said Billy Bones, guilty as a schoolboy caught playing with himself.

“Oh,” said Silver, “I see you’re casting an eye over the old Elizabeth.” Bones said nothing. “The ship what you and Flint took from King George?” Billy Bones flinched. His memories of that atrocious mutiny were shameful, for he’d been an honest man before Flint got hold of him.

As ever, Billy Bones’s thoughts were plain on his face, and Silver smiled. “Never mind, Mr Bones, King George can only hang you once, and he’ll do that anyway for your being a gentleman of fortune! So come along o’ me and look to better days.”

“Thank you, Cap’n,” said Bones, touching his hat, and came as close as ever he did to changing masters.

“Now see here, Mr Bones,” said Silver, producing a telescope from one of the deep pockets of his coat; “I’ve been up here before, and there’s a thing I’ve brought you special to see.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n.”

“Can you see, Mr Bones, to the south, to the east and to the west…there’s clear blue ocean?”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“But look to the north, and look to a compass point east and west of north on either hand.” Billy Bones looked. “D’you see the fog-banks there?”

“Aye,” said Bones.

“And d’you see the broken water an’ all?” Billy Bones peered hard. He swallowed, he fidgeted, he blinked. He said nothing. “Here–” said Silver, handing him the telescope. Bones drew it and took a brief look, and gave it back to Silver.

“It’s an archipelago of rocks and islands, mostly half-sunk, and there’s massive sandbanks like the Goodwins,” he babbled nervously. “And there’s always fog about, for a vast oceanic current of cold water wells up from below, and meets the warm wet air–” he waved a hand. “And the sands are all around, and there’s more ’n we can see, an’ no ship can’t come safe to this island, but from the south…”

Bones stopped in mid-flow as he saw the expression on Silver’s face.

“Why, you’re a sharp ’un, Mr Bones,” said Silver. “All that from one squint through the glass?” Silver laughed. “And arky-pel-argo? And oshy-anic? Shiver me timbers, but them’s monstrous words for the likes of you!” He put his head on one side. “You knew all that already, didn’t you, Mr Bones? You knew it ’cos Flint told you!” Billy Bones fell silent again. “Never mind, Mr Bones,” said Silver. “I thank you for warning me, fair and square, that we must look to the south for Captain Flint, which should make our work all the easier. I’ll keep a man up here, just to be sure, but the main danger comes from the south–don’t it, Mr Bones?”

This was plain truth–at least, Silver thought so–but Bones just mumbled and looked at his boots.

“Huh!” said Silver, and shook his head.

There was no more work that day. It was late afternoon, and Silver wouldn’t risk the island’s coast in a jolly-boat except in full daylight. They made camp by the beach, lit a fire, and settled down for the night.

Just before Silver fell asleep–and into nightmares of parting from Selena–he thought how nervous Bones had been when talking about the rocks and sandbanks. Now what could have caused that? Obviously it was one of Flint’s secrets; Bones must be frightened of giving something away. Was it that Flint wanted rival treasure-seekers wrecked on the sandbanks or lost in the fog? Silver didn’t know. But he wondered just what Flint had told Billy Bones about his precious archipelago.

Chapter 7

Three bells of the first dog watch 11th October 1752 Aboard Walrus The southern Caribbean

It was some days before Cornelius Van Oosterhout and Teunis Wouters became gentlemen of fortune, and even then only with Captain Flint’s most grudging approval, for he hated all the nonsense–and equality–that went with it, and he insisted–with much truth–that there was heavy work to be done: replacing the smashed windlass, making proper repairs to the plugged shot-holes, and trimming the ship afresh, now that her hold was bulging with stores.

Much of this time, Captain Flint spent in discussion with Van Oosterhout in Walrus’s stern cabin, where Flint’s big table, which all but spanned the cabin, was covered with charts, papers, navigational instruments and books of tables wherein numbers marched in ranks and columns, smart as Prussian guardsmen. They were books so boring as to suck the life out of most men. But not Flint. In him they excited all the lust of the Devil in pursuit of a soul.

“The tables are the key,” said Van Oosterhout the first time they were brought out. “Are you a navigator, Captain? How good a landfall do you make?” And he twirled the ends of his moustaches, brushing them fiercely upward, all the while casting an appraising eye at Flint like a schoolmaster quizzing a pupil.

“I can get to within ten to twenty miles of my destination,” said Flint, “running down my latitude.”

“Hoof!” said Van Oosterhout, puffing out his cheeks. “Good! Most men are wrong by scores of miles, maybe worse! Me–I get to within a few miles.”

Flint met the Dutchman’s challenging gaze with a frown. Either the man was a liar or the finest navigator God ever made.

“So,” said Van Oosterhout, “we begin the explanation. Longitude is time, and time is longitude, yes?”

“Yes,” said Flint. “And on land we find longitude from observation of the occultation of stars. But it needs a steady surface and repeated observations from the same site over many days. So it can’t be done at sea.”

“Oh, but it can, Captain,” said Van Oosterhout. “Imagine, it is night; I take a quadrant. I measure the height of the moon. I measure the height of the chosen star. I measure the angle between the star and the moon. And so to the calculations…”

The first time Van Oosterhout determined Walrus’s longitude, Flint worked separately–using Van Oosterhout’s tables and method–to see who should finish first. Flint worked swiftly but the task took hours, and when he was done, Van Oosterhout was waiting with a smile on his face. Eventually Flint smiled too. It was nothing that he couldn’t learn in time, but he wasn’t going to waste hours every day in tedious calculation.

So Van Oosterhout was rated as first mate; or, as Flint saw it, a navigating engine for heavy mathematical labour…which happened to suit Van Oosterhout splendidly, for he relished the work and constantly sought to improve it by practise. But he had other skills too, as Walrus’s crew discovered when one of them, a carpenter’s mate named Green, walked past the new first mate without a respectful touch of his hat and casually knocked Van Oosterhout aside.

Green was a big man who thought himself superior to mere Dutchmen, but Van Oosterhout reacted with lightning speed, flashing one hand across Green’s face to draw attention, poking his eyes with two fingers of the other hand, deftly tripping him as he staggered blinded, and then stamping between his legs…And all done so neat it was more like a dance than a fight.

“Ahhhhh!” said the fallen one, and “Ooof!” as Van Oosterhout stamped again and drove the breath from his belly. But Green was a hard man and now he was angry. He jumped up, only to find Van Oosterhout calmly waiting, poised like a pugilist but with hands open-palmed, not clenched. “Swab!” said Green, and went for the Dutchman hammer and tongs. At least he tried to, but couldn’t get to grips. Instead he was repeatedly tripped and thrown, and kicked in painful places, until even his mates laughed at him. Finally, trembling and sweating with not a drop of fight left, Green thought it best to beg forgiveness and hobble away.

“It is called silat,” said Van Oosterhout, when Flint asked about this peculiar manner of fisticuffs. “My father served the Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie. What you call ‘Dutch East India Company’. Thus I was born in Batavia where the natives fight this way. It is a great art.” He shrugged. “I know a little.”

“I think you are modest, Mr Van Oosterhout,” said Flint.

“Perhaps.”

After that, the hands remembered their manners where Van Oosterhout was concerned, and Flint realised that he’d got a proper first mate–not just an arithmetician.