Flint and Silver

But if the coats were uniform, nothing else was: not the shirts, nor breeches, nor shoes, nor the big straw hats the two men wore against the sun. Nonetheless, the coats served their purpose of marking out the wearers as officers of His Majesty King George II. In fact, since Elizabeth was sailing with a reduced, peace-time, crew, they were the only two commissioned officers on board, and it was sheer madness for them to be seen in open dispute before their men.

“Mr Flint,” said Springer, “look about you. If we continue in this manner, there’ll be no discipline worthy of the name in this ship. So, listen to me: I am resolved to proceed to São Bartolomeo according to my orders –”

“And leave a fortune in prize money to pass by?” said Flint. “We named this ship Elizabeth when we took her, but she was Isabella la Católica before that, and she’s Spanish from keel to maintruck. We could use that to come alongside of any Spanish ship –”

“But we ain’t at war with the Dons!” said Springer. “Can you not appreciate that, you bugger? Not since last year!”

“Bah!” said Flint. “There’s no war, but there’s no peace neither. Not out here. It’s dog eat dog: us and the Dons and the French! And I know ports where a prize’ll be bought for cash money and never a question asked.”

“No …” groaned Springer, and he wavered. He distinctly wavered, and Flint spotted it instantly and changed tack. He was exceedingly charming when he chose, and now he spoke sweet and friendly.

“See here, Captain, sir,” he said, “there’s a way to square the matter between us, I do declare. Indeed, I take my oath on it, for I’d not see a brother officer suffer in such a matter.”

The words meant nothing, but they were so fairly spoken that Springer relaxed. The scowl left his face and he gave Flint his entire attention.

Ah-ha! thought Flint, and rejoiced, for it was his guess that deep within Captain Springer there was greed that was just itching to be squared with duty, if only the means could be found.

“The fact is, sir …” said Flint.

“Aye?” said Springer.

“… I lost my share of the greatest treasure ever taken because of that bastard Anson, and I’d not see you lose your own best chance –”

But Springer snarled like a wolf as Flint struck a wildly false note by harping back upon the great wrong that had scarred his life.

Flint had sailed with Anson on his famous circumnavigation of 1740–44, when the Manila galleon was taken: the most fabulous prize in British naval history. But before that, Flint’s ship Spider had foundered going round the Horn, and Anson had taken her people into his own ship, Centurion, where Spider’s officers had nothing to do and were rated “supernumeraries”. As Flint told the story, this meant that they fell into legal limbo and got no share of the loot: a monstrous injustice, but one that a man got sick of hearing about.

“Mr Flint,” roared Springer at the top of his voice, “you will attend to your duties this instant, or I’ll not be answerable.”

Barely in control of himself, Springer turned away and yelled at Sergeant Dawson, “Turn out your men, damn your blasted eyes! Bayonets and ball cartridge!”

Dawson yelled and hollered and a company of marines doubled up and formed on the quarterdeck with steel gleaming at the tips of their musket barrels.

“Mr Bones!” cried Springer. “Muster all hands!”

“Aye-aye, sir!” said Mr Bones, and after a deal of cursing, kicks and blows, and a rushing of bare feet, Springer’s eight-score seamen poured up from below, and down from the rigging, to fill the waist. There they stood, squinting up at the quarterdeck in the sun, on the hot deck, in the mottled shade of the towering canvas high above their heads.

So, with his officers and marines behind him, Captain Springer reminded his crew of their duty under his orders from Commodore Sir John Phillips, which orders were to occupy, fortify and hold the island of São Bartolomeo. He reminded them of the strategic importance attached to the island by Sir John. He further reminded them of the dreadful penalties provided for disobedience under the Articles of War.

The crew stared sideways at one another, for they knew all this already. They also knew all about Flint’s “secret” plans for privateering. They knew because Lieutenant Flint had made it his business that they should know, and thereby they knew that Springer’s speech was not for themselves but for himself and Lieutenant Flint. Springer no longer trusted either, and was parading the power of the King’s Law to deliver the two of them from temptation. And for a while, the stratagem worked.

So His Majesty’s ship Elizabeth sailed steadily southward from the Caribbean, heading for a certain latitude and longitude that Commodore Phillips had got from the last survivor of a Portuguese barque wrecked on the coast of Jamaica. Elizabeth was a big ship, of near eight hundred tons, mounting twenty brass guns. She was old fashioned, with a lateen sail on the mizzen, a spritsail under the bow, and steered with a whipstaff. But she was well found and comfortable and, with so few men aboard, and fair weather and no war actively in progress, Elizabeth should have been a happy ship. But she was not.

As far as the foremast hands were concerned, Elizabeth was becoming a hell-ship. This was thanks to Mr Flint, who, having failed to bend Captain Springer to his will, was taking out his spite on those beneath him. As first officer, he had unbounded opportunity for this, together with a natural aptitude for the work.

Naturally he flogged the last man down off the yards at sail drill. Naturally he flogged the last man up with his hammock in the morning. Any vicious brute would think of that. But it took Joe Flint to punish a mess by making them serve their grog to another mess and stand by while it was drunk. And it took Flint to set the larboard watch tarring the decks for the starboard watch to clean – and vice versa.

His repertoire was endless and creative. A man who prized his three-foot pigtail was made to cut an inch off it, for the crime of sulking. Flint contrived to detect a repetition of this crime each day until the pigtail was entirely gone. Likewise, a man caught sleeping on watch was made to throw his savings overboard, and another who doted on a particularly fine parrot was obliged to give it up to Flint, though in this case a quirk of Flint’s character drove him to take the bird – for its own good, he said – in order to save it from the filthy words the lower deck were teaching it.

This he believed to be a cruelty, which he despised. For, whatever his attitude towards men, Flint could stand no cruelty to animals, and undoubtedly the bird flourished under his care as never before. Soon, he and it were friends, and he went about with it riding on his shoulder, which was a great wonder to the crew.

But mostly Flint’s tricks were cruel, and a particular favourite of his was to offer escape from flogging to any man who would play “Flint’s game” instead.

“Mr Merry!” said Flint, the first time this offer was made. “I see you’ve been spitting tobacco juice upon my clean decks. There’s two dozen awaiting you for that. Is not that so, Mr Bones?”

“Aye-aye, Mr Flint!” said Billy Bones, who followed Flint like a shadow. “Shall I order the gratings rigged, sir?”

George Merry stood trembling in fear of the cat, while his mates bent to their work and looked down, for it was unwise to catch Mr Flint’s eye when he was in a flogging mood.

“No,” said Flint. “Here’s Mr Merry that would escape a striped back, if he could, and I’m resolved to give him that chance.”

Billy Bones stared in amazement, and George Merry’s face lit up with hope.

“Will you play ‘Flint’s game’ instead, Mr Merry?” said Flint, tickling the green feathers of his parrot.

“Aye-aye, sir!” grinned Merry.

“Good,” said Flint. “Fetch a small cask and a belaying pin, Mr Bones, and put it down here.”

Flint had George Merry sit to one side of the cask, cross-legged, while he sat on the other, and the heavy oak pin was placed on the cask between them.

“Gather round, you good fellows,” cried Flint at the furtive men watching from afar, and soon a crowd surrounded the cask. “Now then, Merry,” said Flint, smiling, “here’s the game: I shall put my hands in my pockets, while you shall put your hands on the rim of the cask.”

Merry did as he was told and an expectant silence fell.

“Now,” said Flint, “choose your moment, Merry, and pick up the pin. If you pick it up, you go free.” Merry leered confidently at his messmates. “But,” said Flint, “if you fail, the game continues until you choose to take two dozen as originally promised.”

Merry considered this. He looked at Flint. He looked at the belaying pin, only inches from his fingers. He stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth to help himself think … and reached for the pin.

Crunch! The pin beat down on Merry’s fingertips, drawing blood from a broken fingernail. Flint had moved faster than thought. A roar of laughter came from the onlookers, Merry howled in pain, and the parrot on Flint’s shoulder screeched and struggled and flapped its wings in disapproval of the proceedings. It stamped and cursed and nipped Flint’s ear.

“Ouch!” said Flint. “What’s the matter with you?” And he shook the bird off to fly free and nestle in the maintop, chattering and muttering to itself. Meanwhile Flint smiled and replaced the pin and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Play on, George Merry,” he said, “or take the alternative.”

Merry instantly snatched at the pin … and thud! It smashed blood out of his thumb, to more laughter from all sides. And so it went on, until Merry could stand it no more and begged for a flogging, which Flint graciously allowed.

As for the parrot, in time it came back to Flint, since no man beneath him dared feed it, and Captain Springer – drunk or sober – did not care to. It even seemed to be begging his forgiveness, for it began preening him, taking a lock of Flint’s long, black hair and gently pulling its formidable hooked bill down the length of the strand.

Ever afterwards it took flight whenever men were flogged or abused. Eventually it developed a frightening prescience of Flint’s moods, for it had grown to know him very well, such that even before Flint grinned and gave the word, it flew off because it could not abide the cruelty. The bird was innocent, but the foremast hands saw things differently. They hated the parrot. They called it Cap’n Flint, and on those fell occasions when it flew from its master’s shoulder, and no man knew what might follow, they groaned and whispered:

“Watch out, mates … the bird’s in the maintop!”

And yet there was still worse to come from Flint and all hands soon had warning of it.

The formalities of the service had to be observed before George Merry could be flogged, since only the captain could order it, and Merry was clapped in irons awaiting his captain’s judgement – which was indeed a formality but took time.

Thus Merry had to wait for his punishment, which took place during the forenoon watch of the day after he’d played Flint’s game, when all hands were mustered to witness the defaulter lashed to a grating to receive his promised two dozen. Being already in severe pain from the battering he’d had from Flint, George Merry took his flogging with much groaning and weeping, which disturbed an already unhappy crew far more than a usual flogging when a brave man clenched the leather between his teeth and refused to cry out.

Once Merry was taken down, and the decks hosed clean, eight bells were struck for the turn of the watch, when the navigating officers took their noon-day observations; for which ceremony Mr Flint demanded an absolutely silent ship. After that, the hands were sent below for their dinner, the best time of the day, with full platters and the happy communion of messes clustered at their hanging tables on the gun-deck, where pork, pease, pickles and biscuit were shovelled down throats with a generous lubrication of grog.

It was a noisy, happy time, except for George Merry and his messmates. George himself sat painfully upright, bound in the vinegar and brown paper that the surgeon declared was the best thing for a flogged back. With his broken fingers, he could eat and drink only because his messmates fed him and held his mug to his lips.

“Ah, George Merry!” said a voice from the next-door mess. “I sees you be in poor straits.”

“That I be, Mr Gunn,” said Merry, nodding politely towards Ben Gunn and his messmates, who were quartermasters, rated able to steer the ship. They were the elite of the lower deck and aboard Elizabeth they were always addressed with the honorific “Mister”.

“So,” Ben Gunn declared, “you thinks you be in pain?”

“Aye, Mr Gunn,” said Merry, and bit his lip.

“And you thinks you be hard done by?”

“That I does!”

“Then listen,” said Ben Gunn and beckoned his messmates and George Merry’s to lean closer. Ben Gunn was a serious and sober man, if a little strange. He was much respected for his skill, but was distant – even odd – in his manner, as if his mind steered a different course than that of other men.

“You’ve heard Flint tell of the Manila galleon,” he said, “and how he was done out of his share for being supernumerary?”

“Aye!” they said, and could not help but look over their shoulders in fear of Flint.

“Then heark’ee, my lads, for he don’t tell the whole tale.”

“No?” they said, barely breathing.

“No, he don’t, not the half of it, for I had it in full from a poor soul, long gone, what sailed in Spider under Flint.” Now they were transfixed and, sensing the mood, men from other messes were leaning close. “Supernumerary, he was,” said Ben Gunn, and tapped the table in emphasis, “for Anson diddled him, and he didn’t even diddle him fair! He done it – which is to say, he said he done it – ‘cos of what Flint had done aboard of Spider.”

Now the whole gun-deck was listening. They were listening, but Ben Gunn was gone off in his own thoughts.

“What was it, Mr Gunn?” someone prompted. Ben Gunn started.

“Why, it were the Incident,” he said, and lapsed into silence again.

“What Incident?” said a voice. “What’d he do, Mr Gunn?”

Ben Gunn sighed. “He meant it for a good thing,” he said, “for he were a fine officer in them days, and he meant no harm. But it got twisted into a cruel thing …” He looked around, fixing men’s eyes in emphasis. “It got twisted … and not entirely by his own fault, mark you! And it became such that, by comparison, we be living like lords aboard this ship today, and happy that we ain’t in Spider.”

“Tell on, Ben Gunn!” said his messmates, looking at one another, for even they’d not heard this before.

“It were known as the Incident, for that’s how Anson named it when he used it as an excuse to do Flint out of his share.” He looked round again. “Flint were betrayed, shipmates. Anson betrayed him, and Flint were turned by that betrayal, for he worshipped Anson.”

“So what happened, Ben Gunn?”

Ben Gunn struggled within himself, searching in his limited store of words for the things he would have to say. These were not things that decent sailormen talked about. The task was dreadful hard for Ben Gunn, and the whole deck waited in silence for him to speak.

Chapter 3

21st May 1745 Aboard Victory The Indian Ocean

John Silver and Captain Nathan England walked the quarterdeck side by side, with every other man deferring and keeping clear of their private conversation. The weather was hot and good. The ship sailed easily, the guns were secured, and most of the men idling.

“Articles, John! Articles is what makes us what we are.”

“Which is pirates,” said Silver.

“No!” said England. “If I’m a pirate, then Drake was a pirate, and Hawkins and Raleigh too, and all the rest of ‘em that did what I do. And didn’t they come home to knighthoods and estates?”

“But the law – King George’s law – will hang us if they catch us.”

“Which they won’t.”

“But they would.”

“God bless your soul, John! And wouldn’t Queen Bess’ve hanged Drake, if she’d caught him at the wrong time?

She’d’ve done it to please the King of Spain! She did what she had to, and so do I.”

“But …” said Silver.

“JOHN!” yelled England, loud enough to shake the t’gallant masts, and all hands turned to look. England’s face reddened with anger. “Avast, you swabs!” he cried. “Look to your duties!” And every man turned away and found something to be busy with. They did as they were told, without resentment and of their own free will.

“There!” said England. “D’you see that? Was that pirates, or free companions?” He waved a hand at the crew. “That’s real discipline, John. The discipline of free men. That’s articles.”

“Bah!” said Silver.

“God damn you, you ignorant bugger!” said England, biting down on his temper. Then, “Ah!” he said, as an idea struck him. “Come along o’ me, John Silver, and I’ll show you something, by God I will!”

England stamped off, slid down a companionway, and led the way below decks to the great cabin, right at the stern of the ship. Unlike some, England used his cabin not for display but as a place of work, where he could bring together his officers when he needed to make plans. There was a big table and some chairs, and a profusion of cupboards and drawers and pigeonholes for the storage of charts and other papers.

“Secure that hatchway!” said England, pointing at the door. “Not that I don’t trust the hands, but some things are best kept out of temptation’s way.” Then he fumbled for a key, unlocked a cupboard and pointed to the big, black ledger that lay inside.

“Book of Articles!” he said with reverence. “The very same in which you signed your name. And here beside it is the flag beneath which we buries the dead.” He laid a hand on the black cloth. “And then there’s this!” He took out a snuff box. It was nothing special. It wasn’t gilt or enamelled. Not the sort of thing that would have graced a gentleman’s waistcoat. It was a large, plain box, neatly carpentered from some hard, black, African wood.

“Now you just look at this, my boy, and you tell me if that was the work of bloody pirates!” He held out the box. Silver took it.

“Well?” said Silver.

“Well, open the bugger!” said England. Silver fumbled for the catch, and sprung the box open. He looked inside and saw nothing … just two round pieces of paper, each about an inch across, each faintly dirtied with charcoal that had long since rubbed off.

“Aye!” said England, seeing Silver’s expression. “Not much to look at now, are they? But each one of them got rid of a captain. By one of ‘em Davies was removed by Latour, and by the other Latour was removed by myself.” Silver took out one of the papers. He turned it over. The single word Deposed was written on the fresh side. The same word was on the other paper.

“What are these?” said Silver.

“The black spot, my son,” said England. “This is the means whereby the lower deck gets rid of a captain it doesn’t like.”

“The black spot?” Silver said, grinning. “Sounds like boys at play!”

“Huh!” said England. “You just hope you never see one handed to you! For it’s a summons from the crew to stand before them and be judged. No man may harm one who gives him the black spot, nor stand in his way as he seeks to deliver it. No man may even lay a hand on one who is found in the act of making a black spot. And as for him to whom they deliver it – why, he must stand judgement by vote of the whole crew, be he even the captain himself.”

England reached out and took the papers. He held them up one at a time before Silver’s eyes.

“This one was for Captain Danny Davies who had greedy fingers for other men’s shares. Him they hanged from the yardarm. And this one was for Captain Frenchy Latour, that brought bad luck upon us one time too many! Him we stripped bollock-naked and heaved over the side to see if he could swim to Jamaica from ten miles offshore.”

“Aye,” said Silver, “but what does it mean?”

“It means, my son, that we sail under the rule of law on board of this ship. We sail under the rule of law every inch and ounce as much as if we were on board of a ship of King George of England, or King Louis of France, or King Philip of Spain! Their laws is all different, ain’t they? And ours is too, but it is law! It is articles! And that’s why we ain’t pirates!”

He spoke with such passion and such obvious sincerity that Silver nodded. He’d now heard these same arguments repeated so many times that he was losing the will to fight them; and in any case, nobody likes to think the worst of himself, so even the cleverest man will accept a weak case if it suits his self-esteem to do so.

“Now then,” said England, “no more o’ this, for it ain’t why I sent for you.” He stared at Silver thoughtfully. “You’re a good man, John Silver, and the crew like you. You know what they call you?”

Silver grinned. “Aye!” he said.

“Well?” said England. “Out with it!”

“Long John,” said Silver.

“Aye! Long John Silver, ‘cos you’re the tallest man among us, and one o’ the best. You’re a seaman to the bone, and there’s not a man here that would dare to fight you. You’re a man that others will follow.” Silver shrugged, England laughed. “It’s true,” said England. “So here’s the case, Long John Silver. I have it in mind to make an officer of you on board of this ship. You have the natural gift of command, and more than that you know your letters and your numbers, which is as rare among seamen as balls on a eunuch! I shall rate you as third mate and start your education this very day.” He clapped Silver on the shoulder. “What say you, Long John?”

“Thank you, Cap’n,” said Silver, beaming with pleasure and raising a hand to his hat in salute.

“Good!” said England. “So what do you know already? Can you steer a course?”

“Aye!” said Silver, confidently.

“Then show me,” said England. “We’ll go this instant to the ship’s wheel!” He smiled and led the way.

“Cap’n!” said the first mate, who was standing by the helmsman.

“Cap’n!” said the helmsman.

“Let Mr Silver take a turn,” said England. “The course is north by northwest, Mr Silver, and keep her as close to the wind as she’ll bear.”

The helmsman waited till Silver had taken a firm hold on the other side of the big wheel with its out-jutting handles, and when Silver nodded, he stood back and left the ship to Silver’s hand, with England and the first mate looking on.

It was easy. Silver had done this a hundred times before on other ships. He was a fine steersman, keeping careful watch on the sails, and holding the ship true to her course with minimal pressure on the wheel. The task is harder than it seems and few men could have done it better. England grinned. The mate grinned, and word ran round the ship that Long John was at the helm.

“Would you change the set of her sails, Mr Silver?” asked England, nudging the mate.

“I’d shake a reef out of the fore topsail, Cap’n,” said Silver. “She’ll bear it, and she’ll steer all the easier.” And when this was done, and Victory did indeed answer the helm more sweetly, there was an actual cheer from the crew, now eagerly looking on.

“Well enough,” said England. “Stand down, Mr Silver, and we’ll look at the transit board, and you shall tell me its purpose aboard ship and how it is kept.” Again, Silver smiled. He waited till the helmsman had control of the wheel, then stepped forward to the binnacle housing the compass, and picked up a wooden board hanging on a hook. It had a series of holes drilled in it, radiating out from the centre in the form of a compass rose. There were a number of pegs to go in the holes, each peg attached to the board by a thin line.