John Drake - Skull and Bones

"Are you a seaman, Mr Norton?" he said.

Norton shrugged. "I can hand, reef and steer."

"Aye! But I'll warrant you ain't no foremast hand."

"Not I!" said Norton with pride. "I was first mate aboard a Bristol slaver."

"Ah!" said Silver. "The blackbird trade? That breeds good seamen!"

"Them as it don't kill!" said Norton and saw the respect in Silver's eyes. But then he wished he'd kept his trap shut.

"Right then, my cocker," said Silver, grinning. "Whatever else I take out of this ship…" he looked the prize up and down "… I'm having you!"

"What?"

"Aye! 'Cos I've two cock-fumbling bodgers for navigators what can't find their own arseholes with a quadrant, and I want at least one bugger aboard what can!"

On Walrus's quarterdeck, Selena smiled at Mr Joe, the young black who'd once been a plantation slave and was now gunner's mate. He was a slim, handsome man, with a rakish patch covering a lost eye, and was further distinguished by the heavy Jamaican cane-cutlass that he wore in his belt instead of the customary sea-service weapon.

"Thank you, Mr Joe," she said.

"That ain't no matter, ma'am," said Joe. "I'll have your box brought up, an' if you wants to leave the ship, ma'am, why so you shall!" And Mr Joe stepped forward to send a man for the box -

"Stand clear there!" cried Dr Cowdray, ship's surgeon. "Stand clear!" Cowdray was hurrying aft from the waist, followed by four men bearing the broken-legged Dusty Miller on an improvised stretcher.

Miller was whining pitifully and shedding tears. "Ow! Ow!" he cried. "Rum, for the love o' fucking Jesus!"

"Later, sir!" cried Cowdray. "You shall have rum to ease the reduction of your limb. Indeed: fiat haustusl Let the draught be prepared!"

"Ugh!" said Selena, catching sight of Miller's injury.

"Oh mother!" said Mr Joe, for the leg was crooked into a right-angle between ankle and knee, and a bloodied end of bone stuck out through the flesh of the shin.

"Here!" cried Miller, seeing their reactions, and grabbing at Cowdray's arm. "You ain't gonna cut orf my fucking leg, now… are you?"

"Stultum est timere quod vitare non potes!" said Cowdray. "Do not fear that which you cannot prevent!"

"Ahhhhh!" screamed Miller. "You bastard! You ain't cutting orf my sodding leg, you mother-fucking sawbones!"

"No, sir," cried Cowdray, "you misunderstand. We shall save it!"

The surgeon was frowning as if in utmost concern, but inwardly he was rejoicing. As ever when Walrus went into action he was ready for the wounded in a fresh-boiled linen apron, sleeves rolled up, spectacles on his nose. And now, here was a wonderful case of compound fracture to test his skills, since – unlike most surgeons – he believed amputation to be unnecessary. With cleanliness and care, the limb could be saved – and he was itching to prove it.

"Let 'em through," said Mr Joe, and he stood back as Cowdray, still spouting Latin, manoeuvred his patient down a hatchway, addressing the filthy-tongued Miller with the same courteous politeness he'd used towards honest patients years ago.

When they'd gone, Selena looked to Venture's Fortune, heaving up and down on the ocean swell alongside of Walrus, the lines that bound them together creaking and stretching under the strain. "She's home-bound to England, isn't she, Joe?"

"Aye, ma'am. Bound for Polmouth with rum and sugar under hatches."

"And will Long John let her go?"

"Once we've plucked her. That's Long John's way."

"Good. Then I'll go aboard… and leave with her."

"But -"

"Don't.'" she said. "I won't live this life. I've told Long John."

Mr Joe tried, nonetheless. He told her that she'd never even seen England, and had no friends there, and that – should she be recognised – the crimes she'd committed in the colonies would hang her just as dead in the mother country. And he reminded her of Silver: fine man that he was, and how the hands would follow him "down the cannon's mouth" when it came to action: a bad choice of words in the circumstances, but the best Mr Joe could think of.

Wasted words, all of them. When he'd done, Selena – in her print gown and straw hat – attempted to clamber over two ships' scraping, bumping rails that weren't even hard alongside but divided by a gap of a yard or more that opened and closed like a crocodile's jaws, with the white water frothing far below. Finally Mr Joe lifted her up and heaved her over bodily, into the arms of the men aboard Isabelle Bligh, who surged forward on sight of her, gaping and wondering, stretching their arms to catch her, and nervously glancing back at Long John, for every man aboard knew about their quarrels.

Then her sea chest came after her with a bump and a thump, with her few goods and the money she'd saved, and the men stood back, touched their brows and doubled to their duties again with Israel Hands and Tom Allardyce yelling at them.

Selena's heart was beating, she had no idea what to do, she hadn't even thought about how she might be received aboard this ship. Long John (who had his back to her) was deep in conversation with a hard-faced man in a calico suit. He didn't see her, or hear, so she was left to look at the ship, which was well found, spanking new, and bursting with activity as Walrus's men hoisted up a series of heavy chests from the waist and swung them back aboard their own ship.

She looked forrard and saw the men, and some women, crammed into the fo'c'sle under guard. Instinctively she made her way down the ship towards them, Walrus's men stepping aside to let her past, all of them giving the same uneasy glance towards Long John, who was still engrossed with the hard- faced man.

"What's this, ma'am? What're you a-doing of?" said Israel Hands, looking up from the notebook where he'd been making a record of the cargo. He frowned and, as the others had done, glanced in Long John's direction, then seemed about to speak, but up above a chest slid out of its lashings, and fell, and men jumped aside as it smashed open and showered silver dollars on the deck.

"You slovenly buggers!" cried Hands. "You idle swabs! You…"

Selena walked on, squeezing past the toiling seamen, stumbling now and again at the ship's sickening, rolling motion, and made her way to the fo'c'sle and past the guards and blinked at the prisoners. There was a crowd of seamen, a few officers, and some landmen – presumably passengers – and two women. They stared at Selena, not knowing what to make of her, though the men looked her over as all men did at first sight.

"Ah-hem!" said a little man: squat, short, and heavy, in a big hat and a long shiny-buttoned coat. He touched his hat and smiled, and was about to speak, when one of the two women pushed past him and threw out her arms to Selena.

"My dear!" she cried. "My poor creature! I see that, like ourselves, you were made prisoner by these wicked pirates!"

"Oh!" said the short man. "Ahhh!"

"Ahhhh!" said the rest, nodding wisely to one another.

"Yes!" said Selena, seizing upon this excellent explanation, which was so obvious that it was amazing she'd not thought of it herself.

The woman advancing upon Selena was in her mid-fifties with twinkling eyes, a tiny nose and delicate bones in a neat- little, sweet-little, dear-little face. She was expensively dressed, and had the speech and manners of a noblewoman, with artfully contrived gestures. She smiled radiantly at the world, and she simpered and flirted at men. She did it so well that it had never failed to control them, not once in forty years. Nonetheless, she was utter contrast to Selena, for while the lady – despite her years – was quite glitteringly pretty, she was not beautiful. She did not have that spiritual quality that Selena had, which takes the breath away and makes mortals stare, and stare, and worship. She was merely pretty, like a china fairy.