John Drake - Skull and Bones

"Who's aboard, Mr Bones?"

"Myself, Black Dog, and the boatmen."

Clunk-clank! Clunk-clank! Clunk-clank!

"Where's Flint? Is he aboard?"

"Cap'n Flint, God bless him… is dead!"

All aboard Walrus gasped and stared down at Billy Bones, now plainly visible in the light of his lantern as the boat backed oars and came to rest under Walrus's larboard quarter. They leaned over the side and looked down into the boat – a small one – that did indeed contain only Black Dog and a pair of oarsmen, apart from Billy Bones, who stood looking up, holding the lantern, with a mournful look on his face.

"What happened to Flint?" cried Selena. "Billy! What happened?"

"It were them Indians, ma'am," said Billy Bones. "In the forest."

"What Indians? What forest?" said Selena.

"Well, Miss Selena, ma'am, it were dreadful hard. It were shocking bad."

"What do you mean?"

"Well… ah… it were dreadful, ma'am…"

Billy Bones blathered. He dithered. He spouted nonsense. He ran out of words.

Cowdray spotted it first.

"It's a trick!" he cried. "This man is Flint's dog! He worship's Flint's shadow! If Flint were dead he'd have every detail in the front of his mind!"

"All hands take aim at that boat!" cried Warrington, and there was a surging forward and a great levelling of pistols, muskets and carbines over the larboard rail and the light shook in Billy Bones's hand. "Tell me plainly now, Mr Bones," said Warrington, "where is Flint?"

Billy Bones gulped and swallowed… and said nothing.

"I shall count to three," said Warrington, "before I fire…"

"Don't do that!" said Billy Bones. "Not that!"

"One…" said Warrington, and dozens of firelocks trembled as their owners began to squeeze the triggers, and Billy Bones looked up at certain death. "Two…" said Warrington.

"No! Don't… please don't… please…" said Billy Bones in a tiny trembling voice, as his sins rose before him and the Devil's breath fell hot upon his neck and Hell reached out for his soul.

"Last time, Billy Bones," said Warrington. "Where's Flint?"

"Here, Mr Warrington!" said a voice behind him – a voice that struggled to contain its fathomless mirth, its vicious glee, and its overpowering desire to laugh. "Fire!" it added, and a thunder of gunfire lit the night and deafened the ears, delivered point-blank by the dark body of men who'd pulled alongside Walrus with muffled oars, but on the starboard side, and swarmed over her starboard rail, while her people were busy elsewhere.

A dozen of Walrus's crew went down in that single volley, then the half-breeds were screaming forward, Indian style, with hatchets and knives, driving Walrus's people before them like sheep… at first…

Two Spanish officers stood at the intersection of four wide, earthy streets in the small quarter of Savannah that was theirs to occupy and hold. Some of the houses were on fire and cast a dull light. Smoke was everywhere and the two men were strung high with nerves at this fighting among houses from which an ambush might fall at any second. They jumped as gunfire came, not from the town, but from the direction of the river.

"What's that?" said Capitбn Herrera.

"Firing, Seсor Capitбn!" said Teniente Lopez-Ortega.

"Yes, but from the ships?" said Herrera.

"From the ships?" repeated Lopez-Ortega, and they looked at each other, for the battle with the English had not gone well. Their company had suffered heavy losses… and the ships were their way out if things got worse. Which they soon would, for Herrera and Lopez-Ortega were standing in front of a dozen men, paraded in arms in case of emergencies, while the rest of the company tried to sleep, wrapped in their ammunition blankets, around pyramids of stacked muskets with the many wounded groaning and rolling in the mud.

Crack! A musket flashed orange in the dark from the corner of a nearby house, and a ball whizzed audibly – tangibly – between Herrera and Lopez-Ortega and killed a man behind them, who coughed and stumbled, struck fair in the middle of his chest.

"Stand to arms!" cried the sargentos, and the whole company were up on their feet, seizing their muskets and looking for targets, of which there were none. The two officers ran among them, followed by the sargentos, and together regained control of their men, who were nervous, exhausted… and on the point of breaking.

It was the same all across Savannah. The battle of volleys might have been a draw, but the woodsmen were wearing down the Spanish will to fight.

"This place is unsafe," said Capitбn Herrera. "We must move the men at once to a better position!"

Flint's boat pulled steadily downriver through the black night, with himself at the tiller steering by compass and lantern, and Billy Bones alongside him, Black Dog pulling an oar beside the half-dozen surviving half-breeds, and an item of cargo in a sack in the bottom of the boat.

"We lost the ship, Cap'n," said Billy Bones miserably.

"It doesn't matter," said Flint.

"Hard bastards, them Walruses. They came back striking left and right!"

"Yes," said Flint cynically. "It makes you proud, doesn't it?"

"And they killed all the rest."

"They don't matter," said Flint softly, then raised his voice: "All the bigger shares for those that survive!" And the oarsmen grinned.

"But Silver weren't there!"

"Did you expect him to be?"

"Yes!"

"Oh, Billy! He'll have seen me up on the river bank."

"Yes?"

"So? Did you think he'd sit and wait for me to come?" "Oh…"

"No, Billy-my-chicken -" Flint peered around in the dark "- he'll be out there somewhere, trying to get to Chester's house, which is where we're going now, to meet him!"

"Will he do that?"

"Yes! Now be silent."

Billy Bones sat still until the boat nosed up against the pier of Jimmy Chester's private landing where lights shone for Flint to find it again… Flint who was hugging himself in glee for what he'd done. Flint who relished and rolled in the success of it, and in the completeness of his victory, and he chuckled in the joy of it, for his mind was running down channels that were different and new… even for him.

Something had changed. He knew it! He recognised it! It wasn't just the treasure any more. No! Flint had looked into the caverns of his self and seen that… yes, he'd have the treasure, if he could, and certainly he wouldn't let any other man have it. But that wasn't what he really wanted. That wasn't what he ached and longed for. That wasn't what brought the froth to his lips and the white around his eyes when he feared it was in danger. And it certainly wasn't what he'd gone after on this night's expedition.

Meanwhile Billy Bones reached down for the cargo, in its big sack, and heaved it up over his shoulder with a gasp and a grunt, like a load of coals.

"Take care! " shrieked Flint. "Take care, you…"

And Billy Bones gaped as a venomous eruption of filth poured forth from Flint, who never cussed and never swore, and never blasphemed, leaving Billy Bones standing with the sack over his shoulder and its contents wriggling, and himself trembling in the face of Flint's deranged wrath.

"Don't bump her!" said Flint. "Don't knock her! And don't ever, ever hurt her… or I'll dig out your eyes and make you eat 'em raw!"

Night, 20th July 1754 The Savannah River

Spaniards!" said Israel Hands.

"Bugger!" said Silver, and signalled for all hands to take cover and lie low. They were hiding in the old cattle pens: lines of wooden hurdles where Charley Neal had kept his beef, which had lain empty since his departure, for Jimmy Chester bought from the butcher.

"Bugger!" said Silver again, but under his breath. They were so close! One long side of Jimmy Chester's grog shop was right across the street, a big whitewashed wall with a line of windows, now tight-shuttered. And now here came a company of Spanish infantry stumbling along in the night, boots crunching, equipment clattering but only dimly seen. They were following the line of the wall, muskets aimed in all directions, nervous, staggering, struggling to keep their dressing in the dark, and a trail of wounded hobbling along in the rear. They twitched every time a musket fired somewhere in the unquiet night.