John Drake - Flint and Silver

Flint never put such thoughts into words. He never perceived them and knew them. But just the same, there was some dim awareness of this underlying truth. And neither was this the limit of Flint's education. A few days after the two crews had mixed, and with gentle weather and all secure and shipshape, Sliver mustered the hands – Betsy's men to the fore – and proclaimed that all must now be made regular and articles signed. Flint had not the least idea what this meant. But some of his men did.

"I'll put my mark!" said Israel Hands.

"I'll want to cast an eye, first!" said Billy Bones seriously.

"Cast an eye?" said Flint, struggling with the incredible fact that Billy Bones had finally managed to do something unexpected.

"Aye," said Billy Bones. "Articles, Cap'n. 'Tis the way of things among the brethren of the coast."

"The what?" said Flint.

"The brethren of the coast, Cap'n," said Billy Bones, as if to an ill-taught child. Billy Bones had been talking to the half- trained lad who was the nearest equivalent to himself aboard Walrus. He'd spoken to others too, and he'd absorbed some of their customs and lore.

"You poltroon!" said Flint in a whisper. "Brethren of the coast? That was in your grandfather's time, up north, off the…"

"These here is the ship's articles," cried Silver, producing a book very much like the one he'd signed years ago on England's quarterdeck. "I'll ask Mr Flint to read it for all those who haven't the schooling." And he solemnly handed the book to Flint. "In a bold voice now, sir! So's all can hear."

Flint opened the book and looked at the handwritten articles. He looked too, at the men crowded all around him: a sea of eyes in sun-browned, expectant faces, crammed into the narrow space of Walrus's deck. The ship was running sweetly, the wind played in the sheets, lines and shrouds, and the sails rustled up above. Flint shrugged to himself, lifted up his voice and read for all to hear. He stumbled only once, at the place where the name of the captain – Mason – had been struck out in red ink.

"What name shall go here?" asked Flint.

"All in good time," said Silver. "Be so good as to hold your course till you come safe into harbour."

So Flint read on to the end. When he'd finished, he and all those who'd come aboard with him were invited to sign, including the wounded who'd been brought up on deck for the purpose. So they signed: Flint, Billy Bones and a few others inscribing their names, and the rest with crosses or other marks, such that by the end of the ceremony, and much to his surprise, Flint's opinion had been changed. He started out in profound contempt for this nonsense, but ended convinced of its value. Seamen's minds were childlike, and Flint could see the power that the book, and the words, had worked on them. They'd be a better crew for it, and it proved exactly the buttressing of legality – or an approximation of it – that was lost when a crew breaks apart from the King's law as his own crew had done. But there was more to come.

"Now that we're jolly companions all," said Silver, addressing the whole ship, "we must elect a captain according to tradition. So will any brother step up and give a name?"

"Long John!" cried a dozen voices. "Cap'n Silver!"

"No, lads!" cried Silver. "It can't be. The captain must be a gentleman of the quarterdeck that can guide the ship over the ocean." Here he looked steadily at Flint, and Flint was as utterly dumbfounded as ever he'd been in all his life.

Is the fool handing over command to me? he thought. Impossible! But Long John continued.

"And every man here knows I ain't no navigator!"

"Bugger that!" cried a voice. "We'll have no cap'n than Long John. Where's the man that could face him? Where's the man that's half the seaman he is?"

"Aye!" they roared. They cheered and they cheered for Long John, and waved their swords and muskets to the skies. But Silver shook his head and raised his hands for silence.

"No! And there's an end on it, say I. My vote goes for Cap'n Flint – a true gentleman, bred up in King George's navy, no less. So what say you, lads, to Cap'n Flint?"

They said very little at first, even those who'd come over from Betsy – especially those who'd come over from Betsy, for they knew what to expect from Flint. But Silver talked them round. He was a fine speech-maker, and all by native wit with never a drop of book-learning nor any example set to him by teachers. It was all sincere and from himself.

As for Flint, he watched all this as if from a box in a theatre and with such amazement, and such surprise and such disbelief as could hardly be contained within the body of a single man.

Silver was giving up command – which Flint could not believe. Silver was handing it to Flint on a plate – which Flint could not believe. Silver was doing this, whom Flint could see was possessed of all the natural gifts of leadership. Silver was doing this, whom the men wanted and whom they had called for. It was beyond understanding. Flint's mind cringed as it was dragged towards an invisible frontier, beyond which men acted for the common good, and not just for themselves.

Every day he spent with Silver, Flint came closer to that mystic line.

30th May 1749 Night Elizabeth's longboat The South Atlantic

The two mids sat silent at the dark stern of the longboat, now sweetly heeling under her canvas – gaff and jib-sail – with half the men asleep, the rest dozing. Hastings had the tiller, the sky was bright with stars, the night was cool and comfortable, the seas were easy and the round-bowed longboat was a good, dry, sea-keeping vessel. Under other circumstances, those aboard of her would have been a merry company, but not now. Hastings and Povey in particular were not merry. They were watching the bright stars as if their lives depended on them, which they did.

"There!" said Povey. "There's one setting now -" he pointed "- see?"

"Yes," said Hastings, and gave a touch on the tiller to steer towards it. "Tell me again," said Hastings, who'd never paid half as much attention to his lessons as he should have.

"We're steering west" said Povey. "Sunrise and sunset gives us east and west by day, and the stars set in the west at night, yes?"

"Yes."

"And better than that, we've got the northern trades blowing northwest – or close to that – which couldn't be better for a westerly passage."

"But why are we steering west?" said Hastings.

Povey sighed. "'Cos my best guess is that we're somewhere in the latitude of the Windward Islands, and if we're lucky we might make Barbados, which is British, and which lies to the east of 'em."

Hastings frowned mightily, trying to remember which king owned which islands.

"The Windward Islands…" he said. "They're French, aren't they?"

"Yes," said Povey. "At least, I think so."

"Not Spanish?"

"No."

"Good! We'll take our chance with the Frogs, but not the heathen Dagoes."

The two mids sat silent for a while, then Povey returned to the question which took precedence over all other questions. At least he had the sense to whisper.

"So how long do you think the water will last?"

"They gave us one water-butt. That's about one hundred gallons when it's full."

"Yes, but how long will it last?"

"And there's twenty-three of us…"

"So how long will it last?"

"I don't know! Can you tell me how long till we reach the Windward Islands?"

"Well…" Povey frowned and thought mightily. He looked at the boat's wake, sliding past. "Well… we're running at about four or five knots wouldn't you say?"

"Yes."

"Say a hundred miles a day?"

"Yes."

"So… well… it depends how far we have to go."

Hastings couldn't bring himself to ask Povey how far that was, because he feared that Povey didn't know. For his part, Povey was immensely relieved that he was not asked, because indeed he did not know.