John Drake - Flint and Silver

"Aye," said Howard in a tiny voice.

"And you, Peter Evans," said Flint. "And you, Rob Taylor, and you, Iain Fraser. I say that if they never came to grips, then they're more afraid of you than you were of them!"

He said it with such conviction, and so boldly, that the men cheered up wonderfully and their fears ran away. In all truth, Joe Flint had the makings of a very fine officer inside of him… along with all the other ingredients.

"So here's my orders," said Flint, all brisk and businesslike. "Howard, you take the first watch, followed by Taylor, then Fraser, then Evans." He handed over the sand-glass. "And now you, Peter, pile wood on the fire to keep it blazing, while you, Iain, make sure all the pistols are properly primed and loaded, and you, Rob – like the sensible man you are – put your head down and go to sleep, which is what I shall do myself."

With that, Flint laid himself down beside the fire, having first placed his hat as a nest for his parrot. Then, pulling his coat collar up around his ears, he closed his eyes, and gave every appearance of going to sleep.

Greatly comforted, and grinning weakly at one another, his men did as they'd been told. After that, what with the heavy work they'd been doing all day, and what with the quantities of rum they'd been encouraged to drink, within ten minutes only Howard was awake, nodding over his sand-glass and shuddering with the need constantly to haul himself out of the seductive pit of slumber. The rest were curled up snoring like happy hogs. And so – it seemed – was Flint.

Howard did his best, he really did. He nodded and started. He stood up and took a turn about the fire. He counted stars and made patterns in the sand between his legs. He gritted his teeth. He even said nursery rhymes in his head, to keep himself awake. But in the end, he slumped over in unwakeable sleep.

"Aaaaaah!" screamed a voice. "Aaaaaall hands! All hands on deck!"

Howard struggled up towards consciousness, sick and thickheaded from last night's drink. He tried to roll out of his hammock, and found that this could not be done while lying on a bed of soft sand. So he got up on one elbow and looked about him.

The fire was grey ash and black embers. The sun was climbing over the trees and the two ships lay at anchor in the bay. Flint and Fraser were getting up from sleep and Taylor was bawling and howling from some way off, near the edge of the forest. He was staring at a still figure laid face down in the sand.

"All hands!" cried Taylor again. "It's Peter! They've done for him!" There was a rush towards Evans's body. Flint was first and turned him over. Poor Peter Evans, youngest of all the crew, who'd been abandoned at birth then raised and sent to sea by Coram's foundling hospital. Poor Peter Evans: a kindly soul who'd wished good on all the world – right up to the innocent age of fourteen when he'd knifed his first man.

"Ugh!" said Flint. "The devils!"

Howard leaned forward for a look at Evans's face over Flint's shoulder. He gasped and a cold fear rolled up his legs like icy water. He'd seen death in a hundred forms, and normally it didn't shock him. But this was different. Peter Evans lay with his eyes bulging out of a swollen face, and a thin length of plaited bark round his neck, biting tight into the flesh and made fast at the back where he'd have been unable to reach.

"Stap my heart!" said Flint in a fury. "Just like before. This was the way it started last time." He cursed violently and stared at the jungle as if he'd pierce it with his eyes to find the killers. Then his face turned nasty and he glared at the five remaining men.

"Which of you lubbers had the watch?" he cried. A great shame fell upon Howard and his expression gave him away. "You, Henry Howard?" said Flint, incredulously. "I'd have thought better! Under King George it'd be a thousand lashes or the yardarm. But I've need of every man. So your own conscience must be judge and jury."

Howard was sunk in wretchedness and self-reproach. He tortured himself with guilt and took the entire responsibility upon himself. He groaned and sighed. He wrung his hands and wept and hung his head. In his innocence he thought that nothing could be worse than this. But he was wrong.

5th September 1752 First watch (c. 10 p.m. shore time) Aboard Lion The southern anchorage

"That was pistol-fire, Mr Hands!" said Silver, staring out into the dark. "A measured volley. All of 'em giving fire together, as if to the word of command."

"Aye, Cap'n," said Israel Hands.

"Aye, Cap'n," said Sarney Sawyer the boatswain. "Shall I order the boats away, so's we can go ashore to see what's going forward?"

"No!" said Silver. "You gave oath. All of you did."

"Oh," said Sawyer.

"Aye," said Silver. "Remember? Lion and Walrus to guard each other, so none shall interfere with the burying? Whoever puts boats into the water starts a war, and I ain't starting no war in the dark!"

"Cap'n," said Israel Hands, who'd been thinking, "them pistol shots… It was at least a dozen rounds. But just the one volley, then no more." He hesitated, then showed considerable moral fibre by voicing the horror that was in every man's mind. "D'you think," he said, "d'you think… they was attacked, Cap'n? Attacked and overwhelmed?" The thought was appalling, for it might mean the loss – to some unknown third party – of all their precious goods.

"No!" said Silver, and slammed shut the big telescope he'd been peering through. Lion was heeled well over, with every last one of her crew up on deck, lining the shoreward rail or up in the rigging, staring at the shore where the burial party's bonfire was still blazing. But there was nothing else to see, nor to hear other than the island's endless, booming surf.

"Why not, Cap'n?" said Israel Hands. "Beggin' your pardon."

"Aye!" said the crew and clustered closer.

"Listen to me, lads," said Silver. He drew breath to speak, for he had much to tell them, and much to persuade them of.

The gunshots had cleared his mind. They'd sent his imagination down fresh tracks. He could finally see what was happening. There had still been some respect for Flint in his mind. Withered and wretched as it was, it was still there – the ghost of their friendship – and it had stopped him taking the final step of reasoning, the one that explained everything. All he had to do now was pass on these thoughts to the men, and hope they'd follow him to the same conclusions.

"Lads, we're in a pickle of shit here, and no mistake," he said. "But I'll take my 'davy that the goods is still ashore, exactly where Flint put 'em, and not carried off somewhere by bugger-knows-who!"

"Ah," they said, and grinned at one another in the darkness. That was better!

"An' I'll tell you for why," said Silver. "Silence, now, on the lower deck! All hands fall silent and listen."

They fell silent. They listened. Seventy-one men and three boys strained their ears together. But there was nothing to hear. The night was calm. The island was asleep, the sea was asleep. Only a few little noises carried over the still waters: odd sounds from Walrus anchored two cable-lengths from Lion – a man's voice indistinctly heard, the faint, hollow clunk of some piece of ship's gear. Just that. Nothing else besides the sound of the surf.

"There!" said Silver. "So even if Walrus was bent on breaking oath and starting a fight, how could she have lowered her boats and put ashore a storming party without us hearing? Them buggers would've been heard in Portsmouth, whooping and hollering as they went over the side!"

"Aye," said the crew, "go on, Cap'n!"

"Same goes for an attack by men from inside of the island – even believing there are any, which them as what's been there says there ain't! I asks you, every man of you… who knows of a battle without cheering and screaming and the clash of steel?"