John Drake - Flint and Silver

"Aye!" said a chorus of voices, for others were listening now. Duties or no duties, free companions were not King's navy seamen and each was an individual who took a keen interest in matters which could mean life or death to himself.

"Well and good, Mr Hands," said Silver. "And have you had your pick of the shot?"

"Aye, Cap'n," said Israel Hands. "See there -" He pointed to a chest brought up from the hold, and laid alongside the Spanish gun. "Them Dons is a sight better iron-founders than they's given the credit for. I've gone through that shot locker and I ain't had to heave out more than one in five of 'em. Round as a baby's bum and smooth as a milkmaid's tit!" He looked at Walrus, less than two cable-lengths off. "What I say is this: let it come to long bowls, and ourselves at anchor with the deck steady, and myself with a good crew, and I'll put shot into that bugger where she lays right now, and they can stick their six-pounders up their arses!"

"HUZZAH!" cried the crew, and surged forward to slap Israel Hands on the back.

Silver waited till they were quiet.

"Well done indeed, Mr Hands. And well done, Mr Sawyer…" Silver paused, looked round his crew, and spoke.

"But there's one more thing, lads," he said. "Is there any man here now as doubts that we was made fools of by Flint?" "NO!"

"So what about them over there?" said Silver, pointing to Walrus. "They ain't all swabs and lubbers. Don't you think some o' them won't have wondered? Flint's been ashore best part of four days now. Four days on a duty that should've taken two! And them aboard Walrus will have heard the same firing we heard, and the screaming in the night, and all they've got for a cap'n is Parson Smith!"

There was a roar of laughter.

"Cap'n," said Israel Hands, "what course are you steering? We can batter spars off 'em. We can sink 'em! We don't need to worry about 'em."

Silver shook his head.

"Listen, lads," he said, "once we was jolly companions, one and all. Once we fought side by side and was messmates -"

"Long John!" said Israel Hands, guessing what was coming, "Don't -"

"So there's one more thing to do before it comes to fighting, and that's to give 'em one more chance!" cried Silver. "We signed articles! We all signed, every man of us, and there ain't been no vote to dissolve them articles!"

The crew fell silent.

"John! John!" said Israel Hands.

"So I'm taking a boat," said Silver, "and I'm going across. And just before we all blind one another's eyes and blow one another's bollocks off… Why! I'm giving 'em that one more chance to be jolly companions again!"

"It's the black girl, ain't it, John?" said Israel Hands, hanging on to Long John's arm, and looking up into his face. He dropped his voice so no other should hear. "You're soft on her, ain't you? You don't want her hurt in a fight."

"Bugger that!" said Silver. "That's done and ended. It's articles I'm worried about, for if we ain't true to them, then what are we? We're just a set of thieving pirates!"

6th September 1752 Four bells of the forenoon watch (c. 10 a.m. shore time) Aboard Walrus The southern anchorage

Parson Smith – landsman, lubber and budding navigator – was now within seconds of a nasty death, and it was a wonderful thing to see how ignorant he was of the fact.

"Garn, you bugger," said the crew as they closed in on him, a sea of cruel faces and eager hands fingering knives.

"Out the way, Parson!"

"Give us the black tart!"

"Fair shares for all!"

"Flint's gone! It's our turn!"

"You can have a bit yourself, when we're done!" said a wit, and there was a nasty laugh.

Smith stamped his foot in anger. He lifted his head in defiance. He advanced to the quarterdeck rail. He gripped it with both hands and took up a noble pose – the pose of an innocent man shamefully abused.

This was exactly how he'd behaved in England whenever he'd been denounced, and it was a fine act that had served him well – until he wore it out. It had worked so well because he had such a wonderful capacity to believe his own lies. Thus he could denounce an innocent sixteen-year-old girl as a shameless trollop, and he could do it with flawless sincerity… even while recalling her outrage at the first time he got a hand up her skirt and squeezed her buttocks.

Parson Smith could do this because he was gifted with no ordinary hypocrisy. He was possessed of first-rate, copper- bottomed hypocrisy with line-of-battleship timbers, and a hand-picked volunteer crew.

He had something else, besides. He had a tremendous voice.

"HOLD, YOU MUTINOUS DOGS!" he cried.

He shook the topmasts and shivered the rigging… and the men stopped. They were used to the Billy Bones school of discipline: big voices and hard fists. They too had their illusions, and thought the one must be inseparable from the other.

"AVAST!" roared Smith, seeing the effect of his words… and nearly ruined it. It was the right word, but from the wrong man. They laughed at him. It was a sailor's word, and they could never see him as anything other than a landsman.

"Bloody lubber!"

"Farmer!"

"Parson!"

"Parrrrrrrr-son!"

So they laughed. Which saved him.

They put their knives away and simply jeered. The killing mood was gone for the moment, and they listened as he took the opportunity to deafen their ears with thunderous words.

And so he preached them a sermon. He preached the Gospel According to Joe Flint. He preached the Word of Flint, the Will of Flint, the Commandments given by Flint, the Worship due to Flint… And the Terrible Vengeance of Flint upon the Sure and Certain Day of His Return… when sinners shall be judged!

Old and familiar ground for Parson Smith, but terrifying to Flint's crew, for once they'd started to listen, they found there was not one word of it that wasn't directly relevant to them, and not one word that wasn't true. Eventually – when Smith got on the matter of judgement – he had them trembling and hanging their heads.

It was, without doubt, the most powerful sermon that Smith ever preached. And this was not surprising, for even the most faithful of rural churchgoers had never actually seen God, nor did they expect to meet Him in church on Sunday, whereas Flint's chickens knew their master from severe personal experience, and knew for a fact that he might appear at any moment – incarnate, smiling, and brimming with spite.

They shuddered, and the Catholics among them crossed themselves.

So finally Acting-First Mate Smith was able to send the crew to their duties, which meant little enough, but in their sombre mood it moved them away from the quarterdeck and dispersed them out of their threatening mob, and back to sitting in the shade with their mates, harmlessly chewing tobacco.

By George, thought Smith, that's put the rascals in their place! and he puffed up even more than he had when Flint had favoured him with promotion. He strutted to and fro, and made a great business of taking his glass and scanning the horizon, and looking over Lion, where all sorts of noisy activity was under way – but none of it threatening and no sign of them putting a shore party into their boats, so that was all well and good.

Then, in his majesty and triumph, a very naughty thought crossed his mind. He stopped in his tracks. He pondered on the vengeance of Flint – the vengeance of which he'd just spoken so eloquently – and he pondered on what might happen should certain agreements be pre-empted. But Flint had not yet returned… might not return at all… and the naughty thought swelled and grew.

He turned and went down a hatchway and into the gloom, and was soon outside the door to Flint's cabin, where Mr Cowdray was standing guard with a blunderbuss, and an agonised expression on his face.