John Drake - Flint and Silver

"What's he doing?" said Silver, and put his glass on Walrus again. There was the breath of a southwesterly wind in the anchorage where the steady westerlies swirled around, and Flint – having recovered his anchors and cables – was creeping towards Lion under topsails and jib.

"Please let me knock a spar off him, Cap'n," said the gunner, wringing his hands. "Please, Cap'n…"

"Aye!" said the gun-crew.

"Aye!" said all hands.

"What's he doing?" said Silver. "Look! He's going about…"

Walrus was turning. She wasn't bow-on any more. She was turning her broadside towards Lion.

"DOWN!" cried Silver, and dropped to the deck as white gouts of powder smoke burst out of Walrus's side, followed a heart-beat later by the thunder and flash of her guns.

Voom! Voom! Two shots from Walrus sped high over Lion, harmless and aimless, and the rest went totally unmarked.

"BOOOOOM!" said the Spanish nine at last, as Israel Hands concluded that no further orders were required, and dipped his linstock.

Silver struggled to his feet in the swirling smoke as the nine-pounder crew leapt to their work, sponging, ramming, and running out: five men each side, and a second gun captain, ready with a powder horn to prime the touch-hole. It was blessed relief for John Silver, and he felt it. No more doubts and agony. Just a straight fight.

"Left! Left! Left!" cried Israel Hands with his left arm extended, and ten men hauled on tackles and heaved with handspikes to train the gun.

"Right!" cried Israel Hands, throwing out the other arm – it was always left and right to avoid confusion with the ship's larboard and starboard. Then it was "Left-left!" and finally "Well!" as the smoke-shrouded silhouette of Walrus lined up with the gun. The elevation he kept at two and a half degrees, and fired again.

Boom! The gun bounded back and sent another shot on its way, to the cheers of all aboard Lion. With ten men for a gun-crew, Israel Hands got off yet another round before Walrus replied with a broadside.

"Block-headed buggers!" yelled Israel Hands into Silver's ear, and pointed at Walrus. "They're out of bloody range! They couldn't hit St Paul's bloody Cathedral from there." He smiled like the sunshine. "But I bloody well can!" And he turned to his gun-crew again. "Go on, my fine boys!" he cried. "With a will now, lads!"

"Heave… Heave… Heave!" they chanted, pulling together to run out the gun. BOOOOM!

Silver got himself out of the way and into the stern, for a better sight of Walrus, clear of the Spanish nine's smoke. Lion's people were leaping and yelling and waving cutlasses. They were like the crowd at a cock-fight, all merry and bright and cheering their gunner and his men.

BOOOOOM! At the very instant Silver put the glass to his eye and focused, a nine-pounder shot tore into Walrus, showering wooden splinters across the deck and bowling men over. It looked like Israel had got the range. Then Walrus fired again, and missed with every round, and Israel Hands fired twice more, sending shot crashing into Walrus's hull. Silver could see the damage Israel was doing. Men were being killed, and at least one gun had been knocked over and blown clear out of its carriage.

What's up with you, Joe? he thought. You ain't moving. You're just making a target of yourself. And why are you firing so slow? He looked again and, just for an instant – though he wasn't sure – he thought he saw Flint aiming a musket upwards, and shooting at something, and others beside him doing the same. Then the smoke of Walrus's guns covered them up.

"Shiver me timbers!" said Silver. "We'll wreck and sink him if he don't move sharper than that. And him not laying a finger on us." He shook his head in disbelief. "What are you doing, Joe?"

It was too easy. Silver couldn't believe it. Something was wrong. Flint wouldn't just give up. Nor would he give an enemy the chance to shoot him to pieces and not hit back. Silver was still wondering when he smelt smoke. Not powder smoke. Wood smoke.

He turned. In the middle of Lion's quarterdeck was a small raised skylight that lit the ward-room just forrard of the stern cabin. The glazed windows were open, and smoke was pouring out, glowing red with the reflection of flames beneath. It was the worst of all a seaman's fears: the ship was on fire.

9th September 1752 The morning watch (c. 10 a.m. shore time) Aboard Walrus The southern anchorage

"Commence firing!" said Flint, and hugged himself in delight as Walrus's seven gun captains touched off a harmless broadside, and the guns roared and the smoke billowed and the ship crawled forward, and round-shot flew God knew where.

Voom! Something flashed between Walrus's masts with a ponderous, heavy note, but Flint ignored it. He'd made his plans. He was full, fat and happy with them. He had no concerns at all.

"And again, my bully boys!" cried Flint. "Give 'em another!" He was himself again: Captain Flint, sparkling clean in fresh linen, bedecked with arms, and the neat bandaging hidden almost entirely by his hat. He was so pleased with himself that the headache of his wounds was blown away on the four winds.

He ran his glass over Lion and picked out Silver, just visible through a cloud of smoke. It seemed Lion had returned fire – Silver was clustered together with some of his men, in the waist.

Ah, John, my fine fellow! he thought, there's you with guns run out and matches burning, and springs on your cables, and ready in all respects for action – not knowing that the real danger is creeping up behind you! Flint smiled. And all I have to do is persuade you to open fire, and then keep out of the way of your shot. All else has been arranged.

He smiled in complete satisfaction… which departed with hideous speed as a gun fired aboard Lion and a shot struck Walrus with a rending crash, and two men died instantly and another three were ripped open and thrown down, bleeding savagely. Flint put his glass on the smoke and felt the first, dismaying fright. Lion was supposed to be out of range. Walrus's six-pounders were close to useless at this range and Lion's little pop-guns should be utterly outclassed.

There was a flash as Lion's gun fired again. That was no four-pounder! It was something very much bigger. And where had that new gun-port come from?

"No!" said Flint, in the horror of realisation. It was that poxy Spanish gun, the one Israel Hands had taken out of the treasure ship. Flint realised with profound shame that he'd forgotten it. The pit opened and beckoned as guilt and self- loathing fell upon him, for this was his own fault, his very own fault and could not be unloaded on to any other person.

CRASH-CLANG! Ten feet away, a six-pounder vaulted backwards out of its mounting, spraying iron fragments in all directions and throwing more men dead and wounded on to the deck.

"Cap'n!" said Allardyce, running up to Flint and yelling over the din of gunfire. "They're hitting us, Cap'n. Permission to make sail and get out of range?"

Flint turned to look at Allardyce, on the point of saying yes. But a flash of green caught his eye. It was the bird. It had flown out to the ship. It was nestling in the maintop. Flint shook with anger. There was the cause of all his ills!

"Small shot!" cried Flint. He stamped and roared and shouted with such passion that, beneath his bandages, stitches parted and fresh blood began to flow. "Fetch me some small shot and a fowling piece!" He leapt on to a gun-carriage and grabbed the mizzen shrouds. "There!" he screamed, pointing at the parrot. "There's the swab!"

"What is it?" said Allardyce nervously to one of his mates.

"It's the Cap'n's parrot," said the other. "Look, it's come back!" But there came another rending crash and the two men ducked in fright with their hands over their heads as another nine-pounder ball ripped into Walrus.