Pieces of Eight. John Drake

      “Every blessed inch.”

      “And the seas to the north? Does he know what lies there?”

      Bones bit his lip and mumbled. If ever a man wore his thoughts on his face it was Billy Bones, and Silver knew he’d touched on something important. But he let it pass, and waited until they’d forged further out to sea, where more of the island’s mysteries became visible over the line of cliffs.

      “Mr Bones,” he said, “d’you see Spy-glass Hill, there, fair on the starboard bow?” he pointed at the great hill–more of a small mountain–that rose above all else on the island: heavily wooded at its roots, but almost naked near the peak.

      “Aye, Cap’n.”

      “And d’you see how it’s flattened at the top?”

      “Aye, Cap’n.”

      “And I s’pose you know why Flint–who gave it its name–called it Spy-glass?”

      Billy Bones said nothing.

      “He called it that, Mr Bones, because it’s the finest lookout point on the island, except for one thing. D’you know what that is?”

      “No, Cap’n…well…yes, Cap’n.”

      Ah, thought Silver, so you’re coming about, Mr Bones.

      “What is it, then?” he said.

      “You can’t see to the north,” said Bones. “There’s a spire of rock in the way, right at the top. The Watchtower he called it, but it was one of his jokes. It’s smooth as a church steeple, and you can’t climb it, and short of months of work by engineers with gunpowder, you can’t get rid of it, nor get round it, nor cut a way to the top.”

      “Thank you, Mr Bones,” said Silver. “So the Spy-glass is blind to the north.”

      “That she is, Cap’n.”

      “And can’t be cured. Not without months of work, as you say.” Silver paused. “So! How long have we got, Mr Bones? You’re the navigator. You know Flint better than any man. Where’s he gone? How long till he gets there? And how long till he comes back?”

      There was a lengthy silence as Billy Bones considered his loyalties. Finally–Silver had been quite right–what brought Bones round was the thought of all his precious things, given back to him, safe and sound, in his old sea trunk.

      “It’d be Savannah first, Cap’n, to get money out of Charley Neal, his agent.”

      “Aye,” said Silver, who knew Charley Neal as well as Flint did.

      “Then maybe to Charlestown, which is only a day’s sail north, given fair winds. It’s a big enough seaport for him to get more ships and men, and take on powder and shot and so forth.”

      “And then back to us here?”

      “Aye.”

      “So how long till we see his blessed face?”

      Billy Bones closed his eyes and did heavy sums in his head. He alone, of those on the island, knew exactly where it lay. Silver, Israel Hands, and one or two others could make a rough guess, but Billy Bones knew. After much pondering, he spoke.

      “Best he could do is about three months, I’d reckon. But it could be much longer if there’s hurricanes, or if he’s becalmed, or if…”

      “Or if there’s fire, wreck or mutiny,” added Silver, laying a hand on Billy Bones’s shoulder. “I know, Mr Bones. Three months is what I’d have guessed myself, but thank you for your opinion, the which I value greatly.”

      After that, Silver sat quiet and studied the island as it sped past: cliffs and shingle, grey vegetation streaked with yellow sands, and an occasional mighty pine rising like the spire of Salisbury Cathedral. For some reason, Silver thought it a miserable sight. Bones was busy with his steering, but Silver saw the same solemn mood on the faces of the two seamen, and that weren’t right! They had a fair wind, a lively boat and should have been merry. Seamen lived for the moment, mostly, and the present moment was jolly enough.

      It was the island, he thought. It depressed him and he couldn’t think why. He looked at its hills and plains and jungles. It was like Jamaica, with every landscape from Norway’s to Africa’s, yet perverse, for in the southern anchorage the noon-day heat would sizzle your eyeballs, but at night and in the morning it could be thick with chilly fog.

      And then John Silver bowed his head as depression led to despair, because it led to Selena, the woman he loved, and that with a fierce intensity for her beauty and her dainty grace, and her sweet little face looking up at him as she said John. Flint had taken her. She was away with him to Savannah and Charlestown. Silver groaned. The last he’d heard, Flint couldn’t do his duty where women were concerned, but you never knew with him. You never knew what he’d do next. He might be ramming and boarding her this minute!

      “Shite and corruption!” cried Silver.

      “What?” cried the others, looking around in alarm. “What is it, Cap’n?”

      “Uh!” said Silver, snatched from his thoughts. “It’s the leg,” he lied, “the one as ain’t there. It pains me sometimes.”

      “Ahhh,” they said, and nodded.

      “Happens sometimes,” said Billy Bones. “Take a pull o’ the rum, Cap’n.”

      * * *

      After a few hours’ steady sailing they arrived at a vast sandy beach near the north end of the island, which offered a good landing place for Foremast Hill: the shabby, northern relation of the mighty Spy-glass. They dragged the boat beyond high tide, and took a rest and a meal in the shade of the shoreline trees–mainly pines and live-oaks, with thick broom bushes between, a world as different as could be from the jungles of the southern anchorage, for a strong wind blew off the sea here, and it was cooler by far.

      Later they trudged to the modest summit, no more than a few hundred feet, Silver as agile as any of them, hopping smartly along on the hard, stony ground, and merry again too. It was work that drove his pain away, not rum, and there was plenty of work to do.

      “Here we are then, mates,” he said cheerfully when they reached the top and paused to gaze at the splendid view around them–shimmering ocean, deep-blue dome of sky, rolling hills and forests–while insects chirped, birds sang, and the heavy breakers rumbled against the island’s shores. “This is a good spot for a lookout,” said Silver. “And I shall station men here with stores and a glass, even though it’ll be a fair run to bring news to us…” Then he saw that Billy Bones wasn’t paying attention. Bones was peering fixedly towards the northern inlet, the island’s other anchorage, clearly visible below. He was staring at the wreck of a ship, a big three-master in a state of utter ruin.

      “Mr Bones!” said Silver sharply. “Won’t you join us?”

      “Beg pardon, Cap’n,” said Billy Bones, guilty as a schoolboy caught playing with himself.

      “Oh,” said Silver, “I see you’re casting an eye over the old Elizabeth.” Bones said nothing. “The ship what you and Flint took from King George?” Billy Bones flinched. His memories of that atrocious mutiny were shameful, for he’d been an honest man before Flint got hold of him.

      As ever, Billy Bones’s thoughts were plain on his face, and Silver smiled. “Never mind, Mr Bones, King George can only hang you once, and he’ll do that anyway for your being a gentleman of fortune! So come along o’ me and look to better days.”

      “Thank you, Cap’n,” said Bones, touching his hat, and came as close as ever he did to changing masters.

      “Now see here, Mr Bones,” said Silver, producing a telescope from one of the deep pockets of his coat; “I’ve been up here before, and there’s a thing I’ve brought you special to