Pieces of Eight. John Drake

as once it had Flint’s. Ben Gunn was further puzzled by the presence of Mr Billy Bones, standing alongside Israel Hands, Black Dog and Sarney Sawyer. The latter three, he knew to be Silver’s men…But Billy Bones was Flint’s to death and beyond…or so Ben Gunn believed.

      “Mr Gunn’s been living wild,” said Israel Hands. “He’s more than half witless and he was frightened to come near us. He was starving when we found him, weren’t you, Ben Gunn?”

      “Aye,” said Ben Gunn. “Mr Hands gave me some cheese!” He smiled. “He likes cheese, does poor Ben Gunn!” The smile died. “An’ he don’t like bein’ hungry, an’ he don’t like bein’ lonely, an’ he stands ready now to sign articles and do his duty…if only he might have permission to come aboard.” And with that he raised a dirty finger to his dirty brow, and held it there, mouth open, awaiting Silver’s decision.

      “Huh!” said Silver. “Come aboard, Benn Gunn! There’s work to do, and a need for hands to do it. You shall sign articles, and be judged afresh.” He pointed to a gang of men standing ready with their tools for the day’s work clearing the final remains of Lion. “You join them there. At the double now!”

      “Aye-aye, sir!” said Ben Gunn joyfully, and he skipped off at great speed before Silver should change his mind.

      “Poor sod!” said Sarney Sawyer.

      “He were a good man once, Mr Bosun,” said Israel Hands. “He were a prime seaman, till he got flogged and it turned his mind.”

      “Flint’s work?” said Sawyer.

      “No,” said Billy Bones stoutly, “Cap’n Springer’s! That no-seaman swab as ran the Elizabeth aground. Ben Gunn was at the helm, and Springer flogged him for it, though it were Springer’s fault, as all hands knew!”

      “Aye,” said Black Dog and Israel Hands.

      “Flint warned him!” said Billy Bones. “Flint wanted a boat ahead taking soundings, but Springer wouldn’t have it. Flint had the right of it all the while.”

      “Aye!” said the others, for it was true.

      “Flint’s a seaman and no mistake!” said Black Dog admiringly.

      “Aye!” they said, nodding in united agreement.

      “Split my sides!” cried Silver, who’d been listening in growing amazement and anger. “It sickens my heart to sail with you!” he glared at them. “Have you lubbers forgot what Flint did to Springer and the rest! And have you forgot who’ll be back here in a month or two, a-cuttin of our precious throats if we don’t look sharp!”

      “Oh…” said Israel Hands and Black Dog, while Billy Bones blushed and studied his boots.

      “Now batten your blasted hatches till you’re spoke to,” said Silver. “And come along o’ me!”

      He led the way to his tent and sat down, fuming, and daring any man to speak before he was allowed.

      “Put your blasted chart there, Mr Bones,” he said, “and find something to hold the bugger down!”

      Billy Bones produced a big, rolled chart, which he laid flat on the table–and for want of anything better, pinned it down with his pistols.

      “Now, see here,” said Silver, as they all leaned over the map, “this is Mr Bones’s map, drawn of its shores and with all included as you swabs has learned from marching up and down of it…” He waited till they’d had a good look, then produced another sheet, this time showing the planned location of four forts.

      “And now here’s my own plans, drawn by myself,” he said, and calmed as he warmed to his subject. “What do you lubbers know of entrenchments and suchlike…?”

      Hours later, Sarney Sawyer and Israel Hands, sent about their duties, had a brief word while spades, picks and axes were handed out to their men.

      “Was Long John ever a soldier?” said Sawyer.

      “Not him!” said Hands. “Begotten in the galley and born in a boat.”

      “So where’d he get all that learning about forts?”

      “Along o’ Cap’n England. He were the one for forts, was England.”

      “And Long John served under him?”

      “Aye, in the days when John had ten toes.”

      What Israel Hands didn’t say was that England had a reputation for cracking forts. He cracked them like walnuts. But he’d no reputation for building them. Israel Hands shrugged. Perhaps it was the same thing in reverse. He hoped so, because forts were desperately dangerous things; especially for a sailorman.

       Chapter 11

       Afternoon, 3rd October 1752 Fort Ferdinand Isabel Island, Niña de Cuba

      Capitan Zorita looked at the two tenientes and five young guardia marinas who were under his command in the task of stiffening the defences of Niña de Cuba against the coming world war. Zorita pointed at the longboats and their bustling crews, and he shook his head at the puzzled faces of his subordinates.

      “Do you not see through it?” he said. “It’s an old trick of the English pirates–Morgan and England used it on many occasions.” There was a silence and all present tried to avoid his eye.

      “So!” said Zorita, and shrugged. “Well, gentlemen, you must listen carefully, for the object of these…activities,” he looked at the boats, “is to make us think that a major force has been landed for an assault upon the northern walls of the fort, compelling us to move our guns up here, leaving the other walls undefended.”

      “Oh?” they said, for they’d been duly deceived and would have done as he said.

      “But,” said Zorita, “they’ve overdone it. Let’s say each of those boats holds thirty men, besides the crews. That’s ninety per trip, yes?”

      “Yes, Capitan!”

      “And this is their fourth trip, making three hundred and sixty men landed.”

      “Yes, Capitan!”

      “Which is a great number of men to land from ships of their modest size.”

      “Yes, Capitan!”

      “But what they’re actually doing is rowing ashore with the men sitting upright, and rowing back with them hidden in the bottom of the boats.”

      “Ahhhhhh!”

      “And if they keep on doing it, then I’ll be certain it’s a ruse, for they’ll be pretending to land more men than they could possibly have on board.”

      That night there was a great lighting of campfires and making of noise at the north end of the island, where those ashore–under Cap’n Bentham’s orders–gave the fort to believe that a large storming party was bedding down for the night, ready for an assault next day. Meanwhile the same boats that had been busy all day crept quietly down the eastern side of Isabel island with muffled oars, making their way slowly across the shoals and sandbanks to land a large force of men on the beach facing the fort across a few hundred yards of still water.

      Neither was it a quiet night in the fort, where Capitan Zorita ensured that guns were indeed moved and prepared, and the ready-use lockers filled with cartridges and shot, and the crews made sure of their duties.

      At dawn, Bentham’s northern shore party opened fire on the fort with a six-pound gun, brought ashore for the purpose and emplaced on planking so the trucks of its sea-carriage shouldn’t bog down in the soft ground.

      Bang! went the gun, and its cannonball screamed