Pieces of Eight. John Drake

a tarred pigtail and pitch-black fingernails. But the service had lost him to Flint. For Billy Bones was Flint’s through and through. That was why he’d set fire to Lion and why now–even though Silver was the only man in the world who Billy Bones feared, and Silver was armed and he was not–Billy’s arms were secured with manacles and two men walked behind him with muskets aimed into his back.

      “Now then, Billy-my-chicken,” said Long John, drawing to a stop. Even leaning on his crutch he was taller than Bones, just as he was taller than most men. He took off his hat, wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, and stared into Billy Bone’s eyes, until Bones flinched. “Huh!” said Silver, and Billy Bones bit his lip and looked sideways at Silver’s big, fair face. Silver wasn’t a handsome man like Flint, but he had the same overpowering presence, and he made Billy Bones nervous.

      “See that sun, Billy-boy?” said Silver. Bones looked up at the blazing sun, climbing to its full height in the deep blue sky. “Precious close to noon, and it’ll soon be too hot to fart, let alone talk, so I want this over quick.”

      “What?” said Bones, eyes widening in dread. “What d’ye mean?” He glanced back at the two men with muskets.

      “No, no, no!” said Silver. “Not that, you blockhead. If I’d wanted you dead, I’d have hung you. There’s plenty of men wanting to haul you off your feet, and only myself stopping ’em.”

      “Well what then?” said Bones, still mortally afraid.

      “Just look,” said Silver. Bones looked. He saw the sands shimmering with heat, and the salvage crew wading ashore from the wreck, all work having stopped, while men fresh from other duties were getting themselves into the shade of the neat rows of tents where all would soon be sleeping until the mid-day heat was past.

      “Look at what?” said Bones, deeply puzzled. Long John sighed.

      “Billy-boy,” he said, “you never were the pick of the litter when it came to brains! I meant you to see the works what’s going forward.” Bones blinked, still fearful, not knowing where this was leading. Silver looked at the coarse, thick face with its deep-furrowed brow, and sighed that such a creature could wield a quadrant while he could not.

      “Billy,” he said, “did you ever know me to lie?”

      “No,” said Bones after intense pondering.

      “Did you ever know me to break a promise?”

      “No,” said Bones, with surly reluctance.

      “Heaven be praised! Then here’s a promise: If you come and sit with me in the shade of them trees–” Long John pointed at the line of drooping palms that edged the vast curve of the sandy shore “–and if you promise to listen fairly and act the gentleman…why! I’ll send these two away,” he nodded at the guards, “and I’ll send for some grog and a bite to eat. But if you try to run, Billy-boy, or if you raise your hand…I promise to shoot you square in the belly and dance the hornpipe while you wriggle. Is that fair, now?”

      “Aye,” said Bones, for it was much what he would have done in Silver’s place, especially the shooting in the belly. So they found a comfortable place to sit, and took a mug or two, and some fruit and biscuit, and Long John brought all his eloquence to bear on Billy Bones.

      “Billy,” he said, “Flint’s been gone a week. My guess is he’ll head for Charlestown to take on more men and arms, and he’ll come straight back, at which time I want to be ready. He’ll have greater numbers, but we’ve got plenty of powder and shot and small arms, and most of the four-pounders saved out of Lion, besides which Israel Hands says there’s the wreck of a big ship up in the north anchorage, with nine-pounders that we could use, though they’re too heavy to move very far.”

      “Aye,” said Bones, “that’d be the Elizabeth. I sailed aboard of her with Israel and…” He dropped his eyes.

      “And Flint,” said Silver, “Never mind, Billy-boy, for it comes to this: You know the lie of this island: latitude, longitude and all. I want you to tell me how soon Flint’ll be back, so’s I can be warned.”

      “And why should I help you?” said Bones.

      “First, ’cos I saved your neck from a stretching–which it still might get, if you ain’t careful–and second because we’ve found your old sea-chest, with all your goods aboard, and none shall touch it but you.”

      “Oh…” said Billy Bones, for a seaman’s chest held all that was dear to him. “Thank you,” he mumbled, and thought vastly better of Long John. But Silver’s next words stung him.

      “Good! Now listen while I tell you how that swab Flint has betrayed you.”

      “Never!” said Bones fiercely, making as if to stand.

      “Billy!” said Silver. “Don’t!” And he laid a hand on his pistol butt.

      “You daresn’t!” said Bones, but he sat down again.

      “Billy,” said Silver, gently, “Flint left you, and ain’t never coming back except to kill you, along of all the rest of us.”

      “Huh!” sneered Bones. “You just want that black tart–Selena. You can’t stand that Flint’s aboard of her, fuckin’ her cross-eyed!”

      “Ugh!” this time the pistol was out and cocked and deep denting Billy Bones’s cheek. Silver was white and he leaned over Bones like a vampire over its prey.

      “Don’t you ever say that again, you lard-arsed, shit-head, land-lubber! Just listen to me, Billy, for there’s things about this island that ain’t right and I need you to explain ’em, and I need you to make ready for Flint–’cos if you won’t help, then we’re all dead men…but you the first of all of us! So what course shall you steer, Billy-boy?”

       Chapter 3

       15th August 1752 The Bishop’s House Williamstown, Upper Barbados

      The Bishop of Barbados refused.

      “There can be no wedding!” he said. “I am well aware that Mr Bentham–who is a damned pirate–enters into so-called marriages every time he visits this island, choosing as his bride any trollop that takes his fancy, and whom he might have had for sixpence, and whom afterwards he abandons!”

      “Quite so!” said his chaplain, standing beside him in nervous defiance of the crowd of garishly dressed, heavily armed men who were crammed into the bishop’s study.

      “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” declared Brendan O’Byrne, who commanded the intruders. He was frighteningly ugly and the gallows were groaning for him, but he’d been raised to give respect to a bishop. “I’m afraid you mayn’t say no, for I’m first mate to Captain Bentham, and Captain Bentham is resolved upon marriage. So, will you look at this now?”

      He produced a little pocket-pistol, all blued and gleaming. Then, showing its slim barrel to His Grace, he explained what he was going to do with it, and had his men remove the chaplain’s drawers and breeches, and bend the chaplain over a table, to demonstrate precisely how it would be done.

      Five minutes later, His Grace was stepping out under a burning sun, sweating in mitre and chasuble, with crosier in hand. His chaplain followed bearing a King James Bible and a Book of Common Prayer while attempting to keep the hem of the bishop’s robes clear of the mud and dog-shite of Queen Mary Street, main thoroughfare of Williamstown.

      Beside the bishop marched O’Byrne, arms crossed and a pistol in each fist, while two dozen of his men capered on every side, taking refreshment from bottles. No matter how the bishop looked with his quick, clever eyes, there was no way out but forward, and he made the best of it by smiling to the cheering populace who’d turned out for