Flint and Silver. John Drake

grog until within soundings of England.”

      “No sleep for two nights.”

      “Ducking to the count of fifty.”

      “To play Flint’s game, or take two dozen.”

      The result of all this was, firstly, that – in the absence of a maintop – Cap’n Flint the parrot spent a lot of time perched among the trees; and secondly that Elizabeth’s crew were prevented from being mended and made sound by the busy works that Flint himself had set in motion. Under any hand other than Flint’s, the men would have recognised the good sense of what needed to be done. They would have rejoiced in the escape from marooning, and they would have given of their best.

      Alas, Flint could not deny himself these vicious pleasures. As for Captain Springer, he was worse puzzled than he’d been when at sea with Flint. He still couldn’t put a finger on what was wrong with his first lieutenant, and was furthermore weighed down by the guilt of running his ship aground and not knowing how to get her off. So he took to skulking in his tent and emptying bottle after bottle to take away the despair. He left everything to Flint, unless Flint positively forced him to play a part.

      One day, three weeks after they’d come ashore, Flint came to his tent with just such an intrusion.

      It was hot, terribly hot. Springer’s tent, rigged under the shade of trees along the shoreline, kept out the sun, but not the still pressure of heat. As usual, all work had ceased for the middle hours of the day when the sun blazed fiercest. A cable’s length away, where the new vessel was growing, the steady thud, thud, thud of the carpenter’s adze had come to a halt, along with the battering of mallets driving in trenails, and the groaning of saws shaping the timbers afresh. All hands were asleep, save those unfortunates on watch. Clad in an open-neck shirt, wide ducks, bare legs, with the sweat glistening on his heavy face, Springer snored in his hammock.

      Two figures came scrunching across the shimmering white sand and into the dark of Springer’s tent. Flint and Billy Bones were coming to call. Flint with his eternal parrot on his shoulder, and Billy Bones in his wake.

      “Cap’n, sir?” said Flint, rapping his knuckles on the spar that acted as a tent post.

      “Uh? What?” said Springer, starting out of his doze. Flint nudged Billy Bones and nodded his head quickly towards the empty bottles under Springer’s hammock. Bones leered back. They’d become very familiar, these two.

      “Sorry to disturb you, Captain, sir,” said Flint, advancing into the tent with a paper rolled up in his hand.

      “Damn you, you bloody sod,” said Springer with reddened eyes. “Whassit now, you rat-piss streak of piddle?” He reached for a pistol that he kept by him and cuddled its heavy brass butt.

      Flint saw the movement and smirked. Springer’s face swelled and his teeth ground together. He hated Flint beyond reason, and the more so because he didn’t know why. But his fingers twitched and lay still. He was a law-abiding man, incapable of putting a pistol ball through another officer in cold blood. Anyway, he was half asleep, half drunk, and having trouble keeping awake.

      “Here’s the chart, sir,” said Flint, displaying the finished map of the island. “You’ll see I’ve taken the liberty of naming the prominent features: Spy-glass Hill, Mizzenmast Hill, North Inlet, and so on.” He pointed with his finger: “And here, sir, you can see that there is a better harbour than this, to the south.” He nudged Billy Bones again, craftily so Springer could not see. “But, of course, we never got the chance to try it.”

      “Damn you, you whore’s whelp … you walking abortion … you …” Springer mumbled on and Flint spoke over his incoherent curses.

      “I’m glad you approve of the chart, sir,” he said sarcastically. “For it was drawn entirely by myself.”

      He rolled up the chart and produced another paper showing the lines of the little sloop that the carpenter’s men were building. “But that is not why I am here, sir, disturbing your rest.” He made a show of presenting the plans to Springer. “Here’s our little Betsy, sir. She’ll be sixty tons, two masts, sweet as a nut, and able to bear six guns.” He flicked a glance at Billy Bones, then continued: “Six guns and maybe forty men. Fifty at the uttermost, sir. We cannot build her bigger.”

      “Damn you …” murmured Springer and fell completely asleep.

      “So most of the people must stay on the island, sir …” said Flint, making a pantomime of deference to the unconscious Springer, “… while Betsy sails to bring rescue to those who remain.”

      It was the plain truth and Flint had known it from the moment he and the carpenter had designed the new vessel. There was only so much that make-and-mend initiative could achieve, and some of Elizabeth’s timbers were rotten besides. The carpenter had been sworn to silence under pain of death at Flint’s own hand, should the secret leak out, plus the promise of being one of those to be embarked in the new ship.

      But it would eventually become obvious to even the stupidest among the crew that there would not be room for all of them aboard Elizabeth’s child. Any decent officer would therefore have summoned his men, given them the truth at once, and trusted to their good nature as seamen to understand that there simply was no other way forward. And any decent crew would have understood. But Lieutenant Joseph Flint had fallen so deeply into temptation that he was now driven by quite another logic than that which applied to decent officers who led decent crews.

      “Thank you, sir,” said Flint, as Springer – lost in sleep – snorted and gargled like a hog. “Bah!” said Flint. “Will you just look at the swab?” He plucked out the pistol from under Springer’s hand and turned to Billy Bones. “Give me your chaw, Billy,” he said.

      “What?” said Bones, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

      “What, sir!” said Flint. “Just spit out your chaw, at the double now.” Flint held out his hand.

      “Me chaw?” said Bones, tested beyond comprehension. “Into your hand, sir?”

      “Spit!” said Flint. “Now!”

      “Aye-aye, sir!” said Bones. He’d seen the look in Flint’s eye and dared not disobey. So he leaned forward and spat out a plastic gob of black-brown tobacco, sticky and slimy with saliva. It splattered into the palm of Flint’s hand. Flint smiled without the least sign of disgust. He squeezed and moulded the tobacco to his liking, then he filled half the barrel of Springer’s pistol with sand, and rammed the sticky plug of tobacco down on top of it as a wad. Finally he deftly replaced the pistol without waking Springer.

      “There,” he said quietly as he wiped his hands on Billy Bones’s shirt. “Just in case he ever gets the courage, eh, Mr Bones?”

      “Aye-aye, sir,” said Billy Bones.

      Then they walked out again into the fierce heat and the high, blazing sun.

      “We’ll set them building the blockhouse tomorrow, Billy-my-chicken,” said Flint, “and you can let the word out among the people that Captain Springer is going to abandon them.”

      Billy Bones licked his lips. He blinked and trembled. He muttered and groaned. He summoned every grain of his courage … and he ventured to dispute the matter.

      “Bugger of a risk, this mutiny, begging your pardon, Cap’n,” said Bones, instinctively adding that last word – the supreme honorific of his vocabulary – in the hope that it might protect him. It was an arm raised in anticipation of a blow.

      “Billy-boy, Billy-boy,” said Flint in a peculiar soft voice, without ever giving Bones so much as a glance, reaching instead to pet the green bird that clamped its claws in his shoulder and chuckled and nuzzled his ear. “Don’t ever question my orders again. Not so long as you wish to live. Do you hear me?”

      Billy Bones was armed equally as well as Flint with pistols and cutlass. He was the bigger man, being taller and broader