Flint and Silver. John Drake

followed. He leapt to the left. It followed again. And behind Jean-Paul, others were busy loading. It was no good. Muskets were not renowned for accuracy, but Jean-Paul’s was no more than ten feet from the Englishman’s chest.

      “Fuck you, you bastard!” he spat. Jean-Paul bowed extravagantly.

       “Merci, monsieur,” he said. “Et va te faire foutre!”

      “Go to it, then!” said the Englishman. “And a curse on the pack of you!” He threw down his cutlass, spread out his arms and closed his eyes. At least it would be quick. Not like what they’d threatened.

      Jean-Paul took up the slack on the trigger. He squeezed harder. The lock snapped. It sparked brightly. The gun roared. Three drachms of King George’s best powder exploded, driving the heavy musket ball violently out of the barrel … to soar in a majestic parabola, higher than a cathedral steeple, and then to curve down into the sea, where it fizzed viciously for a few feet until its power was spent, and then proceeded gently on its way down to the sea bed, where the fishes nosed it for a while and then ignored it.

      “Belay there!” cried a loud voice, with all the confidence of command. Nathan England, duly elected captain of the buccaneers, had just knocked the barrel of Jean-Paul’s musket skyward.

      “I say we keep him!” he said, pointing his sword at Jean-Paul’s target. “You there!” he said. “You can open your eyes … Ouvrez les yeux! … Entiendez? … Capisce?” England’s crew were the dregs of half a dozen seafaring nations and he was used to making himself understood in whatever tongue suited.

      The Englishman blinked. He stupidly ran his hands over his body to feel for a wound.

       “Portugês?” said England. “Français? Español?”

      “English, damn you!”

      “Huh!” said England. “Rather bless me, you ungrateful bugger, for I’ve a mind to let you live. I’m several men adrift, courtesy of yourself, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t make up some of the loss.”

      “I’m no bloody pirate!” said the Englishman.

      “Neither am I,” said England. “Nor my men, neither. We’re gentlemen of fortune! Brethren of the coast!”

      “Horseshit!” the Englishman sneered. “Same bird, different name.”

      Hmm, thought England, taking the measure of the big man with his broad, square face – pale for a seaman – and his stubborn jaw and angry eyes. “Now see here, my bucko,” said England, “I’ve neither time nor inclination to educate you. The fact is, I saw you fight Little Sam, who was the best among us. And you killed him.”

      “And why not?” said the Englishman, not realising he was being praised. “Didn’t you take our bloody ship and kill my mates?” He pointed at the body of Captain Carmo Costa, still smouldering from the charge that had killed him. “That’s my captain there, and him not a bad bastard neither.”

      England frowned. He was not a patient man. He stuck his thumbs in his belt and drummed his fingers on the tight leather. “Now, here’s the long and short of it,” said he. “We must come to a swift agreement, you and I, my lad. I like the way you fight, and I have the fancy to admit you into our company. So you can either sign articles and join us …” Glancing over his shoulder at Jean-Paul with his smoking musket, England commanded, “Recharges, enfant!” Then he nodded at the Englishman and concluded with a smile: “… Or you’ll be shot where you stand.” As far as England was concerned, the matter was resolved.

      Quickly, another cartridge was found for Jean-Paul, and he grinned merrily as he plied his ramrod. Meanwhile Captain England drummed his fingers on his belt.

      “So, what’s it to be?” he said. “For as soon as mon ami has loaded, he may open fire, and that’s the truth.”

      “Damn you all!” said the Englishman, and Jean-Paul cocked and aimed.

       “Je tire, mon capitaine?”

      “Last chance, my cocker,” said England, as Jean-Paul began to squeeze the trigger.

      “Avast!” said the Englishman, and made the only choice that any decent man could make in the circumstances. A precious saint might have said no, and the Lord Jesus Christ certainly would have, but who wants one of them for a shipmate, anyway?

      With all matters of recruitment concluded, England’s men set briskly to work aboard the two ships, mending and splicing above, plugging and hammering below. These things they did with practised skill, and did them well, since the lives of all aboard might depend on the work. They also buried the dead with due respect, and they cleaned and scoured the decks after their fashion. As for the wounded, they were attended by the drunken butcher that served England for a surgeon. He was of the “boiling pitch” school when it came to staunching bleeding, and the crew were more afraid of him than of the hangman. But he was what they’d got.

      Victory and Ria de Ponteverde sailed in company within hours of the battle, and that evening the yellow-haired Englishman was welcomed into England’s crew as a fellow gentleman of fortune. The ceremony was half farce and half deadly earnest, with all hands mustered round the mainmast and the rum flowing freely. England presided in his best clothes, a plumed hat, and seated on a massive carved armchair brought up from his cabin.

      The proceedings owed much to the horse-play of crossing the equator, with a ludicrous bathing and soaping, and the postulant stripped naked and blindfolded. Finally, England hammered on the deck with the narwhal tusk he carried as a staff of office.

      “Now, brothers,” he cried, “we stand ready to admit this child as a free companion. So pull the blindfold off him, Mr Mate, and put a sharpened sword into his hand.” This was done and the Englishman stood blinking and puzzled and looking about him. The mob of armed men were swaying in silence on the heaving decks, bracing themselves with such ease that they weren’t even aware of doing it.

      “So,” said England, “if any brother knows of any just impediment why this child should not be admitted, then let him speak now or for ever hold his peace!”

      This parody of the wedding ceremony served the entirely practical purpose of ensuring that any man who’d lost a friend to the child must challenge him at once or accept him as a shipmate in good faith. With six dead to his credit, this was an interesting moment for the crew, and there was much hopeful shuffling and muttering and looking to those who had lost their messmates. One or two of the bereaved found it expedient to consider their boots at this moment, while others brazened it out with fixed smiles and knowing winks. But much to the disappointment of those free of obligations, nobody wanted to fight.

      “So be it!” cried England when he thought sufficient time had passed. “And now, brother-that-you-have-become, I asks you to sign articles as all others have done before you.”

      At this, England’s first mate stepped forward and laid down a big book upon a barrel that was set before England as a table. Pen and ink and a sand-caster were ready to hand. The book was black-bound in leather and had once been the master’s journal aboard an honest merchantman. But the long-dead navigator’s written pages had been cut out and a series of numbered items entered in a large, bold hand on the first remaining page.

      “Are you a scholar, brother?” said England. “Or will you have me read these articles to you, before you make your mark?”

      “I know my letters,” said the Englishman.

      “Well enough to read?”

      “Aye!”

      “Oh?” said England, for, saving the mates and the gunner, not one other man in his crew could do the like. “Then read, brother, and read boldly for all to hear!” The Englishman picked up the book and held it close to a lantern to catch the light.

      “These articles …”

      “Louder!”