Flint and Silver. John Drake

a brave man clenched the leather between his teeth and refused to cry out.

      Once Merry was taken down, and the decks hosed clean, eight bells were struck for the turn of the watch, when the navigating officers took their noon-day observations; for which ceremony Mr Flint demanded an absolutely silent ship. After that, the hands were sent below for their dinner, the best time of the day, with full platters and the happy communion of messes clustered at their hanging tables on the gun-deck, where pork, pease, pickles and biscuit were shovelled down throats with a generous lubrication of grog.

      It was a noisy, happy time, except for George Merry and his messmates. George himself sat painfully upright, bound in the vinegar and brown paper that the surgeon declared was the best thing for a flogged back. With his broken fingers, he could eat and drink only because his messmates fed him and held his mug to his lips.

      “Ah, George Merry!” said a voice from the next-door mess. “I sees you be in poor straits.”

      “That I be, Mr Gunn,” said Merry, nodding politely towards Ben Gunn and his messmates, who were quartermasters, rated able to steer the ship. They were the elite of the lower deck and aboard Elizabeth they were always addressed with the honorific “Mister”.

      “So,” Ben Gunn declared, “you thinks you be in pain?”

      “Aye, Mr Gunn,” said Merry, and bit his lip.

      “And you thinks you be hard done by?”

      “That I does!”

      “Then listen,” said Ben Gunn and beckoned his messmates and George Merry’s to lean closer. Ben Gunn was a serious and sober man, if a little strange. He was much respected for his skill, but was distant – even odd – in his manner, as if his mind steered a different course than that of other men.

      “You’ve heard Flint tell of the Manila galleon,” he said, “and how he was done out of his share for being supernumerary?”

      “Aye!” they said, and could not help but look over their shoulders in fear of Flint.

      “Then heark’ee, my lads, for he don’t tell the whole tale.”

      “No?” they said, barely breathing.

      “No, he don’t, not the half of it, for I had it in full from a poor soul, long gone, what sailed in Spider under Flint.” Now they were transfixed and, sensing the mood, men from other messes were leaning close. “Supernumerary, he was,” said Ben Gunn, and tapped the table in emphasis, “for Anson diddled him, and he didn’t even diddle him fair! He done it – which is to say, he said he done it – ‘cos of what Flint had done aboard of Spider.”

      Now the whole gun-deck was listening. They were listening, but Ben Gunn was gone off in his own thoughts.

      “What was it, Mr Gunn?” someone prompted. Ben Gunn started.

      “Why, it were the Incident,” he said, and lapsed into silence again.

      “What Incident?” said a voice. “What’d he do, Mr Gunn?”

      Ben Gunn sighed. “He meant it for a good thing,” he said, “for he were a fine officer in them days, and he meant no harm. But it got twisted into a cruel thing …” He looked around, fixing men’s eyes in emphasis. “It got twisted … and not entirely by his own fault, mark you! And it became such that, by comparison, we be living like lords aboard this ship today, and happy that we ain’t in Spider.”

      “Tell on, Ben Gunn!” said his messmates, looking at one another, for even they’d not heard this before.

      “It were known as the Incident, for that’s how Anson named it when he used it as an excuse to do Flint out of his share.” He looked round again. “Flint were betrayed, shipmates. Anson betrayed him, and Flint were turned by that betrayal, for he worshipped Anson.”

      “So what happened, Ben Gunn?”

      Ben Gunn struggled within himself, searching in his limited store of words for the things he would have to say. These were not things that decent sailormen talked about. The task was dreadful hard for Ben Gunn, and the whole deck waited in silence for him to speak.

       Chapter 3

       21st May 1745 Aboard Victory The Indian Ocean

      John Silver and Captain Nathan England walked the quarterdeck side by side, with every other man deferring and keeping clear of their private conversation. The weather was hot and good. The ship sailed easily, the guns were secured, and most of the men idling.

      “Articles, John! Articles is what makes us what we are.”

      “Which is pirates,” said Silver.

      “No!” said England. “If I’m a pirate, then Drake was a pirate, and Hawkins and Raleigh too, and all the rest of ‘em that did what I do. And didn’t they come home to knighthoods and estates?”

      “But the law – King George’s law – will hang us if they catch us.”

      “Which they won’t.”

      “But they would.”

      “God bless your soul, John! And wouldn’t Queen Bess’ve hanged Drake, if she’d caught him at the wrong time?

      She’d’ve done it to please the King of Spain! She did what she had to, and so do I.”

      “But …” said Silver.

      “JOHN!” yelled England, loud enough to shake the t’gallant masts, and all hands turned to look. England’s face reddened with anger. “Avast, you swabs!” he cried. “Look to your duties!” And every man turned away and found something to be busy with. They did as they were told, without resentment and of their own free will.

      “There!” said England. “D’you see that? Was that pirates, or free companions?” He waved a hand at the crew. “That’s real discipline, John. The discipline of free men. That’s articles.”

      “Bah!” said Silver.

      “God damn you, you ignorant bugger!” said England, biting down on his temper. Then, “Ah!” he said, as an idea struck him. “Come along o’ me, John Silver, and I’ll show you something, by God I will!”

      England stamped off, slid down a companionway, and led the way below decks to the great cabin, right at the stern of the ship. Unlike some, England used his cabin not for display but as a place of work, where he could bring together his officers when he needed to make plans. There was a big table and some chairs, and a profusion of cupboards and drawers and pigeonholes for the storage of charts and other papers.

      “Secure that hatchway!” said England, pointing at the door. “Not that I don’t trust the hands, but some things are best kept out of temptation’s way.” Then he fumbled for a key, unlocked a cupboard and pointed to the big, black ledger that lay inside.

      “Book of Articles!” he said with reverence. “The very same in which you signed your name. And here beside it is the flag beneath which we buries the dead.” He laid a hand on the black cloth. “And then there’s this!” He took out a snuff box. It was nothing special. It wasn’t gilt or enamelled. Not the sort of thing that would have graced a gentleman’s waistcoat. It was a large, plain box, neatly carpentered from some hard, black, African wood.

      “Now you just look at this, my boy, and you tell me if that was the work of bloody pirates!” He held out the box. Silver took it.

      “Well?” said Silver.

      “Well, open the bugger!” said England. Silver fumbled for the catch, and sprung the box open. He looked inside and saw nothing … just two round pieces of paper, each about an inch across, each faintly dirtied