.

      “Why won’t he give up being a pirate?”

      “He’s not a pirate, he’s a gentleman of fortune.”

      “It’s the same thing.”

      “No! We sign the Book of Articles and every man votes. It is the democracy of the Greeks.”

      “Articles! He talks about them all the time, and he –”

      “Selena, listen to me.”

      “But he does.”

      “Please, please, listen. I can’t be him. I can’t speak for him.”

      “So who do you speak for?”

      “For the crew! It’s a good life for them. Equal shares and light work. Merchant owners save money with small crews that must rupture themselves to work the ship, while we have many hands to ease the load. And we sail in soft waters: the Caribbean, the Gold Coast, the Indian Ocean…You should try the whale fisheries, my girl, up beyond Newfoundland! The ice hangs from the rigging and the lookouts are found frozen dead when the watch changes. And with us, there’s no flogging the last man up the mast nor the last to trice his hammock as the navy does, and there’s music and drink when you want it, and the chance to get rich –”

      “By thieving and killing!”

      “In which regard we’re no worse than the king’s ships, that kill men and take prizes!”

      “But that’s war.”

      “Dulce bellum inexpertis: war is sweet to those who don’t know it!”

      “Bah!” she said, striding off and leaving him in the dark. Him and his annoying habit of spouting Latin.

      So the matter was not resolved, and Silver and Selena lived apart in the ship and couldn’t meet without a quarrel. And Silver became bad tempered, and not the man he had been. And that was bad…but worse was to come.

       Chapter 4

       Half an hour before sunset

       12th March 1753

      Aboard Oraclaesus’s longboat

       The southern anchorage

       Flint’s Island

      Boom! A signal gun blew white powder smoke from Oraclaesus’s quarterdeck, and echoed across the still waters. It was the signal for boats to give up for the day and return to their ships.

      “Thank God!” said Mr Midshipman Povey to himself, and “Hold water!” he bellowed at the boat’s crew. At least he tried to bellow, but his throat was sore and his head ached, and he hadn’t the strength.

      Twenty sweat-soaked men collapsed over their oars, shafts stabbing raggedly in all directions, crossing and clattering in a disgraceful fashion that should have earned a blistering rebuke from the coxswain. But he was preoccupied with scratching the blotches on his face and barely hanging on to the tiller, he was so dizzy.

      “Bloody shambles,” mumbled Povey. He looked across the anchorage in the dimming light, taking in the idly swirling boats and ships, and the voices everywhere raised in bickering argument. There was no wind in the anchorage, so the squadron was kedging out: each ship launching its best boat, a light anchor slung beneath, waiting until the smaller vessel had pulled ahead and dropped anchor before manning the capstan to haul on the anchor cable, thereby laboriously drawing the ship forward. Then up anchor and do it again! Then again and again till the sails should feel the wind of the open sea.

      The drill was simple. It was heavy work needing no unusual talent. The squadron should have been out of the anchorage and under way in a few hours. But they weren’t. Everything had gone wrong: cables fouled, oar stroke lost, tempers gone and men falling exhausted at their duties who couldn’t be roused, not even with a rope’s end.

      It was the island fever. The enemy that they were trying to escape was already among them! Povey grinned stupidly, thick-headedly. It was just like those dreams where you were desperate to run but couldn’t because your legs were made of lead. The fever was doing its utmost to keep them on the island.

      “Cast off hawser!” said Povey, and the hands made clumsy shift to loose the heavy rope by which the anchor was suspended beneath the boat. The boat wallowed heavily as the great load was shed, and the anchor went down to the bottom; they’d find it easily enough tomorrow by following the cable. “Back larboard, pull starboard!” said Povey, and the longboat turned in the water. “Give way!” he commanded, and they began pulling for their food and their grog, and a few hours’ sleep. That should have cheered them up, but it didn’t. Povey looked down the banks of oarsmen, most of whom were sweating heavily even though it was cool evening. Some – like the coxswain – were coming out in a rash.

      Bounder and Jumper were likewise recovering their boats and dropping their main anchors to moor for the night, as was the flagship. Povey sighed at the thought of all the heavy labour of weighing that would have to be performed again in the morning. But by this time they were bumping against the high oaken side of Oraclaesus and he was ordering “Toss Oars!” – the hands making a dog’s breakfast of this simple command – and himself about to go first out of the boat and up the ship’s side…when the officer of the watch leaned over the rail and called down to him.

      “Mr Povey!”

      “Aye-aye, sir?”

      “I’d be obliged if you’d take the longboat and bring aboard the person who is calling from the shore.”

      “Sir? What person, sir?”

      The officer of the watch frowned. He was feeling unwell and in no mood for explanations. “Obey your bloody orders and be damned, Mr Povey – and don’t answer back!”

      “Aye-aye, sir!”

      Povey sank down into the longboat, almost in tears. He’d not realised how tired he was and how much he wanted to be out of the boat and into his bed. The crew obviously felt the same. They were moaning and snivelling.

      “Oh, bloody-well-bugger the lot of you,” said Povey. “And pull for the bloody shore.”

      Once they came round the ship, which happened to be between the longboat and the beach, Povey could make out the dark little dot of a figure outlined against the white sands of the beach, and he could hear a wailing cry coming over the still water. He’d not noticed it before, not with so many others shouting and the sick nausea rising in his belly again.

      “Uuurgh!” Povey retched over the side, bringing up nothing and wrenching the muscles of his stomach. He dipped a hand in the water and splashed it over his face. The crew stared as they swayed to their oars. Some of them felt as bad as Povey.

      “What are you bloody sods looking at?” he snarled. “Bend your bloody backs!”

      The forlorn figure on the beach grew and took shape in the twilight. It was a man kneeling right on the water’s edge, with hands raised over his head. He moaned and wept and offered up prayers as, finally, the big boat ground ashore and Povey jumped out – and was astonished to be recognised.

      “Mr Povey, sir! God bless and save you, sir, for it is Mr Povey, ain’t it now?”

      “Damn my blasted eyes,” said Povey. “It’s Ben Gunn!”

      Memories flooded in. Bad memories of HMS Elizabeth – the vessel which had first brought Povey to this poisonous island – and Flint’s mutiny, which had resulted in the death of her captain and loyal officers.

      “Ben Gunn,” said Povey in amazement, peering at the bedraggled figure with its straw-like hair, deep-lined, deep-tanned