Pieces of Eight. John Drake

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      Green was a big man who thought himself superior to mere Dutchmen, but Van Oosterhout reacted with lightning speed, flashing one hand across Green’s face to draw attention, poking his eyes with two fingers of the other hand, deftly tripping him as he staggered blinded, and then stamping between his legs…And all done so neat it was more like a dance than a fight.

      “Ahhhhh!” said the fallen one, and “Ooof!” as Van Oosterhout stamped again and drove the breath from his belly. But Green was a hard man and now he was angry. He jumped up, only to find Van Oosterhout calmly waiting, poised like a pugilist but with hands open-palmed, not clenched. “Swab!” said Green, and went for the Dutchman hammer and tongs. At least he tried to, but couldn’t get to grips. Instead he was repeatedly tripped and thrown, and kicked in painful places, until even his mates laughed at him. Finally, trembling and sweating with not a drop of fight left, Green thought it best to beg forgiveness and hobble away.

      “It is called silat,” said Van Oosterhout, when Flint asked about this peculiar manner of fisticuffs. “My father served the Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie. What you call ‘Dutch East India Company’. Thus I was born in Batavia where the natives fight this way. It is a great art.” He shrugged. “I know a little.”

      “I think you are modest, Mr Van Oosterhout,” said Flint.

      “Perhaps.”

      After that, the hands remembered their manners where Van Oosterhout was concerned, and Flint realised that he’d got a proper first mate–not just an arithmetician.

      Meanwhile repairs proceeded, until eventually the works were complete and Walrus was as well-found as if fresh from a royal dockyard. The crew, who’d been waiting for this moment, came to their captain in a body, seeking boldness in numbers as they faced him on his quarterdeck. Even so they were at the limit of their courage, standing with their hats in their hands, and grubby fingers to their brows.

      The quartermaster, Morton, with a good tot of rum inside him, was their spokesman. Those behind egged him on, while poised for retreat should Flint turn nasty.

      “A word, beggin’-yer-pardon, Cap’n, beggin’-yer-pleasure…”

      “Oh?” said Flint, acting surprised, as if he hadn’t seen this coming. “And what would that concern?” He blinked dangerously.

      “All’s got to be made shipshape according to articles, Cap’n.”

      “Aye!” said his mates, trembling.

      “What has, my good man?” said Flint.

      “New brothers, Cap’n. The old ship–why, she’s runnin’ slick as grease, an’ the work’s done, and…”

      “Stop!” said Flint sharply, and forty men flinched as he raised his hand, but they relaxed when he smiled and continued: “The work is done when I say that it is done.”

      “Aye-aye, Cap’n, that it is, sir,” said Morton, attempting to bend his squat body into a bow. But still he pressed on, insisting with desperate politeness that the two Dutchmen must sign articles and become brothers according to tradition.

      Watching from the fo’c’sle, Selena and Cowdray saw the terror that Flint inspired, and the cruel wit that alternately made men shake with laughter and then with fear as he mocked and resisted their entreaties.

      “He’s mad,” said Selena, “you know that, don’t you?”

      “Yes,” said Cowdray, “I know that very well. Piscem natare doces–you’re teaching a fish to swim.”

      “Then why do you stay with him? I’m a prisoner, but you’re free.”

      Cowdray gave a grim laugh. “Free till the hangman catches me, you mean.”

      “But you can say you were forced.”

      “Perhaps.”

      “You’re a surgeon–and a fine one. You saved Long John’s life!”

      “I’m glad of that.”

      “So why do you stay with him?”

      Cowdray looked away, then at the crew as they roared at Flint’s latest joke.

      Flint was prancing about in his laced coat, plumed hat and bright sash: handsome and brilliant with shining eyes and teeth.

      “He saved me,” said Cowdray, “when I was ready to open my veins.”

      “How?” said Selena.

      “In Charlestown, where we’re going; I was fallen very low. I was pox-doctor and abortionist to the town.”

      Another roar of laughter from the crew. Cowdray looked miserable, and hesitated, and finally took the risk, and told the rest of his story, for all men wish sympathy from a beautiful woman.

      “Selena, I’m a simple man. I know surgery, anatomy, and craft. I learned by doing and not from books. And when I began developing theories that the physicians didn’t like, I was laughed out of my post, and then from England–even though I was right.” He shook his head. “They hated me for being right, and they sneered that I learned Latin to try to be like them. And I still use Latin, even now, which shows what a fool I am!” He smiled weakly, and glanced across at Flint. “But him…he needed a ship’s surgeon. He could find none better, so he took me. And I can never cease to be grateful. For now I am a surgeon again, and a good one, as you say.”

      “Bring forth the postulants, Mr Morton!” cried Flint, conceding at last. “Bring forth the Book of Articles! Bring forth the black flag…and bring forth the fiddler and the rum!”

      “AYYYYYE!” they roared.

      Having plenty of time, and only two brothers to induct into the fellowship, Flint’s crew, led by Allardyce and Morton, made a holiday of the affair and wallowed in the full ceremonial. Van Oosterhout and Wouters were stripped, blindfolded and subjected to a variety of horseplay, and to duckings in a big tub brought up from the hold for the purpose. But finally Allardyce called for silence and off-hats, and the two men, dripping wet and gleaming white in their nakedness, were brought before Flint, and before the Book of Articles which had been laid reverently on a table spread with the black flag.

      Van Oosterhout was made to read the articles aloud, then the two Dutchmen signed their names beneath all the others–mainly crosses and similar scrawl–already in the book.

      Afterwards, when Van Oosterhout was dressed, and before he could take too much of the rum now going round–and for which he definitely had the taste–Flint drew his first officer aside for another private conversation in his cabin.

      “There’s much for you to learn, Mr Mate,” said Flint.

      “Aye-aye, sir,” said Van Oosterhout, grinning and red-faced.

      The grinning stopped when Flint told the story of his island, explaining what had happened there, and what had been left behind, and how he intended to get it back…and just how large Van Oosterhout’s share would be. A story which captured Van Oosterhout’s profoundest and uttermost attention.

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