Pieces of Eight. John Drake

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      Later, with a fiddler playing and all hands half drunk and full of good food, and the blazing hulk of the Dutch ship lost under the horizon, Flint stood before the tiller, with Selena, Allardyce and Morton beside him, to address the crew. Mr Cowdray, the ship’s surgeon, who had been busy with the wounded below, now joined them on deck. Like the rest, he was in his best clothes for the occasion. He nodded to Selena, who smiled.

      For Selena, this was a cruel time. John Silver was stranded on Flint’s island where she might never see him again, while Flint’s stunted desires for women were changing and growing. She desperately needed a friend, and–aboard this ship–Mr Cowdray was the only honest man.

      “Well,” he said, “have you seen a battle?”

      “Yes.”

      “And what did you think of it?”

      “I’ve seen worse.” It was true. She had.

      “Hmm.” Cowdray frowned. “Be careful. There might be more.”

      “What?”

      “Brothers and fellow gentlemen of fortune!” cried Flint, in a great and happy voice. Cheers followed, with raised bottles and hearty toasts. “Thank you, brothers!” said Flint. “Look at our ship! Go on, my lads, look at her!” That puzzled them. They stared around almost nervously. “Soon she’ll be good as new,” said Flint. “Re-fitted, re-provisioned, leaks plugged and rigging spliced. We’ve all the tackles and all the gear…and her luck shall be re-made!”

      That was clever. They all knew Flint’s treasure had been left behind on the island and that, until she was stabbed in the back by Billy Bones, Lion had had the better of them. Nobody dared say it who sailed under Flint, but they all feared their luck was broken. Now they cheered and cheered and cheered.

      “Brothers!” cried Flint, raising a silver tankard. “Here’s to old friends and new luck!”

      “Old friends and new luck!” they roared.

      “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest…” began Flint, lifting up his fine, ringing voice and the fiddler following him.

      “Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” roared the crew.

      “Drink and the devil had done for the rest!”

      “Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”

      When he chose to be, Flint was irresistibly charming and now he worked his magic, with verse after verse of his favourite, hideous song, each more grim than the last, but always seeming funny when Flint sang it; he passed from man to man, pulling noses, clapping shoulders, poking ribs, and all the while dancing to the beat of his own song. Even Selena and Cowdray laughed, who both should have known better. As for the crew, they worshipped and adored their captain in that happy moment.

      But Cowdray was right. There was worse to come.

      “Now, shipmates!” cried Flint when the song was done, and he beamed at the close-packed ring of red faces, leering as the tropical sun went down. “Now, my jolly boys…” And Flint changed the entire mood with a solemn expression and hands raised to heaven. “Lads, let us remember those of our brothers foully slain in today’s action. Those slain against all the laws of war, when we had offered honourable surrender!”

      “Aye!” they roared.

      “What’s he saying?” said Selena to Cowdray. “That’s nonsense.”

      “I think you might wish to go below, my dear,” said Cowdray.

      “Why?”

      Cowdray looked away. “Experto credite!” he said. “Trust one who knows.”

      Selena paused. She looked at Cowdray. He was a scholar who loved Latin, and had the habit of spouting it when swayed by strong emotion, be it happiness, fear…or shame.

      “What do you mean?” she said.

      “Just go below.”

      “I see you recognise the villainy we endured today!” cried Flint. “And since we still have, under hatches, three of the guilty ones…” A deep and animal growl drowned out his words. “Silence between decks!” cried Flint, and instantly they obeyed.

      “Since we have three of them, I have made preparations in the name of justice.” He grinned wickedly. “Justice–and your amusement. So, clear the decks, and hold your patience!” He nodded to Allardyce and Morton, who had their orders and immediately stepped up to the lee rail.

      There was an intense buzz of conversation among the hands as Allardyce and Morton took a two-fathom plank (fresh from Christiaan Hugens) and shoved it over the lee rail so that half its length stuck out over the side, while the rest remained inboard, nailed firmly to the top of a heavy barrel. When this was done, they went below and brought up one of the prisoners. Barefoot, wearing only a pair of calico slops and with his hands tied behind him, the man was already shaking with fright, and he flinched pitifully as Walrus’s crew bayed like the mob at the Roman games. Finally, Allardyce and Morton heaved him bodily up on to the plank, where he stood swaying and shaking and gazing about in terror.

      “What is this?” whispered Selena to Cowdray.

      “I don’t know. This is new.” He turned to face her. “But I am going below now, and I think you should too.”

      “No…”

      “Selena, please follow me.”

      “Can’t we stop him?”

      “Flint? Never! But I beg you, on my knees, not to see this.”

      Selena, horrified and fascinated, remained where she was.

      Cowdray sighed and shook his head. “On your own head be it!” he said, and vanished down the quarterdeck hatchway.

      “Brothers!” cried Flint. “Those who know me will recall some of my merry games–Flint’s games!”

      “Aye!” they roared, nodding at one another in glee. There was one that they knew all too well, played atop an overturned tub with a belaying pin, where all the player had to do was move faster than Flint to avoid getting his fingers broken. They laughed and laughed, even those whose fingertips had been smashed. Indeed, some now displayed their scars with pride, and laughed louder than all the rest.

      “But this is a new game,” said Flint, lowering his voice like a conspirator. “And this the first time it’s been tried. So watch me, shipmates. Watch and learn!”

      With that, Flint picked up a boarding pike and began to sing his song again:

      “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest…” He cocked an ear to the audience.

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