For the next two days, Springer's crew were the happiest tars in the service, since on the first day they were mainly unconscious and on the second they were recovering in a warm bliss of recollection. On the third day, Flint, Billy Bones and the boatswain's crew set them to work with the aid of rope ends knotted tight and soaked in salt water to give a good whack. The crew had had their fun, and now it was time to put the captain's (that is to say, Lieutenant Flint's) plan into operation.
The carpenter and his mates set about erecting a small shipyard ashore and hacking planks and timbers out of the ship herself. Another team, under the gunner and his mates, erected sheer-legs, block and tackle, and with the steady labour of twenty chanting seamen, dragged cannon bodily up to the cliff-tops at the mouth of the inlet, and established batteries to command the sea approaches.
At the same time, half the marines under one of the midshipmen began exploring the island to determine whether any danger lay at their backs. The other half, under Sergeant Dawson, deployed on the outskirts of the shore-works, in open order with ball cartridge loaded, to give warning of any attack.
Meanwhile, the cook and his mates served up victuals, the cooper filled the ship's butts with fresh water, the surgeon drew splinters and sewed up cuts, the sailmaker cut up Elizabeth's sails and re-sewed them according to the new pattern designed by Lieutenant Flint, and the boatswain's crew steadily stripped the rigging and fittings out of the ship, and set up a store tent ashore. And just to keep them busy, those men not already employed were sent out in a boat, rigged for sail, with another midshipman in command, to take bearings around the entire island, and to take soundings besides. This would enable a proper map to be made.
The true master of all these works was, of course, Lieutenant Flint, who excelled himself in the efficiency with which he flogged the men to it, and in the ingenious punishments devised for those who incurred his displeasure.
"Three days without water for you, my chicken," for a boatswain's mate who'd smashed his toes with a dropped roundshot, which Flint interpreted as malingering.
"The one to lash the other, by turns," he pronounced on two seamen who'd dropped a compass out of a boat in twenty fathoms. "And to continue until one or the other drops," he smiled. "So lay on, my hearties, for whichever beats the hardest will take less back."
And so it went on:
"Gagging with a marlin spike, while lashed to a spar in the sun."
"No grog until within soundings of England."
"No sleep for two nights."
"Ducking to the count of fifty."
"To play Flint's game, or take two dozen."
The result of all this was, firstly, that — in the absence of a maintop — Cap'n Flint the parrot spent a lot of time perched among the trees; and secondly that Elizabeth's crew were prevented from being mended and made sound by the busy works that Flint himself had set in motion. Under any hand other than Flint's, the men would have recognised the good sense of what needed to be done. They would have rejoiced in the escape from marooning, and they would have given of their best.
Alas, Flint could not deny himself these vicious pleasures. As for Captain Springer, he was worse puzzled than he'd been when at sea with Flint. He still couldn't put a finger on what was wrong with his first lieutenant, and was furthermore weighed down by the guilt of running his ship aground and not knowing how to get her off. So he took to skulking in his tent and emptying bottle after bottle to take away the despair. He left everything to Flint, unless Flint positively forced him to play a part.
One day, three weeks after they'd come ashore, Flint came to his tent with just such an intrusion.
It was hot, terribly hot. Springer's tent, rigged under the shade of trees along the shoreline, kept out the sun, but not the still pressure of heat. As usual, all work had ceased for the middle hours of the day when the sun blazed fiercest. A cable's length away, where the new vessel was growing, the steady thud, thud, thud of the carpenter's adze had come to a halt, along with the battering of mallets driving in trenails, and the groaning of saws shaping the timbers afresh. All hands were asleep, save those unfortunates on watch. Clad in an open- neck shirt, wide ducks, bare legs, with the sweat glistening on his heavy face, Springer snored in his hammock.
Two figures came scrunching across the shimmering white sand and into the dark of Springer's tent. Flint and Billy Bones were coming to call. Flint with his eternal parrot on his shoulder, and Billy Bones in his wake.
"Cap'n, sir?" said Flint, rapping his knuckles on the spar that acted as a tent post.
"Uh? What?" said Springer, starting out of his doze. Flint nudged Billy Bones and nodded his head quickly towards the empty bottles under Springer's hammock. Bones leered back. They'd become very familiar, these two.
"Sorry to disturb you, Captain, sir," said Flint, advancing into the tent with a paper rolled up in his hand.
"Damn you, you bloody sod," said Springer with reddened eyes. "Whassit now, you rat-piss streak of piddle?" He reached for a pistol that he kept by him and cuddled its heavy brass butt.
Flint saw the movement and smirked. Springer's face swelled and his teeth ground together. He hated Flint beyond reason, and the more so because he didn't know why. But his fingers twitched and lay still. He was a law-abiding man, incapable of putting a pistol ball through another officer in cold blood. Anyway, he was half asleep, half drunk, and having trouble keeping awake.
"Here's the chart, sir," said Flint, displaying the finished map of the island. "You'll see I've taken the liberty of naming the prominent features: Spy-glass Hill, Mizzenmast Hill, North Inlet, and so on." He pointed with his finger: "And here, sir, you can see that there is a better harbour than this, to the south." He nudged Billy Bones again, craftily so Springer could not see. "But, of course, we never got the chance to try it."
"Damn you, you whore's whelp… you walking abortion… you…" Springer mumbled on and Flint spoke over his incoherent curses.
"I'm glad you approve of the chart, sir," he said sarcastically. "For it was drawn entirely by myself."
He rolled up the chart and produced another paper showing the lines of the little sloop that the carpenter's men were building. "But that is not why I am here, sir, disturbing your rest." He made a show of presenting the plans to Springer. "Here's our little Betsy, sir. She'll be sixty tons, two masts, sweet as a nut, and able to bear six guns." He flicked a glance at Billy Bones, then continued: "Six guns and maybe forty men. Fifty at the uttermost, sir. We cannot build her bigger."
"Damn you…" murmured Springer and fell completely asleep.
"So most of the people must stay on the island, sir…" said Flint, making a pantomime of deference to the unconscious Springer, "… while Betsy sails to bring rescue to those who remain."
It was the plain truth and Flint had known it from the moment he and the carpenter had designed the new vessel. There was only so much that make-and-mend initiative could achieve, and some of Elizabeth's timbers were rotten besides. The carpenter had been sworn to silence under pain of death at Flint's own hand, should the secret leak out, plus the promise of being one of those to be embarked in the new ship.
But it would eventually become obvious to even the stupidest among the crew that there would not be room for all of them aboard Elizabeth's child. Any decent officer would therefore have summoned his men, given them the truth at once, and trusted to their good nature as seamen to understand that there simply was no other way forward. And any decent crew would have understood. But Lieutenant Joseph Flint had fallen so deeply into temptation that he was now driven by quite another logic than that which applied to decent officers who led decent crews.