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"And every man here knows I ain't no navigator!"

"Bugger that!" cried a voice. "We'll have no cap'n than Long John. Where's the man that could face him? Where's the man that's half the seaman he is?"

"Aye!" they roared. They cheered and they cheered for Long John, and waved their swords and muskets to the skies. But Silver shook his head and raised his hands for silence.

"No! And there's an end on it, say I. My vote goes for Cap'n Flint — a true gentleman, bred up in King George's navy, no less. So what say you, lads, to Cap'n Flint?"

They said very little at first, even those who'd come over from Betsy — especially those who'd come over from Betsy, for they knew what to expect from Flint. But Silver talked them round. He was a fine speech-maker, and all by native wit with never a drop of book-learning nor any example set to him by teachers. It was all sincere and from himself.

As for Flint, he watched all this as if from a box in a theatre and with such amazement, and such surprise and such disbelief as could hardly be contained within the body of a single man.

Silver was giving up command — which Flint could not believe. Silver was handing it to Flint on a plate — which Flint could not believe. Silver was doing this, whom Flint could see was possessed of all the natural gifts of leadership. Silver was doing this, whom the men wanted and whom they had called for. It was beyond understanding. Flint's mind cringed as it was dragged towards an invisible frontier, beyond which men acted for the common good, and not just for themselves.

Every day he spent with Silver, Flint came closer to that mystic line.

Chapter 16

30th May 1749
Night
Elizabeth's longboat
The South Atlantic

The two mids sat silent at the dark stern of the longboat, now sweetly heeling under her canvas — gaff and jib-sail — with half the men asleep, the rest dozing. Hastings had the tiller, the sky was bright with stars, the night was cool and comfortable, the seas were easy and the round-bowed longboat was a good, dry, sea-keeping vessel. Under other circumstances, those aboard of her would have been a merry company, but not now. Hastings and Povey in particular were not merry. They were watching the bright stars as if their lives depended on them, which they did.

"There!" said Povey. "There's one setting now — " he pointed "- see?"

"Yes," said Hastings, and gave a touch on the tiller to steer towards it. "Tell me again," said Hastings, who'd never paid half as much attention to his lessons as he should have.

"We're steering west" said Povey. "Sunrise and sunset gives us east and west by day, and the stars set in the west at night, yes?"

"Yes."

"And better than that, we've got the northern trades blowing northwest — or close to that — which couldn't be better for a westerly passage."

"But why are we steering west?" said Hastings.

Povey sighed. "'Cos my best guess is that we're somewhere in the latitude of the Windward Islands, and if we're lucky we might make Barbados, which is British, and which lies to the east of 'em."

Hastings frowned mightily, trying to remember which king owned which islands.

"The Windward Islands…" he said. "They're French, aren't they?"

"Yes," said Povey. "At least, I think so."

"Not Spanish?"

"No."

"Good! We'll take our chance with the Frogs, but not the heathen Dagoes."

The two mids sat silent for a while, then Povey returned to the question which took precedence over all other questions. At least he had the sense to whisper.

"So how long do you think the water will last?"

"They gave us one water-butt. That's about one hundred gallons when it's full."

"Yes, but how long will it last?"

"And there's twenty-three of us…"

"So how long will it last?"

"I don't know! Can you tell me how long till we reach the Windward Islands?"

"Well…" Povey frowned and thought mightily. He looked at the boat's wake, sliding past. "Well… we're running at about four or five knots wouldn't you say?"

"Yes."

"Say a hundred miles a day?"

"Yes."

"So… well… it depends how far we have to go."

Hastings couldn't bring himself to ask Povey how far that was, because he feared that Povey didn't know. For his part, Povey was immensely relieved that he was not asked, because indeed he did not know.

Instinctively, Povey glanced astern. He looked at the dark waters. There was nothing following them, nothing coming after them. There was nothing at all… except death by thirst.

Chapter 17

16th February 1750
Aboard Walrus
The Atlantic

The partnership of Flint and Silver soon took an enormous prize, and it was entirely due to Flint's skill that Walrus was in the right place at the right time, out in the open Atlantic.

He'd explained the way of it to Silver, previously, with a chart spread out over a table in the master's day cabin. Walrus was charging along under all plain sail, in a steady blow, and Flint and Silver and one or two others were crammed into the cabin for a council of war. Flint's fingers flicked over the chart table, pointing and stabbing. Precisely, Flint set his fingertip upon the port city of San Felipe, which lay on the eastward side of the island of Nuestro Santissimo Salvador, facing homeward towards Spain.

"Latitude fifteen degrees, three minutes and thirty seconds," he said. "Longitude fifty-five degrees almost exactly." He frowned. "If we can trust this Dago chart."

"Looks a good 'un to me, Cap'n," said Billy Bones, squinting hard at the chart and rubbing his chin. He pointed a thick finger: "Soundings, bearings an' all. Set out fair an' shipshape."

Silver frowned and peered at the neat, intricate penmanship, but all he could understand were the tritons and conches that the Spanish cartographer had used to illuminate the margins and name-plate of the map. A thick, heavy headache oppressed him, as always when he tried to get an understanding of these fearful concepts of latitude and longitude.

"It's a rich, fat island with a steady trade with Cadiz," said Flint. "And there's a stone fort and a pair of frigates to guard the town."

"So we can't cruise offshore, for fear of meeting superior force," said Billy Bones.

"Aye," said the company, including Long John. That much was obvious.

"Indeed," said Flint, tracing his finger along the latitude of San Felipe and following it far out into the Atlantic. "And therefore, we shall cruise along this line, out beyond the horizon from the port, awaiting a ship coming westward, running her latitude down to make landfall."

The pain in Long John's head became very great. His eyes watered and the chart swam before him.

"Beach and bone me, if I'll ever understand it!" said Long John, for he made no secret of his limitations in this matter. The others looked at one another and Flint sneered instinctively and thought to stab with sarcasm, but the words came out oddly, for him.

"What's ailing you, John?" said he. "It is but a trick, this navigation. A trick such as this old bird might learn." He tickled his parrot, and pulled at her feathers, causing her to squawk. "Why, this poor creature cusses in five languages, which is more than most men can do." He looked fiercely at the bird, and shook it.

"Grrrr!" he said

"Mierda! Coñol Tu m'emmerdes!" screeched the bird. Everyone laughed, and Flint — who never cussed at all — shrugged in embarrassment.