All hands with no immediate duties took to the rigging for a better view of what they were approaching. This was Flint's secret island; the island that had no name; the island that had been the site of so much bloodshed. There'd been much discussion of this on the lower decks of both ships, and many of the hands were already cursing the island as unlucky — as well they might, for some of them had done things there that left them with guilt hanging round their necks like anchor cables.
It was not a happy landfall, not on either ship, and the anchorage seemed to echo the island's ugly reputation. It was entirely land-locked and buried in woods, with great trees right down to the high-water mark. Two little rivers emptied into the bay, though not cleanly, as proper river-mouths, but rather they permeated into oozing swamps. The foliage around that part of the shore was of a poisonous brightness, and a stagnant smell rose up from it: the smell of sodden leaves and rotting wood, where fungus flourished and slimy things crawled.
Nonetheless, Walrus and Lion dropped anchor, and at the beginning of the morning watch on the day after, a grand council was held, according to articles.
As eight bells sounded, the ships were anchored with their sails hanging limp. It was a hot, still day and the weight of the sun pressed down like a soft pillow laid on an old man's face to smother him. The wind was too tired to move and every decent beast or bird crept out of the sun to sleep.
Only the busy mosquitoes were at work. They came up with the steam of the island's marshes and set forth with fever and yellow-jack to kill jolly sailormen, but they couldn't kill Flint's men, nor Long John's neither. These survivors of past epidemics were either naturally immune or too repulsive even for insects to bite.
All hands were gathered aboard Walrus, and since this was an exceedingly important occasion, they were turned out in the splendour of their full dress: silken sashes and soiled coats, ruby rings and filthy fingernails, ostrich plumes and sweat- stained hats, glittering earrings and knocked-out teeth. And of course, they were heavily armed. At minimum, every man bore a brace or two of pistols and a cutlass, and on top of that there were hatchets, dirks, muskets, knives, and such other arms as the individuals fancied.
Flint, as always, wore the blue coat and bright buttons of an officer, and a hat so laden with gold lace that it was a wonder his head could support it. Unlike his men, he was sparkling clean. His bucket-top boots were shiny and sleek. His shirt was white with fresh-water laundering and his chin was close shaven. Under his arm was a double-barrelled coaching carbine, and gripping daintily on his shoulder, the brilliant green of his parrot, ducking and bobbing its head and occasionally muttering in Flint's ear.
Long John Silver, while not aspiring to the elegance of the Commodore, as Flint now called himself, was his usual, neat self. He too wore a blue officer's coat and, while he must now lean upon a crutch instead of standing square on two feet, his tall figure overshadowed Flint. His free hand — the one not encumbered with the wooden staff — was grasping his belt conveniently close to his pistols. So Silver and Flint looked at one another, and smiled careful, political smiles. Each man was backed by his followers, and each man — at a purely personal level — was almost sure that he could draw and fire and drop his rival before the other could reply… Almost sure, but not quite.
As the two factions crammed aboard Walrus, Selena stood apart and aligned with neither. She wore the same clothes she always wore, the outfit she'd settled on, by native wit, as being the most suitable for a single woman among so many men: loose britches to the knee, and a shirt that covered both arms and throat, worn outside the britches both for coolness and to hide the shape of her figure. Nonetheless, when Silver's party came over the side, they ogled her fiercely and whispered to one another, grinning and licking their lips.
At first, Silver couldn't take his eyes off her, looking for some sign, or a look, or a smile. But he got none, and so he forced himself to pay attention to Flint. This was just as well, for Flint looked at nothing other than Long John Silver.
The meeting between the two men was very painful, and all present felt the strain of it. What's more, the peace between the two sides was straining like an anchor cable that's a whisker from snapping under load. One false word on either side would have been sufficient to start a slaughter. It was an unholy business, totally unlike the moments before normal fighting, when the two sides are strangers. This time, it was old shipmates facing one another.
In some cases there were friendships between the men in either party. In other cases there were scores to settle and injuries to repay. Furthermore, should it come to the extremity of cold steel, then each man had a very good idea who was better in a fight than himself. If it came to it, the thing would be a nasty little civil war. In preparation for it, men felt for their weapons and measured their chances:
Can't fight my old mate Conky Carter…
I'll pistol that bastard Jos Dillon. Thieving sod…
I'll not face Billy Bones. Any o' the others, but not him…
He's a lead-footed swab, that Black Dog. I'll do for him…
For Flint and Silver, upon whom depended the decision to fight or to talk, the strain was heaviest of all. Each man still felt the pain of a shattered friendship, and grief at the loss of so great a comradeship. But more than that, each was afraid of a world without the other. They'd grown so used to depending on one another that they were frightened to be alone, and so they stood ten feet apart and stared into each other's faces, wrapped so deep in their own thoughts that they visibly started when Billy Bones came forward and raised his voice.
"Gentlemen of fortune, and jolly companions all!" he cried. "Silence on the lower deck and let no man strike another, on pain of the yardarm, during this free council of free men."
Billy Bones had long since swallowed and digested all the lore and custom of those who'd sailed under Mason and
England. As far as he was concerned, it was the official way for things to be done. In front of him was a small table, spread with the skull and crossed bones of the black flag. On this was laid — like a Bible on an altar — the Book of Articles under which the company sailed. Billy Bones now respected these things as once he had respected the Union Jack and King George's head on a guinea piece.
"Hats off and give silence for Commodore Flint!" he cried, and there came a rustle of movement as hats were removed.
And then, with the beginning of these formal proceedings, miraculously the tension lifted and everyone let go of their knives and pistols and muskets, and all hands relaxed. Such is the power among men of the images and symbols of authority that Billy Bones was not so far wrong after all.
And so the great debate began.
Chapter 31
"Thank you, Brother Bones," said Flint formally, and stoodforth as the only man present still wearing his hat.
He looked around the dense-packed mass of armed and gaudily clad men, and he spoke with a strong voice that all could hear.
"The purpose of this free council," he said, "is to agree finally the plan whereby I propose that our goods be buried safe ashore in this secret place — " He pointed ashore to the green, sweltering island with its line of hills and hidden mysteries. "This wise step shall enable us to put together, in one stroke, such a fortune for each man as shall make him rich for life!" There was a stir among the men at this. The time was come for debate, and the assembled members screwed up their minds to the process.