And CRASH! — another round from Israel Hands, who'd got the range nicely and was hitting Walrus at a comfortable, steady rate of about one shot every two minutes. They could have fired much faster, but Hands had a firm deck under his feet, and a good crew, and a target that was sitting still and not hitting back.
It was just a matter of time before Walrus was knocked into splinters.
Chapter 50
The boom and rumble of a gun reached Billy Bones, where he sat in his chains. The sound came down through two decks, loud and clear and unmistakable, and it set the very ballast stones a-tremble.
"Ah!" said Billy Bones, throwing off the leg-irons that he'd long since filed through and had left in place only for appearances, to keep Silver's men happy when they came down to feed him and to empty his slop-bucket. He frowned, for they'd done that none too often. It was usually the nippers they sent down to do it and the little bleeders delighted in spilling the stew on Billy Bones's legs — God an' all his little angels help 'em if Billy ever got his hands on 'em!
He stood up and stretched. He'd been four days down here. He was cramped and stiff. He'd been sat on his behind the whole time, unable — in his irons — even to take a step, and afraid to take them off to exercise for fear of losing them in the gloom and blowing the gaff. Now he wriggled his toes for the pins and needles, and he rubbed his arms and worked his shoulder joints. He grumbled and mumbled a bit, but he was a stoic beast. He was no more capable of self-pity than a cart-horse or an ox.
"Now then!" he said, as he took a good grip of the iron bar that had held the shackle-loops to his ankles. It was about eighteen inches long and three-quarters of an inch thick. He felt the weight of it. Not really big enough, should it come to fighting, but it would have to do. Then he felt in his pockets for the tools that Flint had given him. The file had done its job, and now it was time for the other.
BOOM! Billy Bones looked up at the deckhead as a gun went off above. Oh yes! Lion and Walrus were at it hammer and tongs — not that he hadn't guessed it already, what with Silver bellowing, and the crew clearing the decks and hoisting out the boats. Billy Bones grudgingly approved of that. It was man-o'-war practice, was hoisting out the boats: getting them out of the way of shot, and ready for use in case of need, especially in shoal waters like this, where a captain might need to haul his ship out of danger by putting out a kedge anchor.
He took a step forward, wincing at the stones under his stockinged feet, and he paused and looked at the big ship's lantern that had been his sun and moon the past few days. He was tempted to take it, but he had much to do and couldn't do it heavy laden. He looked about and made plans.
They'd put him next to the well that fed the ship's pumps — the well and the shot locker. There was a little area of naked ballast down here, but the rest of the hold was taken up with water-butts and other heavy stores. It was crammed and dark. He pursed his lips and thought heavily… and started forward.
Round the well he went, and up on to the water-butts and aft, where a half-deck began, packed with more stores, then up a ladder, now in darkness beyond the feeble light of the lantern. He stopped for an instant to get his bearings. There should be only a thin bulkhead, now, between him and the wardroom.
BOOM! The gun fired again, and Billy Bones heard Lion's men cheering and the unmistakable sound of Silver's crutch thumping the deck.
"I'll show you, John Silver," he thought, "won't I just!" And he felt in the darkness for the hatchway that he knew was there… There it was. He ran his fingers round the coaming and tried to get the iron bar into the small gap. It was too big to fit. But never fear: out with the file, a bit of scraping and cutting, and he'd opened up a gap for his lever. A moment later he'd forced open the hatch. It wasn't properly locked, just fastened with a wooden catch on the other side.
Light stabbed his eyes. After almost a week in the gloom, the brilliant tropical sun was blinding and painful — even when it had to make its way down through a skylight and into the shadowy wardroom. Billy waited, blinking and rubbing his eyes. Everything was bright and loud, and a companionway led straight up to the quarterdeck, just to his left, letting in more light. The crew were yelling and cheering, and Israel Hands was calling out as he trained a gun… "Right! Right! Right!"
Billy Bones hesitated a moment. Lion's crew were all around him. They were only a few feet away…
BOOOOM! The gun fired and the men cheered.
Billy bent to his task. This wasn't really a wardroom. Not like the real thing on board a warship. They just called it that as a sort of joke. It was a narrow space, lit from above, with cabins on either side for the ship's officers: little boxes four feet wide and just over seven feet long.
Quickly, Billy pulled all the doors open. He dragged out everything from the cabins — especially papers and small timbers — and scattered them on the deck. Then he found a knife and ripped open all the straw mattresses he could find and shoved some of them in a pile and dragged others into the stern cabin, aft of the wardroom, and heaved the cabin furniture on them, and opened the stern lights.
From his own cabin he dragged his old sea-chest, and hauled it back through the hatchway and into the hold. Then he opened it, pulling out the papers that Flint had given him, and a gallon bottle of olive oil. That went all over the pile of rubbish in the middle of the wardroom and stern cabin, and slopped towards the hold.
Then Billy Bones got himself back into the hold with his box, and looked out through the rectangle of light before producing Flint's final gift. It was — or had been — a gentleman's pocket pistol, one of the tiny, box-lock kind with a screw-off barrel that enables it to be loaded at the breech. With the barrel removed and the wooden butt cut away, there was very little left of it: just a few inches of steel mechanism.
In that condition, and loaded only with powder and wadding, it was useless as a pistol… but excellent as a firelighter.
Billy Bones cocked the lock and held the thing close to the trail of papers that led aft from the hold. As Flint had ordered, he had a nice, dry pile of torn and crumpled papers for his target, and the oily papers were stacked behind that.
"The oily ones won't take the spark, Billy-boy!" Flint had said. "So the dry ones must be first, and the oily ones must feed from them."
Billy marvelled at Flint's wisdom. Was there nothing he didn't know? He thought of that last conversation with Flint aboard Walrus, when — not that he knew it — Flint had been so astonishingly honest with him. All others had received lies tailored to their tastes. But Billy Bones had received the truth.
"I'll not share it, Billy," he'd said. "Not a penny, not a grain of dust!" He hadn't even said, "We'll not share it." He took Billy Bones so much for granted that he didn't make the small effort of pretending to include Billy Bones in his plans, not even when talking to Billy face to face. He'd laughed and pulled Billy's nose and allowed him plain sight of the Great Truth: the goods were not to be shared at all. Not among one hundred and forty-seven, nor among seventy-four, nor twenty- five, nor even two. The goods were all for Joe Flint.
"The only part I have not yet fully arranged is how I shall proceed on sighting England," he'd said.