"England, Cap'n?" Billy had said, as ever wallowing in Flint's wake, and trying to keep up.
"Aye, Mr Bones, England! For we shall need a ship to carry the goods home, and the ship will need a crew — even the reduced crew that will have survived the perils of the seas so far as the sight of Plymouth, God help their precious souls! But nonetheless there must be some hands to haul on lines, and they will expect their shares. Even I wonder what shall be done with them!" Flint had laughed merrily. "But something shall be done, trust me, Mr Bones!"
And Billy Bones did trust Flint. In his mind there was no future without Flint. There was only service to Flint. In so far as he'd ever even thought about a future when Flint owned a palatial mansion and rolling acres, Billy Bones only assumed, vaguely, that he would be provided for as chief and favourite retainer.
But these were abstract matters, and Billy Bones was a practical man. He squeezed the trigger. The lock sparked, flame spurted, and the fire was under way. He waited to make sure that it was really taking hold and then backed away, dragging his sea-chest, and leaving the hatchway open for the draught.
He looked back at the red flames and felt the heat on his face. The wardroom's little cabins were made of thin, pine boards and the doors were painted canvas stretched over frames. There was no better place to start a fire, and he knew it. It was then he felt his moment of doubt… Billy Bones was a seaman from the crown of his greasy head to the dirt of his blackened toenails, and he had just done a thing for which a seaman's God would damn him to a seaman's Hell, and even Jesus bloody Christ would never forgive him.
Despite being armoured in his loyalty to Flint, the guilt arose. No man knew better than Billy Bones how terrible a monster is fire afloat. Landsmen in their ignorance wonder how a ship can burn in the midst of endless water, but not seamen. They know the truth. A ship was made of seasoned timbers, pitch and tar and canvas and rope — all of which burn like the Devil, especially in the tropics.
But he'd done it now, and that was that. Lion was doomed, and now it was time to save Billy Bones. He pulled the collection of cork and netting out of his box. He closed the box and said farewell — a sad wrench, for it contained his all and everything. Then he went forrard in the hold. He fumbled and groped in the dark. He made his way through narrow corners and dark ways, and broke through one or two closed hatches, and kept himself as quiet as could be when he went by the magazine, where a man was working, and one of the ship's boys was running down every couple of minutes for a powder charge.
Billy recognised the little bastard as one of the shit-sloppers, and had to hold back. This was no time to draw attention on himself. He looked aft, and thought he could see a red glow, though there were bulkheads in the way. He sniffed for smoke… none just yet.
Then the nipper was gone, scrambling up a ladder with his cartridge box, and Billy pressed on and got himself as close to the bow as he could, and just beneath the main deck, where he could be out and on to the fo'c'sle and over the side in a trice… when the moment came.
"You must wait your moment, Billy-boy," Flint had said. "Let the fire be in the stern and yourself in the bow, and then it shall be a clear run for you, over the rail, once all eyes are elsewhere."
As usual, Flint was right.
"Ship's a-fire!" roared Silver. "Ship's a-fire! Alllllll hands! Alllllll hands!"
Billy Bones heard him. Everyone heard him. There was a rumble of feet. Even Israel Hands and his crew abandoned their gun. Every soul in the ship leapt to face the deadliest danger of all.
Up and out into the daylight climbed Billy Bones, and with no man paying him the slightest attention, he waddled forward on his stiff, awkward legs, encumbered in his cork floats. He stopped at the rail and looked at the backs of Lion's people fighting the blaze, and Silver's tall figure in command, and the nine-pounder gun that had been making all the noise, and the smoke-clouded, distant Walrus and the sweep of the southern anchorage, and the blue skies and the hot sun. Finally… finally… he forced himself to gaze upon the hideously wet and terrifying expanse of the deep salty element upon which he'd floated all his life, but always in a ship or a boat. He'd never attempted to swim, nor wished to swim, nor could even bear the thought of swimming. He gazed upon it in dread, for he, who was a sailor, was terrified of water.
At the stern, Silver and his men were fighting heart, soul, mind and strength with pumps and hoses and buckets. Nobody looked forrard as Billy Bones crouched hidden in the fo'c'sle, trembling like a virgin on her wedding night.
If courage and loyalty are virtues — which they are — then Billy Bones showed virtue that day: valiant courage in the conquest of fear, and selfless loyalty to his cause. He showed such courage that some might forgive him for spending it in the service of so cruel and worthless a cause.
Billy Bones stood up, he held his nose and — with a sob — he jumped.
Chapter 51
Selena came up on deck and looked around. Walrus seemed ruined. Dead bodies lay ripped and gutted, wounded men screamed and groaned, and Flint — armed with a bloodied cutlass — was busy killing two more who were busy trying to get away from him.
She'd left the stern cabin through fear, having stayed there only through fear. The door was smashed and couldn't be locked, but she'd been afraid of the crew, even with Flint aboard. She hadn't the strength to swim for the shore again, and she'd huddled in a corner when Walrus's guns had fired. The sound of that had been bad, but not as bad as the sound of the cannon ball that had come in through one side of the cabin and out at the other, ploughing a furrow across the deck on its way. That was too much. She just ran.
"Black spot?" cried Flint. "I'll give you black spot!" And he caught one of his victims a slice across the back of the neck and ran the other through the chest.
Walrus's main deck was a jumble of shattered wreckage. The ship had been heavily pounded, half the guns were dismounted and the men were surly and muttering. For the moment, discipline was broken, and Flint — having just despatched two of his men — was in the centre of a ring of the rest. Some twenty men stood loosely around him, armed with axes and pikes and cutlasses. They weren't exactly threatening him, not quite, and they were wary of him — desperately wary — and kept out of his way. They knew Flint and they feared him, and they were trying to find their courage. They were shifting and moving all the time, none willing to be in the front rank, each seeking protection behind some heap of wreckage, or clambering on it for the advantage of height.
As men do — when they lack the courage to fight — they went to law instead.
"You can't do that, Cap'n!" cried Allardyce, pointing at the two dead men, "It ain't according to articles!"
"No!" said the rest.
"And you're bugg'rin' mad, you are!"
"Aye!"
"Shooting at bugg'rin' parrots!"
"Aye!"
"And we ain't bugg'rin' having it! We's gennelmen o' fortune, we are!"
"Aye!"
"And you must take the black spot and you may not harm him as brings it."
"No!"
"'Cos it ain't according to articles!" roared Allardyce.
"Rubbish!" cried Flint, with the blood of his wounded scalp streaming down his face. "There's no mention of any black spots in the Book of Articles!" That was true. Flint knew it for a fact. Allardyce was thrown into doubt, because he couldn't read and was nervous of Flint, who could.