Only Sweet Anne's motion saved her. Israel Hands's crews did their best, serving their guns like men-o'-warsmen, but the two-hundred-ton mass of the ship, still with way on — even with rigging broken and helm shot away and the hull slewed sideways to the channel — ran slowly past the battery, streaming blood and entrails. No matter how hard they tried, the gunners couldn't train their pieces to bear on the target.
Meanwhile Walrus and Hercules backed topsails and came to rest clear of the battery, and immediately began hoisting out their boats, bosun's calls and chanting crews sounding out over the anchorage in competition with the Hell's choir of howling that rose up from Sweet Anne's reeking, slippery deck.
"Where's Flint?" said Israel Hands, running from his guns to John Silver, who'd stood out from the battery for a good view.
"There!" said Silver, and pointed. The longboat with Flint aboard was pulling steadily into the anchorage, keeping well clear of the battery's arc of fire, and looking for a landing.
"Trust him to save his skin!" said Israel Hands.
"Aye," said Silver, turning to the ships, "but look at the way them swabs is getting their boats in the water." He shook his head. "The buggers knew what to do! That's Flint, that is, as laid plans against eventualities! And I'd hoped we might get a bit more use out of this…" He looked at the battery. "Ah well, there's a few of 'em out there as won't see their mothers again!" He laid a hand on Israel Hands's shoulder. "Well done, Israel my son. Let's see what happens next!"
The battery's guns kept the boats off till dusk. Then they crept forward, crammed with armed men. As soon as it was fully dark they'd get round the battery and land.
"Time to go!" said Silver. "Do your duty, Mr Hands."
"Aye-aye, Cap'n."
Israel Hands left the rest to Mr Joe, nudging Silver so he shouldn't fail to see how the lad was coming on.
Once again, with minimal commands because he'd made sure all hands knew what to do, Mr Joe had the six guns hauled inboard from their embrasures and turned in pairs, such that each gun was muzzle-to-muzzle with another, one of each pair loaded with a double charge and two shot, then primed and a slow match laid to each touch-hole.
"All hands stand clear!" cried Mr Joe.
"Aye-aye, sir!" they cried, and Israel Hands nodded approval as the men doubled to his orders, streaming past himself and Silver as they made their way off the beach and into the cover of the trees. Silver couldn't run. He stumped along as best he could.
"I see you loaded only one of each pair," said Silver. "Why not both?"
"No point, Cap'n," said Israel Hands. "They'd never fire in the same instant."
"Ah! And I suppose it's no good just spiking the buggers?"
"No! They'll have gunners tools aboard and they'd just drill 'em out. Spiking's what you do only if you can't do nothing better."
Silver grinned.
"An' you can do better, can't you, matey!"
"Aye, Cap'n!"
They sheltered behind a tree. Mr Joe lit his fuses and ran towards them. The rattle and clunk of oars sounded over the darkening anchorage. Mr Joe arrived breathless and panting.
Then… BANG-CLANG! The first gun went off, shortly followed by the rest, and orange flame lit up the anchorage, revealing the creeping boats and their white-faced crews, dreading a blast of canister. They breathed again, but chunks of gun-metal, blown off the nine-pounders, rained down from on high, splashing into the waters, leaving six thoroughly ruined barrels, blown out of their carriages into the sand.
Soon Flint's men were in possession of the anchorage. Flint and Danny Bentham looked over the ruined battery while the Patanq searched the beach and attempted to track Silver's men in the dark.
"How many did we lose aboard Sweet Anne?" said Flint.
"Thirty at least," said Bentham, "killed and ruined." He shook his head. "That bastard Silver!"
"Huh!" said Flint. "Don't I just know it!"
A mile away, Silver was dividing his men into two teams.
One would go to Fort Foremast under Mr Joe, the other would go back to Fort Silver with Silver himself. Night marches had been planned and practised. The men were used to it.
Silver was shaking Mr Joe's hand in farewell when a rumble came from the northern inlet.
"Ah!" said Israel Hands.
"Ah!" said Silver.
On the beach, two Patanq warriors ran towards the smoking, blackened body that had been blown into the air and landed thump on its back, having just attempted to pick up a sheath-knife, temptingly laid on top of a keg. The keg contained gunpowder and a pistol-lock, rigged by Israel Hands, which was connected to the knife by a thread.
The campaign had begun very well for Long John Silver.
Chapter 28
As soon as it was light, Flint and Dreamer sent out the Patanq warriors. In a single day's swift running, they scouted the entire island and found all Silver's forts. It was childishly easy for them. They sighed and shook their heads at the paths, the hacked undergrowth, and the clumsy tramplings of men who seemed utterly ignorant of bushcraft — as indeed they were, being seamen; just as the Patanq didn't know a keelson from a kedge anchor.
They did, however, know about forts. And on the next day at dawn, Flint and Bentham stood beside Brendan O'Byrne, Tom Allardyce and some others of their crews within sight of the fort nearest the northern inlet. They stood well back, though, because it was time for the Patanq to earn their gold. So Flint and the rest hid behind the trees that filled most of the plain up in the northwest corner of the island, and they watched the Indians go forward.
There were three hundred Patanq on the move, led by Dark Hand the war sachem, who took precedence over Dreamer in time of battle. They were highly organised — by clan and family — into small companies, as disciplined as a regiment of the line but without the polish and buttons, for they fought almost naked, wearing just leggings and loincloths as protection from the undergrowth, and going barefoot for silence.
And they were profoundly silent. They moved like smoke. They gave nothing away: their brown bodies — crossed and speckled with tattoos — merged among the shadows as they moved out from the cover of the trees and crept over the scrubland towards the fort that Silver's men had built by Foremast Hill, which had been selected for assault… and which seemed so utterly unaware of their coming.
They hid behind tussocks. They slid along folds in the ground. They signalled with gentle bird calls so each company could keep its place in the advance. They were almost invisible: the bright feathers and glittering adornments were gone, leaving only knives and hatchets, guns and ammunition. The guns were fusils and fowling pieces rather than heavy regimental muskets, which were too cumbersome for the Patanq mode of warfare.
Slowly, carefully, led by Dark Hand with Dreamer following, the Patanq moved out into the dawn… and disappeared. There was utter silence save for the birdsong — if it was bird- song — and the booming of the island's surf.
"Where are they?" whispered Bentham to Flint, after ten minutes. "Can you see them?"
"Over there," said Flint, pointing to the east of the fort. "I think they're trying to get the sun behind them as it comes up." He paused. "Leastways, I think it's them. I'd fixed one with my eye, trying to follow him. But it's hard…" He shook his head. "No," he admitted, "I don't know where they are." He smiled his gleaming smile. "So much the better. What a surprise for Silver's men!"
"Aye," said Bentham. "Damned if I'd like the Patanq creeping up on me!"
Ba-Ba-Ba-Bang-Bang-Bang! Smoke and flame as the Patanq rose together, right up against the fort's palisade, and gave a single thundering volley, and a demon's shrieking of war cries. Half dropped their guns and leapt at the wooden fencing, hatchets between teeth. Half plied rammer, powder and bullet- bag, and delivered a crackling fire on the ramparts. The noise was deafening. The excitement was intense. Flint and his companions leapt to their feet, cheering loudly. "Go to it, me buckos!" cried Bentham. "Kill 'em! Rip 'em!" cried Flint, round-eyed and staring. "Chop their bastard bollocks off!" cried O'Byrne. They danced in their glee. It was magnificent entertainment: a wonderful spectacle wonderfully executed. It was the classic Patanq dawn raid, polished in frontier warfare between France and England, with the Patanq on whichever side suited them, tomahawking whichever enemies. It was a perfect delivery of a perfect surprise attack, to negate the advantages of those in the fort, to minimise losses to the attackers, and to win the day in a single, rolling, over-the-wall assault.