"Aye!" growled the rest, and Povey nearly lost them.
"Sir," he said, "don't you see — the bastards are shooting our officers!"
"What?"
"Yes! The sods aim at the officers. Look round, sir. We set out with five lieutenants, a dozen mids, and two sergeants and corporals of marines — and nearly every bloody man they shot was one of them!"
"Despicable!" said the senior lieutenant.
"And now they've shot the commodore himself!"
"Filthy swine!"
"Mind you," said Povey, "it's exactly what we do in close action, with sharpshooters in the tops aiming at the enemy's quarterdeck."
"That's entirely different!" said the senior lieutenant.
"Aye!" they all said, and nodded furiously.
"It's this that's different, sir," said Povey, pointing at the jungle all around. "Land ways ain't no good afloat, and maybe sea ways ain't no good ashore!"
"Hmmm," they said, considering this fearful heresy.
"So, off with your coats, gentlemen — let's not give the buggers something to shoot at. And off with the marines' coats, too, lest they should stand out."
"What do we do with 'em?" said a voice. "The coats?"
"Drop 'em in the sodding jungle!" said Povey. "Who cares? It's our sodding lives we've to worry about, not our sodding coats!"
"Oh," said the voice.
"And another thing," said Povey, "no saluting! No 'Aye-aye, sir'! No stamping feet! Nothing that tells the swabs who to shoot at. Are we agreed… sir?"
"Yes," said the senior lieutenant, not overly delighted at this display of sparkling talent in a midshipman. "Anything else? Do say if there is, Mr Povey."
"Yes, sir!" said Povey instantly. "Next time the sods shoot at us, everyone falls flat like this — " He jerked a thumb at the crouching seamen and marines. "And we don't just blaze into the forest, we mark our targets — if any presents — and shoot 'em…" Povey concentrated furiously. "And… and… scouts ahead, and a chosen team of our quickest and most active men standing by ready to charge into the enemy's smoke to drive him back when he attacks, but without pursuing too far and getting lost!"
Povey was inventing — re-inventing — forest warfare. He was improvising as he went. It was a remarkable achievement. Without him, the landing force would have given up its attempt to penetrate the island. But now they pressed onward, and with significantly fewer losses when the Indians attacked again.
"Where are they?" whispered the senior lieutenant, for now the two of them were out in front of the column with the scouts. They were flat on their bellies, looking over a slight rise in the ground where the forest opened into a clearing. This, they knew from experience, to be a deadly dangerous place. Just the sort of spot where the Indians lay in wait.
"I think they've retreated, sir," whispered Mr Povey, who persisted in acting as second in command, and was so good at it that the senior lieutenant had given up trying to stop him. The senior lieutenant sighed. Povey was a precocious little sod, but his ideas were saving men's lives.
"Why would they do that?" said the senior lieutenant. "Retreat?"
"Perhaps they were ordered to, sir."
"Ordered? They're bloody savages!"
"Don't fight like savages, do they, sir? More like men under discipline."
"Hmm. Yes. So we'll press forward…"
The senior lieutenant didn't actually say "Shall we?" For the sake of his rank and dignity, he suppressed the words. But his expression spoke volumes, and Mr Povey smoothly added diplomacy to his growing repertoire.
"Aye-aye, sir. I'm sure you're right, sir," he replied, with all the modesty and respect he could muster. He said it as if it wasn't the blinding obvious thing to do, and just what he was about to say himself.
So they crept forward with the six men of the vanguard, as they'd dubbed them — picked because they were the nimblest — making remarkably little noise for sailors, though still enough to alert every Patanq on the island, had any been listening. And every few minutes they paused in their creeping for runners to go back and fetch the main column. In this manner they made good ground, in perfect safety, until…
Thud! A ship's gun fired some miles ahead.
"What's that?" said the senior lieutenant.
"It's a gun, sir!" said Povey.
"I know that, you impertinent little swab. But what is it?"
Povey couldn't resist it. The words leapt out:
"I'll go forward at the run, sir! I'll take the vanguard and explore. There's something afoot, sir. I think the Indians have gone, sir, so we'll be all right — I mean, if that's all right with you, sir?"
"Go and be bloody damned!" said the senior lieutenant. He was a big man, heavy and strong, and if he had to be a soldier — which he didn't want to be — he'd rather be a grenadier and stand fast, than a blasted light infantryman mincing all over the field. "Oh, get on with it, you pushy little bastard!"
But Povey missed the last part for he was already gone. Off with the vanguard, running towards the sound of the gun. It was hellish exciting, dashing through the trees: a bit like fox hunting, only better, 'cos foxes weren't full of doubloons, and it was wonderful to run and not crawl, and Povey was convinced the Indians were gone and not hiding.
And he was right. Ten minutes later, he and the other runners burst out of the forest and on to a beach, and gaped at the sight of three ships: one getting under way and two more anchored, and an old wreck besides. Further up the beach, there were tents and boats and men clambering aboard, and on the water there were more boats being cast off and others abandoned, and the decks of one ship were swarming with Indians, and there…
There! There! There! Painted clear and bold on the stern of the big schooner that was heading for the sea was the name Walrus — that very same Walrus they'd so closely missed in Charlestown!
"God bli' me!" cried Povey. "It's Flint! We've found him!"
Chapter 42
There was no doubt who held the power. It was Dreamer.
He held the power but he wasn't in command. That was Long John Silver. It was as obvious as the fact that he stood head and shoulders taller than any other man there.
Dreamer had the strength, for his men swarmed all over the beach and throughout Flint's ruined camp, catching Flint's men where they tried to hide and hauling them out. Still more Patanq stood in arms around Silver — dozens and dozens of them — while Silver had just nine men ashore and another twenty-two aboard Walrus. But Dreamer was desperate to get off the island, and was gabbling nonsense about the dangers it held, which meant getting his entire force off the beach, and into Walrus — now the only undamaged ship in the anchorage.
And that was seaman's work, so everyone looked to Silver, and stood round him yelling and shouting for his attention, and pointing this way and that, and pulling at his cuffs, and even Walrus was suddenly demanding attention by firing a signal gun, and her crew jumping up and down and pointing out to sea.
"John!" said Israel Hands. "They've seen something!"
"Mijnheer"" said a bearded man. "I was forced into this. I am no pirate!"
"Demons, One-Leg!" said Dreamer. "We must escape them!"
"What demons?" said Silver. "And who's the bloody Dutchman?"
"He is Red Beard," said Dreamer, "the Wayfinder!"
"Who?"
"He came to us out of Flint's camp. He came of his own free will."
"Did he now?"
"John!" said Israel Hands. "It's the navy!"