So all these wonders were put to the flames, including the contents of the ship’s two magazines: which – even leaving aside the ready-made, flannel cartridges – contained two hundred ninety-pound, copper-bound kegs holding a total of eight tons of powder.
“Go on!” said Billy, and the two hands were over the side at the main chains and scrambling down into the boat that was bumping and rolling alongside. It was a launch, chosen for speed, and six nervous men were waiting at the oars. Billy Bones’s two men made eight: enough to make the launch fly. He sighed, and followed at the dignified pace of the senior man. “Give way!” he cried at last, and the oarsmen threw their weight – heart, soul, mind and strength – upon the oars in their eagerness to escape the doomed ship and her brimfull magazines.
It was woven into Billy Bones’s nature to tell any crew of oarsmen to put their backs into it; to spur them on, just as a matter of principle…but even he could see that it wasn’t needed on this occasion. The hands were terrified and pulling like lunatics. For one thing, they could see what was happening astern. They could see the red flames pouring out of Leaper’s hatches, and the smoke curling up from Oraclaesus. But Billy Bones thought it beneath his dignity to look back, and he steered for the distant Bounder where Flint awaited with the new crew, and the new future.
They were nearly alongside of her when the first explosion came, and the oarsmen lost stroke as they gaped at the ghastly sight. Now even Billy Bones couldn’t resist looking, and he turned in time to see Oraclaesus break her back: stern and bow drooping, and midships blown clear out of the water by the enormous violence of an explosion that threw flame and smoke and fragments of smashed gear tumbling high into the air, including – hideous to see – the entire, massive, one-hundred-and-eighty-foot mainmast – topmast, t’gallant and all – hurled its own length and more, straight up, with the great yards snapping like cannon-fire and trailing a tangle of rigging and sailcloth…only to hang…and curve…and fall smashing and rumbling down into the blazing wreckage of the ship, throwing up sparks and flame and ash.
Billy Bones sobbed. He was a seaman born and bred, an embodiment of the sea life, and he couldn’t bear to see a ship – especially so fine a ship – come to such an end. As for the oarsmen, they’d served aboard Oraclaesus and she’d been their home and their pride: they threw their faces into their hands and wept…and the launch lost way and rolled horribly, with her oars to all points of the compass.
Soon after, Jumper exploded, the flames for some unfathomable reason taking that bit longer to find her powder. But there were no more tears, only dull misery, for Billy Bones had his men pulling again, and running alongside Bounder, where he went up the side and was received by tars saluting. Having lifted his hat to the quarterdeck, he made his way aft to report.
Flint – who didn’t share Mr Bones’s views on grave-robbing – was immaculate in a cocked hat and the gold-laced uniform coat of a lieutenant, with a fine sword at his side. He was standing at the windward side of the quarterdeck with his officers clustered in his lee as tradition demanded. These were Lieutenant Comstock, a lad of twenty, lately in command of Leaper and now rated first lieutenant; the red-coated Lieutenant Lennox, who was even younger; and finally Mr Baxter, ship’s carpenter, but rated a watch-keeping officer by Flint. There was also the equivocal Mr Braddock, who was no seaman at all. He’d been Captain Baggot’s band-master aboard Oraclaesus, and being in the captain’s personal service was excused fighting and flogging, and considered himself a gentleman.
Billy Bones looked at Braddock and sniffed. The lubber was full of himself and needed taking down. Then Billy glanced at the hands in the waist, and nodded in approval. Having combined the surviving crews of three ships, Flint now had a total of thirty-three men aboard Bounder, including twenty-five able seamen, one sergeant of marines, and two marine privates: a full and satisfactory number to work a two-hundred-ton, two-masted sloop and sail her anywhere in the wide world, especially as she was now provisioned to bursting point. Nonetheless, thirty-three was only a small complement should ever it be necessary to man her twelve six-pounders.
“I’m come aboard, Cap’n!” said Billy Bones formally, giving a smart salute.
“Well done, Mr Bones!” said Flint. “It is a sad task, that with which you were charged, but a needful one, and you have acquitted yourself well.”
Billy Bones bathed in the warmth of his master’s approval, and also in pride at his master’s splendour and all that he had recently achieved. Flint had saved all aboard Oraclaesus, and made the hard decision to abandon the frigate and concentrate all hands aboard Bounder, and to fire the other ships. He’d persuaded the men to follow him, and had acted in so fine and officer-like a manner as to prove that he was indeed the matchless leader that Billy Bones knew him to be…enabling Billy Bones – despite hideous and recent experience – to hope that his beloved master had changed for the better and become – once again – the man who’d won his undying allegiance all those years ago.
The dog-like expression on Billy Bones’s face was bad enough, but when Flint turned to his officers he nearly ruined his entire performance…for the two young lieutenants and the elderly carpenter stood to attention and touched their hats the instant his eye fell upon them. And as for the hands in the waist, standing with their hats in their hands, awaiting his orders: Flint didn’t dare look at them.
What dupes they all were! What credulous morons! He’d won them round in a few days, with a bit of seamanship, an absolute denial of guilt, and a firm protestation that all the tales against him were spite and lies – which phrase he’d lifted bodily from Billy Bones without bothering to say thank you: not for that nor for the superb job Billy Bones had done in extracting innocent praise for Captain Flint out of Ben Gunn, thus commencing Flint’s redemption.
So Flint fought hard not to give way, he really did, for here he was, in front of them all, posing as a loyal sea-service officer with two lieutenants calling him sir, and Billy Bones in raptures of joy, and the lower deck ready to eat out of his hand if he filled it with nuts. And so, and so…Flint frowned magnificently, and dug the nails of his right hand into the palm of his left, where they were clasped behind him, so that the pain should kill his sole and only admitted fault: the unfortunate reaction that his inferiors drew from him on moments like this: a desire to laugh hysterically in their faces.
But…hmmm, thought Flint, that fine gentleman Mr Braddock – that blower of horns, that performer upon the sackbut and dulcimer, and in all probability the Jew’s harp as well – he had a frown upon his face. Flint recalled that Mr Braddock had been the most reluctant of all to set aside Captain Flint’s past activities. Indeed, he’d been most decidedly insolent, and had made reference to a store of “wanted” posters – now thankfully incinerated aboard Oraclaesus – that the squadron had brought out to the Colonies to be pasted on every wall between New York and Savannah, denouncing former lieutenant Flint as a pirate and mutineer!
Yes, Flint nodded to himself, it would soon become necessary for Mr Braddock to suffer a tragic-and-ever-to-be-regretted accident such as – sadly – was all too common in the dangerous confines of a small ship upon the mighty ocean.
Meanwhile:
“Gentlemen!” said Flint.
“Aye-aye, sir!” they cried, and Flint suffered agonies in choking the mirth.
“Our course is to England, and Portsmouth!”
“Aye-aye, sir!”
“Mr Comstock!”
“Sir!”