“Here y’are, matey,” said one of the tars, holding out his mug for Groggy to take a sip and marvelling at the near-human way the monkey took it. The tar stroked the furry head and smiled, for Groggy was a handsome creature: big for a monkey, almost an ape, with thick brown fur, a creamy-white face and chest, bright, intelligent eyes and a long tail that served as an extra hand when he went aloft and leapt through the rigging as if in his jungle home.
He was the pet of all the squadron, for his reputation had spread and he’d been aboard the sloops Bounder and Jumper to be shown off, and all hands had crowded round to see him. But it was the flagship that owned him, for rank has its privileges as all the world knows.
“Take a drop o’ mine,” said another tar, offering his mug, but:
“No!” cried a voice from the quarterdeck, and Groggy flinched and looked up, as they all did.
Captain Baggot, commander of the squadron, was bellowing loud enough to be heard from keelson to main-truck. “No!” he cried. “I will not be deterred!” Then the voice sank to an incoherent rumbling, and the men at the mess-tables looked at one another in silence. As in most ships, there were no secrets aboard Oraclaesus, whatever delusions her officers might have in the matter, and the entire crew knew what was under discussion by their masters. They knew it, and it made them uneasy.
Above, Baggot stood with his hands clasped behind his back in the brilliant tropical sunshine and stamped his foot in rage, for he was confronted on his own quarterdeck by the only man in the entire squadron whom he could not dismiss, disrate or discipline: Dr Robert Stanley, the ship’s chaplain.
Fizzing with anger, Baggot turned his back on Stanley, and tried to ignore the fact that he was under the gaze of numerous spectators: lieutenants, master’s mates and midshipmen, together with all those of the ship’s lesser people who were on duty and not at their victuals down below. Baggot avoided their eyes and stared fixedly ahead, past mainmast, foremast, bowsprit and rigging, over the deep blue waters of the anchorage, to stare at Flint’s blasted island with its blasted jungles and its blasted sandy beaches and its blasted hills, not ten minutes by ship’s boat from where he was standing…and which island – God knows blasted where but somewhere – hid a most colossal fortune in gold, silver and stones: a treasure estimated at the incredible amount of eight hundred thousand blasted pounds, which he – Captain John Baggot – was determined to find, dig up, bring aboard, and take home in triumph to England where a fat slice of the treasure would be his, as prize money, and with it a promotion and, in all probability, a seat in the House of Lords!
But…staring into the back of his head, even this blasted instant, and wearing his blasted clerical wig, was Dr Robert Stanley, who in the first place was appointed by the Chaplain General and not by the Royal Navy, and who in the second place had a brain like a whetted razor, and in the third place – which place out-ranked all other places – had tremendous and powerful patrons.
“Captain,” said Dr Stanley, “a moment’s reflection will show you that I speak for the good of the squadron and all those embarked aboard.” He spoke quietly and politely, but Baggot only shook his head.
“Be damned if I’ll be told by you, sir!” he said. “Be damned if I will!” And he stamped his foot like a petulant child sent on an errand who refuses to go but knows he must obey in the end.
“Ah!” said Dr Stanley, for he saw that he was winning, then he nodded briefly at two young officers standing on the downwind side of the quarterdeck with the rest. These were Lieutenant Hastings and Mr Midshipman Povey: old enemies of the pirate Flint. They’d suffered in the blood-drenched mutiny he’d engineered on this very island, and had then been set adrift by him with the few loyal hands, saving the lives of all by their seamanship. And now they were most important young gentlemen – especially Lieutenant Hastings, since his mother was the society beauty Lady Constance Hastings, sister-in-law to Mr Pelham the Prime Minister. Lady Constance – outraged at Flint’s mutinous ill-treatment of her son – had badgered Pelham into equipping and sending out the crack squadron – comprised of Oraclaesus and her consorts – that had caught Flint…and now had him in irons down below!
Thus the Prime Minister himself stood behind the expedition and he had taken an active interest in many of the posts within it…including that of Dr Stanley, who now turned to another of the spectators, Mr Lemming the ship’s surgeon. Lemming had been summoned to the deck by Stanley in readiness for this moment, and was now wrenching his hat into rags in trepidation at the role he must play.
“Captain,” said Dr Stanley, “Mr Lemming will vouch for the truth of what I say…” He turned to Lemming.
“Um…er…” said Lemming, in terror of his captain’s wrath.
“Come, sir!” said Stanley to Lemming. “A good three-quarters of this ship’s people and those of Bounder and Jumper are struck down with fever and headache, are they not?”
“Yes, sir,” said Lemming, for it was unchallengeable fact.
“And it is the invariable characteristic of West India fevers,” said Stanley, “that they strike worst upon ships anchored close inshore, and especially those in enclosed anchorages such as this –” He waved a hand at the great crescent sweep of the shore, over three miles from end to end, that curved in foetid embrace around the anchorage, with festering swamps and steaming, livid-green jungles crowding down upon the white sands of the beach. It was a bad enough fevertrap by itself, made worse by the small island that lay close off it, preventing the sea breeze from sweeping away the miasma.
“Yes,” said Lemming, finding courage in truth. “Damn place stinks of fever. I said so as we came in.” Which latter statement was only partly true, for he’d said it to himself and hadn’t had the courage to voice it aloud, not when all hands were wild eager for a treasure hunt.
“There, sir!” said Stanley, to Captain Baggot’s back. “There you have it from our surgeon. If we stay anchored here – for whatever reason – we shall see this fever grow among the crew, perhaps taking the lives of all aboard.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” said Lemming, at last. “The yellow jack and the ague can kill seven in ten of those that ain’t seasoned. And we don’t even know what this fever is, for I’ve never seen the like before.”
But Captain Baggot wasn’t quite ready to give in. Not yet. Not even when he was unwell himself, having brought up his last meal like a seasick landman, with the pain throbbing behind his eyes and getting worse with each passing hour.
“Flint!” he spat. “It’s all down to blasted Flint. He knows this blasted island and all its blasted tricks. Damn me if I’ll not go below and question him again.” He turned to face Stanley. “And you, Mr Chaplain, shall come with me!”
“Gentlemen,” said Flint, smooth face glowing in the lantern light, “I really do not know how I can be of service to you.” Graceful and elegant, he was an intensely handsome and charismatic man, with Mediterranean, olive skin, fine teeth, and a steady gaze that made lesser men nervous – most men being lesser in that respect.
“But I must protest again,” said Flint, “against the monstrous injustice that has been done to Mr Bones, here, who is a loyal heart and true.”
“Aye!” said Billy Bones. “And ready to do my duty now, as ever I was before!”
Bones was the perfect opposite of Flint: a huge, broken-nosed, lumpish clod with massive fists, broad shoulders and a strong whiff of the lower deck about him – for all that he’d been a master’s mate in the king’s service, accustomed to walk the quarterdeck and take his noon observation.
Flint and Billy Bones had spent the last week secured down below, deep in the damp, evil-smelling, hold where it was always dark and the rats cavorted and played. Both men wore irons on their legs and a chain passed between them, secured to a massive ringbolt driven into the thickness