“Steady, boys,” said John Silver to the armed men hiding behind the bulwarks, and anywhere else where they couldn’t be seen from the approaching ship.
“Steady boys,” croaked the parrot on his shoulder and the hands laughed.
“Stow that!” hissed Silver, and clappEd a hand on the bird’s beak.
It would be a tragic waste to spoil things now. The sun was high in the blue heavens, the sea was calm with a fresh wind, and there were even gulls above, ventured out from the land just under the horizon, while a fine, fat three-masted ship came offering itself up, all bright and spanking new, with fresh white sails and bright-coloured flags that hadn’t seen a drop of weathering, and jolly tars aboard who couldn’t imagine what a mistake they were making in coming to give aid.
“John,” said Selena, standing next to him by the tiller, “I give you one last chance not to do this. It’s shameful deceit. How can you do this to others who use the sea?”
“Belay that!” he said. “We can’t take a prize no other way – we’re too slow. It’s this or nothing! D’you think I’d not rather bear down with colours flying?” He cursed and beat the deck with his crutch, and he looked at her and sneered: “An’ if you’re so moral and mighty, what’re you doing on deck in your gown so they sees a woman and ain’t afraid?”
“Huh!” she said. “You know why! If they’re taken by surprise there’ll be less fighting, that’s why!” But she blinked and looked away, for that wasn’t entirely the truth. She wasn’t so sure of anything now, having considered what Dr Cowdray had said…and…and…a soft word now, from John Silver, a friendly smiling word, might have closed the gulf between them. But Silver was too angry. Too many harsh words had been spoken.
“Well, there you are then!” he said with extreme bad grace. “So stand fast, and clap a hitch on your jawing tackle – or go below with them two swabs of navigators as I’ve locked in my cabin to save their precious innocence!” And there followed even more temper and more shouting, which ended in her being ordered below – at which she screamed defiance – and then being dragged below…causing consternation aboard Venture’s Fortune, the big West Indiaman, coming on under close-reefed topsails, for her quarterdeck people were studying the wallowing, helpless Walrus through telescopes.
“There, sir!” cried Mr Philip Norton, a big, young, muscular man, well dressed and handsome, with the confidence that comes with power. “Did I not say it was madness to approach her? Look at the number of gun-ports! And now there’s fighting aboard her.”
“Bollocks!” cried Captain Fitch, a veteran seaman and a master of his craft, but cursed with the short stature which turns a man to bloody-mindedness when the tall look down on him and tell him what to do. And that went double when the tall one represented something that all decent men despise: the government. He glared defiance at Norton. “I shall render assistance to a mariner in distress, according to the ancient traditions of the sea,” he said. “And as for the risk that terrifies you, Mr Norton, you well know that I have a Protection in case of that!” And clapping his eye to his glass again, Fitch told himself there was nothing to worry about in the sight of two men manhandling a shrieking woman down a hatchway while a one-legged man with a green bird on his shoulder looked on, shouting and pointing, and apart from which there wasn’t another soul visible on deck other than the helmsman…
“Jesus wept!” said Norton. “D’you think a piece of paper will save you from pirates? Do you not understand what I have under hatches?” And then, as Fitch steadily ignored him, Norton suddenly displayed a remarkable degree of seamanship: “Mr Mate,” he cried to the first officer, “shake out the topsails! Put up the helm and bring this ship about!” He pointed at Walrus: “And steer me clear o’ that ‘un!”
His voice rang with command. It was the dominant bark of a man used to being obeyed, and the mate instinctively touched his hat in salute and started to bellow at the hands. But Fitch spat fire.
“Avast!” he cried, and stamped a foot at Norton and glared up into his eyes. “Slam your trap, you bloody bugger! I don’t care what you was before, but don’t you by-God-and-all-his-bloody-angels give commands aboard my ship, for I’m cap’n here, and there ain’t none other!”
Thus Fitch and Norton were still arguing when Walrus came within spitting distance and her crew leapt up at Long John’s command, gave a cheer, and commenced hurling grapnels to bind the two ships together. Led by Long John himself, they came roaring over the side, taking command of Venture’s Fortune in a matter of seconds.
It was incredibly easy. Not a blow was struck or a grain of powder burned other than that which went into the air to terrify the West Indiaman’s crew, of which there were only twenty foremast hands, who’d not been stood to arms and were thus empty-handed in the face of John Silver’s thirty-two, who between them bore enough pistols, cutlasses, muskets and pikes to equip a small army, and who moved with practised speed: some to guard the prisoners while others – led by Allardyce and Israel Hands – went below to search the ship.
It was a sweet, clean capture, and the only injury to any man on either side – to the hilarity of Silver’s men – was a broken leg suffered by one Dusty Miller, a notoriously clumsy seaman who’d fallen badly as he swung aboard the prize on a line from the mainyard.
“Who’s cap’n?” cried Silver, stumping across the quarterdeck to where his men had herded the ship’s officers. He reached up to his shoulder to pet the big parrot that had fluttered back with wide-beating wings, after flying aloft as she always did when there was fighting. Silver was grinning in triumph, which turned to instant amazement as a small, thick-bodied man among the prisoners started yelling and waving his hands in fury.
“I, sir!” he cried, trying to push aside the firelocks aimed at him by Silver’s men.
“Huh!” said Silver. “Let the bugger through” and Captain Fitch stamped forward to stand looking up at Long John Silver, who towered over most men let alone one only five feet tall. The sight was greeted with laughter from the crew, which was deeply unfair to Fitch, who despite being unarmed, and facing death for all he knew, was fearlessly brave, and told Silver off something ferocious.
“I’m Fitch,” he cried. “Cap’n of Venture’s Fortune with cargo and supercargo bound for London. And I may not be touched, God damn-your-eyes, sir! You may not lay a finger on me! For I sail with protection, sir! Protection from Sir Wyndham Godfrey, Governor of Upper Barbados, and which Protection…”
“Clap a hitch, you bloody dwarf!” cried Long John, but Fitch persisted, stabbing a finger up at him and shouting until finally Silver drew a pistol, cocked it, and shoved it into Fitch’s belly.
“See here, mister,” he said, “either you pipe down or I give fire. I don’t mind which, so please your soddin’ self!”
“Bah!” said Fitch, but he shut up.
“Good,” said Silver. “Now what’s this about blasted protection? What’re you talking about?”
“A Certificate of Protection of Free Passage from Sir Wyndham Godfrey!” said Fitch. Then he lowered his voice: “Protection from gentlemen such as yourself, sir!”
“What gentlemen?” said Silver.
“Gentlemen o’ fortune, sir.”
“Oh?” Silver’s eyebrows raised.
Fitch nodded knowingly. “Aye, sir! For isn’t Upper Barbados the only port where you may safely call?”
Silver frowned. The old days were gone when there were a dozen safe havens for pirates on the Spanish Main. There was still Savannah, of course, and maybe one or two others, but none that boasted a dockyard like those of Williamstown, Upper Barbados, where gold talked