Authors: John Drake
The prisoner went off with Allardyce bowing and scraping behind him, leaving Silver alone with his thoughts, but it wasn't long before Allardyce came clumping back with men behind him. They burst in without knocking. They were looking for trouble.
"What's this?" said Silver. Allardyce looked behind him for support.
"Go on!" they growled.
"Cap'n!" said Allardyce. "We must take
Himself
safe aboard
Walrus!"
"Oh? And is it
yourself
giving orders now, Mr Allardyce?"
"Tell him!" said the rest.
"We must save him," cried Allardyce, "for he's the McLonarch!"
"Oh, stow it!" said Silver. "D'you think I'm not taking him anyway?"
"Oh…" they said.
"Aye!" said Silver. "Now get about your blasted duties!"
"Oh," they said, and, "Aye-aye, Capn'." And with that they trooped out, looking sheepish.
Alone once more, Silver sighed. What he hadn't told them was that McLonarch was too big a prize to let go. Maybe King George would make an offer for him? Even if he did, Silver knew that he was pressed into a corner and he'd need to be very careful of the Jacobites among his own crew from hereon. Wearily he went up on deck, and found Israel Hands by the mizzenmast, gleefully making notes of the prize's cargo.
"Where's that swab that had hold of McLonarch?" said Silver.
"Norton?" said Hands. "He's forrard, with the rest."
"Bring him here!"
"Aye-aye, Cap'n!"
Norton came at the double, with two men behind him bearing cutlasses. Silver watched his approach, noting the way he darted nimbly across the crowded deck, leaping up the ladder from the waist to the quarterdeck, as if it were second nature to him. And when he was brought up before Silver, who stood looming over him, parrot on shoulder, Norton never flinched. He was a hard case, all right.
"You sent for me, Cap'n," he said, and touched his hat like a seaman.
Cheeky bugger,
thought Silver, looking him over. He wore a smart suit of clothes in biscuit-coloured calico and a straw tricorne. By the sound of his voice, he was almost a gentleman, but not quite.
"Just what are you, mister?" said Silver, and saw him blink and think before making a very bold admission.
"I'm a Bow Street man," he said, "a runner. Sent out to arrest Lord McLonarch on a royal warrant."
Silver whistled. "A thief taker? A gallows-feeder?"
"Some call me that."
"And there's gentlemen o' fortune as would hang you for it!"
Norton blinked again, this time in fright.
"Oh, stow it," said Silver, waving away the threat. "Just look at him there!" He pointed down the length of the ship to where McLonarch stood head and shoulders above all the prisoners. "Tell me what that man is, and why you was sent to get him."
"He's the '45 all over again."
"How's that?"
"What d'you know about Jacobites?"
"Plenty!" said Silver.
"And there's plenty of 'em left. Even in the colonies."
"Is there?"
"Yes.
They
raised the dollars."
"Why'd he want the money? For himself?"
"No! He already had the men, but not the funds."
"And now he's got the money he needs…?"
"He's well on the way to getting it. And have you spoken to him?
Listened
to him?"
"Aye! Never heard the like!"
Norton nodded. "And he knows all the old families, and the colonels of all the regiments."
"Are you saying he could do it? Raise rebellion?"
"We don't know. But we fear that he might."
"Who's
we}"
"The Lord Chancellor, the cabinet, and me."
"Bugger me!" said Silver. "Precious high company you keep." Then a thought struck him: "Hold hard, my jolly boy…" He frowned. "If McLonarch is so bleedin' dangerous, why was just yourself sent out to nab him?"
"A naval expedition couldn't be sent for fear of someone warning McLonarch."
"Jacobites in the navy?"
"Perhaps. So I was sent quietly, with five good men."
"Only five?"
"Them..
. and papers for me to command local forces."
"So where are they? Your men?"
Norton sighed. "Dead or wounded, as are several dozen colonial militiamen."
"And what about the Jacobites? How many of them are dead?"
"I lost count."
Silver laughed. He liked Norton. But there was more. Silver put his head on one side and looked at the tough, self-assured man who stood so sure on a rolling deck.
"Are you a seaman, Mr Norton?" he said.
Norton shrugged. "I can hand, reef and steer."
"Aye! But I'll warrant you ain't no foremast hand."
"Not I!" said Norton with pride. "I was first mate aboard a Bristol slaver."
"Ah!" said Silver. "The blackbird trade? That breeds good seamen!"
"Them as it don't kill!" said Norton and saw the respect in Silver's eyes. But then he wished he'd kept his trap shut.
"Right then, my cocker," said Silver, grinning. "Whatever else I take out of this ship…" he looked the prize up and down "… I'm having
you!"
"What?"
"Aye! 'Cos I've two cock-fumbling bodgers for navigators what can't find their own arseholes with a quadrant, and I want at least one bugger aboard what can!"
On
Walrus's
quarterdeck, Selena smiled at Mr Joe, the young black who'd once been a plantation slave and was now gunner's mate. He was a slim, handsome man, with a rakish patch covering a lost eye, and was further distinguished by the heavy Jamaican cane-cutlass that he wore in his belt instead of the customary sea-service weapon.
"Thank you, Mr Joe," she said.
"That ain't no matter, ma'am," said Joe. "I'll have your box brought up, an' if you wants to leave the ship, ma'am, why so you shall!" And Mr Joe stepped forward to send a man for the box -
"Stand clear there!" cried Dr Cowdray, ship's surgeon. "Stand clear!" Cowdray was hurrying aft from the waist, followed by four men bearing the broken-legged Dusty Miller on an improvised stretcher.
Miller was whining pitifully and shedding tears. "Ow! Ow!" he cried. "Rum, for the love o' fucking Jesus!"
"Later, sir!" cried Cowdray. "You shall have rum to ease the reduction of your limb. Indeed:
fiat haustusl
Let the draught be prepared!"
"Ugh!" said Selena, catching sight of Miller's injury.
"Oh mother!" said Mr Joe, for the leg was crooked into a right-angle between ankle and knee, and a bloodied end of bone stuck out through the flesh of the shin.
"Here!" cried Miller, seeing their reactions, and grabbing at Cowdray's arm. "You ain't gonna cut orf my fucking leg, now… are you?"
"Stultum est timere quod vitare non potes!"
said Cowdray. "Do not fear that which you cannot prevent!"
"Ahhhhh!" screamed Miller. "You bastard! You ain't cutting orf my sodding leg, you mother-fucking sawbones!"
"No, sir," cried Cowdray, "you misunderstand. We shall
save
it!"
The surgeon was frowning as if in utmost concern, but inwardly he was rejoicing. As ever when
Walrus
went into action he was ready for the wounded in a fresh-boiled linen apron, sleeves rolled up, spectacles on his nose. And now, here was a wonderful case of compound fracture to test his skills, since - unlike most surgeons - he believed amputation to be unnecessary. With cleanliness and care, the limb could be saved - and he was itching to prove it.
"Let 'em through," said Mr Joe, and he stood back as Cowdray, still spouting Latin, manoeuvred his patient down a hatchway, addressing the filthy-tongued Miller with the same courteous politeness he'd used towards honest patients years ago.
When they'd gone, Selena looked to
Venture's Fortune,
heaving up and down on the ocean swell alongside of
Walrus,
the lines that bound them together creaking and stretching under the strain. "She's home-bound to England, isn't she, Joe?"
"Aye, ma'am. Bound for Polmouth with rum and sugar under hatches."
"And will Long John let her go?"
"Once we've plucked her. That's Long John's way."
"Good. Then I'll go aboard… and leave with her."
"But -"
"Don't
.'" she said. "I won't live this life. I've told Long John."
Mr Joe tried, nonetheless. He told her that she'd never even
seen
England, and had no friends there, and that - should she be recognised - the crimes she'd committed in the colonies would hang her just as dead in the mother country. And he reminded her of Silver: fine man that he was, and how the hands would follow him "down the cannon's mouth" when it came to action: a bad choice of words in the circumstances, but the best Mr Joe could think of.
Wasted words, all of them. When he'd done, Selena - in her print gown and straw hat - attempted to clamber over two ships' scraping, bumping rails that weren't even hard alongside but divided by a gap of a yard or more that opened and closed like a crocodile's jaws, with the white water frothing far below. Finally Mr Joe lifted her up and heaved her over bodily, into the arms of the men aboard
Isabelle Bligh,
who surged forward on sight of her, gaping and wondering, stretching their arms to catch her, and nervously glancing back at Long John, for every man aboard knew about their quarrels.
Then her sea chest came after her with a bump and a thump, with her few goods and the money she'd saved, and the men stood back, touched their brows and doubled to their duties again with Israel Hands and Tom Allardyce yelling at them.
Selena's heart was beating, she had no idea what to do, she hadn't even thought about how she might be received aboard this ship. Long John (who had his back to her) was deep in conversation with a hard-faced man in a calico suit. He didn't see her, or hear, so she was left to look at the ship, which was well found, spanking new, and bursting with activity as
Walrus'
s men hoisted up a series of heavy chests from the waist and swung them back aboard their own ship.
She looked forrard and saw the men, and some women, crammed into the fo'c'sle under guard. Instinctively she made her way down the ship towards them,
Walrus's
men stepping aside to let her past, all of them giving the same uneasy glance towards Long John, who was still engrossed with the hard- faced man.
"What's this, ma'am? What're you a-doing of?" said Israel Hands, looking up from the notebook where he'd been making a record of the cargo. He frowned and, as the others had done, glanced in Long John's direction, then seemed about to speak, but up above a chest slid out of its lashings, and fell, and men jumped aside as it smashed open and showered silver dollars on the deck.
"You slovenly buggers!" cried Hands. "You idle swabs! You…"
Selena walked on, squeezing past the toiling seamen, stumbling now and again at the ship's sickening, rolling motion, and made her way to the fo'c'sle and past the guards and blinked at the prisoners. There was a crowd of seamen, a few officers, and some landmen - presumably passengers - and two women. They stared at Selena, not knowing what to make of her, though the men looked her over as all men did at first sight.
"Ah-hem!" said a little man: squat, short, and heavy, in a big hat and a long shiny-buttoned coat. He touched his hat and smiled, and was about to speak, when one of the two women pushed past him and threw out her arms to Selena.
"My dear!" she cried. "My poor creature! I see that, like ourselves, you were made prisoner by these wicked pirates!"
"Oh!" said the short man. "
Ahhh!"
"Ahhhh!" said the rest, nodding wisely to one another.
"Yes!" said Selena, seizing upon this excellent explanation, which was so obvious that it was amazing she'd not thought of it herself.
The woman advancing upon Selena was in her mid-fifties with twinkling eyes, a tiny nose and delicate bones in a neat- little, sweet-little, dear-little face. She was expensively dressed, and had the speech and manners of a noblewoman, with artfully contrived gestures. She smiled radiantly at the world, and she simpered and flirted at men. She did it so well that it had never failed to control them, not once in forty years. Nonetheless, she was utter contrast to Selena, for while the lady - despite her years - was quite glitteringly
pretty,
she was not
beautiful.
She did not have that spiritual quality that Selena had, which takes the breath away and makes mortals stare, and stare, and worship. She was merely pretty, like a china fairy.