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  But they didn't laugh today. Not with most of them too sick for their dinners and busting with headache besides. That made for a quiet dinner time in the close wooden cave of the lower deck, even with twenty mess-tables and near two hundred men trying — and mostly failing — to shovel down their dinners. They managed the drink though, except what they gave to Groggy.

  "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 fever- trap 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, us ever I was before!"

  Bones was the perfect opposite of Flint: a huge, broken- nosed, lumpish clod with massive fists, broad shoulders and n 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, s
ecured to a massive ringbolt driven into the thickness of the hull.

  "You're a bloody rogue and a pirate, Flint," said Baggot. "The only reason I don't hang you now is that I'm ordered to take you home for the Court of Admiralty to string up at Wapping!"

  Stanley sighed. The interview was going the way of several others that had preceded it. Baggot could not control his lust for gold and his hatred of a mutineer, and the sight of the urbane Flint, smiling and smiling and talking of innocence, provoked him beyond endurance. But where others were concerned, Flint was devilish persuasive. Stanley looked at the two marines who'd accompanied them, bearing muskets and ball cartridge as a precaution. They were hanging on every word Flint uttered, and Stanley knew that rumours were circulating on the lower deck that Flint wasn't a pirate and mutineer at all, just a victim of circumstance, while Mr Bones was innocent of all charges whatsoever. That was Flint's work, day by day talking to the hands sent down to deliver food and water and take away the slops.

  "Mr Flint," said Stanley, "cannot we set these matters aside? We are faced with an unknown fever, and we seek your advice. So I beseech you to behave…" Stanley paused for effect "… to behave as a man should… who must soon face divine judgement." The chaplain peered closely at Flint, trying to gauge the impact of his words. "So, what is this pestilence, sir? Speak if you know, for your mortal soul is at risk."

  Flint contemplated Dr Stanley.

  Clever, he thought. Very clever. Then he turned to Baggot, a man for whom he had nothing but contempt. If he, Joe Flint, had been granted power over a man with hidden treasure, that man would have been put to merciless torture until he revealed its whereabouts. So he sneered at Baggot; for any man who denied himself these obvious means deserved to stay poor! Stanley, however, was clearly a different proposition; subtle means would be required with him.

  "Dr Stanley," said Flint, and lowered his eyes, "it is true that I myself am beyond hope…" He raised a weary hand, as if against life's iniquitous burdens. "Evidence is contrived against me and, corrupt and mendacious as it is, nevertheless it proves too strong for truth to prevail!"

  "Oh, shut up, you posturing hypocrite!" said Baggot. "Lying toad that you are!"

  "Sir!" protested Stanley. "I beg that you allow me to conduct this interview."

  "Damned if I will!" said Baggot and turned to go.

  "Gentlemen!" cried Flint. "I beg that you listen. I am a lost man, so take these words as dying declaration, and accord them the special credence that is their due…"

  There was silence. Such was the power of Flint's address that no man moved or spoke, not even Captain Baggot, while the two marines were goggling and even Dr Stanley was impressed.

  "I offer truth for truth!" said Flint. "I shall tell you the source of this island fever. I shall give it to you freely. But in exchange I ask that you accept this blameless man — " he looked at Billy Bones — "as the innocent that he is."

  Stanley looked at Baggot. Baggot looked at Stanley. The two marines looked on. Baggot frowned.

  "What about the treasure?" he said.

  "Sir," said Flint, "I swear on my soul, and in the name of that Almighty Being before whose throne I must soon present myself… that I know nothing of any treasure." "Oh bugger," said Baggot, but quietly. "And the pestilence?" said Stanley. "It is caused by the island's monkeys, sir," said Flint. " WHAT'?" Baggot, Stanley and the marines spoke as one.

  "The monkeys. Because of them, you dare not land on the island."

  "But we've got one aboard!" said Baggot. "Little Groggy."

  "Then kill him!" cried Flint. "And get to sea. You are in peril of your lives!"

  "Oh Christ!" said Baggot.

  "Sir!" protested Stanley.

  "Sorry, Mr Chaplain… but, oh Christ!"

  There was a pounding of feet as four men raced for the ladders and companionways that led to the light. Then there was a great shouting, and drums beating, and calling up of all hands, and the rattling, clattering, rumbling, squeaking of a great ship getting ready for sea, with capstans clanking, blocks humming, yards hauling aloft and the anchor cables coming aboard, dripping wet and shaking off their weed, to the stamping and chanting of the crew.

  Down below, forgotten for the moment, Joe Flint and Billy Bones sat with one dim lantern between them, listening to the sounds that had defined their lives as long as they could remember.

  "Why did you tell 'em about the monkey?" said Billy Bones. "You brought him aboard on purpose, for to spread the fever!"

  Flint smiled. "Indeed, Mr Bones. But now his work is done. He's been aboard all three ships."

  "How d'you know that?"

  Flint sighed. "Don't you ever listen, Billy, to the men who come to feed us?"

  "Oh." Bones frowned. "But you didn't tell 'em it was smallpox the monkeys bring. And a special smallpox besides, that's fearful worse than usual."

  "No. They'll find that out soon enough… when it kills nine out of ten of them."

  "But some'll be unharmed?"

  "Yes. Those who've had it before and survived." "And you and me, Cap'n."

  "Yes. For you've had it, and I'm protected."

  "And will I be freed, now, for what you told that Parson?"

  "I think so. The learned doctor believed me."

  "And then what'll I do?"

  Flint told him: in detail. Billy Bones pondered, asked a few more questions to be sure, and then the two sat quiet as the massive wooden hull began to move.

  "Cap'n," said Billy Bones, finally. "What?"

  "The goods, Cap'n. The gold…"

  "Well?"

  "They took all your papers and such, didn't they?"

  Flint smiled. "Did they?"

  "So how'll we… how'll you… find the goods again, without charts and notes?"

  "Billy, my Billy! Billy-my-little-chicken! You really must leave all such matters to me. Do you understand?"

  Billy Bones gulped. The tone of Flint's voice had barely changed but Billy Bones knew that this subject must not be raised again. He was immune to smallpox, but not to fear of Flint.

  "You just do as you've been bid, Mr Bones. When the time comes."

  "Aye-aye, Cap'n," said Billy Bones, for Livvy Rose had measured him with the precision of her father's mathematical instruments, recognising that the faithful Billy was born to follow. And now he would follow Flint — even stripped of rank and bound in chains — and keep on following him to the ends of the earth. For Flint was Billy Bones's chosen master.

  Chapter 3

  Dinner time, 12th March 1753

  Aboard Walrus

  The Atlantic

  All aboard who weren't on watch gobbled down their dinners with knives, fingers and spoons, lounging among the guns on the maindeck in the sunshine, while Walrus bowled along under all plain sail. They cheered and raised their mugs, spluttering grog and food in all directions as they bawled out their song, to the tune of a fiddler and a piper.

  Here's to Bonnie Prince Charlie, That does our king remain,

  And save him from his exile,

  To bring him home again!

  Two men looked on in silence. They were not gobbling their dinners because they were on watch, and they weren't singing because they weren't Jacobites. They were Long John Silver, elected captain of the ship, and his master gunner, Israel Hands. Both wore the long coats and tricorne hats that proclaimed their rank, and they stood by the helmsman at the ten-foot tiller on the quarterdeck, braced against the ship's canted deck with practised ease, even Long John with his timber limb.

  Israel Hands smiled to see Long John recovering at last, after wounds that had struck him down in the fight with the navy over Flint's Island, which Walrus barely escaped, leaving Flint in the navy's hands, and his Treasure still hidden ashore.

  Now Tom Allardyce the bosun was on his feet and giving the second verse. He was a tall, yellow-haired Scot who'd fought at Culloden seven years earlier, when the English army's modern musketry butchered a medieval mob of Highland swordsmen: th
e Protestant House of Hanover defeating the Catholic House of Stuart.

  Here's to the devil to take fat George,

  And fetch him down to Hell,

  To trim his Hanoverian ears,

  And roast his arse full well!

  Allardyce was a Jacobite to the soul and hated King George with a passion. As he sang, he went among the crew slapping shoulders while they cheered him on. Some cheered because they supported his cause, while others had no loyalty to a king who was chasing them with a noose.

  "Merry buggers, ain't they?" said Israel Hands, looking at the crew. Then he glanced anxiously up at Long John's big, square face.

  "Will they do, John? And have you chosen your course?"

  Silver reached up to pet the big green parrot that sat with its claws clamped into the material of his coat.

  "What do you think, Cap'n Flint?" he said, tickling the bird's chest. She squawked and shifted her feet and nuzzled his ear.

  "Merry Buggers!" she said, for she had a perfect gift of mimicry, and used words to purpose, and with meaning.

  Long John sighed, for he had much on his mind.

  "Well, the ship won't do," he said, looking Walrus over. She was a New England schooner: two hundred tons burden, a hundred feet from bow to stern, sharp-hulled and with a broad spread of canvas on two raked masts. She mounted fourteen six-pounder guns and had once been a swift, handy ship, but she'd suffered a battering in recent actions, and hadn't been careened for months, which meant — in these tropical waters — that the underwater hull must be a seething tangle of weeds and growth.

  "A Thames barge would out-sail her as she is!" said Silver.

  "Does that mean we'll be chasing one?" said Israel Hands.

  "We've just thirty-two hands," said Silver, ignoring the remark.