Pieces of Eight

“Billy,” he said, “did you ever know me to lie?”

“No,” said Bones after intense pondering.

“Did you ever know me to break a promise?”

“No,” said Bones, with surly reluctance.

“Heaven be praised! Then here’s a promise: If you come and sit with me in the shade of them trees–” Long John pointed at the line of drooping palms that edged the vast curve of the sandy shore “–and if you promise to listen fairly and act the gentleman…why! I’ll send these two away,” he nodded at the guards, “and I’ll send for some grog and a bite to eat. But if you try to run, Billy-boy, or if you raise your hand…I promise to shoot you square in the belly and dance the hornpipe while you wriggle. Is that fair, now?”

“Aye,” said Bones, for it was much what he would have done in Silver’s place, especially the shooting in the belly. So they found a comfortable place to sit, and took a mug or two, and some fruit and biscuit, and Long John brought all his eloquence to bear on Billy Bones.

“Billy,” he said, “Flint’s been gone a week. My guess is he’ll head for Charlestown to take on more men and arms, and he’ll come straight back, at which time I want to be ready. He’ll have greater numbers, but we’ve got plenty of powder and shot and small arms, and most of the four-pounders saved out of Lion, besides which Israel Hands says there’s the wreck of a big ship up in the north anchorage, with nine-pounders that we could use, though they’re too heavy to move very far.”

“Aye,” said Bones, “that’d be the Elizabeth. I sailed aboard of her with Israel and…” He dropped his eyes.

“And Flint,” said Silver, “Never mind, Billy-boy, for it comes to this: You know the lie of this island: latitude, longitude and all. I want you to tell me how soon Flint’ll be back, so’s I can be warned.”

“And why should I help you?” said Bones.

“First, ’cos I saved your neck from a stretching–which it still might get, if you ain’t careful–and second because we’ve found your old sea-chest, with all your goods aboard, and none shall touch it but you.”

“Oh…” said Billy Bones, for a seaman’s chest held all that was dear to him. “Thank you,” he mumbled, and thought vastly better of Long John. But Silver’s next words stung him.

“Good! Now listen while I tell you how that swab Flint has betrayed you.”

“Never!” said Bones fiercely, making as if to stand.

“Billy!” said Silver. “Don’t!” And he laid a hand on his pistol butt.

“You daresn’t!” said Bones, but he sat down again.

“Billy,” said Silver, gently, “Flint left you, and ain’t never coming back except to kill you, along of all the rest of us.”

“Huh!” sneered Bones. “You just want that black tart–Selena. You can’t stand that Flint’s aboard of her, fuckin’ her cross-eyed!”

“Ugh!” this time the pistol was out and cocked and deep denting Billy Bones’s cheek. Silver was white and he leaned over Bones like a vampire over its prey.

“Don’t you ever say that again, you lard-arsed, shit-head, land-lubber! Just listen to me, Billy, for there’s things about this island that ain’t right and I need you to explain ’em, and I need you to make ready for Flint–’cos if you won’t help, then we’re all dead men…but you the first of all of us! So what course shall you steer, Billy-boy?”

Chapter 3 (#u290d5c57-2e90-510e-9dca-388a83445eee)

15th August 1752 The Bishop’s House Williamstown, Upper Barbados

The Bishop of Barbados refused.

“There can be no wedding!” he said. “I am well aware that Mr Bentham–who is a damned pirate–enters into so-called marriages every time he visits this island, choosing as his bride any trollop that takes his fancy, and whom he might have had for sixpence, and whom afterwards he abandons!”

“Quite so!” said his chaplain, standing beside him in nervous defiance of the crowd of garishly dressed, heavily armed men who were crammed into the bishop’s study.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” declared Brendan O’Byrne, who commanded the intruders. He was frighteningly ugly and the gallows were groaning for him, but he’d been raised to give respect to a bishop. “I’m afraid you mayn’t say no, for I’m first mate to Captain Bentham, and Captain Bentham is resolved upon marriage. So, will you look at this now?”

He produced a little pocket-pistol, all blued and gleaming. Then, showing its slim barrel to His Grace, he explained what he was going to do with it, and had his men remove the chaplain’s drawers and breeches, and bend the chaplain over a table, to demonstrate precisely how it would be done.

Five minutes later, His Grace was stepping out under a burning sun, sweating in mitre and chasuble, with crosier in hand. His chaplain followed bearing a King James Bible and a Book of Common Prayer while attempting to keep the hem of the bishop’s robes clear of the mud and dog-shite of Queen Mary Street, main thoroughfare of Williamstown.

Beside the bishop marched O’Byrne, arms crossed and a pistol in each fist, while two dozen of his men capered on every side, taking refreshment from bottles. No matter how the bishop looked with his quick, clever eyes, there was no way out but forward, and he made the best of it by smiling to the cheering populace who’d turned out for Danny Bentham’s latest wedding.

“Bah!” said the bishop in exasperation as O’Byrne turned him left into Harbour Street, in sight of the dockyard and the Custom House with its Union Flag, and a small group of the island’s foremost citizens: those who by blind-eye and bribery allowed outright piracy to flourish when it was stamped out in every other place but this.

“Cap’n!” roared O’Byrne, seeing Danny Bentham among them. He waved his hat in the air. “Give a cheer, you men!”

“Huzzah!” they cried.

“Huzzah!” cried the mob, and everyone dashed forward, the bishop and his chaplain bundling up robes, dropping and retrieving sacred books, and managing by sweat-soaked miracles of footwork to avoid falling over completely, Finally, bedraggled and gasping, they arrived at the Custom House, where a wizened man in a red coat stepped forward to greet them.

“My lord!” said Sir Wyndham Godfrey, the governor, doffing his hat and bowing in his ceremonial uniform as colonel of the island’s militia. The bishop caught his breath, took the thin hand, and nodded curtly. The governor had once been an honest man who fought corruption, but now he was a figure of pathos: disease and the tropical climate having taken their toll.

Standing next to him was Captain Danny Bentham, with his bride-to-be. He was a huge man, six foot five inches tall, muscular and upright, with blue eyes, a heavy chin and a thick neck. He wore a gold-laced blue coat, a feathered hat, gleaming top-boots, and a Spanish rapier hung at his side. Sir Wyndham introduced this thieving, murdering rapist as if he were a nobleman.

“It is my pleasure, Your Grace, to present Captain Daniel Bentham, a worthy master mariner and owner of two fine vessels.”

“Milord,” said Bentham, taking the bishop’s hand. “Gaw’ bless you for agreein’ so kindly to do the honours!” The voice was soft but the handshake crunched like pincers. The bishop winced as he looked up into the tall man’s eyes, and was surprised at Bentham’s youth, for the big chin was as smooth as a boy’s.

“And this is my little Catalina, milord.” A small, plump tart was pushed forward in a cheap dress, a lace cap, and half-naked breasts. She was a mulatta: dark-skinned, pretty and with big eyes, the sort that Danny Bentham liked. He gazed upon her with urgent lust, hoisted her off her feet, and kissed her deep and hungry, with loud groans of pleasure.

His men cheered uproariously and fired pistols in the air, while Sir Wyndham and his followers simpered, and the bishop wished his post abolished and himself back in England, albeit as the lowest curate in the land.

“My little Catalina,” said Bentham, putting her down and wiping the slobber from his lips. “Fresh from the Brazils, milord, and speaks only Portugee, of which I has a few words meself. So she don’t know all our ways.” For some reason this provoked laughter from Bentham’s men, but he swiftly went among them and restored order with his fists and shining boots.

The rest of it passed in horror for the bishop, as a procession set out from the Custom House, led by the garrison band and a company of grenadiers. Next came the bishop and the Happy Couple, followed by the governor and prominent citizens, then the populace in general, with slaves, dogs and hogs to the rear.

The destination was Miss Cooper’s whorehouse, a large, stone-built mansion to the windward side of Williamstown, all laid out for a huge banquet.

But first there was the wedding ceremony, which took place in Miss Cooper’s salon: a splendid chamber, but it was Sodom and Gomorrah combined, so far as the bishop was concerned. He looked despairingly at Captain Bentham standing before him doting over his Catalina, while behind them the room was packed stinking full and sweltering hot with coarse and leering persons, mostly drunk and none of them quiet, with the governor and his entourage long gone.

“Ahem!” said the bishop. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here this day in the sight of God and this congregation…”

Eventually they let the bishop go, shoving him out the front door, his chaplain close behind. There, Mr O’Byrne capped insult upon injury by presenting each clergyman with a gratuity of fifty Spanish dollars in a purse tied up with ribbon.

Bang went the door, and they were free. For an instant the bishop stood trembling and close to tears. Then he snarled, “Give me that!” And, snatching the chaplain’s purse, he hurled it, together with his own, straight back into the house through one of Miss Cooper’s windows. If he’d hoped the gesture to be accompanied by the smashing of glass, he was disappointed; all was thrown open for the cool night air. “Bah!” he cried. “A lost labour and an affront to God!”

“What is, Your Grace?” said the chaplain.

“This!” said the bishop, spreading his arms to encompass the entire island.

Inside, roaring and swaying in unison, the men of the company were helping Cap’n Bentham upstairs for his wedding night, bellowing obscene advice. The women, meanwhile, were assisting the new Mrs Bentham out of her clothes, before tucking her into the house’s best bed.

“Ah!” said Bentham at last, leaning his back against the locked door, and “Huh!” as from outside there came the rumble and thunder of Mr O’Byrne removing all those who would have pressed their ears to the wood for further entertainment.