by John Drake
He sniggered: a dirty, wet snort at the back of his nose. He wasn't trying to catch her; not yet. He was happy with things as they were. He was in the shadows while she was in front of the stern windows, wearing one of Flint's fine, lawn shirts - such that he could see every curve of her naked body as well as if the shirt had been transparent. So he was quite happy for the moment, just licking his lips at the sight of her breasts bouncing as she moved.
He laughed. He sat down again. He cleared his throat. He became serious and turned to business.
"And now, my dear, I must tell you that Captain Flint and I have discussed your future."
"What?" she said. "First I've heard of it!"
"Doubtless," he said with the invincible self-assurance of a man who knows what is best for others. "But you will be pleased to know that your time of dissatisfaction is at an end! Your vital needs shall no longer go unmet." He licked his lips again, very slowly. "You shall not be denied those services so indispensable to a woman of your race."
"Just what the Hell do you think you are talking about?"
He told her, and received - thrown as hard as her arm could deliver - a savage shower of every object on her side of the cabin that was not fixed, clamped or nailed down.
"Bitch! Slut! Trull!" he cried, springing out of his chair and racing round the table, roaring threats of horse-whipping, and she was running and running… and tripping over a tumbled chair… and down she went and down he leapt, grabbing and reaching… and caught the hem of her shirt, and enjoyed a second's wonderful viewing of the luscious flesh beneath the linen, before one of the gleaming limbs pounded, hard and heel-down, into the middle of his face, leaving him blinded with pain and dizzy with shock.
"Damn you, you nigger slut!"
"Damn you too!"
Smith hauled himself up, and wiped his nose on the tail of his shirt, which had come out of his britches and was dangling round his knees. He was hot and tired, and out of breath. For the moment, lust was driven from the field, leaving only hypocrisy standing fast. Parson cleared his throat loudly and drew himself up once more into innocence abused.
"So much for my attempts as a Christian," he said, "to minister unto the needs of others."
"What a heap o' shit! I'll tell Flint when he gets back. Know what he'll do to you?"
That gave Smith a fright.
"Oh," he said, "I really cannot imagine any reason why the captain should be involved in this small disturbance."
"Can't you, though?"
"Err… no."
She sneered. He frowned. He looked down, locked in fearful dilemma. He'd known in the first place that it was madness to lay a hand on her before Flint gave the word, but he couldn't keep away. He couldn't keep his hands off anything female - girl, woman or child - once she was in his power. He moaned to himself.
"Parson?" cried a voice outside.
A fist beat the door.
"Parson? A boat's pulling over from Lion. Silver's coming!"
* * *
Chapter 42
6th September 1752
Seven bells of the forenoon watch (c. 11.30 a.m. shore time)
Aboard Walrus
The southern anchorage
If Silver had been standing level with Parson Smith, he would have won. But he was sitting on the thwart of a miserable jolly-boat with Walrus's crew looking down on him, while Parson strutted the quarterdeck and boomed and roared in majesty.
As Billy Bones had done before, Parson marvelled at Flint's prescience. Flint had warned him that Silver might try to turn Walrus's people, and Flint had ordered that under no circumstances was Silver to be allowed aboard Walrus.
"If you do that, Mr Smith," he'd said, "then you are lost. In the eyes of the crew he is the greater man. He stands head and shoulders above you all, both figuratively and in reality."
So when Silver came across from Lion with six men pulling and himself at the tiller, and called for a parlay, Smith sternly refused, and wouldn't let him come aboard. He protested that this would break the promise that all hands had made not to interfere with the burial of the goods.
"No, sir!" cried Smith. "We have taken an oath, sir!"
"Which ain't nothing to do with me coming aboard Walrus."
"It is, sir, for what else would you speak of?"
"That bugger Flint! That's what!"
"There!" cried Parson. "Condemned from his own lips!"
"Bladderwash!" cried Silver. He gave up with Parson Smith, and turned to the men. "Who knows me?" he said. "Come on, shipmates - who knows me? Who knows me, and who knows Flint?"
There was a stirring among the men packed along Walrus's rail. There wasn't one man of them that didn't know Long John Silver. They knew him and they knew all that he stood for. He stood for jolly companions, fair shares for all and none left out, and no comrade ever abandoned - not even Blind Pew. Others might speak of these things, but Long John Silver believed in them and lived by them. Oh yes indeed! They knew Silver and they knew Flint, and Parson Smith blinked in fright.
"Don't listen to him!" he cried.
"Bollocks!" cried someone.
"Shut your trap, Parson!"
"Go on, Long John!"
"Go on, Cap'n!"
Captain! They were calling him captain! Parson Smith trembled.
"When did I ever tell you lies?" said Silver. "When did I ever twist or turn? Let any man of you stand forth who's ever heard me called a liar!"
"Not you, Long John!"
"Never!"
"NEVER!"
He nearly did it. Even sitting in the boat. Even under the disadvantage that Flint had contrived. He nearly had them, and a few more words would have had them out of Flint's grasp. But success - or near success - betrayed him. Greatly encouraged, Silver attempted to stand in the boat. He attempted to stand, to make the better figure of himself… and the boat swayed, and one-legged he stumbled and crashed headlong into his own oarsmen.
The fickle audience laughed. They laughed and Parson darted forward and picked up a shot from the rack beside a gun. He hurled it over the side towards Silver's boat.
"See him off!" he cried. "'Ware boarders!"
The shot missed, and Parson heaved another. One or two of the men copied him in vicious glee, being the sort whose pleasure it was to kick a man when he's down. The shot plopped and walloped into the water, none hitting the boat, but splashing the crew and making them look foolish. There was more laughter.
"Wait! Wait!" cried Silver, white-faced with anger. "You stupid, shit-head lubbers! Listen to me!"
But the moment was gone. Israel Hands, at the stroke oar, called for the men to pull clear. He didn't want shot through the bottom of the boat. And then, as the boat gathered way and the current slewed her back past Walrus's stern, where the big windows were wide open, a voice cried out.
"Long John! Long John! Get me out of here!" She was leaning out as far as she could, waving a handkerchief.
"Selena!" said Silver. "Mr Hands, get this boat under the stern there!"
"Can't be done, Cap'n!" said Hands. "They'll sink us!"
He was right. Parson Smith was foaming and roaring and spouting the Word of Flint. With none to oppose him, he was back on his safe ground of terror and retribution, and Walrus's taffrail was black with figures waving shot in their fists and howling abuse: the self-same men who, seconds ago, had nearly been Silver's to command.
"Then get us as close as you can, without coming into range."
"Aye-aye, Cap'n. Give way, you buggers! Back larboard pull starboard!"
The oarsmen heaved mightily and the jolly-boat spun in her own length.
"Together now - heave!" cried Silver, and steered the boat as close as he dared while the shot dropped heavily into the sea an oar's length away.
"Can you swim, girl?" cried Silver.
"Yes!"
"Then swim! Jump and swim to me!"
"No!" cried Parson Smith. "Listen, lads - he's stealing the black girl!"
There w
as an angry howl from the men.
"Give me a match!" cried Parson, and hauled the tarpaulin cover off one of the two brass swivel guns mounted on the taffrail. "And you there -" he pointed at one of the men, "Stand to the other gun!"
Instantly, a pair of two-pounder swivels was levelled at Silver and his boat. The range was twenty-five yards, and each gun was crammed with half-ounce pistol balls. Parson swelled in triumph as a smouldering match was pressed into his hands. "Haul off, Silver," he cried, "or I'll blow you to Hell!"
"John!" cried Selena. "Help me!"
"Can't be done, lass!" said Silver bitterly. "Back off, Israel."
Silver waved. Selena waved. The jolly-boat pulled clear, and turned for Lion. Silver looked back until he could no longer see the small figure at Walrus's stern. He turned and faced the crew, pulling together to speed the boat back to Lion.
"Well, lads," he said, "it's hot lead and cold steel from now on."
* * *
Chapter 43
7th September 1752
Late afternoon
Spy-glass Hill
The island
* * *
Franky Skillit crept very quietly. He crept crab-wise, in the manner of the practised knife-fighter, his left hand feeling the way, and his knife low and easy in his right hand, with the arm tensed for a thrust.
Franky liked a knife, because it was nice and quiet. So he'd taken off his baldric with the big silver buckle and the cutlass. He'd taken off his belt with the pistols; he'd taken off his calico waistcoat with the pockets for cartridges and flints. He'd even taken off his prized leather boots that he kept so nice and clean, and he'd taken off the red silk handkerchief that was normally tied around his scalp. That wasn't for the noise, but 'cos its colour caught men's eyes and drew attention.
Now, all Franky wore to cover his nakedness was a pair of loose cotton slops tied at the waist. He went forth barefoot, bare-armed and bald, for there wasn't a hair on his head, which he shaved for the coolness. He left behind a neat little pile of clothes and gear, at the place Flint had set them to guard.
Where are you, Jimmie, my boy? he thought. Just show yourself to your old mate Franky and take what's coming.
With utmost softness, not making a sound, Franky Skillit crept down from the summit of Spy-glass Hill. So intent was he upon his mission that he was immune to the beauties of the spectacular view, the sweet freshness of the air, and the grandeur of the noble trees. Franky was concentrating on the bushes where James Cameron had gone for a shit.
"Ugh!" came Cameron's voice in a constipated grunt.
There you are! thought Franky Skillit. Heave away, my jolly boy. Heave away with a will.
He quickened pace. He darted out from the bush that was screening him. He sped across open ground. He did it with utmost skill. He was a fine woodsman for a sailor. A Huron or a poacher would have heard him coming, but not Jimmie Cameron - not with drawers down and bowels open.
"Uh-ugh!" said Cameron, and "Aaaaaah!" as finally his efforts were rewarded.
Yugh! Thought Skillit, getting wind of it. For he was now very close. Close enough to jump, and stab from behind, and be done… But not just yet. Cameron wasn't placed right for the knife. Cameron was crouched down low, scrubbing his beam end with a handful of grass that he'd brought along for bum-fodder.
"Ah!" said Cameron, smiling, and he stood and hitched up his drawers.
"Right!" said Skillit, and made his leap. It was almost perfect, spoiled only by Cameron's attempting to turn - as every man does - for a proud glance at what he'd brought forth. This movement threw Cameron's right side to the fore, and out of the way of Skillit's knife just as it swung round looking for entry.
Thump! The knife scraped on spine, digging through muscle, and almost missed the pulsing rivers of blood that flowed through the kidney - the plump favoured target of the back-stabber, the assassin and the sneak.
"Bastard!" said Cameron, and turned furiously on Skillit as the two jammed together in the impetus of the attack. They fell to the ground, and gouged and throttled and butted and rolled - getting a good smear of hot droppings as they wallowed through Cameron's pyramid - and burst through the broom bushes, and out into the open, and on to the dust and the stones.
There, Jimmie Cameron strove might and main to get his left hand into his right boot, where his own knife lived, while squeezing Skillit's windpipe with his right hand.
Skillit, for his part, wriggled and struggled and kicked and tried above all to break free. Cameron was stronger, so Skillit knew he'd lost his chance and must escape or die.
"Uch! Uch!" choked Skillit, and burst his neck out of Cameron's grip, which was weakening. Skillit thrust his head forward and bit off the end of Cameron's nose. Cameron screamed, foul breath stinking in Skillit's face. Skillit spat out the end of nose and drove his knee into Cameron's crutch… and Cameron let go! Skillit rolled and rolled and rolled… and was free.
He got to his feet, chest gasping and heaving and every limb a-tremble.
"Bugger you, you bastard!" said Skillit, and staggered back as Cameron got himself first on to his hands and knees, and then, with much effort, heaved himself upright.
"Look what you done!" said Cameron, feeling the knife handle that stuck out of his back. Tears sprang to Cameron's eyes, mingling with the snot and blood of his nose. "Look what you done, you sod-you-are!"
"Serves you right, you thieving lubber!" said Skillit. "You and all the rest of Silver's crew."
"Look!" said Cameron, displaying a blood-dripping hand, fresh from feeling the knife. "I'm bleeding, you sod! You done that!"
"Good job an' all!" said Skillit.
Cameron slumped back on to his knees. He lurched forward, nearly falling on his face, but propping himself up with his two hands. He raised his head and glared at Skillit.
"Sod!" he said.
Skillit laughed and grew bold as he saw Cameron's strength was dying.
"That's you done for, you swab," said Skillit. "An' I thought I'd missed, an' all!" He darted forward and kicked Cameron across the face with his bare foot. "That's for you, you no- seaman!" He stepped forward and stood close to Cameron. "Not so bold now, are you?"
Cameron lurched as if reaching for Skillit's foot. Skillit laughed and danced out of the way. Cameron groped his hand forward again. Skillit laughed louder. Cameron groped again… and…
"Bugger me tight!" cried Skillit as he realised that Cameron wasn't reaching for his foot. He was reaching for a pistol, half hidden in the dust and stones.
"Here's for you, shipmate!" said Cameron, and cocked the lock and raised a wobbling hand and tried to bring the weapon to bear on target.
Skillit skipped back, arms outstretched for balance, and he darted from side to side. He sneered at his half-dead opponent.
"Go on then," he cried. "You couldn't hit the fucking mainsail, not if you was wrapped in it!"
"Oh!" said Cameron, and lowered his arm. "I'm bad, shipmate."
"You'll be even badder soon, Jimmie boy!"
"Help me, mate. I think I'm going."
"Serve you right, too!"
"Come here, Franky, old messmate, for the light's a-goin'."
Franky did come here, lured in close by Jimmie Cameron's little act. It was an act, because Cameron wasn't quite gone.
His pistol jerked up quick-sharp and fired three feet from Skillit's belly.
"Ha!" said Cameron. "Now who's feeling bad?"
Skillit staggered back under the impact of the ball. His ears were ringing, his slops were smouldering, and there was a scorched black hole below his navel. He got a finger right inside of it when he felt for it, and he howled in anguish, and fell over backwards, and sat himself up again, and howled some more, and wept and moaned and called on the mother who'd sold him to a Pudding Lane brush-maker fifteen years ago when he was five, and spent the money on gin.
Cameron sneered and flung the empty pistol away. He looked for its mate with the thought of finishing the job. He saw it,
but it was no good. He couldn't drag himself that far. He looked at Skillit, sitting twenty feet off, nursing his wound.
"That's you done for, you sod!" he said. "That'll see you off!"
"And you too, you sod!" said Skillit.
"Bastard!" said Cameron.
"And you're another!" said Skillit.
There they sat for some time, weeping and whimpering, and getting slowly weaker. Soon, their anger faded and self- pity grew.
"Couldn't I just take a swig right now!" said Cameron.
"Me an' all," said Skillit.
"There's a canteen o' water up top o' the hill," said Cameron.
"Can't walk," said Skillit.
"Me neither," said Cameron.
That was all their conversation for a while. Then, as the sun was sinking and night approaching, Cameron spoke again.
"Here, Franky - why'd you do that, anyhow?"
"What?"
"Stick a fucking knife in me!"
"Cap'n told me to."
"Why?"
"'Cos you're Silver's man."
"So what?"
"'Cos you'll thieve the goods and leave us Walruses marooned!"
"Bollocks! We're loyal-hearts-and-true, aboard Lion."
"Says who?"
"Says I! And so says all aboard of us. And Long John too!"
"Oh," said Skillit, severely puzzled. "But the cap'n said…"
"Sod the cap'n! I told you thems was screams we heard yesterday."
"It wasn't!"
"It was. When we was a-raising the spar… It was Fraser!"
"Wasn't!"
"It was! It was that bugger Flint, a-doing for him!"
"Was it?"
"Who else could it sodding be? It wasn't any of us, was it?"
"P'raps it was them… creatures…"
"Horse-shit! D'you know what Fraser said to me?"
"No?"
"He said them noises was Flint playing games in the dark."
Both men fell silent again. They were thinking over all that they'd heard about Flint - none of which was very nice. They were doing this with rudderless, fog-bound minds, while weak and wounded, and laid out helpless in the open, and in agony… and with darkness approaching when daytime certainties about the non-existence of creatures would not be so certain any more.
