Flint and Silver

by John Drake

  Flint dug into the rich, black soil of memory, and turned up a thing that smelt bad, even to him. He paused. He gathered himself. He spoke.

  "Do you know, lads, he… my father… he had a particular disgust for the physical act of procreation. D'you know that? And he never ceased to punish me for my own conception." Flint raised a warning hand. "Not that he beat me! No. He never touched me. Not once, not ever. Indeed, he never touched anyone. But he had the most wonderful ability to inspire guilt."

  "Mm."

  "And so I took refuge in that beloved old book. It was the London edition of 1701, in two folio volumes with hundreds of wood-cut illustrations, most lavishly and beautifully worked. What do you think of that?"

  "Mm."

  "We had two other books in the house: the Bible, of course, and Pilgrim's Progress." He frowned. "But I could never take to them. It was always Fox's for me, and many's the happy hour I spent in study of it." He chuckled confidentially. "Well, lads," he admitted, "if the truth be known, it wasn't so much the text I studied, for I mainly looked at the pictures."

  "Mm."

  Flint shook his head.

  "You wouldn't believe the things I saw, and the lessons I learned. You wouldn't believe the ingenious cruelties inflicted by one man upon another in the name of faith, and the agonies suffered by the blessed martyrs. And you wouldn't believe the artistic skill - and the precision of detail - with which those horrors were depicted: the rack and strappado, the stake and the thumbscrew; decapitation, immuration, ex-sanguination, and the winding-out of the gut…" He mused a while, savouring the memory. "Have you ever seen that, lads? The winding-out of the gut… with a windlass"

  But his audience said nothing. They'd said little enough before, had Rob Taylor and Henry Howard, because each had a ball of cloth jammed into his mouth, secured in place by a strip of the same cloth knotted firmly at the back of the head. And now they said even less because they were tied hand and foot, sat together propped up against a tree looking at the iron windlass that Flint had brought ashore with him, and which they'd all supposed was to be used for the burial of the goods. But though they'd laboured to carry the thing round the island, it had not been used - until now.

  "Fox's Book says there's over five fathoms of guts inside a man," said Flint. "I've often wondered if that really is the case."

  Silence.

  Flint got up from the rock on which he'd been sitting and took a turn around the little camp: the camp where Rob and Henry had - with a little encouragement - got so profoundly drunk that morning, and fallen so very deeply asleep in the midday sun.

  "Here we are, then, at Haulbowline Head," said Flint. "Named and mapped by myself, these three years since." He waved a hand, as if to introduce it to them. "And d'you know, lads, I can't even remember why I gave it that name!" He laughed and looked around. It was a fine place, bracing and fresh. The view over the sea was magnificent. Like Spy-glass Hill, Haulbowline Head had a small number of big trees - not enough to constitute a forest, not enough to obscure the view, but tall and old and gnarled, for these weren't pines but something more tropical.

  Flint marvelled at the variety of the island, for here was another little world within itself, as different as could be from the jungles of the southern anchorage, or the Alpine heights of Spy-glass Hill. The surf thundered even louder here than anywhere else, for the sea was ever beating at the foot of the massive cliffs, with tumbled rocks and seething white water at the base. A strong wind blew inward off the South Atlantic, driving into the wet cliffs and broken waters, and swirling up with steaming wetness that kept Haulbowline Head forever damp.

  It was a fine and noble place. It was also the most dangerous place on the island, for the cliffs fell sheer as a right-angle, such that no man who went over them need ever have the least fear of being hurt. The drop was three hundred feet, straight down on to jagged rocks, and certain, instant death.

  The drop was only about twenty yards away from where Taylor and Howard sat by their tree.

  "Now, where's that bird of mine?" said Flint to himself, and he looked up into the branches of that very tree. "Ah! There you are." The bird squawked as he looked at it. It swayed and bobbed its head. It was peering steadily back at him, meeting his eye with an insolence that he'd never have tolerated from a man.

  "You rascal!" muttered Flint, knowing that he wanted it back. In fact, he wanted it back very much indeed. It was like the first time he'd fallen out with John Silver. Flint frowned. These were strange and alien thoughts for him.

  "Pah!" he thought. But he couldn't take his eyes off the bird. When first he'd confiscated it - stolen it - from some lower deck ape, he'd taken it for the swagger and colour of the creature, and the fine figure that he cut going about with it, and also for the fun of its uncanny gift for words - especially oaths and curses. But later he'd learned how intelligent it was, for it was very intelligent, and used its store of words in proper context.

  "Oh dear! Oh dear!" it would say if Flint dropped something.

  "Bugger off!" it would say when it disliked someone.

  "Salve!" it would say to Cowdray, who always greeted it in Latin.

  "Bump! Bump!" it would say on sight of John Silver and his crutch.

  "And I don't even know the sex of you!" said Flint. "Don't know if you're he or she." All he knew was that he missed his constant companion. It was the only living thing that stood by him, night and day, and showed him affection… Or it had been.

  "Why?" he asked himself, completely failing to make the connections that any other man would have spotted instantly. He'd even had the bird back, briefly, when he got himself out of the jungle that morning, on the way to his rendezvous with Taylor and Howard. The parrot had been waiting. It had been circling above. It had been looking for him.

  "Here, my pretty!" he'd said, and for a moment it had fluttered down and alighted on his shoulder, and nuzzled his face in the old way, and a surge of happiness had filled Flint's breast. But then he'd tried to pet it… and off it had flown, screeching and howling. Flint couldn't understand it. He'd got rid of Skillit's ears, so it couldn't be them. Perhaps some of the smell of them was hanging about him?

  "Ah well!" he said. "And so to business." He took off his hat and coat. He drew the pistols from his belt and pockets. He laid his cutlass aside and picked up a small bag of tools he'd brought for the occasion, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, smirking at the rips and cuts inflicted in it by Farter Fraser.

  "Now then, Mr Taylor and Mr Howard," he said, "who shall be first?" The two men wriggled and moaned. They did their utmost to hide, or to get out of Flint's way, and above all, not to be first.

  The parrot screeched and flapped its wings.

  "Taylor!" said Flint, and darted forward, grabbing the smaller man by the belt and dragging him towards the iron windlass.

  "Mmmmmm-mmmm!" said Taylor, and the parrot spread its wings and took flight.

  Flint sat on Taylor's legs and punched him heavily in the face, throwing his head and shoulders back to the ground. Stunned for the moment, Taylor lay still: helpless and doomed. But Howard did his best to wriggle away. He strove might and main. He contorted like a clumsy caterpillar, trying to put ground between himself and terror. Flint smiled at the sight of him, and turned back to Taylor.

  "D'you go much to the theatre, Mr Taylor?" he said. "For we learn from that wonderful drama The Duchess of Malfi that 'strangling is a quiet death', which indeed it is, and by that means I could have seen off the six of you while you slept, and none the wiser!" He shook his head in contempt. "But any fool could've done that."

  Flint opened his bag.

  "Now then," he said, and drew out one of Mr Cowdray's surgical knives, and cut Taylor's shirt from top to bottom. He further produced a pair of carpenter's pincers, a large needle, and some strong linen thread.

  "The trick is… to find a loose end," said Flint. "Or so I believe."

  Taylor stirred.

  "Mmmmmmmm!"

 
"We'll start here," said Flint, and carefully slit Taylor's belly.

  "MMMMMMMM!"

  The parrot dived like a kestrel. It dived silently and gave no warning. Claws first, it struck Flint on the top of the head. Then it took hold, and bit. It bit to the bone.

  Flint screamed and raised his hands in defence, only for the bird to savage the flesh of his fingers.

  "AAAAAAAAAH!" Flint leapt to his feet and struck desperate blows at the manic fury that was digging raw meat out of him. Finally, his greater strength prevailed. He tore the bird free and flung it to the ground and tried to stamp the life out of it. But the bird was off and flying free, only to turn in the air and come down again in attack.

  Flint ran to where his arms were stacked. He drew his cutlass and slashed, taking feathers from a wing as the bird dodged. Then down came the bird again, and clawed for his eyes. Flint screamed and swung the blade again, and cut more feathers as the bird flew clear.

  Bang! Flint fired and dropped his first belt-pistol. Bang! He fired the second, dropping that. Then the two smaller pistols. All missed, but the bird took the warning and settled in the tree again, furiously stamping and swaying and flapping and turning its head, all the while groaning and sighing and moaning.

  "Look what you've done!" screamed Flint, staring mad- eyed at the bird. "Look what you've done to me!" The red blood streamed down his face, and a great flap of scalp hung gaping open, raw and ugly and sore. He cried out in pain and in protest at the atrocious cruelty of the universe. For in all his career Joseph Flint had never taken a wound. He'd seen blood and fire and mutilation. He had - with relish and a light heart - inflicted dreadful wounds on others, but he'd never, ever, been wounded… And it hurt!

  "You filthy swine!" he said, and, casting around for someone to punish, he fell upon Taylor and Howard, spattering blood and spittle and spite. Considering what he'd had in mind for them, they were lucky that all he did - in his rage - was haul them, one by one, to the edge of the cliff and heave them over.

  * * *

  Chapter 47

  8th September 1752

  Mid afternoon

  The southern anchorage

  Selena swam like an otter: sleek and gleaming and easy.

  All the children on the Delacroix Plantation could swim. They learned to swim as toddling babies in the local creek, where they would dive and leap and shriek and splash. It was a happy place. Even the mistress and her daughter used to come down to the creek, just for the pleasure of seeing the tiny, beautiful bodies, laughing and shining in their little time of innocence. That's how Selena had met Miss Eugenie. She'd taught Miss Eugenie how to swim.

  Feet-first and naked, Selena dived into the waters beneath Walrus's stern. Wet, booming silence filled her ears as the sights and sounds of the air-breathing world were shut out. She was up again with a few kicks, and her head broke surface. She gasped and struck out, to get away from the ship, to get anywhere. Just away and clear.

  There was shouting. She wondered if they'd point their cannons at her, as they had at Long John. She wondered if they'd launch a boat. Taking a deep breath, Selena dived, and swam and swam and came up, gasping, and turned and saw them calling to her from the windows and from the stern rail.

  They were angry. Gaping mouths and waving fists… and some pistols spouting balls of white smoke. She was already a good way from the ship and the gunshots seemed small and weak. She never even thought to be afraid of where they'd strike, her mind still full of the pistol in Parson Smith's mouth. She shuddered, took another breath, then dived and swam again: kicking and kicking to get away.

  This time when she came up, the ship was far off. She trod water and looked for somewhere to go. She turned, round and round, and the little waves bobbed and nodded round her head. The taste of salt was on her lips and all the universe was a flat, glossy-green, liquid surface just level with her chin.

  Where should she go? Where could she go? Not ashore. Flint was there. And never back to Walrus. Once again she was running from a dead white man. She didn't think the pirates would be any more understanding than Fitzroy Delacroix's sons, and this time she had personally and deliberately killed someone. That left Lion. The choice was not a hard one. Selena struck out, intending to swim wide around Walrus, which was blocking her line of sight towards Lion, and then to head straight for Long John and his ship. It was only a few hundred yards and she'd been used to swimming all day. It would be easy.

  But she immediately discovered why she'd got so far so fast from Walrus. There was a powerful current sweeping round the anchorage, and it was carrying her away faster than she could swim. She tried, briefly, to beat it, but sensibly gave up. That was a sure way to exhaustion and drowning. So she rolled on to her back and floated gently, with minimal movements of hands and feet, and concentrated on keeping her head above water.

  It was warm and peaceful. The sun was hot, the water was calm, and there was no sound. It was a gentle delivery from the threats she'd lived under for so long. It was so relaxing that Selena fell into sleep - or something like it - and she thought of John Silver and Joe Flint. She dozed and dreamed and floated. It went on, and on, and on. There was no feeling of time.

  Then her heels grated against sand. She started, and pushed down with her hands. She'd come ashore. She sat up. She was in water just inches deep, and suddenly she was heavy and clumsy: not a weightless water-sprite.

  "Ah!" she wiped her eyes, and awkwardly stood up and looked around. The two ships were over a mile away, out in the bay. The beach - sizzling hot underfoot - curved like a new moon, stretching for miles, with dense palms bending down to meet it. The sand was much churned up here, and there were many footprints and trails where heavy objects had been dragged. This must be the site of the camp they'd built when they were unloading their treasure. She supposed that, even in their boats, the current must have made it easier to come here than anywhere else.

  She took a breath, and ran across the beach as quickly as she could - the sand was too hot for bare feet. She tripped and skipped, trying to make the briefest contact, and then she was in the cool shade. She sat down and sighed. She had no food, no water, no tools, no arms, no clothes. She looked into the jungle and wondered what animals might live there. That was not a pleasant thought, and fear came back. A different kind of fear, but fear nonetheless.

  Selena hadn't the least idea what to do next. So she did nothing, and a long day passed, followed by a long, cold night. But no beast with teeth or claws came out of the forest and the sun rose at last. Selena was now getting hungry and was very thirsty. She'd heard the pirates say that there were streams on the island, and if there were streams they must run into the sea somewhere, so she started out along the beach to find one.

  She found no water but found something else. She found it just before it found her. A little away from where the camp had been, there was a pole set up in the sand, and firmed into place with rocks. It was what they called a spar, and it had lines fastened to it for a flag. She was walking under the palms, next to the jungle, because the sand there was a little firmer than out on the beach, and so she heard the crashing of something moving through the trees, a little in front of her.

  She darted behind a tree and looked out as a man emerged from the forest and staggered out on to the beach. He plodded heavily through the sand towards the flag pole. There, he hauled on a line and up went the flag - a big, black pirate flag with a white skull and crossed bones. Then he drew a pair of pistols and fired them off, and waved towards Walrus. It was Flint. Selena wept in despair.

  But very visibly hanging across Flint's shoulder by a strap was a canteen. Selena had taken no drink for nearly eighteen hours. She'd licked drops of moisture from the leaves around her, but that wasn't enough in a tropical climate. Thirst, cruel and unreasoning, drove her to stand out from the trees and walk across the sand - which at this time in the morning was not yet hot.

  "Flint!" she cried. "Here!" and walked towards him. He spun round, and even at fi
fty yards she was shocked at the sight of him. His head was bound up in a bloodstained handkerchief and his face was black with dried blood. He was swaying on his feet and his eyes were glaring and staring.

  "Selena!" he said, then contorted with rage and pulled another pair of pistols and fired them towards her. She cringed, but he wasn't aiming at her. He staggered forward, cursing and blaspheming hideously at his parrot - which was fluttering overhead. He dropped to his knees and fumbled for powder and shot to reload.

  She went up to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He ignored her. He carried on with his pistols and let her pull the canteen from his shoulder and take a long drink.

  "What happened?" she said.

  "Damned bird!" he said. "It's gone mad!"

  "Why?"

  "Don't know."

  BOOOM! A gun sounded from Walrus. Flint looked up.

  "Ah!" he said. "They're launching a boat." He looked at her and noticed her nakedness for the first time. "Better take this," he said, and gave her his coat, then turned to gaze at Walrus and the boat pulling for the shore. But he said nothing else. He divided his attention between the oncoming boat and the green bird circling over the trees.

  Then the boat grounded, twenty yards off on the shallow shore. Sand crunched under the bow, six men shipped oars with a rumble and rattle, and Tom Allardyce leapt out and splashed towards Flint and Selena. He stared at Flint in horror.

  "Where's the lucky six?" he said. "What's happened? What's wrong?" Then a more immediate thought occurred to him: "Cap'n," he said, pointing angrily at Selena, "that moll's done for Mr Smith. Blew his fuckin' face off, she did!"

  "Huh!" said Flint, who was worried with matters far greater than the life or death of the miserable Smith, with his all-too- obvious flaws. He looked at Selena. "Do I take it that he couldn't keep his filthy hands off you?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "Then serve the lubber right!" Flint looked impatiently at Allardyce, and waved a hand as if to brush away a fly. "Pah!" he said. "I'll hear no more of Parson bloody Smith, and you may give the word to all hands in that regard. Now! Pull for the ship and Devil take him that don't break his back!"