28
Into the Stockade
WHEN CAPTAIN BEAMISH shook my shoulder I lay still, staring without blinking so he might think I was already awake. “Well done; good fellow,” he said—which allowed me to look around without losing any dignity. A confused light was soaking into the sky, mostly pale green and purple; several minutes would pass before it lifted into blue.
“Are you ready, lad?” the captain went on; he was speaking so close, I felt the heat of his breath.
I nodded eagerly, to show sleep had not destroyed my good sense, and climbed to my feet. To tell the truth, my thoughts were still fixed where they had been a moment before, on Natty and on Scotland, though my eyes were turned toward my friends. Bo’sun Kirkby and Mr. Tickle, Mr. Stevenson and Mr. Creed. All stout hearts—but, with their hats pulled down, and their collars turned up, and smudges of the forest on their faces and their clothes drenched, as ragged-looking a crew as the pirates below. I took this to be a kind of encouragement, should it come to fighting.
The captain touched my shoulder again, and pointed down the slope. There was now enough light to see the stockade clearly. None of the pirates had broken their habit of sleeping late; even Jinks, whom I had seen Smirke berating, was slumped forward again in his chair outside the prisoners’ door. I wanted to think this must be a good sign—for surely if they had captured Natty, her guard would be more vigilant?
The captain took a long look at each of us in turn, then set off downhill and expected us to follow. We very soon reached the bushes where we had made our reconnaissance earlier. Then we had walked upright, knowing we could not be seen as long as we were silent; now we hunched as though a bullet might be about to buzz through the leaves. None of us quite believed what Scotland had said about the pirates’ powder being in short supply, even though reason told us it must be true.
The captain gave us a second once-over, staring into our eyes as if a part of his own courage might enter us that way, then whispered, “Come on, boys,” and set off again.
Making ourselves as much like ghosts as possible, we swooped and soon faced the stockade. The captain went over the fence first, which I knew would always be his way—though the effort of hauling his large body over the obstacle, and the oath that escaped him as the tail of his coat snagged on one of the pointed timbers, causing it to tear as he dropped down on the farther side, somewhat spoiled the effect. My own climb was easy, which he acknowledged when I landed beside him. “Well done, young man,” he whispered, and cast a rueful glance at the gate in the southern wall, which he had chosen not to use.
The others arrived beside us with such a performance of jangling and thudding, I thought it would be loud enough to raise the dead as well as the drunk. But only silence followed—silence of such peculiar density, we seemed to have dropped into a different universe, where the inhabitants did not breathe the same air as ourselves. This sense of weight was caused by the pervasive sweet smell, drifting from the distillery the pirates had built alongside their cabin. And also by the degradation we found everywhere. Grass, that here and there had attempted to sprout across the middle part of the compound, sprawled as lank and flat as unwashed hair. The vicinity of the cabins was strewn with filthy tankards, and scraps of clothing, and broken utensils, and fragments of glass. The surfaces of the court had a repulsive shine, which was actually dew but looked as sticky as sweat.
The captain paid no attention to any of this. Moving with remarkable speed for so large a man, he flew toward the prisoners’ quarters. Being directly behind him, I saw his right hand drop to his side as he went, and slide his knife from its sheath. In the same instant, I noticed the twisting pattern of a snake engraved along the blade—and felt it told me something I had not known before. The captain seemed so peace-loving and composed, it was shocking to find he had a knife that was decorated—as though he had a secret relish for the violence he professed to deplore.
As we rushed past the court, the captain appeared to swell—which must, in fact, have been his long coat billowing away from his body. Whatever the reason, I lost sight of Jinks as we drew close to him—but I guessed from the captain’s suddenly even greater acceleration that the rogue had woken, and noticed our approach, and was beginning to struggle to his feet. All I know for certain is: the captain straightened to his full height without a pause, lifted his right arm as if he were about to make a declaration, then plunged it down with the knife gleaming like a fang. There followed two quite separate sounds. One was a grunt from the captain, as he threw his weight into the blow. The other was a kind of exhausted whistle, as the breath left Jinks’s body. When I reached the veranda myself, which was only a moment later, the fellow was still seated in his chair, with his hat pulled forward over his eyes, and his legs stretched in front of him. Nothing about him seemed to have changed—except that a red flower had been pinned to his chest.
Bo’sun Kirkby, Mr. Tickle and our two other shipmates now followed onto the veranda and took their positions either side of the cabin door. Because I knew they were peaceable sailors, I was surprised none of them considered the dead man to be worth a second glance, but instead kept their attention fixed on the compound, and especially the pirates’ log house. It was a sensible precaution—but there was still no sign of alarm, just a drooping plume of smoke, which struggled from the chimney and crawled along the roof. For a moment, we seemed to be holding our breath. A crow flopped onto the ground and began prodding its thick beak into the earth. The cockerel stalked toward him, lifted his head inquiringly, then returned to his brood. Nothing else moved.
More remarkable still was the hush of our friends inside their quarters; even while the captain slid back the pole that acted as both lock and key to the door, there was not so much as a whisper from inside. And when the door opened, which happened with a squeal that froze us in our boots, a most astonishing spectacle presented itself. Herded together in confusion were the shadowy shapes of arms, chests, legs and heads—like an assortment of broken effigies.
The captain was the first to move, stepping toward the threshold of the cabin, whereupon the arms and legs assembled into human forms, and Scotland himself appeared from the gloom to seize his liberator by the hand. My first thought was: if he is alive, Natty must be nearby. But my hopes were crushed when I looked into Scotland’s face. There was nothing like pleasure in his eyes. For a moment I persuaded myself this was due to the beating he had evidently taken after his recapture: the lacerations on his neck and shoulders were painful even to look at.
“Master Nat,” he whispered in his rolling brogue.
“Yes?” the captain said, leaning forward so their heads almost touched.
“He was taken with me. And brought here with me—Stone found us.”
“Ah!” the captain groaned.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Scotland answered, shaking his head miserably.
“Sorry for what, man?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know where he is. I don’t know where they took Mr. Nat.”
The captain lifted his right hand, meaning I think to rest it on Scotland’s shoulder to comfort him, but he dropped it again because the skin was raw.
“Did you see anything?” he asked.
“Only them taking him away. Taking him there.” Scotland gestured toward the pirates’ hut.
At this point I could not contain myself any longer. “Into the hut, you mean?” I said. “They took him into the hut?” I marveled even as I spoke that I had remembered to say “him,” and not “her.”
Scotland looked at the ground. “I’m sorry, Master Jim,” he said, speaking so softly I had to crane forward as close as the captain had done. “Into the hut? I didn’t see that. I went this way, they went that way. It is all I know.”
The captain interrupted us; I understood from the sad twist in his face that he wanted more news, but felt we must drive on. “Now is not the time,” he s
aid sorrowfully. “We will return to this; we shall find what we shall find.”
Scotland nodded and I did the same, knowing I had no choice—but all the anxieties that had drawn me across the island now suddenly vanished. Sadness flooded into their place. Sadness, and dread, and also determination. We would find what we would find, as the captain had said. The chance for happiness was distant, but it was still alive.
The captain evidently thought so as well, explaining to Scotland that he should lead the prisoners across the compound, with Bo’sun Kirkby and Mr. Tickle to accompany him. They would skirt the Fo’c’sle Court, leave by the gate in the southern wall, then congregate on the beach. The captain would follow, keeping myself, Mr. Stevenson and Mr. Creed for support, in the event of the pirates coming to their senses and resisting us.
Scotland gripped the captain on the forearm; the pink of his palm was bleeding, and left a damp imprint when it touched the cloth. Then he spoke over his shoulder, passing back the details of our plan while the captain and I stood aside to form a guard as the prisoners emerged.
Scotland led the way, walking very upright and tall, with a blank look at Jinks and a glare of defiance across the open ground ahead. At his side was a woman whose only clothing was a shabby canvas sheet, in which a hole had been cut for her head, and which was fastened around the waist by a rope. Although she did not speak or look at Scotland, I assumed this was his wife. Barefoot and bedraggled, and with scabs along her arms and legs, she looked about her with an appearance of right—not pride, or the presumption of authority, but something akin to reasonable expectation.
After these two, their companions crept forward. The menfolk came first, many with their arms folded across their chests for warmth—even though the sun had cleared the horizon by now, and was shining directly into the compound. Some carried bundles that were all they possessed. Some propelled themselves on sticks, or supported one another with arms around shoulders. Many bore the marks of beatings: I saw deep welts across backs and foreheads, and ankles swollen by ropes that had been used to bind them. I clenched my jaw tight shut and promised I would never forget.
The later part of the exodus was more shocking still. Evidently the prisoners had made arrangements inside their quarters, whereby the men slept in the part near the door, while the women lay further off, in the blackest part of the place. This was done to protect them—although it was obvious the measure had amounted to nothing. Although I was not, at this time of my life, much acquainted with the depths to which men can sink in their pursuit of pleasure, it was as much as I could do not to cry out in sympathy as these wretches passed before me in a thin and shivering line.
The cuts on faces, the bloody wrists and feet, the broken lips, the near-nakedness spoke of cruelties that exceeded anything Scotland had told us. The looks in their eyes confirmed it. Each of these women gazed at a point in the distance—a point that moved as they moved, and seemed to hold them in a state of trance. Only one showed a spark of familiar life: a woman who clutched a book in one hand—the binding was very torn, and I supposed it was the Bible. When she stopped in the sun, she pressed her free hand against my cheek as though doubting my existence. “I am Rebecca,” she said, and smiled at me. Her fingers were cold as snow.
When this procession had ended, the captain paused at the doorway, then took a deep breath and disappeared into the darkness to make sure no one had been left behind. Although I knew he was walking on tiptoe, I heard the unsteady scuff of his boots, and this was enough to make me imagine what sights he must be seeing—sights I pushed out of my mind as soon as he reappeared. He wiped a hand across his face like someone smearing away cobwebs, then closed the door and slid the locking-pole into position.
By the time this was finished, the head of the procession had crossed the compound and reached almost as far as the gate—our whole troop, over fifty strong, was extended across the open ground. A part of me hoped that so many people would seem a form of strength, and therefore aid our escape. Another part despaired because the majority were weak as grass, and would therefore be cut down like grass.
The conflict of my feelings kept me at a standstill for a moment. I glanced at Jinks in his chair a few paces from me and knew I felt nothing about his death, except curiosity that a man could seem so like himself yet not be himself at all. A little string of saliva hung between his sunburned lips, but no breath disturbed it. Then I stared beyond the compound toward the open sea.
Although the sun had been shining a little while before, clouds had suddenly turned the entire picture into a pattern of different grays. Gray earth inside the stockade; gray sodden ash in the ruins of the bonfire; gray barricade; gray rice fields stretching down to the Anchorage; gray trees and rocks on Skeleton Island. The single dot of brightness was the White Rock a few dozen yards offshore, and the only definite green the tuft of ferns that sprouted from its crown. Around and beyond it, waves rolled in a melancholy succession. Gray, empty waves, on which there was no sign of the Nightingale.
I was never a suspicious child, or a believer in magic that had no foundation in nature. But as this scene closed and the next began, I wondered if my unhappiness had somehow provoked everything that followed. In plain English: my longing to quit Treasure Island now rushed into my mind with such force, it was equivalent to a hand-clap or a shout. Something palpable, at any rate, that was obvious to others. For when I looked across the compound again, I found the pirates had finally woken from their stupor and were bundling onto the veranda outside their cabin. This made me feel I was responsible for our discovery, even if I was not precisely to blame for it.
29
The Conversation at the Gate
SMIRKE WAS FIRST out of the hut, yawning and rubbing his head with the flat of his hand. He continued like this for several seconds, believing himself alone, then suddenly understood and began wildly swinging his arms about, roaring for his fellows to wake up. As he did this, I saw a pistol was tucked into his belt, and my heart began to beat more quickly.
“Jinks!” he bellowed, at the body still apparently sleeping where we had left it—and, when it did not move, issued a torrent of curses that I thought must have hurried his shipmate’s soul on its way to hell. As he did this, I remembered that Scotland had described him as a monster. He seemed to overflow himself, and made the air around him seem solid with his presence.
The captain was not in the least confused by this, but continued giving orders in a clear and deliberate voice.
“Bo’sun Kirkby,” he called. “No need for caution now. Make your way to the shore with all possible speed.”
It was sensible advice but less sensibly received. The very sight of Smirke had created panic in the prisoners, who immediately began running pell-mell toward the southern exit of the compound. This chaos made them easy prey—although I could see they might still keep the advantage, if only they could pass through the gate, since the captain would be able to defend it like a modern Horatius.
Other pirates had now joined Smirke on the veranda, all struggling into their shirts, buckling their belts, pressing on their hats, and barging into one another in a fury. I counted ten of them, which was the number Scotland had mentioned were survivors of the Achilles. One, I noticed, had a thick gray beard that reached almost to his waist. Another carried a toasting fork, which he waved in our direction as if it were a broadsword. This made them seem a comical collection of villains—but their threat to us was real enough. It was nothing compared to Stone, who now floated to Smirke’s shoulder as if he had materialized from a nightmare. His long face was absolutely white and expressionless, and the scar across his throat was like a neckerchief. He looked at Jinks, then back toward us, and slowly bared his teeth. Although this suggested he wanted to chew us into pieces, for the time being he stayed still, his china eyes flickering as if they were operated by a machine.
I was surprised by this—surprised that all the pirates did not immediately pursue us. But as I watched Smirke swagger around
his veranda, taking long steps that made his pistol scrape against the sword in his belt, I began to understand. He might think it outrageous that his mate was dead, but he had no reason to be hasty—only the utmost confidence that he would overwhelm us in a fight. We were as defenseless as birds limed on a twig; he would wring our necks at any time he chose.
We hurried as much as we could, all the same, and as we followed the last pitiful members of our party through the gate, the captain ordered Mr. Stevenson and Mr. Creed to take their place on one side while I crouched on the other. In this way we were protected by the timbers of the stockade. The captain, meanwhile, had planted himself foursquare in the very mouth of danger, with his feet apart as if he were on the deck of the Nightingale in a rolling sea.
I edged closer to him, and peered around the side of the gateway. Smirke and the others had clanked heavily toward us, stopping when they were half a dozen yards off. All of them were breathing very heavily—but more with excitement than effort, like hounds closing on their prey. Being so close, I could see their hands and faces were patched everywhere with weeping sores; their lips, too, were blackened with sunburn.
I expected Smirke to glare at us with contempt—always supposing he chose not to spring straight for our throats. But while there was an element of disdain in his look, there was a greater degree of curiosity. We were the largest collection of strangers he had seen for a long while—and although he detested our existence, he could not conceal his fascination with us. Our faces, our clothes, our hair: everything was a kind of marvel to him.
A marvel for a moment, at any rate—for within the blink of an eye, Smirke seemed to have satisfied his hunger for novelty, and to have reverted to his old ways. He put his hands on his hips. He nodded his big shaggy head. He ran his large tongue over the stumps of his teeth. He allowed himself a chuckling laugh. Had his stock of ammunition been greater, I have no doubt he would have dispatched us there and then.
Silver Page 27
