Flint and Silver: A Prequel to Treasure Island

Chapter 37

Mr Ewyn Smith, acting-first mate aboard Walrus, had a mincing prettiness that at first had made the crew afraid to turn their backs on him when squeezing past in a tight place. They'd warned the ship's boys to steer clear of him too.

But they soon stood easy in that respect. Experience showed that his tastes did not turn to the art of jumping too low at leapfrog, and for a while they accepted him as one of them. After all, they were not a fastidious or particular crew. But then they noticed that Mr Smith was always to the fore when things were shared out, and always to the rear — though bellowing loudly — when boarders went over the side.

Finally, what with him being pompous, and older than them, and a genuine scholar with book-learning, and, worst of all, what with him being suspected of saying his prayers at night — they got the final measure of him and settled on the name Parson, which he loathed and they loved, and was therefore a perfect choice.

Unfortunately, that name was now forbidden, since on elevating Mr Smith to his present rank, Captain Flint had made it blindingly clear that any who uttered the word "Parson" from hereon would incur his displeasure. Some of those too slow to take heed were now doing their duties with hands bandaged by Mr Cowdray, following severe bouts of Flint's game, and the rest had taken note. But they still called the fat sod "Parson" when Flint wasn't about.

And this was most appropriate, for Parson happened to be just exactly what he was — or had been — until his appetite for young girls had led him astray. Now he stood by the tiller of a pirate ship in a large black hat and a long blue coat, focusing his glass on the shore and wondering what Flint was up to. Mr Cowdray was beside him, also studying the shore with a glass, and so were some of the hands, in the waist. They were studying the shore and telling their mates what was afoot.

There'd just been a cry of "All hands!" from the shore, faint but audible. Everyone had heard it, and now Flint and the others seemed to be dragging a body across the sand.

Smith looked around the deck nervously. There was a great deal of muttering and discussion going on.

"What do you think, Mr Smith?" said Cowdray. Smith blinked at the surgeon, and envied him his light straw hat, loose calico slops and bare legs. He looked cool, while Smith was sweating in his broadcloth and felt.

"Well, sir?" said Cowdray.

"I could not say, sir," said Smith.

"There was pistol-fire last night," said Cowdray. "Do you suppose there is disaffection among the burial party?"

"Hmm," thought Smith, who knew a great deal more than he was prepared to share with Cowdray. He pondered the offer made him by Flint, and wondered if he'd live to enjoy it. He certainly hoped so. Then a stir and more muttering among the men told him that Selena had come on deck. How apposite, thought Smith, and looked at the slim, dark figure in her long enveloping shirt and loose britches.

She'd gained sufficient sense to wear many more clothes now than previously she had. There wasn't the delicious gleam of flesh that there had been. But she was still a most tasty little dish, and the clothes meant all the more pleasure in peeling off the layers before getting your teeth into the meat. And then… Smith had been assured by a considerable authority that she bounced like a rabbit once you'd got the skirts off her. She was only a two-legged animal, after all, and full of red-hot juices. Mr Smith had worked up a considerable lust for Selena.

Maddeningly, as ever she was avoiding his eye. She looked at Cowdray.

"Miss Selena!" said Cowdray. "Good morning, my dear."

"Mr Cowdray," said Selena and smiled briefly.

Clearly she liked the surgeon. Smith didn't like that.

He looked her over again and, as usual, his memory went back to those happy days in Cheshire, when he'd had an excellent living, a fine church and a large and prosperous congregation; a congregation that sent its sons and daughters to him to be prepared for confirmation by His Grace the Bishop of Chester — Mr Smith's cousin, friend and patron.

Happy days indeed! The boys he'd crammed into classes and got rid of as soon as he could. He'd no use for them. But the girls… Ah, the girls! Those he'd given special and personal tuition in his own house.

Mr Smith grew dreamy-eyed at the thought of their fair skins, smooth necks and plump, round thighs. He sighed at the thought of how he'd tickled them to make them laugh, and how they'd come back, day after day, told by their mothers to be good girls for the parson, and how he'd accustomed them, stage by stage, to him nibbling their ears, pinching their titties, and putting his hand first on an ankle, then on a knee, and then ever upwards, always tickling and laughing, until finally — it usually took a few weeks — it would be a full, bouncing rogering, with him sat in his favourite parlour chair with his britches open, and them with their skirts up and bare legs astride his lap, and their round mouths gasping, "Oh! Oh! Oh!"

What a tragedy it had to end! But there had been so many swollen bellies and tearful girls telling identical tales that there came a time when his stern denials were no longer believed by their parents. With the bishop's help, and the Church's zeal to avoid scandal, he'd shifted parish several times and carried on as before. But finally, thanks to a farmer named Berwick who'd had a plump young daughter, six big sons, and many friends, the Reverend Mr Smith had been obliged to leave his house by the back door, while the mob came in through the front, and even then he'd taken a charge of shot to the nether regions, of which much remained forever embedded beneath his skin.

"Mr Mate," said Selena. She stood blinking in the fierce sunshine, and Smith realised she'd been speaking to him, and he'd not been listening. This time she was staring straight at him and saying something. He was pleased at first.

"Look," she said softly and nodded towards the men, gathering among the packed tackle and gear that crammed the deck. For the moment, they'd lost interest in what was happening ashore, and were lazing in the shade under a sail rigged as an awning. There they were sitting on the guns, chewing tobacco, grinning and muttering, and all of them were looking at her.

"You need to talk to them again," she said. He looked at the men, and ran a wet, red tongue round his lips — a disgusting habit of his.

"I'm sure these good fellows know their duty," he said.

"You need to talk to them. Even the boys." She pointed to the shore. "Tell them Flint's just over there. He will be back soon."

"Bin gone five days, miss," said one of the hands, who'd sidled up close enough to hear. He turned to his mates with a grin. "We heard shooting last night, didn't we, mates? Maybe they done for the cap'n and he ain't never coming back!"

There was a roar of laughter at that. Not that they wanted Flint dead. Oh no. It was just that they wanted a little bit of time, left by themselves, to do something they'd been dreaming about for many long weeks. The pack of them got up and leered at Selena and slowly moved towards the wheel.

"Parrrrr-son!" said a voice, sing-song, soft and mocking.

"Parrrr-son!" said another.

Cowdray took Selena's arm.

"Get below," he said. "Now! And don't show yourself till the captain's back."

She frowned.

"It's hot down there. It stinks of tar…"

"Good God Almighty, girl… get below!"

Cowdray pulled her towards a hatchway. She took one more look at the men and stopped resisting. He led her down the companionway, towards the stern and Flint's cabin.

"Get in there. Stay in there. Lock the door!" He listened to the growling and arguing now coming from above. He sighed.

"Dear me! Dear me!" he said. "Give me that — " he pointed to a brass-barrelled blunderbuss hanging in a rack among the armoury of weapons Flint kept in the cabin. She snatched it and held it out. But she hung on to the gun and looked him in the eye.

"Doctor," she said.

"Yes?"

"Thank you!"

Cowdray sighed. "Good God, madam, I do but what I can."

"So where's your fancy words? Your Latin?"

"Madam, there's no time for that!"

"Say some — for luck."

"Oh… Godalmighty… Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit!"

"What's that?"

"Virgil: 'The time will come when this plight shall be sweet to remember.'"

"Yes!" she said and kissed his cheek.

This stirred emotions of every kind within Mr Cowdray's breast and loins, for she was very lovely and he was only a man. Still, he'd set himself a role to play — a bold one and a fatherly one — and so he played it. He was a surgeon, after all, and the practice of surgery breeds hard decisions and firm resolve.

"Ahem!" he said. "Poor soul!" And he patted her hand. "Now, I shall stand here until things are quiet." He looked nervously towards the rumbling and shouting above. "Then I shall bring food and water, so you need not emerge till Captain Flint returns. The captain will put all to rights. Meanwhile, shut the door and lock it!"

"Where's the key?" she said.

"Good God, madam," said Cowdray, "damned if I know. Search! Search!"

He pulled the door shut and put his back to it. He cuddled the short, heavy firearm and wondered if it were loaded. Then he wondered why he was doing this at all. The men would never listen to him. He was no fighting man. He'd not hold them off for one second, should they come in force. The best he could offer would be a few moments of bravado… perhaps waving the gun at them… It might stop them… though probably not… and then he'd have to drop it and let them pass, just to save his own life. And in that case a locked door wouldn't stop them either, and God help the black girl.

In fact, everything now depended on Parson Smith, a creature who — in Mr Cowdray's judgement — was a slobbering libertine, and a figure of fun to the foremast hands. Cowdray wondered what in the Devil's name had persuaded Flint to raise such a creature into a position of authority. The bloody parrot would have been a better choice.