Flint and Silver: A Prequel to Treasure Island

Chapter 41

Parson Smith — landsman, lubber and budding navigator — was now within seconds of a nasty death, and it was a wonderful thing to see how ignorant he was of the fact.

"Garn, you bugger," said the crew as they closed in on him, a sea of cruel faces and eager hands fingering knives.

"Out the way, Parson!"

"Give us the black tart!"

"Fair shares for all!"

"Flint's gone! It's our turn!"

"You can have a bit yourself, when we're done!" said a wit, and there was a nasty laugh.

Smith stamped his foot in anger. He lifted his head in defiance. He advanced to the quarterdeck rail. He gripped it with both hands and took up a noble pose — the pose of an innocent man shamefully abused.

This was exactly how he'd behaved in England whenever he'd been denounced, and it was a fine act that had served him well — until he wore it out. It had worked so well because he had such a wonderful capacity to believe his own lies. Thus he could denounce an innocent sixteen-year-old girl as a shameless trollop, and he could do it with flawless sincerity… even while recalling her outrage at the first time he got a hand up her skirt and squeezed her buttocks.

Parson Smith could do this because he was gifted with no ordinary hypocrisy. He was possessed of first-rate, copper- bottomed hypocrisy with line-of-battleship timbers, and a hand-picked volunteer crew.

He had something else, besides. He had a tremendous voice.

"HOLD, YOU MUTINOUS DOGS!" he cried.

He shook the topmasts and shivered the rigging… and the men stopped. They were used to the Billy Bones school of discipline: big voices and hard fists. They too had their illusions, and thought the one must be inseparable from the other.

"AVAST!" roared Smith, seeing the effect of his words… and nearly ruined it. It was the right word, but from the wrong man. They laughed at him. It was a sailor's word, and they could never see him as anything other than a landsman.

"Bloody lubber!"

"Farmer!"

"Parson!"

"Parrrrrrrr-son!"

So they laughed. Which saved him.

They put their knives away and simply jeered. The killing mood was gone for the moment, and they listened as he took the opportunity to deafen their ears with thunderous words.

And so he preached them a sermon. He preached the Gospel According to Joe Flint. He preached the Word of Flint, the Will of Flint, the Commandments given by Flint, the Worship due to Flint… And the Terrible Vengeance of Flint upon the Sure and Certain Day of His Return… when sinners shall be judged!

Old and familiar ground for Parson Smith, but terrifying to Flint's crew, for once they'd started to listen, they found there was not one word of it that wasn't directly relevant to them, and not one word that wasn't true. Eventually — when Smith got on the matter of judgement — he had them trembling and hanging their heads.

It was, without doubt, the most powerful sermon that Smith ever preached. And this was not surprising, for even the most faithful of rural churchgoers had never actually seen God, nor did they expect to meet Him in church on Sunday, whereas Flint's chickens knew their master from severe personal experience, and knew for a fact that he might appear at any moment — incarnate, smiling, and brimming with spite.

They shuddered, and the Catholics among them crossed themselves.

So finally Acting-First Mate Smith was able to send the crew to their duties, which meant little enough, but in their sombre mood it moved them away from the quarterdeck and dispersed them out of their threatening mob, and back to sitting in the shade with their mates, harmlessly chewing tobacco.

By George, thought Smith, that's put the rascals in their place! and he puffed up even more than he had when Flint had favoured him with promotion. He strutted to and fro, and made a great business of taking his glass and scanning the horizon, and looking over Lion, where all sorts of noisy activity was under way — but none of it threatening and no sign of them putting a shore party into their boats, so that was all well and good.

Then, in his majesty and triumph, a very naughty thought crossed his mind. He stopped in his tracks. He pondered on the vengeance of Flint — the vengeance of which he'd just spoken so eloquently — and he pondered on what might happen should certain agreements be pre-empted. But Flint had not yet returned… might not return at all… and the naughty thought swelled and grew.

He turned and went down a hatchway and into the gloom, and was soon outside the door to Flint's cabin, where Mr Cowdray was standing guard with a blunderbuss, and an agonised expression on his face.

"Thank God!" said Cowdray. "Me damn bladder's bursting. Can't stand here another second. Here — take this. She'll probably be safe now, but you never know." And he thrust the blunderbuss into Smith's hands and darted off, thinking of the pewter chamber pot in his own cabin. "Well done, Parson!" he said. "Heard every word of it." And he was gone.

And Parson Smith was alone in the dark narrow space in front of Flint's cabin. He reached out and tried the door. It was locked.

"Who's there?" she said from inside, and Parson licked his lips.

"It is I, my dear," he said.

"Go away!" she said.

He smiled and produced a key: Flint's spare key to the cabin. Flint had given it to him as a token of things to come. He put it into the lock. He turned the key, and he was in, and locking the door behind him.

"Ah!" he said. It was even hotter down here than up on deck. She was wearing just a shirt. It was open at the neck and left her legs exposed from the knees down. Every hair on Smith's body prickled with delicious excitement.

"Dear me, dear me!" he said, and took off his hat and coat.

"What do you want?" she said.

The look on his face gave the answer. There followed a brief series of manoeuvres — he trying to get at her, and she keeping the big table between them.

Smith laughed. "Too hot for such games!" he said, and pulled out a chair and sat on it. He peered at her. "Do you know your catechism, my dear?" he asked, and slapped his leg at the joke. That was how he'd always begun! He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, and licked his lips. He stood up again. He darted one way and she jumped to avoid him. He darted the other way: she jumped again.

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!"