Flint and Silver: A Prequel to Treasure Island

Chapter 43

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.

"Franky?" said Cameron.

"What?"

"What was we s'posed to be guarding up here?"

"Dunno. Flint said guard the hill. That's all."

"What if he comes back?"

"Oh, bugger me! What if he wants the goods for himself?"

"Oh, shag me ragged!"

"Come on, shipmate, up anchor! He'll do for the pair of us if we don't."

Thus Cameron and Skillit began their descent of Spy-glass Hill. They scraped and dragged and crawled. They set their teeth against the pain. They helped one another like jolly companions, each encouraging his shipmate when the other seemed likely to fail. They even did what they could for their wounds: Skillit hauling the knife out of Cameron's back, and Cameron using it to cut one leg off Skillit's slops to make a bandage for the bullet hole.

Sadly, the removal of the knife only made Cameron's wound bleed all the faster, and Skillit's bandage was promptly dragged off by his slithering over the ground.

Nonetheless, since it was downhill all the way and along a goat track, they made steady progress, covering nearly a hundred yards, until finally, just before it got properly dark, they heard — faintly in the distance — a cheerful voice singing, and the steady beat of a man's footsteps coming up the track towards them.

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest!

"Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

It was amazing how this put life into Cameron and Skillit. There was no more lizard-like dragging themselves over the ground. Not for them! Somehow — heroically — they struggled up on to their legs. Then, leaning heavily on one another, and clutching their wounds, they stepped out at double their previous pace, even though it was now uphill all the way.

They got a remarkably long way before the cheerful singer caught them.