Pieces Of Eight

Chapter 38

Under way and outbound in the northern inlet

"John, what is it?" said Israel Hands.

"It's her, matey, it's her!"

Israel Hands didn't have to ask who he meant. There weren't no women but one on the island, and even if there'd been a thousand there'd have been only one for John Silver.

Oh, bugger me blind! thought Israel Hands, for Walrus was sailing bold and sharp and the hands were leaning over the rail yelling piss and derision on all those in her wake — even the nine hands that had been Flint's — and all the world looked sweet as ninepence for a bold new cruise and nobody hanged by the king or scalped by the savages. Oh no, he thought, for he knew what was coming. He'd known Long John too long. He knew what he'd do next.

Silver trembled with emotion. He stumped to the rail, he clung to the mizzen shrouds. He stared at the tiny figure on the beach. It was her, it was her, it was her…

And the first wave that hit him wasn't fear of cold steel and hot lead from those ashore, nor even fear that the crew wouldn't obey should he order the topsail backed and the ship hove to. For who should blame them as wouldn't risk their lives for another man's doxy, nor pull an oar in a boat that set out to fetch her? It was too much to ask, but even that wasn't Silver's first concern.

What really frightened him was the fear that now he'd found her… would she want him? Flint was a cracking fine man when all was said and done. Handsome as the devil, with all the air and manners of a gentleman, and well bred besides: a vastly finer man than a rough-handed, rough- speaking, cripple.

He looked again, the spy-glass trembling in his hand. She was standing, with her hands by her sides. It wasn't as if she was jumping up and down and waving. Not as if she was calling out to him, even if she knew he was there. He hadn't the slightest idea what was in her mind, and he was afraid. What in God's name would she think of him?

He sobbed. He actually sobbed as he reached up to pet the beloved bird with its fond gentleness towards himself, and its soft feathers and bright eyes… but which made so grotesque a figure of himself, together with his hideous disfigurement. What sort of a creature was he, that went on a wooden stick and had a parrot on his shoulder? Mr Joe with his eye-patch looked a rakish devil that the girls really would admire. But not John Silver. Not him. He was in despair. He didn't know what to do.

The gunfire woke Selena. Having fallen asleep curled up under a bush, with her pistols in her hands, she'd slept badly. As she got to her feet she was cold and damp, hungry and thirsty. She'd run into the forest the previous evening leaving Flint and Bentham fighting. She'd run even though she knew it couldn't be for long. Flint would send the Patanq after her and nobody could hide from them… But they didn't come. And she began to wonder: maybe Flint had other ideas?

Selena sighed, stuck the pistols in her belt and pushed through the trees and undergrowth towards the beach, following the direction of the noise. She was acting on sheer curiosity. And where else could she go, in any case? She couldn't hide, she'd got no food or drink. She was as much trapped in the forest as if chained to Flint.

She gasped as she saw what was happening. Two boats were alongside Walrus. Distant figures were climbing aboard, and the ship was full of gunfire and smoke. But that wasn't why she gasped. Even at such distance there was one figure — seen in a flash as he went up the ship's side — that was different from all the rest. He moved differently. He was a one-legged man. He was Long John Silver.

Selena stepped out of the bushes not caring who saw her; not that anyone was looking — Flint's camp was in uproar, yelling and hollering and launching boats. And Flint wasn't there. Where was he? No matter. She stepped out and stared. She stared as Walrus cut her cable and swung in the current. She stared as Flint's men were blasted with swivel-fire that beat off their boats. She stared as Walrus got under way and battered Hercules and headed for the open sea, with cheers sounding from Silver's men.

She stared and stood with her hands by her sides and all the dark thoughts that she'd suffered during seven months with Flint rising to a crescendo. What did she want? Who did she want? And had she a ha'porth of choice in the matter? And clamouring loudest of all was the thought that white men didn't keep faith with black women. Not when pretty black girls could be bought for fun and sold for fieldwork as soon as they stopped being pretty. They were good for whores or mistresses, but what else? What could Selena expect from John Silver… when he was white and she was black?

"Mr Bosun," cried Israel Hands, "back topsail, and heave to! And I'll have a boat's crew mustered this minute to go ashore, loaded and primed for action!"

"What?" said Silver.

"What?" said the crew, and they scowled and growled.

"Belay that!" said Israel Hands, and jabbed a thumb at the big man that stood beside him. "This here's Long John Silver. Him what saved us when Lion was lost. Him what kept us together on this blasted island. Him what never lies, and what leads from the front, and what brung us safe from death, and here aboard a fine ship!" He glared at them all, and Mr Joe instantly came up and stood beside him.

"Ah, you buggers!" said Israel Hands. "Stand forward now, says I! Stand forward any one of you as won't pay what you owe when Long John needs a favour! For I'm going with him wheresoever he leads, and I'll have a boat's crew mustered and ready, and I'll pistol the first man as hangs back!"

The launch was manned and pulling for shore in seconds, being already in the water and dragged alongside of Walrus by the lines and grapnels used for boarding. Silver was at the helm, Israel Hands was coxswain, and six good men, well armed, were at the oars, while Mr Joe — to his intense disappointment — was left aboard ship, together with Black Dog, just to make sure that the thought of abandoning the launch never occurred to any of those embarked, God bless their darling souls!

Besides that, Mr Joe was told to open up a steady, aimed fire at Flint's camp and boats, to keep them busy and out of Silver's way. Thud-boom! Thud-boom! Walrus's maindeck, sent six-pound shot whizzing through the camp, ripping canvas, ploughing sand, and even scoring a lucky hit on one of the grounded boats, which sent the remnants of Flint's men running for cover — such as they were, for there weren't very many of them now. With twenty-four massacred by the Patanq, plus the losses they'd taken from Israel Hand's battery when they sailed in, and those killed in the battle for Walrus… there were now just two men aboard Sweet Anne, ten aboard Hercules and nine men and three boys running in terror.

Them… and another four on special duties with Flint… elsewhere.

So John Silver could look over the heads and shoulders of his chanting, heaving oarsmen and see a safe, cleared beach and no threat from the shore at all. Not until the boat's prow was seconds from the shore, and the hands already pulling shallow to avoid fouling the bottom, and Selena standing like a statue, giving no sign of any feelings at all — but at least not running away — only then did ferocious war-cries shriek from the trees a few hundred yards up the beach, followed by a dense mass of Patanq warriors charging towards Selena and the oncoming boat.

There were more than a hundred of them.