John Drake - Flint and Silver

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.

6th September 1752 Late afternoon The island

"Here it is!" said Flint, and knelt to pick up the shirt, which moved slightly, all by itself. It was rolled into a bundle, tied up by the sleeves. He held it up. It moved again. Something was inside: something alive.

"There's our dinner!" he said cheerfully, and laid it aside in the shade.

Iain Fraser blinked uneasily. He'd noticed Flint wore no shirt. Flint was bare-chested under his coat and had been since he'd gone off alone while the burial party set up their marker. He'd gone off "to find a site for a bearing". When he came back, his shirt was gone. Fraser had noticed that, but never mentioned it. Maybe some of the others had noticed it too. But nobody said anything. With Flint it was unwise to mention things that might be unwelcome.

"And now, here we are… Farter," said Flint. "Halfway up Spy-glass Hill, and the very spot I marked earlier when I made my reconnaissance." Flint indicated a rock the size of a house: flat, smooth and sunk in the earth to form a platform about ten feet long by twenty feet wide, and a foot above the ground. "This will do nicely… Farter."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n!" said Iain Fraser, so used to his ugly nickname that he answered to none other. At least he did when he was with his mates, who'd almost forgotten why they called him it. But a suspicion itched in his mind that Flint used the nickname more often and with more relish than others did.

"Well then, Farter," said Flint, "isn't this just the spot? Don't we have a fine view from here?"

Fraser looked around. The air was fresh and clean. The festering swamps of the southern anchorage and the tropical jungles that surrounded it were nearly four miles away and a thousand feet below. Here was pleasingly open ground: stony underfoot with flowering broom and other shrubs, and with little thickets of nutmeg trees contrasted by a few pines of tremendous size.

Flint breathed the sweet air, he stretched his arms, he tickled the parrot and smiled upon Farter Fraser – the only man of the burial party who would need any special attention. Flint caught Fraser staring steadily at him – and then instantly dropping his gaze. Oh yes! Farter Fraser was by far the most intelligent of them, and would long since have been rated a petty officer but for his hopeless weakness for rum. That and the stink.