John Drake - Flint and Silver

The shot missed, and Parson heaved another. One or two of the men copied him in vicious glee, being the sort whose pleasure it was to kick a man when he's down. The shot plopped and walloped into the water, none hitting the boat, but splashing the crew and making them look foolish. There was more laughter.

"Wait! Wait!" cried Silver, white-faced with anger. "You stupid, shit-head lubbers! Listen to me!"

But the moment was gone. Israel Hands, at the stroke oar, called for the men to pull clear. He didn't want shot through the bottom of the boat. And then, as the boat gathered way and the current slewed her back past Walrus's stern, where the big windows were wide open, a voice cried out.

"Long John! Long John! Get me out of here!" She was leaning out as far as she could, waving a handkerchief.

"Selena!" said Silver. "Mr Hands, get this boat under the stern there!"

"Can't be done, Cap'n!" said Hands. "They'll sink us!"

He was right. Parson Smith was foaming and roaring and spouting the Word of Flint. With none to oppose him, he was back on his safe ground of terror and retribution, and Walrus's taffrail was black with figures waving shot in their fists and howling abuse: the self-same men who, seconds ago, had nearly been Silver's to command.

"Then get us as close as you can, without coming into range."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n. Give way, you buggers! Back larboard pull starboard!"

The oarsmen heaved mightily and the jolly-boat spun in her own length.

"Together now – heave!" cried Silver, and steered the boat as close as he dared while the shot dropped heavily into the sea an oar's length away.

"Can you swim, girl?" cried Silver.

"Yes!"

"Then swim! Jump and swim to me!"

"No!" cried Parson Smith. "Listen, lads – he's stealing the black girl!"

There was an angry howl from the men.

"Give me a match!" cried Parson, and hauled the tarpaulin cover off one of the two brass swivel guns mounted on the taffrail. "And you there -" he pointed at one of the men, "Stand to the other gun!"

Instantly, a pair of two-pounder swivels was levelled at Silver and his boat. The range was twenty-five yards, and each gun was crammed with half-ounce pistol balls. Parson swelled in triumph as a smouldering match was pressed into his hands. "Haul off, Silver," he cried, "or I'll blow you to Hell!"

"John!" cried Selena. "Help me!"

"Can't be done, lass!" said Silver bitterly. "Back off, Israel."

Silver waved. Selena waved. The jolly-boat pulled clear, and turned for Lion. Silver looked back until he could no longer see the small figure at Walrus's stern. He turned and faced the crew, pulling together to speed the boat back to Lion.

"Well, lads," he said, "it's hot lead and cold steel from now on."

7th September 1752 Late afternoon Spy-glass Hill The island

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.