John Drake - Flint and Silver

"Look what you've done!" screamed Flint, staring mad- eyed at the bird. "Look what you've done to me!" The red blood streamed down his face, and a great flap of scalp hung gaping open, raw and ugly and sore. He cried out in pain and in protest at the atrocious cruelty of the universe. For in all his career Joseph Flint had never taken a wound. He'd seen blood and fire and mutilation. He had – with relish and a light heart – inflicted dreadful wounds on others, but he'd never, ever, been wounded… And it hurt!

"You filthy swine!" he said, and, casting around for someone to punish, he fell upon Taylor and Howard, spattering blood and spittle and spite. Considering what he'd had in mind for them, they were lucky that all he did – in his rage – was haul them, one by one, to the edge of the cliff and heave them over.

8th September 1752 Mid afternoon The southern anchorage

Selena swam like an otter: sleek and gleaming and easy.

All the children on the Delacroix Plantation could swim. They learned to swim as toddling babies in the local creek, where they would dive and leap and shriek and splash. It was a happy place. Even the mistress and her daughter used to come down to the creek, just for the pleasure of seeing the tiny, beautiful bodies, laughing and shining in their little time of innocence. That's how Selena had met Miss Eugenie. She'd taught Miss Eugenie how to swim.

Feet-first and naked, Selena dived into the waters beneath Walrus's stern. Wet, booming silence filled her ears as the sights and sounds of the air-breathing world were shut out. She was up again with a few kicks, and her head broke surface. She gasped and struck out, to get away from the ship, to get anywhere. Just away and clear.

There was shouting. She wondered if they'd point their cannons at her, as they had at Long John. She wondered if they'd launch a boat. Taking a deep breath, Selena dived, and swam and swam and came up, gasping, and turned and saw them calling to her from the windows and from the stern rail.

They were angry. Gaping mouths and waving fists… and some pistols spouting balls of white smoke. She was already a good way from the ship and the gunshots seemed small and weak. She never even thought to be afraid of where they'd strike, her mind still full of the pistol in Parson Smith's mouth. She shuddered, took another breath, then dived and swam again: kicking and kicking to get away.

This time when she came up, the ship was far off. She trod water and looked for somewhere to go. She turned, round and round, and the little waves bobbed and nodded round her head. The taste of salt was on her lips and all the universe was a flat, glossy-green, liquid surface just level with her chin.

Where should she go? Where could she go? Not ashore. Flint was there. And never back to Walrus. Once again she was running from a dead white man. She didn't think the pirates would be any more understanding than Fitzroy Delacroix's sons, and this time she had personally and deliberately killed someone. That left Lion. The choice was not a hard one. Selena struck out, intending to swim wide around Walrus, which was blocking her line of sight towards Lion, and then to head straight for Long John and his ship. It was only a few hundred yards and she'd been used to swimming all day. It would be easy.

But she immediately discovered why she'd got so far so fast from Walrus. There was a powerful current sweeping round the anchorage, and it was carrying her away faster than she could swim. She tried, briefly, to beat it, but sensibly gave up. That was a sure way to exhaustion and drowning. So she rolled on to her back and floated gently, with minimal movements of hands and feet, and concentrated on keeping her head above water.

It was warm and peaceful. The sun was hot, the water was calm, and there was no sound. It was a gentle delivery from the threats she'd lived under for so long. It was so relaxing that Selena fell into sleep – or something like it – and she thought of John Silver and Joe Flint. She dozed and dreamed and floated. It went on, and on, and on. There was no feeling of time.

Then her heels grated against sand. She started, and pushed down with her hands. She'd come ashore. She sat up. She was in water just inches deep, and suddenly she was heavy and clumsy: not a weightless water-sprite.

"Ah!" she wiped her eyes, and awkwardly stood up and looked around. The two ships were over a mile away, out in the bay. The beach – sizzling hot underfoot – curved like a new moon, stretching for miles, with dense palms bending down to meet it. The sand was much churned up here, and there were many footprints and trails where heavy objects had been dragged. This must be the site of the camp they'd built when they were unloading their treasure. She supposed that, even in their boats, the current must have made it easier to come here than anywhere else.

She took a breath, and ran across the beach as quickly as she could – the sand was too hot for bare feet. She tripped and skipped, trying to make the briefest contact, and then she was in the cool shade. She sat down and sighed. She had no food, no water, no tools, no arms, no clothes. She looked into the jungle and wondered what animals might live there. That was not a pleasant thought, and fear came back. A different kind of fear, but fear nonetheless.

Selena hadn't the least idea what to do next. So she did nothing, and a long day passed, followed by a long, cold night. But no beast with teeth or claws came out of the forest and the sun rose at last. Selena was now getting hungry and was very thirsty. She'd heard the pirates say that there were streams on the island, and if there were streams they must run into the sea somewhere, so she started out along the beach to find one.

She found no water but found something else. She found it just before it found her. A little away from where the camp had been, there was a pole set up in the sand, and firmed into place with rocks. It was what they called a spar, and it had lines fastened to it for a flag. She was walking under the palms, next to the jungle, because the sand there was a little firmer than out on the beach, and so she heard the crashing of something moving through the trees, a little in front of her.

She darted behind a tree and looked out as a man emerged from the forest and staggered out on to the beach. He plodded heavily through the sand towards the flag pole. There, he hauled on a line and up went the flag – a big, black pirate flag with a white skull and crossed bones. Then he drew a pair of pistols and fired them off, and waved towards Walrus. It was Flint. Selena wept in despair.

But very visibly hanging across Flint's shoulder by a strap was a canteen. Selena had taken no drink for nearly eighteen hours. She'd licked drops of moisture from the leaves around her, but that wasn't enough in a tropical climate. Thirst, cruel and unreasoning, drove her to stand out from the trees and walk across the sand – which at this time in the morning was not yet hot.

"Flint!" she cried. "Here!" and walked towards him. He spun round, and even at fifty yards she was shocked at the sight of him. His head was bound up in a bloodstained handkerchief and his face was black with dried blood. He was swaying on his feet and his eyes were glaring and staring.

"Selena!" he said, then contorted with rage and pulled another pair of pistols and fired them towards her. She cringed, but he wasn't aiming at her. He staggered forward, cursing and blaspheming hideously at his parrot – which was fluttering overhead. He dropped to his knees and fumbled for powder and shot to reload.

She went up to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He ignored her. He carried on with his pistols and let her pull the canteen from his shoulder and take a long drink.