Selena didn't much care for Parson Smith, because he stared fixedly at her breasts with his mouth hanging open whenever he thought nobody was looking, and he had fat, pink little fingers with disgustingly bitten nails. He was clearly ashamed of whatever it was that had driven him from England, and he wouldn't be drawn to talk about it. But Mr Cowdray was much better. He was clever and friendly. He had lived in the great world among ladies and gentlemen. He'd seen the King and Queen and he'd been to the Opera House. In fact, Selena liked him so much, and was so fascinated by his stories about the clothes and hairstyles worn by London ladies, that Flint never asked him to dinner again. And Silver was never asked at all.
From time to time, Selena would be sent deep down below to hide among the coiled mass of the anchor cable. This was when Walrus pounced on a ship that the pirates wanted to rob. The hideous noise of the guns, firing over her head, and the stench of powder smoke were so bad that she begged Flint to let her stay on deck at these times. But on this, he was as immovable as a mountain.
"No, my little flower," he would say, firmly shaking his head. "It isn't just what would happen should you get in the way of a shot, it's the things you might see."
And all the while, the poison between Flint and Long John grew worse. There were arguments over everything. They quarrelled over the set of the sails: Silver always wanting less for safety, Flint always wanting more for speed. They quarrelled over swabbing below decks: Silver against, for the damp it caused, Flint in favour for the greater cleanliness. They quarrelled over watering the grog, over setting the watches, over gun-drill, musket-drill, and what to do with prisoners. Flint always wanted them butchered, Silver always wanted them marooned or set adrift.
But the greatest quarrel was over Flint's wish to bury the wealth that was accumulating below decks, not only from coin and bar silver taken directly from captured ships, but from Charley Neal's payments for jewellery and prizes sailed into Savannah.
Selena felt that this latter argument was different. She didn't begin to understand the bickering and shouting over ship things, as she called them — swabbing, gun-drill and the like for these at least got settled one way or the other, and the arguments stopped. But there was no decision on burying the goods, and the arguments just got worse.
Finally one night there was a serious quarrel, even though it wasn't about the burying but a different matter entirely. Long John, Flint, Billy Bones and some of the other officers every man of the crew who was consulted on important matters — were down in Flint's cabin. Selena, of course, was not among them, but she heard the angry shouts right enough.
Everyone did, and they listened with giant ears to the noise coming up from below.
"Damned if I'll turn for Savannah!" cried Flint.
"An' damned if you don't!" cried Silver. "We've beat about and quartered the ocean hereabouts for far too long. Every shipmaster for a hundred leagues knows Flint's about, so it's time for Flint to be gone."
"Who's cap'n here?" came another voice, that of Billy Bones. He had the loudest voice in the ship and every word came up as clear as if he was standing on the quarterdeck.
"Shut your trap, Billy!" said Silver.
"An' who's to make me?"
"Shut it, Billy," said Silver. "I say that one more prize is one too many. The next one might be a man-o'-war out looking for us."
"Yellow-livered bugger!" came Billy Bones's roar.
At this there was an explosion of anger from below, followed by a rumble and a breaking of furniture, and all the unmistakable sounds of a fight. There was even the bark of a pistol, and the grunts of men giving and taking heavy blows. The eyes and mouths of those on deck grew rounder and rounder as the whole crew came astern, dim figures in the dark, to hear what was going on in Flint's cabin. For the few minutes the fight lasted, there was no proper lookout kept, nor attention to the helm, nor to any other thing that interfered with listening.
Soon the sounds of combat ceased and the crowd dispersed rapidly as Flint and Silver came on deck. They were not on speaking terms and took opposite sides of the deck, glowering into the night and exchanging curt words with a few favoured ones who congregated around them, staring angrily at the other group.
They were followed a while later by Mr Billy Bones: he who'd defeated the foremost pugilist in the Americas. Billy Bones moved unsteadily, hanging on to hand-holds like a drunken man. He violently kicked the backside of the first man he passed, damned his mother as a poxy whore, and told him to haul up a bucket of water. Billy Bones knelt down and plunged his head into this, and washed the blood off his face, and groaned and fingered his bruises. He kept darting nervous glances at Silver and muttering to himself. The crew whistled and drew their conclusions.
But if Silver had won the fight, he lost the argument. Walrus did not return to Savannah. Flint had his way. He would not listen to Silver's warnings as he would have done in the past. He would not listen because there now stood between the two men a prickly hedge of mistrust and anger. This was a great pity. It was a very great pity indeed. In fact it is barely possible to put into words how great a pity it was — especially and tragically for Long John Silver — because Silver had been absolutely right and Flint had been wrong.
Chapter 20
Mr Eustace Crane, captain and part-owner of the West Indiaman John Donald Smith raised his cutlass in a trembling hand and squinted against the fierce sun as he judged the distance. His ship thrashed along with every stitch set and the wind humming in her taut rigging. There wasn't another knot to be got out of her, while the pursuing enemy was coming on like a race horse.
Captain Crane was sick with fear and the broad blade of his cutlass shook, for he knew about the pirate, Flint. Indeed, every man, woman and child in the Caribbean knew about Flint. In particular, they knew that any man daring to make a fight of it got sliced like pork. But Crane feared ruin even more, and he feared the pitying contempt of those more fortunate than himself, and he balanced the hideous images of death and mutilation with thoughts of his family in Bristol, turned out of doors by the bailiffs and cast upon the parish as paupers.
And now, Flint's ship was no more than a pistol-shot astern, with the sea boiling under her bows and her wake twining and joining with John Donald's. There never had been the least possibility that John Donald could outrun Flint's own darling Walrus, for the latter — a rake-masted Yankee topsail schooner — was built purely for speed, while the West Indiaman was a fat, cargo-carrying box, with masts and sails added as an afterthought.
And once Walrus got alongside, then God help a poor sailorman, for Crane had counted her fourteen guns and he could see at least a hundred armed men crammed on board of her. He stared at them in horror, where they jostled merrily for place as they prepared to board. The speeding schooner was heeled far over, dipping gunnel-under with the weight of bodies crammed along the rail, and white water surged thigh- deep among them. They cussed and swore, and they laughed at the wetting and the sight of Crane and his wobbling cutlass, for not another man Jack was to be seen aboard John Donald Smith.