"A rabbit?" he said. "Bugger of a funny shape for a rabbit!"
"Open it, lad," said Flint. "You'll see. The rabbits hereabouts ain't like ours in England."
Fraser fumbled with the shirt. Drunk as he was, he couldn't manage to untie the sleeves. So he picked it up to bring it back to Flint. But he dropped it. He laughed. Flint laughed. The shirt wriggled and gave out a peculiar pattering, scratching sound.
"Whassat?" said Fraser, and Flint's parrot spread its wings and flew away. Flint hardly noticed it go. He was at his sport, as the parrot was well aware.
"It's the rabbit, lad," said Flint. "Never mind untying the knots, Iain lad, just out with your knife and cut the damn thing open!"
"But it's your shirt, Cap'n," said Fraser.
"God bless you, lad, don't mind that," said Flint. "We're men who soon shall own half of England! What's a shirt to us?"
"Aye!" said Fraser, shaking his head at his own stupidity for not thinking of that. He fumbled at his belt and pulled out a dirk half the length of his arm. It had a keen edge and a decent point, but in his fuddled state it took a while for Fraser to get it properly into the shirt and rip open a hole.
He peered into the dark recesses of the shirt where it lay writhing on the ground.
"Bugger of a funny rabbit," he said.
"Just stick a hand in and pull it out," said Flint, and stood up and moved closer for a better view.
"Aye-aye, Cap'n, God bless you!" said Fraser, still full of wonderful thoughts of riches. After a brief groping, he added, "Aaaaaaaaagh!"
"Why stap my vitals!" said Flint. "Do you know, Farter, I think you may be right. I really don't think that is a rabbit after all."
"Aaaaaaaaagh!"
"Do you know, what I think that is, Farter?"
"Aaaaaaaaagh!"
"I think that may be a snake."
"Aaaaaaaaagh!"
"A rattlesnake."
But Iain Fraser paid no attention to Flint. He ran aimlessly in all directions, issuing thunderous farts, while three and a half feet of serpent hung writhing and lashing to his right hand, which was firmly clamped in its jaws, while its blunt tail-tip issued the dry rattling clatter for which its family is named.
"Dear me," said Flint, as Fraser stormed past on a southern run. "Could I suggest you retrieve your knife and cut off its head?"
Flint even exerted himself so far as to pick up Fraser's dirk and to hold it out, butt-first, for Fraser to grab on the return leg. Fraser took the blade, but hadn't the dexterity to achieve very much, left-handed. All he did was anger the snake by scratching its scaly hide with superficial cuts which persuaded it to dig in all the harder.
Eventually, when his breath failed, Fraser sat down, heaving and sobbing, on the big grey rock with the snake still firmly attached to his hand.
"Help!" he pleaded. "Help, Cap'n."
"Don't rightly know how, shipmate," said Flint. "Though I do believe that they generally let go of their own accord, once they've bitten enough."
Eventually that's exactly what the snake did do. But by then Fraser was on his back with a fat, blue hand, eyes closed and breath rasping in his throat.
The snake would have made off, but Flint knelt down and played with it, tempting it to strike at one hand, and catching it behind the head with the other as the coils of muscle launched it at glittering speed. The snake was fast, but nowhere near as fast as Joe Flint. It wasn't mad like him, either, and it didn't laugh.
The parrot watched from a branch in a pine tree. It squawked as Flint led the snake, strike by strike, on to the rock, and there stamped on its head and killed it.
Then Flint went over to the recumbent Farter Fraser to make sure of him too. As he wielded the victim's own knife, the parrot squawked and rocked from side to side and shuffled its feet on the branch, and finally it uttered a deep groan. It groaned as clear, and as sad, and as pitiful as any human being.
Chapter 39
Mr Smith, acting-first mate, had already been sweating, tropical hot in his long blue coat, and now he sweated more.
He cursed in affronted jealousy as Selena followed Cowdray down below, like a lamb. He ground his teeth in rage as the insolent scum of the lower deck dared to sneer and shuffle towards him in mutinous display where he stood at the break of the quarterdeck, by the binnacle and the tiller — the very temple and altar of authority in the ship.
He looked for support and found none. He frowned mightily. There were others aboard — men rated petty officers — who should have stood by him: the quartermasters, the master-at-arms, and especially Mr Allardyce, the boatswain. All these should have done their duty… but see! They were scowling with all the rest. Scowling and jeering, and now they were brazenly calling him "Parson" again. They all wanted a go at the black girl, and were damning his eyes if he stood in their way.
It was insufferable! Unsupportable! Outrageous!
It was also throat-slittingly dangerous. But Parson Smith didn't see that. He was so thickly armoured in his own self- esteem that he never stopped to wonder what the crew would do with him once they got their hands on him.
After all, why should he fear this collection of rogues and imbeciles when he was under the personal protection of Captain Flint? He who had been singled out and chosen by the captain and offered great rewards…
"Now see here, Mr Smith," Flint had said on the voyage down to the island, "I have sent for you because I know you are a man of learning." He'd smiled and invited Mr Smith to walk the deck with him, and engaged so openly in conversation that Smith had duly been dazzled.
"You are our purser, are you not?"
"Yes, sir," said Smith.
"Aye-aye, sir!" corrected Flint with a kindly smile.
"Aye-aye, sir!" said Smith.
"Our purser, yet here's myself in need of a navigating officer."
"Now that you have lost Mr Bones, sir?"
Flint smiled a weary smile. "Quite so, Mr Smith."
"Oh?" said Smith, scenting advantage.
"Mr Smith, are you familiar with your Pythagoras?"
"Oh yes, sir!"
"And your Euclid?"
"Oh yes, sir! And Newton's Fluxions besides!"
"I knew it, Mr Smith! I saw the mathematician in you!"
"Oh, sir!"
So Mr Smith got his long coat, and his big hat, and Mr Bones's empty cabin. He was furthermore given the use of Captain Flint's spare quadrant, and was instructed personally by the captain, with the result that, while still some hundreds of miles from Flint's island, Mr Smith — from his own calculations — was well on course for an accurate landfall.
"Well done, Mr Mate!" Flint had said, as Smith showed his latest position on the chart, some few days from the island. "Now, here's the sun over the yardarm, and the men about to go to their dinners. Will you join me, Mr Mate, for a glass in my cabin?"
"With pleasure, Captain!" said Smith, and puffed up enormously as he sauntered in Flint's wake, with servants taking care of their instruments, and all the crew looking on as he went below to take wine with the captain.
"Your health, sir!" said Flint, seated at his table. "You have the makings of a damn fine navigator."
"Yours, Captain!" said Smith, and came near to blushing as Flint beamed at him.
"So you could find this island of mine?" said Flint. "You could set out from Bristol and find it?"
"Given a good ship and a crew, and charts, sir?" Smith nodded in pompous dignity. "Yes, sir, I believe that I could." He was justifiably proud of the fact and it showed.
"Then your future is assured, Mr Smith," said Flint, showing wolfish teeth.