"So much for my attempts as a Christian," he said, "to minister unto the needs of others."
"What a heap o' shit! I'll tell Flint when he gets back. Know what he'll do to you?"
That gave Smith a fright.
"Oh," he said, "I really cannot imagine any reason why the captain should be involved in this small disturbance."
"Can't you, though?"
"Err… no."
She sneered. He frowned. He looked down, locked in fearful dilemma. He'd known in the first place that it was madness to lay a hand on her before Flint gave the word, but he couldn't keep away. He couldn't keep his hands off anything female — girl, woman or child — once she was in his power. He moaned to himself.
"Parson?" cried a voice outside.
A fist beat the door.
"Parson? A boat's pulling over from Lion. Silver's coming!"
Chapter 42
If Silver had been standing level with Parson Smith, he would have won. But he was sitting on the thwart of a miserable jolly-boat with Walrus's crew looking down on him, while Parson strutted the quarterdeck and boomed and roared in majesty.
As Billy Bones had done before, Parson marvelled at Flint's prescience. Flint had warned him that Silver might try to turn Walrus's people, and Flint had ordered that under no circumstances was Silver to be allowed aboard Walrus.
"If you do that, Mr Smith," he'd said, "then you are lost. In the eyes of the crew he is the greater man. He stands head and shoulders above you all, both figuratively and in reality."
So when Silver came across from Lion with six men pulling and himself at the tiller, and called for a parlay, Smith sternly refused, and wouldn't let him come aboard. He protested that this would break the promise that all hands had made not to interfere with the burial of the goods.
"No, sir!" cried Smith. "We have taken an oath, sir!"
"Which ain't nothing to do with me coming aboard Walrus."
"It is, sir, for what else would you speak of?"
"That bugger Flint! That's what!"
"There!" cried Parson. "Condemned from his own lips!"
"Bladderwash!" cried Silver. He gave up with Parson Smith, and turned to the men. "Who knows me?" he said. "Come on, shipmates — who knows me? Who knows me, and who knows Flint?"
There was a stirring among the men packed along Walrus's rail. There wasn't one man of them that didn't know Long John Silver. They knew him and they knew all that he stood for. He stood for jolly companions, fair shares for all and none left out, and no comrade ever abandoned — not even Blind Pew. Others might speak of these things, but Long John Silver believed in them and lived by them. Oh yes indeed! They knew Silver and they knew Flint, and Parson Smith blinked in fright.
"Don't listen to him!" he cried.
"Bollocks!" cried someone.
"Shut your trap, Parson!"
"Go on, Long John!"
"Go on, Cap'n!"
Captain! They were calling him captain! Parson Smith trembled.
"When did I ever tell you lies?" said Silver. "When did I ever twist or turn? Let any man of you stand forth who's ever heard me called a liar!"
"Not you, Long John!"
"Never!"
"NEVER!"
He nearly did it. Even sitting in the boat. Even under the disadvantage that Flint had contrived. He nearly had them, and a few more words would have had them out of Flint's grasp. But success — or near success — betrayed him. Greatly encouraged, Silver attempted to stand in the boat. He attempted to stand, to make the better figure of himself… and the boat swayed, and one-legged he stumbled and crashed headlong into his own oarsmen.
The fickle audience laughed. They laughed and Parson darted forward and picked up a shot from the rack beside a gun. He hurled it over the side towards Silver's boat.
"See him off!" he cried. "'Ware boarders!"
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."
Chapter 43
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.