"You rascal!" muttered Flint, knowing that he wanted it back. In fact, he wanted it back very much indeed. It was like the first time he'd fallen out with John Silver. Flint frowned. These were strange and alien thoughts for him.
"Pah!" he thought. But he couldn't take his eyes off the bird. When first he'd confiscated it — stolen it — from some lower deck ape, he'd taken it for the swagger and colour of the creature, and the fine figure that he cut going about with it, and also for the fun of its uncanny gift for words — especially oaths and curses. But later he'd learned how intelligent it was, for it was very intelligent, and used its store of words in proper context.
"Oh dear! Oh dear!" it would say if Flint dropped something.
"Bugger off!" it would say when it disliked someone.
"Salve!" it would say to Cowdray, who always greeted it in Latin.
"Bump! Bump!" it would say on sight of John Silver and his crutch.
"And I don't even know the sex of you!" said Flint. "Don't know if you're he or she." All he knew was that he missed his constant companion. It was the only living thing that stood by him, night and day, and showed him affection… Or it had been.
"Why?" he asked himself, completely failing to make the connections that any other man would have spotted instantly. He'd even had the bird back, briefly, when he got himself out of the jungle that morning, on the way to his rendezvous with Taylor and Howard. The parrot had been waiting. It had been circling above. It had been looking for him.
"Here, my pretty!" he'd said, and for a moment it had fluttered down and alighted on his shoulder, and nuzzled his face in the old way, and a surge of happiness had filled Flint's breast. But then he'd tried to pet it… and off it had flown, screeching and howling. Flint couldn't understand it. He'd got rid of Skillit's ears, so it couldn't be them. Perhaps some of the smell of them was hanging about him?
"Ah well!" he said. "And so to business." He took off his hat and coat. He drew the pistols from his belt and pockets. He laid his cutlass aside and picked up a small bag of tools he'd brought for the occasion, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, smirking at the rips and cuts inflicted in it by Farter Fraser.
"Now then, Mr Taylor and Mr Howard," he said, "who shall be first?" The two men wriggled and moaned. They did their utmost to hide, or to get out of Flint's way, and above all, not to be first.
The parrot screeched and flapped its wings.
"Taylor!" said Flint, and darted forward, grabbing the smaller man by the belt and dragging him towards the iron windlass.
"Mmmmmm-mmmm!" said Taylor, and the parrot spread its wings and took flight.
Flint sat on Taylor's legs and punched him heavily in the face, throwing his head and shoulders back to the ground. Stunned for the moment, Taylor lay stilclass="underline" helpless and doomed. But Howard did his best to wriggle away. He strove might and main. He contorted like a clumsy caterpillar, trying to put ground between himself and terror. Flint smiled at the sight of him, and turned back to Taylor.
"D'you go much to the theatre, Mr Taylor?" he said. "For we learn from that wonderful drama The Duchess of Malfi that 'strangling is a quiet death', which indeed it is, and by that means I could have seen off the six of you while you slept, and none the wiser!" He shook his head in contempt. "But any fool could've done that."
Flint opened his bag.
"Now then," he said, and drew out one of Mr Cowdray's surgical knives, and cut Taylor's shirt from top to bottom. He further produced a pair of carpenter's pincers, a large needle, and some strong linen thread.
"The trick is… to find a loose end," said Flint. "Or so I believe."
Taylor stirred.
"Mmmmmmmm!"
"We'll start here," said Flint, and carefully slit Taylor's belly.
"MMMMMMMM!"
The parrot dived like a kestrel. It dived silently and gave no warning. Claws first, it struck Flint on the top of the head. Then it took hold, and bit. It bit to the bone.
Flint screamed and raised his hands in defence, only for the bird to savage the flesh of his fingers.
"AAAAAAAAAH!" Flint leapt to his feet and struck desperate blows at the manic fury that was digging raw meat out of him. Finally, his greater strength prevailed. He tore the bird free and flung it to the ground and tried to stamp the life out of it. But the bird was off and flying free, only to turn in the air and come down again in attack.
Flint ran to where his arms were stacked. He drew his cutlass and slashed, taking feathers from a wing as the bird dodged. Then down came the bird again, and clawed for his eyes. Flint screamed and swung the blade again, and cut more feathers as the bird flew clear.
Bang! Flint fired and dropped his first belt-pistol. Bang! He fired the second, dropping that. Then the two smaller pistols. All missed, but the bird took the warning and settled in the tree again, furiously stamping and swaying and flapping and turning its head, all the while groaning and sighing and moaning.
"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.
Chapter 47
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.