"Bastard!" said a voice.
"Bloody bastard!" said another, and Silver's men muttered and started towards Ratty's body.
"NO!" cried Silver at the top of his voice, and hauled out another pistol. He was tortured with guilt for the thing he had done. It would be his burden and nightmare forever, and it would change him. "Not another step! You've seen me kill a child, here, so d'you think I'd think twice about shooting any of you?"
They growled and cursed but stood fast while Silver hopped as close as he dared to Ratty Richards's body, and finally got a good look at the pale face, staring up at the stars.
Ratty was heavily disfigured. It was worse than ordinary smallpox, and that was bad enough! The rash was continuous. Whole, thick sheets of skin were peeling off the face, and arms and neck, and every other inch of skin that Silver could see. Blood wept and crept out from the cracks between the dying skin, and red-raw flesh gaped naked and oozing where the skin had dropped off.
"Ugh!" said Silver, and leapt back. He'd been right. The old book was right. But in that dreadful moment it didn't make him feel any better. "Keep clear o' that!" he said, pointing at Ratty's body, but he needn't have bothered. They'd seen him jump. "Now, let's get this thing done," he said, and led them through the darkness. He led them to within hailing distance of the camp, but no closer.
On both sides, a lesson had been learned. Silver's men raised their muskets, and those by the campfire made no attempt to move.
"Where's Mr Sawyer?" cried Silver.
"Here, Cap'n," said a weak voice.
"He's bad, Cap'n," said another voice. "He can't get up."
"Then listen to me, shipmates," said Silver. "I've always told you the truth, good or bad, and this time it's bad." He paused, searching for words. "It's the smallpox, only worse. It's something brewed on this island. You got it off Ben Gunn's monkey, and anyone as comes nears you gets it too, 'cept only them what's had it before, like Mr Bones, here. So we brought you all the supplies we could carry, and plenty o' rum, but you've to stay here and not move. I mean it, lads, I'll shoot any man as tries to come near the rest of us!"
There was a long silence. Then Sarney Sawyer spoke in the darkness.
"Are you leaving us to die, Cap'n?"
Silver looked away. He was deeply ashamed. And it didn't help that he could see no other way.
"Yes," he said finally. "It's that or lose all hands."
"Can't nothing be done, Cap'n?"
"No." Silver struggled for words. The best he could manage was: "But we did bring you the rum."
"Thanks, Cap'n."
"Sarney?"
"Aye-aye, Cap'n?"
"We'll be gone in the morning, but a few hands has volunteered to keep watch. Some of them what's had the smallpox. They'll be keeping watch… understand?"
"Aye-aye, Cap'n," said Sarney Sawyer. "But me an' these poor lads here… we been low for days, Cap'n, heaving of our guts up, an' aching. So set your guards if you must, but we ain't going nowhere."
Nor did they. Of the twenty-four Silver had left behind at the northern inlet, all but one died within a week. The body of the runner — a ship's boy sent out for help — was found later, near the swampland where he'd fallen, too sick to move, and slowly died. Like all the rest, he was buried — at Silver's orders — in the old Portuguese graveyard, together with the skin and bones that had been Father Lucio.
If ever there was a tribute to John Silver's leadership, then it was that graveyard, since all the disgusting work of corpse-hauling and burial had to be done by the half-dozen hands who — like Ben Gunn and Billy Bones, but not Silver himself — were immune to smallpox, having had it and survived it, and this work they did because they trusted Silver; who'd told them it was the proper way to honour their fallen comrades, every bit as much as standing to attention with hats off as a man's body went over the side, beneath the flag, sewn in his hammock, to the sound of the bosun's call.
Now Silver had only forty-eight men to defend the island. Forty-nine, if he included Ben Gunn, who was anchored somewhere downwind of peculiar. Silver searched to the depths of his imagination for a plan, something that might suit. He remembered the words of the men whom he'd served under in the past, especially Captain England and Captain Mason. Good men and true. Gentlemen of fortune! He wondered what they'd have done, if placed as he was.
He wondered, but found no answer. So what was he to do?
Chapter 18
The room was long and narrow: the basement of a ship chandler's warehouse. There were two rows of tables, the floor was spread with sawdust. Candles were needed even in daytime, and the clientele were sailormen: shipmasters, mates and bosuns. It was a place where deals were made and news exchanged. It was passing clean and smelled of tobacco, tar and beer.
"Where's Bentham?" said Flint, following Neal down the stairs into the room.
"Through there," said Neal, pointing to one side. "See the door?" Flint frowned, fearing a trap. "It's all right, Joe," said Neal, "there's other doors in there. T'ain't the only way out." Neal was nervous. He was taking a risk. He was telling Flint only as much as was needed to get him to this meeting. The rest Flint must find out for himself…
"Who are they?" said Flint. "We agreed one man each!" Three big men in long coats and black hats were sitting outside the door, holding pint-pots. They looked like ship's officers.
"They're all right, Joe," said Neal. "One's Cap'n Parry of
Sweet Anne, the other's Dan Parker, second mate aboard Hercules…" He smiled weakly. "They wanted to see the famous Captain Flint."
"Oh," said Flint. He shrugged. He didn't mind. There could be no false names here… and besides, he was flattered. "So who's the third — the ugly one?"
"Brendan O'Byrne," said Neal, "Bentham's first mate."
Flint nodded as Parry and Parker got up and left, touching their hats to Flint and gazing in awe as they passed.
"Mr O'Byrne," said Neal, "this is Captain Flint."
"Cap'n!" said O'Byrne. But like Billy Bones he worshipped one man only, and wasn't impressed. "Cap'n's in there," he said, looking at the door. It was a very thick wooden door and nothing could be heard beyond, until Flint opened it… then there were voices and laughter: women's laughter, and squeals…
Flint looked inside and turned on Neal with a face like doom. Neal shook.
"What game is this?" Flint demanded.
"Joe," said Neal, "Danny has his own ways, but he's a good 'un — trust me."
"What… damned… stupid… game… is this?"
"What d'you mean, Joe?" Neal's voice cracked in terror.
"Bentham! Don't you know what he is?"
"Of course," said Neal. "Didn't you know?"
Flint's expression answered. It took a desperate flood of words to persuade him to enter the side room, which surprised Neal, because he knew exactly what was in there along with Danny Bentham, and he couldn't see why Flint didn't step forward at the double with a smile on his face.
The trouble was that there were some things even Charley Neal didn't know about Flint. When Flint bought Selena off Charley, and herself a little darling, it had seemed to him proof that Flint was a man towards women. Thus Charley had no inkling there was a certain something that Flint had never been able to do with a woman, no matter how much he tried. And he had tried.