Walrus ploughed on over the jumble of rigging, leaving it swirling in her wake as she broke free and sailed on with nothing between herself and the open sea, and all her enemies confounded.
They'd done it! They'd done it, done it, done it! They'd escaped! They were seamen again! Seamen aboard a ship: free as air, free as birds, free as the plunging dolphin and the sounding whale. Oh the joy! Oh the blessed, sweet relief! They'd been wretched miserable maroons, and pitiful landsmen, and now to be bold dogs and roaring boys again, and the whole precious world wide open to them! It was wonderful almost beyond bearing, and the men cheered and cheered and cheered.
"Shiver me timbers!" said Silver. "That's the way, my jolly boys!" And he hauled his telescope from his pocket and swept the beach in search of Flint. Where was he, the rogue? Was he there? Was he watching and gnashing his teeth? No. He weren't to be seen. But never mind. He'd clench his grinders and no mistake, once he learned his precious Walrus was took by John Silver.
It was a glorious moment, and even more so when Cap'n Flint the parrot swooped down from the maintop where she'd been hiding, and planted her claws on Long John's shoulder.
"Ah," he said, "my old matey! I've missed you."
"Long John!" she said, and squawked, and rubbed her head against his cheek, and Long John clapped Israel Hands on the shoulder as he ran up beaming from the gun-deck and turned and called out to all aboard:
"Three cheers! Three cheers for Cap'n Silver…"
Perhaps they cheered. Silver didn't notice. For he'd noticed something else. A flicker of movement on the beach. A smaller figure than the rest. And once he'd put his glass on the figure… he stopped breathing, and forgot all else in the entire universe.
"Selena!" he said.
Chapter 37
"Huh!" thought the two hundred and forty tars already landed from the three sloops. These unfortunates stood bleary-eyed and exhausted in their neat ranks, for Commodore Scott-Owen was so determined to dazzle the world with the efficiency of his squadron that the crews of Bounder, Leaper and Jumper had been obliged to work through the night filling their water butts. Thus they were able — immediately, promptly and at dawn — to be off about their special duty of sailing around the island to complete the search for Flint and his ships.
Taking advantage of the heavy traffic of boats, the sloops had landed half their crews, as ordered, while the profoundly miserable other halves must remain aboard, where they consoled themselves with the thought that Flint's treasure would be in his ship and not ashore, and that they would therefore be first to find it! All of which was a nonsense, because not a man among them would get their hands on treasure, which would be immediately bound up in the rigmarole of a Court of Admiralty. So the prospect of finders keepers, losers weepers was miserably minimal. But young men don't think like that. They think they're immortal and in control of their fate.
All this withstanding, Scott-Owen had indeed worked wonders in landing three hundred and ten officers and men, fully armed and in all respects ready for service ashore, in so short a time, while his three sloops were working out of the anchorage under a breath of wind, and completing the pincer movement with which he hoped to seize the villain Flint… and of course Flint's treasure — of which, as commodore, he would get a walloping fat share.
A merry thought, but he banished it from his mind — most of the time anyway — and harried his officers to further triumphs in the bringing ashore of stores and the establishing of a proper base camp. Which work proceeded in a spirit of great cheerfulness until about an hour after dawn, when faintly but unmistakably there came the thud and rumble of explosions from within the island. Men looked at each other wide-eyed and wondering, and the excitement grew intense.
Scott-Owen turned to his officers.
"Mr Hastings," he said, "I had not intended to march so soon, but hearing that — " he nodded towards the sounds "- I shall throw a flying column inland. You will take half the marines and an equal number of seamen, and bring me a report on what is occurring inland."
"Aye-aye, sir!" said Hastings, brimming with delight at an independent command, convinced that treasure lay under every rock, and quite unable to prevent himself looking at his rival — the lieutenant of the starboard watch — with a pitying grin.
Nine-Fingers watched the column of Englishmen, and easily kept pace with them. These English had been spotted by the young men guarding One-Leg's fort. The newcomers were King George's men, as could plainly be seen from their flags. The young men had sent a runner for Nine-Fingers, who was chief — under Cut-Feather — for the south of the island, and Nine-Fingers had come with two dozen good men, only to find that the young men had suffered heavily in their attempt to stop One-Leg escaping, and a grave dilemma must be faced.
Nine-Fingers was now falling back from the trees at the edge of the beach, with a total of thirty men around him, mostly men of the Deer Clan, all cousins and brothers, bred up in the same long house. They were good men. They moved through the woods as their fathers' fathers had done. They slipped like smoke. They passed like thoughts. They were gone like a dream.
These men, and Nine-Fingers, followed the clumsy, lumping, stamping Englishmen as they marched into the woods and away from the beach where they had landed There were redcoats and blue-coats: at least two-dozen soldiers, followed by two dozen men from the ships, and they made enough noise to frighten every beast in the woods. They trampled and slashed, and beat down paths where a sensible man could have passed without disturbing a leaf. Nine-Fingers knew without looking that they'd be leaving a trail that a blind man could follow.
And they stank! They smelt of rum and meat, and the hot, sweat of the white man who — for his own unknowable reasons — must wear thick clothes in a hot forest when doing heavy work. And their leaders shouted and called out, and gave orders to the men. They made such noise! Always noise.
Nine-Fingers shook his head. Why did they do this? Why were they such fools in the woods? There were white men who'd learned the proper ways. They weren't all like this. But these thoughts were useless. Nine-Fingers had to make a decision. He was an old man of forty-five years, and acknowledged to be wise. He thought deeper…
It was Dreamer's word — known to all the People — that there should be no war against the white kings. Not King George of England, King Louis of France nor King Ferdinand of Spain. It was Dreamer's word that a great war was coming between them, and that they should be encouraged to kill one another to their heart's content, with the People standing aside. But if Nine-Fingers allowed this amazing column of noise- makers to go unhindered, they would be standing at Dreamer's side within the day. And Dreamer might not be ready. So Nine-Fingers made his plans. He sent word to Dreamer and made the best of a thoroughly bad job.