Silver (23 page)

These features gave the landscape an air of desolation that depressed everyone in the captain’s party – especially when they found they had overshot their destination and come to the northernmost point of the island. Here they discovered cliffs that were carved into the resemblance of a human face. This gaunt profile, made of black basalt, stared pitilessly out to sea with one eye, while the other seemed to twist in its socket to gaze inland; the tragic expression suggested that no amount of vigilance could guarantee the safety of whatever needed protection.

As the captain expressed this geographical fancy, he prepared us for the thing he wanted to say next. Using my father’s map as his guide, and setting a course south-west from the Black Crag, his party soon reached the site where the silver had been buried. They knew immediately they had found the right place – not because it seemed such a likely spot, and not because they saw ingots poking through the earth. But because the earth had been disturbed. Because the silver had been taken.

Worse than simply ‘disturbed’ and ‘taken’, in fact. The captain told us the whole flank of sand had been ripped and ruined by whatever spades and other implements, including bare hands, the thieves had used to open the ground. Now the place was merely earth again, although strewn with broken handles and sticks, and the footprints of scuffling feet. It was itself, but empty.

Our journey had been in vain! The shock of this flashed through me – but was instantly checked. Why, if his expedition was so fruitless, did the captain not look more dejected? For, to tell the truth, he recited this story with as much equanimity as if he had been discussing a spoiled dinner. The shipmates who had accompanied him also seemed very phlegmatic, as did those who had stayed aboard
with Mr Allan; they continued to go about their work, repairing sails, scrubbing the deck, et cetera, as if they were perfectly reconciled to their failure. It was only my own party that reacted with dismay, and Natty in particular. While Bo’sun Kirkby and Mr Lawson hung their heads, she gave a long and miserable sigh, a much deeper sound than it seemed possible might come from a delicate body, as if it were her father’s breath and not her own that was squeezing from her lungs.

While they all seemed incapable of speech, I put the question that only I knew to ask, because I was the only one apart from the captain to have seen the map. Bending towards him I said, ‘And the arms?’

‘The arms also,’ the captain said, and seeing how this made my face fall, went on: ‘But what of that? The arms alone are nothing. It is the people who wield them we must think about. A dozen pirates – or whatever their exact number might be – is still a dozen pirates, however many swords they have. We do not need to worry about the arms.’

I understood the logic of this, but still could not understand why the captain was not more agitated about our treasure. One explanation might have been very simple: he knew where it had been taken, and would soon tell us. Another was: he felt compensated for losing the treasure by finding a ready means of replenishing our supplies. A third was: since seeing the stockade and the misery of its inhabitants, he realised that a better reason than silver might have brought us to the island. This seemed likely, given what I knew of his character – and was a response I felt sure would only strengthen when he heard Scotland’s story.

I never had the chance to ask. As the captain began speaking again, saying that perhaps other pirates had stumbled on the cache and made off with it, Scotland himself interrupted. He sounded
more confident than he had done on our journey across the island, which I thought showed he now felt securely among friends. The effect was to emphasise his accent; if I had closed my eyes, I would have thought myself among the mountains of Caledonia.

‘You are talking about the silver?’ he asked, turning his face towards us. The light off the river still gleamed in his eyes.

The captain nodded and held his breath – as did we all.

‘We had orders for it to be moved,’ said Scotland. ‘I was one of the party that did the work.’

‘And you know where it is now?’ the captain asked. He kept his voice steady, as if to sound urgent would scare away the answer he wanted to hear.

‘I do,’ said Scotland.

‘So will you tell us?’

‘I will.’ Scotland paused, which was only to create an amusing sort of suspense – but not even the captain could resist hurrying to the next question.

‘And that is?’

Scotland slowly put down the piece of bread he was eating, and looked the captain in the eye. ‘Where it is safe.’

I could tell by the way the captain’s hands tightened in his lap that he thought this answer was insubordinate – but would not respond to it as such. ‘And where might that be?’ he asked. ‘Pray tell us.’

These last two words had a trace of iron in them but Scotland did not seem to notice – or to care. He tore another piece off the loaf Mr Allan had given him, and chewed it thoroughly. After a full minute he swallowed, and then replied with a longer speech than any of us expected.

‘Mr Captain,’ he said. ‘If I give you the silver you will have no further use for me. You will take it, and sail away, and leave me to
my fate. And you have seen what that fate will be – or your friends have.’ Here he looked at me and Mr Lawson and the bo’sun. When his eyes turned to Natty, and locked with her own, I thought she would come to his defence. Her lips opened and I saw her teeth. But as Scotland raised his head a fraction, and jutted out his chin, she changed her mind and stayed silent.

Instead it was the captain who spoke next. He felt thwarted by Scotland’s stand, yet his voice held nothing but sympathy and understanding. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we might agree this: you will remain as our guest, while we decide how we can help you and your friends. And when that is done you will help us find our treasure.’

‘
The
treasure,’ Scotland replied.

‘
The
treasure,’ said the captain, which was the only time I ever heard him at a disadvantage. ‘I meant
the
treasure. Everyone will have a share. There will be plenty.’

As the captain leaned back against the wall of the roundhouse, Bo’sun Kirkby and Mr Lawson murmured that they agreed with his plan, and so did Natty. Perhaps some of us reckoned we had no choice. For my own part, it seemed inevitable as well as necessary.

Now that he had been corrected, the captain seemed anxious to prove his mistake had not been deliberate. He moved quickly away from the subject of the silver and asked Scotland to tell his story. Some of what followed was a complement to everything we had been told during our march back to the
Nightingale
; it proved that Scotland’s life on the island – and the life of all the prisoners – had been lived under the spell of the wilderness. He confirmed that Smirke was the chief man among the maroons, and described him as a monster who lived in a state of cynical disregard for his fellows. The administration of his justice, which took place in the structure he had named the Fo’c’sle Court, was especially terrifying, and
especially feared. I would have liked to think it was such a long period of isolation that had made him so heartless, but from my father’s evidence (and the fact the Squire Trelawney had not thought him worth saving on the
Hispaniola
), it was clear the origins of his bestiality were deeply rooted, and buried in circumstances of which I knew nothing.

That said, Scotland believed Smirke would not have been capable of creating such horror as existed at the stockade without the influence of his deputy – Stone. This was the executioner we had seen at work, whose face was so ashen it seemed all humanity had been bled out of him. When I mentioned this, Scotland told us something remarkable: some time before, there had been a rebellion in the camp and an attempt was made to overwhelm the guards. Stone had been captured during this episode and his throat had been cut – but he had survived, and now had the scar that ran under his chin like a strap. Scotland briefly covered his eyes with one hand as he remembered this, and said it gave Stone the appearance of a dead man. From this I felt sure he was the evil spirit of the whole island; it made me more convinced than ever that we should think differently about our reasons for being there.

Scotland told us the third maroon (the man who now called himself Jinks) seemed to be the least definite character – although, as the captain noticed, this was no reason to think he was harmless, since weak people have a dangerous need to prove their strength. We nodded at this, having seen Jinks in his role as inquisitor at the trial. I understood that if ever I were to encounter him alone, I would have a decent chance of saving my life; if ever I found him in the company of his fellows, I should expect him to be willing to do whatever they asked of him.

Scotland finished his account by telling the captain what the rest of us already knew: that he had been stolen from Africa when
still a child, slaved in Jamaica, then blown to Treasure Island. This led him to the opinion that if Smirke and his men had not been as they were, the place would have been a paradise. When the captain pressed him about this, he gave some more instances of the cruelty that blighted everything – but also, and more surprisingly, said that for all the beauty and strangeness of the animals, it was also like the Garden of Eden in having a snake. Or rather many dozens of snakes, which lived in a particular region near the northern cliffs. The captain was very interested in this, for reasons I did not understand at the time; Scotland told him they were dull grey in colour, and no more than a foot long, but extremely poisonous. He knew this because one of his fellow prisoners (whom he called his ‘friends’) had been bitten and immediately died.

As Scotland came to the end of this description, the energy left him and his chin sank forward onto his chest. This happened so suddenly, I wondered whether he might have fallen into a daze. Events that followed later in the evening proved me wrong. Far from
sleeping
, Scotland was
thinking –
but keeping his thoughts private. Although he took no part in the rest of our conversation, he weighed in silence everything we said.

And the gist of this talk? It was led by the captain, who was not concerned to rush into action against the stockade, but to reflect and talk again in the morning. His suggestion, which was delivered in the kindly tone a parent might use, had the effect of making me feel as drowsy as I thought Scotland must be. I was somewhat embarrassed by this, since it seemed to prove my lack of experience compared to Natty, who was still bright-eyed and attentive. At the same time, the exertions of my day, and the sight of the moon climbing through the clouds outside, allowed me to feel that it would be reasonable to make my excuses.

I pushed back my bench from the table. Because the captain was so preoccupied with our difficulties he saw nothing unusual in this, although he did recommend I find some food in the galley before going to my bed, which I thought was also like a parent. As I closed the roundhouse door behind me, I tried to catch Natty’s attention – but she was concentrating on Scotland, rearranging the shirt around his shoulders to cover the scar of his branding, and did not notice.

When I reached my cabin I looked around me very carefully, with a strangely exaggerated sense of being alone. The few books on their shelf beside our two bunks; the grain in the woodwork by my pillow, which resembled lines on the palm of a hand; the smell of wet leaves and mud creeping through the ship: all these were things I recognised, yet made me feel less like myself than a beetle who had crawled inside a log. This was consolation of a kind: it meant I could still exist in secret. Yet I knew I would never be innocent again. I had seen the wickedness of men with my own eyes, and heard it with my own ears. It was an impenetrable darkness.

It was at this point my father appeared to me. He was not holding forth in the taproom of the Hispaniola, where I knew he was likely to be at such a time of the evening, but sitting on the edge of the bed where I had seen him last. His head was in his hands, so I could not tell his expression. But I knew he was grieving, and understood the cause of his grief was the great wrong I had done him. My proof was the sight of Billy Bones’s sea-chest, which gaped open at the foot of the bed. My father had searched it for the map of Treasure Island, found it stolen, and guessed at the reason for my absence.

If I had believed at this stage in my adventure that I would return home safely and soon with a portion of the silver, it is possible that his reproaches might not have weighed on me so heavily. As it was, I thought we would arrive in London empty-handed – if we arrived
at all. This entirely transformed my reasons for setting out in the first place. I was nothing like a redeemer. I was a traitor.

I sat down with my own head in my hands, as I imagined my father was doing. The same fitful moonlight gleamed through my porthole as shone through his window above the Thames; the same atmosphere of the world pressed against the walls protecting us both. This was no comfort when weariness overwhelmed me at last, and I toppled backward onto my blanket and fell asleep.