Natty herself seemed more put out, struggling to stand in the crowded boat, but looking around defiantly. “I am Mr. Silver’s daughter,” she said, as if the specter of her father had come to stand beside her, and was ready to crush anyone who mocked. “I did what I did. I disguised myself in case …” But here her courage seemed to run out and she looked to me. Exhaustion was to blame, I understood that. And shock, too, at everything she had seen. But I suspected something else as well. Natty had grown used to her disguise, and the opportunities for freedom that it offered; now she was herself again, and felt constrained.
The least I could do was admit that I had been privy to her trick. “Natty thought it would be for the best,” I said, from the place I had taken on the bench beside her. “It was her father’s idea—in case of accidents. Our captain knew, didn’t he, Natty? Captain Beamish also thought disguise was right for our journey.”
At this Natty suddenly rallied and clapped her hands. My first thought was: she wanted to fix our attention on the remaining buccaneers, because they might reappear from the trees at any minute and launch another attack against us. Our friends were certainly concerned about this, and glanced continually toward the shore, where the remainder of the slaves stood in a ragged group, still guarded by Bo’sun Kirkby and the rest. Instead, she meant us to look toward the place she had recently been hiding.
“The White Rock!” she called out.
I did not understand what she could mean, beyond naming the place.
“What of it?” I asked.
“We must go there,” she said quickly. “We must go there and you must see, you must all see.”
Such insistence surprised me very much. Natty had admired Scotland and inclined toward him. Yet now his corpse was floating in the waves a matter of yards away, she did not so much as acknowledge him. I could not comprehend this—except by supposing her mind was injured by the dangers she had recently confronted. It was not that she felt nothing; rather that she felt too much.
As Mr. Tickle and the others began to pull the dead men closer to our boat, I thought this must indeed be the true state of things—because Natty could not prevent her eyes swelling into tears when she turned and looked down into the water. Scotland’s body had rolled onto its back so that his face was plain to us, very calm and smooth. All the fury of his last few moments had vanished, though not the longer grief of his life. The scalp and shoulders were still deeply scarred, and here and there on his chest were hard lumps, each with a darker V-shape at the center, which showed where the snakes had bitten. As Natty saw all this, and choked back tears that still threatened to fall, she pressed her hand hard enough against her mouth to leave a bluish mark when she removed it again; she then let her fingers trail in the water where they could dabble against Scotland’s neck and chest.
There was a pause and a silence, broken only by the splash of little waves as they appeared to lift Scotland toward us. In reality they did no such thing; we took responsibility for him ourselves, hoisting him into the boat with all the gentleness we could manage, and laying him at our feet. We showed no such respect for Smirke and Stone, however, but tied a rope around their ankles and dragged them roughly through the water behind us. I could not see this, because my view was blocked by friends who sat in the stern; I did notice, however, that occasionally they turned to spit at them, after my shipmates had taken up the oars again.
Natty now wiped her face and remembered to finish what she had begun a moment before.
“The White Rock,” she repeated, pointing to where she had just left. Mr. Tickle, who was setting the rhythm for rowing, looked at me with a raised eyebrow, which meant he was asking my advice. This sense that I had some authority, now the captain was no longer able to provide it, was new to me—but I did not hesitate. Although I understood our friends on shore were still at the mercy of the slavers, should those devils return, I calculated that the men we had left as guards would be able to protect them. Indeed, the miserable cargo dragging in our wake convinced me that for the time being we were invincible—which may have been the hubris of youth.
“Thank you, Mr. Tickle,” I therefore said, with as much command as I could muster. “Back to the Rock, if you please.”
Our boat swung around, banging heavily through the waves. This change of direction produced a good deal of whispering among the friends sitting close to me, which at first I thought must be complaints that they were frightened, and cold, and weary of being cooped up in our boat. When I looked at them more carefully, I saw they were in fact sharing glances of excitement, not anxiety. They knew what we were about to find.
As we made our approach, I could not help reflecting it might have been easier if we had jumped overboard and waded, the tide had now withdrawn so far from the Anchorage. As our oars struck the water, they disturbed small puffs of sand on the seabed. It gave an impression of quietness and safety, which was at odds with the sky above: whereas previous mornings on the island had been sunlit, today had never shaken off the storms of the previous night. The expanse of sea stretching toward the Nightingale, where she rode at anchor in the middle distance, was still as gray as pewter.
“Hurry!” said Natty, as if she had once again forgotten Scotland and the captain. It seemed almost heartless, although I forgave it by reminding myself of the reasons and turned in my seat to look where she was looking. Thanks to the low water I could now see the lowest part of the White Rock was in fact black rock: a blunt tooth of the same granite as Spyglass Hill, which loomed over the island. The repeated washing of the tides had carved its lines of weakness into fantastic shapes, such as the inside of an ear, or a shell. Where it stood proud of the sea, the burnishing of salt and sun had produced a comparative pallor. Not exactly white as in its name, more a pearl gray, and very smooth, as though waves were in fact sandpaper.
Had the Rock been domed or even flat, I doubt it would have supported a single seed. But now we were about to draw alongside, I could see its whole length (about twelve foot) was in fact sharply concave. Over the centuries the edge of this bowl had been coated with all manner of dust and vegetable matter, including the fertilizations of birds, and had become a circular garden in which the ferns I have mentioned had taken root and flourished. The collection was immensely varied in so small a place. Some had leaves like slender green tongues, some were coiled like English bracken, and others were deep red, or almost black, or mixed green and yellow.
Natty cared nothing for the flora. As soon as the nose of our jolly-boat ground against the side once more, she grabbed the rope in the prow and jumped ashore, clinging to the slimy roots of a plant that hung down over the bare stone. While she secured us, I followed—and was again surprised by the behavior of our friends in the boat, who suddenly gave a long musical sigh.
By the time I found my balance, Natty had almost disappeared into the ferns—where I immediately followed. We were now standing on the rim of the little volcano shape, and could not go any further without slithering down its slope.
When looking from the jolly-boat, I had supposed this middle part of the Rock to be covered with the same plants that formed a kind of barricade around the edge; in fact the center was a clearing, overhung by foliage, with a floor of dead leaves. Beneath these leaves—showing in little gleams and fragments, where their covering had been disturbed—were dozens and dozens of bars of silver. They reminded me of something I had seen as a child, when fishing with my father near the mouth of the Thames; we had looked over the side of our boat and found a big shoal of sea bass, dawdling six feet beneath the surface of the water. With the shadows playing across, and the varying light this created, I saw the same ripple, and dapple, and silent suspension.
“Our treasure,” said Natty in a deep voice of reverence. “This is where they brought it for safe keeping, where they could watch it from the camp. This is their silver vault.”
“Did you know?” I asked in a whisper.
“Not exactly,” she said.
�
�Scotland told you?”
Natty shook her head.
“What, then?”
“I cannot say exactly. It seemed to find me.”
“The silver found you?”
“Yes, the silver found me. Scotland told me it would.”
I did not reply, but looked into her eyes and saw a cold light reflected there. It was the same that I had seen in her father’s eyes, when he first explained to me what I must do; I knew she must be thinking about him, although neither of us spoke his name. In my own eyes, I think, there was the glitter of a question: was this what we had come for, so far and with so much loss? There seemed very little of it—or too much. I could not decide.
33
The Burial of the Dead
WHEN NATTY AND I clambered down from the White Rock and into the jolly-boat again, several of our friends gave shouts of congratulation: these were the men who had carried the silver from its original site, and understood its value. By this time my shipmates also knew what we had seen, and so abandoned their oars to share in the discovery: we soon heard them whooping and laughing among the ferns, which shook in a kind of ecstasy. When they returned, Mr. Tickle was carrying an ingot—a lovely old piece of silver the size and shape of a cottage loaf. He laid it in the bottom of the boat, beside the body of Scotland, with so much reverence it might have been a holy relic. Then he took his place beside the other oarsmen and together they set about their work.
Natty placed her hand on my arm; it looked somewhat wizened after her plunge into the sea. “I’m sorry about the captain,” she said, as though suddenly remembering what she observed from her perch on the Rock. “I saw it all; I watched everything.”
I nodded, thinking I must be patient with her distractedness, until her mind had healed. “And I am sorry about Scotland,” I said.
“Perhaps he did not want to live any longer,” she replied.
This seemed blunt, even allowing for Natty’s distress, which I showed by frowning at her. When she returned my look without flinching, I reminded myself how often she used boldness as a way of concealing her more delicate feelings.
“Because of his wife?” I said.
“Because of his wife,” she repeated. “Because of his poor wife”—and that was the end of it. By mutual consent we shifted to more practical matters. In particular, we decided that we should return to the shore, and not continue to the Nightingale, so that we could lay Scotland to rest beside his wife as soon as possible, and then attend to the captain’s body, and to everyone else who had been killed. Once this was agreed, we completed our journey in silence, with Natty smiling to herself as she remembered her safety, and frowning as she reflected on its cost. Despite this self-communing, or perhaps because of it, she collected herself very quickly when the prow of our boat rasped into the sand, seizing hold of the rope and urging me to follow. We climbed into the water together and set about helping our passengers onto dry land.
To return to the island, and not to be on board the Nightingale, must have been a bitter blow for them. None showed this, however, but instead they hobbled, or ran if they were able, to join those they had recently left. Once they had greeted one another, which was done with great enthusiasm, as if they had been separated for months, they began to discuss everything they had seen: the pursuit of Smirke and Stone, the bravery of Scotland, the recovery of the silver. Although the detail of what they said was lost on me, the subjects were easily identified—thanks to the vivacious waving of arms, or melancholy head shakes.
Whenever this talk appeared to relate to the slavers hidden in the forest, there was no sign of anxiety—only a few wondering looks toward the trees, and a few fists shaken in the same direction. I took this as proof of their confidence in our bravery, and also of their estimation (which I shared) that our enemies had been so demoralized by the death of their leaders, they had no more stomach for a fight. Certainly, when I stared toward the slopes of Spyglass Hill myself, and pricked up my ears for any sound, I heard only the sigh of wind, and the occasional squawk of birds.
As for my shipmates: a few were heartless or foolish enough to think that because they were now wealthy men, nothing but good had come of our efforts; a couple even went so far as to dance on the sand, with their old caps bouncing on their heads. Others, including Bo’sun Kirkby, continued to balance their pleasure against their sadness, as I could see from the way he sometimes began to smile, then fell into a study, then smiled again.
Our captain’s death was undoubtedly one reason for this. Another, I conjectured, was the fact that he had been so used to working under a superior all his life, he was not used to taking complete command of a ship.
I suppose the same thought must suddenly have dawned on Natty, for what we said next had an uncanny symmetry.
“Bo’sun Kirkby, Mr. Tickle,” we called in unison. “Bring Scotland ashore and carry him to the stockade, then we shall make a plan.” There might have been a small difference in the last sentence, such as Natty saying, “Then we shall decide what to do”—but this was negligible. Much more important was the fact that Natty and I had both decided we must take some responsibility for our adventure. The fact that our bo’sun accepted this, which he showed by smoothing his beard and wading out to the boat immediately, seemed quite remarkable. Or rather, it seemed remarkable until I remembered that it would never have happened without the invisible authority of our two fathers. Natty and I thought we had sailed to Treasure Island to escape their influence; instead, we had found them waiting for us.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Tickle, straightening his cap; being made of carpet, and now wet with spray, it drooped down heavily on one side of his head. “What do you think to those other swabs? I reckon we’ve seen the last of them.”
It occurred to me that he wanted my reply to convey a captainlike sense of certainty, which I duly endeavored to give. After pausing for a moment, and squaring my shoulders, I told him the slavers were degenerates who preferred to watch us leave the island with their treasure, and take their chance as maroons, than die in opposing us. We would, I assured him, have no more trouble from them.
Mr. Tickle was evidently satisfied by this; he grinned, and patted the sword at his belt to show they would be foolish to consider any other course. “Very good, Master Jim,” he said simply, when I had finished my answer.
“Yes,” said Natty, seeming equally adamant. “We’re ready for them—ready while we go about our other …”
Without finishing her sentence, and to show she did not think our enemies worth any further thought, Natty then began directing the mates who had been our oarsmen to lift Scotland’s body from the boards of the boat. It was an awkward task, which involved a great deal of splashing and bending and adjusting, while all the time giving a proper impression of respect and sorrow. Natty and I both stood in the shallow water with our heads bowed as the men hoisted him onto their shoulders at last. I did not look into Scotland’s face as he passed me, but only saw the water dripping from his body, and the footprints of the sailors in the sand; they left very deep clear marks, owing to the weight they carried.
Our friends had collected to wait for us at the edge of the old marsh, and formed an avenue through which we passed before they fell in behind. We then proceeded inland at a stately pace and, as the pallbearers reached the entrance to the stockade, slowed down still further. At this point, I moved forward to speak to Bo’sun Kirkby and Mr. Tickle. It was not an easy thing to do, since they were both stooped under Scotland’s weight, supporting him at either shoulder; the man’s head hung down between them with his mouth open and horribly smeared with blood. To make matters worse, I realized the spot on which I was now standing was exactly where the captain had fallen. The memory made me feel the ground was screaming under my feet.
Natty came to my rescue. “This way; this way,” she said, trotting up beside me and pointing toward the graveyard that lay adjacent. It was what I should have said myself, if I had not been so bemused by t
he occasion—and when I looked, I could see that several of our shipmates were already standing among the old crosses and headstones, with the bodies of everyone killed in our battle, including the pirates, laid out before them. These had been brought together very quickly by our friends, who only a moment before had been watching our sea-fight from the shore. The corpses made a wretched sight, lying among the memorials to poor Tom Redruth, the sullen gamekeeper; and Joyce, shot through the head; and the Irish man O’Brien; and the others who got their rations in my father’s time. Then the slaves who had not survived their hardships, laid out in rows: I counted more than a dozen graves, including some no longer than my arm, which must have been children.
When our cortege had walked forward a few more paces, Scotland’s body was tenderly set down beside that of his wife, with the captain on his other side; the first part of our work to restore order and decency was complete. At this point a heavy silence fell, disturbed by the hiss of wind through the pine trees on the rising ground ahead of us, and the boom of the surf behind.
I shall not mention everything I might about the work we did next. It is too melancholy to remember. But I will report that we were conscientious enough to dig separate graves for Smirke and Stone, whose heads I noticed were very bloody and disfigured, having bumped across hard earth when their bodies were dragged to the graveyard. Scotland and his wife we buried together, as we knew they would have wanted. Finally, we set above each fresh mound of earth a wooden cross that was carved with a name—where we knew it.
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