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‘Charles Vane swinging over Nassau is a statement we cannot afford to be made.’
‘You cannot stay. I’ll go back and address the situation.’
Flint scowled and said, “I cannot believe I’m saying this but Vane is right.” Billy looked confused. “Right about what?”
“If anyone is going to make a trophy out of him, it really ought to be me. Rackham. Bonny. Take the cache and get it to the Maroons. Billy. I will come with you. I will not be denied.”
Billy threw his hands up in the air, frustrated. He really, really hated Flint. And even more how much they still needed him. Sometimes he thought Flint wanted to be contrary just for the hell of it. He could never make sense of him. How Silver managed it he would never understand.
“Nassau is swarming with Redcoats. And while I think we can get the streets on our side, we don’t know that. You are going to be standing on the gallows right beside him, and then what?!”
“That would be just like old times,” Flint smirked. “But it need not come to that and I would bet a sizable portion of that cache that half the Redcoats are down with a fever. They have just arrived straight from England’s shore. They are not used to the climate. And they don’t know this island.”
He stared imploringly at Billy, who could feel himself starting to give in. How the fuck did he do that, every damn time! Billy frowned.
“Say we get Vane. The Walrus will be gone by then. How will you two get off the island. Even with the streets on our side, it will not be safe for you.”
“And how would you do it? It makes far more sense for there to be two of us. I know a place where Vane and I can lay low for a couple of days. And we will have far more success stealing and sailing a ship large enough to get us to the Maroons,” Flint countered.
It was clear, he would not be deterred. There was never any reasoning with Captain James Flint once he was set on a course. Stubborn as a mule. Silver might have been able to or Vane could have punched some sense into him. But they really had no time to be arguing much less brawling on the beach. And the Redcoats could catch up to them at any moment. Billy felt the sand of the hourglass run through his fingers. A last rebuke.
“Someone will remember Mrs. Barlows house at some point and come looking.”
“Then it is just as well that we won’t be there. Let’s go.”
-
‘These men who brought me here today do not fear me.
They brought me here today because the fear you.
Because they know that my voice, a voice that refuses to be enslaved, once lived in you.
And may yet still.
They brought me here today to show you death and use it to frighten you into ignoring that voice.
But know this.
We are many. They are few. To fear death is a choice. And they can’t hang us all.’
Vane spotted Billy Bones in the crowd. But before he could let him know to stand down, to let his sacrifice be what started the war and freed Nassau once and for all, a shot rang out and all hell broke loose.
His would be executioner fell dead to the ground and the people of the streets rose up like the unforgiving tide and plunged the Redcoats straight into hell.
Before Vane could scramble out of the noose the donkey in front of the cart spooked. Unable to do anything he scrambled and heaved like a fish out of water while the noose grew tight.
The fall was to short for a clean break. He hung there, suffocating.
The cacophony of the crowd receded and the bright sunlight seemed to dim. The world ground to a halt.
Just moments ago Vane was ready to die. To sacrifice himself for a greater good. But the reality of it made one thing clear. He wanted to live. Whatever the price. Even if he had to make a deal with the devil himself.
A sword cut the noose and he would have just crumbled to the ground but a strong arm slung around his waist, keeping him upright til he could get his bearings.
“Sorry, I’m a bit late. Next time, go for a longer speech.”
Flint.
A knife cut through the rope around his neck and hands and a cutlass was pressed into his chest.
He took it. And the world sped up again.
Back to back they fought and ran their way through the street.
“What are you doing here you mad bastard,” Vane rasped. He cut a man down. Than they both sprinted around a corner, pressing against the next wall and catching their breath.
“Collecting my trophy. They brought the hanging forward. Took us quite by surprise. But I knew you could be counted upon to make a dramatic speech.” Flint grinned. His face was sprinkled with blood, glistening in the morning sun. He looked like an avenging angel. Vane blinked. He must be really out of it still.
“Took a page out of your book, didn’t I?” “Not at all. You would never refuse a chance to show someone you are a proper pirate.” Vane glared at him but Flint continued grinning, unrepentantly. His neck was really starting to hurt too much to continue bantering. They needed to get out of here.
Flint saw he was ready and together they sprinted down the streets, around corners. Loosing any would be pursuers in the labyrinth of ramshackle housing and workshops.
Long after the sound of fighting had faded in the distance they were still making their way through the underbrush just past Nassaus shoreline. Vane trusted Flint to know where they were going, probably, but his adrenaline was tanking and all his wounds and bruises were starting to make themselves known. He would not be able to go on for much longer.
Flint was just ahead of him but he could not get a sound out to make him slow down. His neck was on fire. He stretched his hand out, just catching Flints elbow.
The man turned.
“Jesus, Vane. You look more dead than alive. You should have said something.” Vane pointed to his neck. “Ah. My apologies. You are right, of course.” Flint slowed down, walking beside him and keeping him in his peripheral vision. Vane must be on the brink of collapse if he admitted to being hurt.
“It’s not far now. We will be coming up a small river shortly. Where we will turn left. I am afraid you are going to have to get your feet wet. If there is anyone left to come looking for us, they will loose our trail.” Left. Inland. Vane looked askance at Flint. “They will think we have gone to the beach. Escaped on a boat and stop looking.” Vane raised an eyebrow. “That would be a sound plan if we had a boat. Which we don’t. Yet. But in the meantime I have a place where we can hide.”
Just as Flint said they came up to a river soon. Well, more like a trickle. Shallow enough they could walk it up easily, no real current to speak of. A mile or so later Flint lead them back into the jungle, dense vegetation closing behind them. Vane followed, curious what Flint intended to do. There was absolutely nothing here. And while they might well be able to hide within the vegetation, they would have to go back to the river to get drinking water. And there they would be just sitting ducks.
Flint stopped beside a small but unusually deep dip. No, not small. Mostly covered by a wooden structure well covered by vegetation. Impossible to see until you stood right on top of it.
“Welcome at Rendezvous three.” Implying the bastard had several more hidden hideouts, possibly across all of the West Indies. Vane was dumbfounded. The bastard was utterly mad but every time you thought you had him pinned down, he was incredibly resourceful. More prepared than Vane had ever given him credit for. He jumped down after Flint and looked around.
There wasn’t much. It was still small and would be cramped with two man laying down. But there was a chest, several jugs that could easily hold water for them for days and at least three muskets he could see. Flint kneeled in front of the chest, getting out two bedrolls, bandages and a bottle of rum. With Flint rummaging to get those out, Vane could see several more things hiding in that chest. A lot of shot. Several pistols. A purse. A couple of changes of clothing. Flint stopped his rummaging and became very still when his fingers touched the single dress within. Vane did not need to see him to know the look of anguish on his face.
Than the moment was gone and he was once again all practicalities.
“I’m going to get us water. Sit down before you fall down.” He gave Vane the bottle of Rum. “Don’t drink it all.” With that he left him to his own devices, vanishing into the green.
Vane sat down. He could feel every muscle in him protesting. He opened the bottle and took a sip. Well, he tried to. No more than half went down, setting fire to his insides. Keeling over he coughed and choked and heaved desperate air into his lungs. He would not be trying that again anytime soon.
He pushed himself into a half lying, half sitting position against the earthen wall. Putting one of the pistols next to him. He wasn’t sure if it was loaded. But he could not lift his arm to check. He lost time.
Flint was back. Talking to him. At him. Using a wet cloth to clean him. The rum in his wounds burned. So did the needle pulling his flesh back together. Then nothing.
-
When he came to next he was lying down on one of the bedrolls. Clad only in his smallclothes and one of Flints shirts. It dwarfed him more than it should. Flint was only slightly bigger than him.
Vane rolled his head around and looked at him. Flint looked back. He sat not two feet away, slowly stirring a small pot in a nearly smokeless fire, crumbling more hardtack into it steadily. By Vanes estimation the light was right for afternoon. But which day?
“Back with the living? You were out for slightly more than a day.” If Vane did not know any better, Flint looked strangely relieved.
“You probably should not try to speak. Your throat looks awful. I think your windpipe was partly crushed. But you’re going to have to drink. And we should try to get at least a little bit of food into you.” Vane nodded slowly. This was going to be a bitch.
Flint handed him a cup filled with water. “Slowly.” Vane rolled his eyes at him. He may be an invalid right now, but he was not an idiot.
He took very small sips. The pain nearly brought tears to his eyes but he swallowed every mouthful.
Later under Flints watchful eyes he drank the thin soup Flint had made. When the tears rolled down his cheeks, Flint did not look away. He did not offer any words of comfort either. Vane would not have taken them.
Vane did not really know how many days passed in this strange kind of limbo. He slept and drank and tried to eat. Flint was there. Watching. Cleaning his wounds. Cleaning him. Sometimes he told stories. Something about an oar or a shovel? Vane did not think anyone could ever mistake one for the other. There were rivers and lakes inland. Were there not?
The multiple scrapes and bruises were nothing much to speak of. But the knife wound in his leg, the soldiers had barely bothered to clean and bandage to keep him from bleeding out before he could be executed, a clean cut along his bicep and his neck were keeping him weak. His body collecting on the steep debt he had incurred.
Flint was there. Caring. In his own rough sort of way. In a way Vane had never accepted from anyone before. When had they passed from hatred into a mutual respect? And how did that lead them here? Saving each other from the gallows. If anyone makes a trophy out of you, it really ought to be me. Had he meant it to sound so possessive? As possessive as Flint had sounded, calling him his trophy? Hearing it had made something burn in the pit of his stomach. Maybe lower. Their relationship had irrevocably changed but Vane could not put his finger on when that happened.
Slowly he became better and with it more irritable. Flint and he both grew restless easily. And while his throat still refused to utter a sound – he resolutely did not think about that – the amount of bickering increased steadily. It was audibly onesided but Flint proved remarkably adept at interpreting his facial expressions.
It was nice. Sort of? Fun. In a weird way. Less biting than before. And when Flint came up with an especially witty remark his eyes gleamed with a boyish charm Vane had never seen before.
It had never felt so good to be free.
Fin – for now