Chapter Text
Five. Million. Spanish. Dollars.
When he first saw it, he thought for a moment that he must have been dreaming. A remote, nearly undefended beach, strewn with gold like so much glittering sand. From each carelessly overturned crate spilled wealth enough to secure his future a hundred times over. His sickness, that deep-seated instinct which drove him in pursuit of a hope that seemed too far-fetched to define, was vindicated at last. Victory was within reach.
Within reach, but not in his hands. Behind him, Dufresne made a noise of frustration, and the spyglass was torn from him as though his very touch might taint it.
Silver turned to look at Dufresne and had to hold back a smile. He looked like he’d just bit into a lemon. How carefully must he have planned the mutiny, only for it all to go so thoroughly to hell it took the ship and half her crew with it? And all to find that their mad tyrant of a captain had been right all along.
“The fuck are you looking at?” demanded the man who’d taken the spyglass–the scout who’d found the Urca. “If it weren’t for you and Flint, we’d be down there rolling in it. We ought to–”
Nothing Silver might say to that would help his case. To his surprise, Dufresne cut in.
“Let’s not be hasty,” he said with obvious reluctance. The scout made to protest, but he held his hand up to stay him. “They might still be of use to us. We should wait, at least until… he wakes up.”
Dufresne jerked his head in the direction of where the Walrus had wrecked. Silver thought back to what he’d seen before he’d followed Dufresne and the scout: survivors picking their way out of the wreckage or dragging themselves to shore, Flint unconscious and bleeding in the sand.
“Perhaps you ought to go tell your men that, before someone takes justice into his own hands,” Silver suggested. These were pirates, after all; disorientation wouldn’t slow them for long.
Dufresne sneered at him, then stomped off down the dune. Silver hurried to follow him.
To his relief, Flint had not been moved from where Silver had dragged him out of reach of the waves still eager to claim him, and remained dead to the world only in the figurative sense. Silver’s inexpert attempt at dressing his wound seemed to be holding. Cautiously, Silver prodded him, as near to the wound as he dared in hopes of eliciting a reaction. Flint’s chest contracted and he curled in on the injured shoulder with a faint groan, but he showed no sign of waking. Silver sat back on his heels with a grimace. He supposed it must be a good sign that Flint was responding to pain at all.
He’d done all he could for the captain. He turned his attention to the goings-on around him.
News of the Urca’s discovery spread quickly among the men. A wave of frantic murmurs went through the crowd. Some rose up on their tip-toes and craned their necks as though they might see over the dunes to the next inlet and make certain for themselves. By the time Dufresne gathered them to make the announcement, the swell of excitement was already settling into agitation. Silver sympathised.
The beached Walrus was a sorry sight: hull battered, masts snapped, sails torn away. The Ranger was lost and the Man O’War was still out there, likely patrolling just beyond the cape. Inland there was only unforgiving wilderness. What use was the gold to them if they never made it off this beach?
Dufresne had no answers to offer. Silver wondered if the men were regretting their choice yet. If so, none dared to voice it.
Silver glanced down at Flint. His breathing seemed steady enough. Was he more pale than usual? Silver couldn’t tell.
Back to the men. In absence of hope, revenge would be the next best thing. They had no trouble reaching a consensus on who to blame.
One by one, accusing eyes turned Flint and Silver’s way. One voice called for their heads; a roar went up in support. A few men reached for their weapons. Silver flinched back, looking around for any sort of cover. Flint was still out cold, the bastard. Silver had half a mind to slap him awake. If one of them had to be conscious while an angry mob tore them apart–
“Order!”
Captain Dufresne finally got around to addressing his men.
“I know you are all angry–understand that I share your feelings. But we cannot resort to savagery now. When Flint wakes up, justice will be duly served. First, however–I ask that you consider…”
What followed was far less impressive than the beginning, because it amounted to Dufresne suggesting that perhaps Flint might solve all their problems for them. That idea was met with predictable incredulity, but Silver could see that it had sunk its claws in. Even having bayed for his blood only moments before, the men could not resist the temptation to look to their ousted captain for a solution.
Good luck to them. If Flint had lacked affection for his crew before, he certainly wouldn’t care for them any more now. There was only one man on this beach who could expect any sort of good-will from him.
Silver had thrown his lot in with Flint; there was no getting out of it now, for either of them.
(What would he do if Flint died? He could try to disavow him–after all, what had he done, save light a fuse at an inopportune time? Perhaps he’d been confused… No, that wouldn’t work. Silver knew he'd only lived this long because Dufresne could not justify executing one traitor while sparing the other.)
Out of all the strategies taking shape in his mind, the only ones that led anywhere began with the same condition: Flint must live.
Even with a hole through his shoulder, Flint would be of much more use out in the wilderness than Silver on his own. Between the two of them, their odds of survival would be decent enough. They could spin some story to appease Dufresne and the crew, then make their escape before they made up their minds to kill them. They’d have at least a week to come back for the gold before Dufresne and his men sorted anything out.
Silver hadn’t come this far to give up, and neither had Flint. Silver would drag the bastard along if he had to.