Even with the bullet in him, it takes four men to bind and drag Flint from the wood. Once on the beach, he goes heavy like a stone down into the loamy sand - an animal whose last option is to simply refuse. So Israel Hands strikes him hard enough on the head that, for a time, Captain Flint is dead to the world.
Presumably he's then put into the bottom of the longboat and it's rowed back to where the Lion lies in wait. What does Jack Rackham say when what comes off Skeleton Island isn't a chest of pearls and gems but a man who must be swayed up over the side like a sack of flour? Likely nothing at all. Rackham is a man with ambition these days; if he didn't agree with what had been done, would he be so eager to set the sail and be away?
Because they are gone. Flint knows it in the moment before he's even fully conscious as the ship skims along its course, the motion of the water against the keel so fundamentally different at pace than at anchor. Even so, when he comes to in the cabin's stern window, he finds himself sluggishly searching the horizon line for any trace of that place. Any smudge between water and air to indicate how far he's been removed. But it's just grey sky, a wine dark sea, the heavy chains at his hands and feet, and the bolt fixed to the bulkhead to keep him exactly where he is for as long as is required.
The bullet hole in his side has been cleaned and stitched. Dried blood has been washed from his face and neck. The light through the window is warm. The cabin is quiet and comfortable - as if he belongs here instead of below. As if a kindness has been done. He sits quietly for some time with his head against the painted window frame, watching how the sea churns beneath her. It is rhythmic and nauseating and he doesn't know how long he looks before the sound of three bells melts into a tell tale thump on the quarterdeck.
Flint doesn't raise his head when the door to the cabin opens and closes, but after a time he does ask, "Where are we?" as if it matters at all.
no subject
Presumably he's then put into the bottom of the longboat and it's rowed back to where the Lion lies in wait. What does Jack Rackham say when what comes off Skeleton Island isn't a chest of pearls and gems but a man who must be swayed up over the side like a sack of flour? Likely nothing at all. Rackham is a man with ambition these days; if he didn't agree with what had been done, would he be so eager to set the sail and be away?
Because they are gone. Flint knows it in the moment before he's even fully conscious as the ship skims along its course, the motion of the water against the keel so fundamentally different at pace than at anchor. Even so, when he comes to in the cabin's stern window, he finds himself sluggishly searching the horizon line for any trace of that place. Any smudge between water and air to indicate how far he's been removed. But it's just grey sky, a wine dark sea, the heavy chains at his hands and feet, and the bolt fixed to the bulkhead to keep him exactly where he is for as long as is required.
The bullet hole in his side has been cleaned and stitched. Dried blood has been washed from his face and neck. The light through the window is warm. The cabin is quiet and comfortable - as if he belongs here instead of below. As if a kindness has been done. He sits quietly for some time with his head against the painted window frame, watching how the sea churns beneath her. It is rhythmic and nauseating and he doesn't know how long he looks before the sound of three bells melts into a tell tale thump on the quarterdeck.
Flint doesn't raise his head when the door to the cabin opens and closes, but after a time he does ask, "Where are we?" as if it matters at all.