The little coracle had already taught me one important lesson: it was a surprisingly safe boat for someone my size. It floated well and handled rough water better than I expected.
But controlling it was another matter entirely.
No matter how I tried to guide it, the stubborn little craft always drifted sideways. It seemed to have a mind of its own. Spinning around in circles was the one thing it did perfectly.
Even Ben Gunn had admitted that the boat was “strange to handle until you learned its habits.”
Unfortunately, I had not learned them.
The coracle turned every way except the way I wanted to go. Most of the time, I was floating sideways to my destination. I am certain I would never have reached the ship without the help of the tide.
Luckily, the current kept carrying me forward. And there, directly in my path, was the Hispaniola.
At first, the ship appeared as a dark shape against the even darker night.
Slowly, her masts and hull became visible.
A moment later, I was beside her anchor rope and grabbed hold.
The rope was stretched tight like a bowstring. The current was so strong that it pulled hard against the ship’s anchor.
Around the hull, the water rushed and bubbled in the darkness, making a sound like a small mountain stream.
One quick cut with my knife, and the Hispaniola would drift away with the tide.
But then I remembered something important.
A rope pulled tight under great pressure was dangerous when suddenly cut. It could snap back like a wild animal.
If I cut the ship loose at that moment, there was a good chance the force would throw both me and my little boat into the water.
So I stopped.
If luck had not helped me once again, I would have been forced to give up my plan.
But the wind, which had started blowing from the southeast and south, had changed direction after nightfall and was now coming from the southwest.
Just as I was thinking about what to do, a sudden gust caught the Hispaniola and pushed her against the current.
To my great relief, I felt the rope loosen in my hand.
For a moment, the hand holding it dipped beneath the water.
That was my chance.
I pulled out my knife, opened it with my teeth, and began cutting through the rope strand by strand.
Soon only two strands remained.
I stayed perfectly still, waiting for another moment when the wind would reduce the pressure again.
While I worked, I could hear loud voices coming from the cabin.
At first, I paid little attention because I was too focused on my own danger.
But now that I had nothing else to do, I listened carefully.
One voice belonged to Israel Hands, the ship’s old coxswain, who had once been Flint’s gunner.
The other voice belonged to the pirate wearing the red nightcap.
Both men were clearly drunk.
They were still drinking too, because while I listened, one of them suddenly shouted, opened the rear window, and threw out what sounded like an empty bottle.
But their drunkenness was not the only problem.
They were furious with each other.
Their curses flew back and forth like stones in a storm.
Several times, their shouting became so violent that I expected a fight to break out.
Yet each argument faded away before it became a real struggle.
Their voices would become quieter for a while, only to explode again moments later.
On the shore, I could see the glow of the large campfire shining through the trees.
Someone was singing an old sailor’s song.
The singer dragged out every line with a tired, gloomy voice, and it seemed the song would never end.
I had heard it many times during the voyage.
The words were:
“But one man of her crew alive,
What put to sea with seventy-five.”
I thought it was a strangely fitting song for men who had suffered such terrible losses that morning.
But from everything I had seen, those pirates felt little sorrow for the dead.
They were as hard and cold as the sea itself.
At last, the wind came again.
The schooner moved slightly, drifting closer through the darkness.
The rope loosened once more.
With all my strength, I cut through the final strands.
The wind barely affected my little coracle, and almost immediately I was pushed against the bow of the Hispaniola.
At the same time, the ship began turning slowly around, spinning across the current.
I fought desperately, expecting my tiny boat to overturn at any second.
Since I could not push myself away from the ship’s side, I pushed backward instead.
Finally, I escaped from the dangerous position.
Then, just as I gave one last powerful push, my hands touched a thin rope trailing from the ship’s stern.
Without thinking, I grabbed it.
I do not know why I did it.
At first, it was only instinct.
But once I felt that the rope was secure, curiosity took over.
I decided I had to look inside the cabin window.
Pulling myself along the rope, I moved closer to the ship.
When I thought I was near enough, I carefully raised myself halfway up.
From there, I could see the roof of the cabin and part of the inside.
By now, the Hispaniola and my little boat were moving quickly through the water.
We had already passed level with the campfire.
The ship made a loud rushing sound as she cut through the waves.
Water splashed constantly around her sides.
I could not understand why the men on watch had not noticed anything.
Then I looked through the window.
One glance was enough.
I saw Israel Hands and the other pirate locked in a desperate fight.
Each man had one hand gripping the other’s throat.
I dropped back into the coracle immediately.
It was just in time, because I nearly fell overboard.
For a moment, all I could see were the two angry, red faces of the fighting men moving beneath the smoky cabin lamp.
I closed my eyes and waited for them to adjust to the darkness again.
At last, the endless pirate song on shore came to an end.
The men around the campfire began singing the chorus I knew so well:
“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done for the rest—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”
I was thinking how busy drink and the devil seemed to be at that very moment inside the Hispaniola’s cabin.
Then suddenly, my coracle lurched violently.
At the same instant, it turned sharply and changed direction.
Even stranger, it began moving much faster.
I opened my eyes.
All around me, small waves rushed past with sharp, hissing sounds.
They glowed faintly in the darkness.
The Hispaniola, only a short distance ahead of me, seemed to lose her course.
Her masts swayed against the black sky.
As I watched, I realized she too was turning south.
I looked behind me.
My heart nearly stopped.
The campfire was still glowing in the distance.
The current had changed direction.
It swept the large schooner and my tiny boat around together, carrying us faster and faster through the narrow passage toward the open sea.
The water grew rougher.
The current bubbled and roared louder.
Suddenly, the Hispaniola swung violently to one side.
Almost immediately, shouts came from the ship.
I heard footsteps pounding up the cabin stairs.
The two drunk pirates had finally been interrupted.
They had realized the danger they were in.
I quickly lay flat in the bottom of the miserable little boat and prayed for my life.
I was certain that when we reached the end of the channel, we would crash into a line of violent waves.
My troubles would end there.
Perhaps I could accept death.
But I could not bear watching it come toward me.
So I lay there for what seemed like hours.
The coracle was thrown back and forth by the waves.
Cold spray struck my face again and again.
Every moment, I expected the next wave to destroy me.
Slowly, exhaustion overcame my fear.
My body became numb.
My thoughts grew confused.
Even in the middle of my terror, I began slipping into sleep.
At last, I fell asleep inside that little boat, being carried across the wild sea.
And in my dreams, I saw home.
I saw the old Admiral Benbow once again.