The wind finally changed in our favor and turned toward the west.
“Good,” I thought. “Now we can sail more easily from the northeast side of the island toward the entrance of North Inlet.”
But we still had a problem. We had no way to anchor, and we could not run the ship onto the beach until the tide rose higher. So we had nothing to do but wait.
Hands taught me how to keep the schooner steady without sailing forward. After several attempts, I finally managed it, and we sat quietly eating another meal.
“Cap’n,” Hands said after a while, wearing that same strange, uneasy smile. “There’s my old shipmate O’Brien. Suppose you were to throw him overboard. I ain’t usually bothered by such things, and I won’t blame myself for finishing him off, but he ain’t much use now, is he?”
“I’m not strong enough to do that,” I answered. “And I don’t want to. So he stays where he is.”
“This Hispaniola is an unlucky ship, Jim,” he said, looking around.
“A lot of men have died on this ship. Many good sailors have gone to their graves since you and I first sailed from Bristol. I’ve never seen such bad luck.”
“Look at O’Brien. He’s dead, isn’t he? I’m no educated man, and you’re a lad who can read and count. Tell me honestly—do you think a dead man is truly gone forever, or can he come back?”
“You can kill a man’s body, Mr. Hands,” I replied, “but not his spirit. You already know that. O’Brien is in another world now, and perhaps he is watching us.”
“Ah,” he said slowly. “That’s unfortunate. Seems like killing people is a waste of effort then.”
He laughed weakly.
“But spirits don’t worry me much. I’ll take my chances with them, Jim. You’ve spoken honestly, so I’d be grateful if you went down into the cabin and brought me a bottle of wine. This brandy is too strong for me.”
His request sounded strange.
I did not believe for a second that he truly wanted wine instead of brandy. It was only an excuse. He wanted me to leave the deck. That much was obvious.
But I could not understand why.
His eyes avoided mine. They moved constantly—from the sky, to the dead body of O’Brien, and back again. He kept smiling nervously and sticking out his tongue like a guilty child.
Anyone could see he was hiding something.
Still, I answered quickly because I realized I had an advantage. A man as foolish as Hands would not notice if I hid my suspicions.
“Some wine?” I said. “That would be much better. Would you like red or white?”
“Don’t matter much to me, shipmate,” he replied. “Just make sure there’s plenty of it.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll bring you some port wine. But I’ll have to search for it.”
I rushed down the cabin stairs loudly so he would think I was gone. Then I slipped off my shoes, moved quietly through the passage, climbed the forecastle ladder, and looked out from the front entrance.
I knew he would never expect to see me there.
My worst fears were confirmed.
Hands had moved.
He was no longer lying helplessly. He was crawling across the deck on his hands and knees.
His injured leg clearly caused him great pain. I could hear him holding back groans. But he still moved quickly.
Within half a minute, he reached the port side of the ship and pulled a long knife from a coil of rope.
It was not just a knife. It was a short dagger, dark with old blood all the way to the handle.
He stared at it for a moment.
Then he tested the point against his hand.
After that, he quickly hid it inside his jacket and crawled back to his old position.
That was all I needed to know.
Israel Hands could move.
He was armed.
And if he had tried so hard to send me away, then I was clearly the person he planned to kill.
What he would do afterward, I could only guess.
Perhaps he would crawl across the island to reach Silver’s camp in the swamp.
Perhaps he would fire Long Tom and hope his old companions came to rescue him first.
But one thing was certain.
I could trust him when it came to the schooner.
We both wanted the same thing: to beach the ship safely in a sheltered place, where it could later be pulled back into the water with as little trouble as possible.
Until that was done, I believed he would not risk killing me.
While I thought all this through, I was not wasting time.
I quietly returned to the cabin, put my shoes back on, grabbed a bottle of wine, and came back onto the deck.
Hands was lying exactly where I had left him.
He looked weak, with his eyes half closed as if the sunlight was too much for him.
But when I appeared, he suddenly showed his old strength.
He knocked the top off the bottle like a man who had done it a thousand times and took a long drink.
“Here’s luck!” he said.
Then he rested for a while.
After that, he pulled out some tobacco.
“Cut me a piece of that,” he said. “I’ve got no knife and hardly any strength left.”
He sighed.
“Ah, Jim, Jim. I reckon I’ve missed my chance. Cut me a piece, lad. It’ll probably be my last. I’m heading for my long home, no mistake.”
“Well,” I said, “I’ll cut your tobacco. But if you really think you are dying, you should pray like a Christian.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Why?”
I stared at him.
“You were just asking me about the dead. You betrayed your duty. You have lived through lies, violence, and bloodshed. There is a man you killed lying right beside you. And you ask why you should pray?”
I spoke angrily because I remembered the bloody dagger hidden in his jacket and knew what he intended to do with it.
Hands drank deeply from the wine.
Then he spoke in a serious voice.
“For thirty years I’ve sailed the seas,” he said. “I’ve seen good times and bad times. I’ve seen storms, hunger, fighting, and men turning on each other.”
He paused.
“And I’ll tell you this: I’ve never seen goodness bring anyone much luck.”
“The man who strikes first is the man who survives. Dead men don’t bite. That’s my belief.”
Then his expression suddenly changed.
“All right, enough of this foolish talk. The tide is high enough now.”
He looked at me sharply.
“You take my orders, Captain Hawkins, and we’ll sail this ship into the inlet.”
We only had about two miles to travel.
But the entrance to North Inlet was dangerous. It was narrow, shallow, and stretched east to west, so the ship needed careful handling.
I believe I was a good and obedient sailor.
And Hands was an excellent pilot.
Together we turned and twisted through the channel, passing close to the banks with remarkable skill.
Soon we entered the inlet.
The land closed around us.
The shores were thick with trees, just like the southern anchorage, but this place was longer and narrower, more like the mouth of a river.
At the far end, we saw the remains of an old shipwreck.
It had once been a large three-masted ship.
But it had been abandoned for so long that seaweed hung everywhere, and plants had grown across the deck. Flowers now bloomed where sailors once walked.
It was a sad sight.
But it also proved the water here was calm.
“Look there,” Hands said. “That’s the perfect place to beach a ship.”
“Fine flat sand. No waves. Trees all around. Flowers growing everywhere.”
“Once we beach her,” I asked, “how do we get her back into the water?”
“Easy,” he replied.
“At low tide, take a rope ashore. Tie it around one of those big trees. Bring it back to the capstan and wait.”
“When the tide rises, everyone pulls the rope, and she’ll slide free.”
Then he shouted:
“Stand ready, boy! We’re almost there.”
“She’s moving too fast.”
“Starboard a little!”
“Steady!”
“Starboard!”
“Now back a little!”
I followed every command.
Then suddenly he cried:
“Now, my hearty! Turn her!”
I pushed the helm hard.
The Hispaniola swung around and rushed toward the low, wooded shore.
The excitement distracted me.
For a moment, I forgot the danger beside me.
I leaned over the starboard side, watching the waves spread out from the bow.
I might have died without even fighting back.
Then something made me turn.
Perhaps I heard a creak.
Perhaps I saw his shadow.
Perhaps it was only instinct.
But when I looked around, there was Hands.
He was already halfway toward me.
The dagger was in his right hand.
Our eyes met.
We both shouted.
My cry was fear.
His was rage.
He lunged forward.
I jumped toward the bow.
At the same moment, I released the tiller.
The tiller swung violently and struck Hands across the chest.
It stopped him for a moment.
That saved my life.
Before he recovered, I escaped from the corner where he had trapped me.
I pulled a pistol from my pocket.
Hands turned and rushed toward me again.
I aimed carefully and fired.
Nothing happened.
The gun was useless.
The sea water had ruined the powder.
I cursed myself.
Why had I not cleaned and reloaded my weapons earlier?
Now I was nothing but a helpless animal running from a hunter.
Even wounded, Hands moved with frightening speed.
His gray hair flew across his face.
His face was red with anger.
I had no time to try the other pistol.
I knew it was probably useless too.
I understood one thing clearly:
I could not keep retreating.
If I did, he would trap me at the bow just as he had trapped me at the stern.
Then that bloody dagger would be the last thing I ever saw.
So I placed my hands against the mainmast and waited.
Hands stopped too.
For a moment, we faced each other.
It became a game of movement and patience.
It reminded me of the games I used to play among the rocks at home.
But never before had my heart beaten so wildly.
Still, I was young and quick.
I believed I could keep away from him for a while.
But I saw no way to escape forever.
Then suddenly—
The Hispaniola struck the shore.
The ship shook.
It scraped across the sand.
Then, like a falling object, it leaned hard to port.
The deck tilted at a terrifying angle.
Water rushed through the scuppers and gathered across the deck.
We were both thrown down instantly.
The dead body of the red-cap sailor rolled after us, his arms still stretched out.
My head struck Hands’ foot so hard that my teeth rattled.
But I recovered first.
Hands was tangled with the corpse.
The tilted deck made running impossible.
I needed another escape.
And I needed it immediately.
Hands was almost upon me.
Without thinking, I jumped into the mizzen shrouds and climbed upward.
I did not stop until I reached the cross-trees.
I had survived because I acted quickly.
The dagger had missed me by less than half a foot.
Below me stood Israel Hands.
His mouth hung open.
His face showed complete surprise and disappointment.
Now I had time.
I quickly replaced the powder in one pistol.
Then I reloaded the other from the beginning.
Hands watched in silence.
He finally understood that his chances were getting worse.
After hesitating, he also grabbed the ropes and began climbing.
The injured leg slowed him badly.
Every movement brought a groan of pain.
By the time he was only a third of the way up, I had finished preparing my weapons.
I held a pistol in each hand.
“Take one more step, Mr. Hands,” I said, “and I’ll blow your brains out.”
Then I smiled.
“Dead men don’t bite, remember?”
He stopped immediately.
I could see him thinking.
Slowly.
Painfully.
His face showed confusion.
Finally, he spoke.
“Jim,” he said, “I reckon we’re stuck. You and me need to make a deal.”
“I would have had you if the ship hadn’t turned.”
“But I’ve never had much luck.”
“I suppose I’ll have to surrender.”
He looked bitter.
“Hard thing for a master sailor to give in to a ship’s boy like you, Jim.”
I listened proudly, feeling safer than ever.
Then suddenly—
His right hand flew behind his shoulder.
Something shot through the air.
I felt a blow.
Then a sharp pain.
The dagger had struck me.
It pinned my shoulder against the mast.
The pain was terrible.
I hardly knew what I was doing.
Both pistols fired at once.
They flew from my hands.
Hands gave a choking cry.
He lost his grip on the ropes.
Then he fell headfirst into the water.