"If so be as ye'll give me your word to come peaceable, Master Ormerod, I can make things easier for ye," he offered when we were clear of the hut.
"What do you say, Peter?" I asked the Dutchman.
"Ja."
"That's enough for me," announced Silver cheerfully. "And very sensible of ye, too, gentlemen. Not quite so fast. I'm only a crippled sailorman, and I ha' labored hard this night. Aye, it were such a seesaw o' fortune as kep' my heart a-poppin' in my throat. I thought ye had me on the stockade; but there's none like Pew wi' the knife, and he can smell his man when he can't see him. Well, well, who'd ha 's'posed when we met in New York we'd come to aught like this, Master Ormerod?"
I lacked the heart to answer him, and we stumbled through the woods in silence to the shore of the Anchorage. Here one of the Walrus' boats was launched, and we were rowed out to where she lay, her hull squatting like a rock in the quiet water. Men hailed us from her deck, a whip was sent down for Silver's convenience, and the rest of us climbed the side ladder, Moira as agile as any after her months at sea.
"Here we are, safe and snug on the old Walrus," remarked Silver, still aggressively cheery; "and them as is here can call theirselves fortunate, 'cause there's a plenty as ha' kept Murray company. Aye, blast me for a swab, but it ha' been a bloody night. Get for'ard, mates."
This to the men who had come off with us.
"I'll see to the pris'ners. Now then, gentlemen—and mistress—you come along wi' me, and I'll make ye all as comf'table as if ye was in a Bristol packet."
He prodded a muscular forefinger into my chest.
"You mind that, Master Ormerod. You mind that Long John was your friend. 'Cause why, says you? 'Cause there's never a man could see through the sand in the hourglass, could he now? And we'll ha' queer times ahead o' us—aye, queer times. How queer, says you? Ah, how'm I to know? All I says, and I stands on my words, is there'll be queer times—and you mind Long John was kindly and stood your friend, hearty and free. D'ye see?"