#yes i ship flint and oath

[painonthebrain]

Simultaneously want to write horrific transformation whump with Starling and gay shit where Flint and Oath are so homo for each other

[a-man-for-hire-and-his-archives]

Black Sails’ Toby Stephens on Captain Flint and the Final Season

Black Sails will return to Starz on January 29, 2017 for its fourth and final season. When we last left the pirates, Captain Flint (Toby Stephens) was beginning the revolution in Nassau and Long John Silver’s (Luke Arnold) star was rising. We recently got a chance to chat with Toby Stephens about the end of the series, what’s coming for Flint and working on this epic show. Check out his thoughts on season four below!

Here is the official synopsis:

The fourth season opens with hundreds of British soldiers dead in a forest… the Royal Navy sails back to England in retreat… the West Indies are now a war zone, and the shores of New Providence Island have never been bloodier. With the help of Eleanor Guthrie, Woodes Rogers transforms Nassau into a fortress without walls, as Captain Flint amasses a fleet of unprecedented strength, hoping to strike the final blow against civilization and reshape the world forever. Meanwhile, from within the island… an insurgency builds, fueled by the legend of its exiled leader, whose name keeps grown men awake at night… the one they call “Long John Silver.”

But as Flint, Silver and their allies are about to learn, the closer civilization comes to defeat, the more desperately and destructively it will fight back. Oaths will be shattered, fortunes will change hands, and amidst the chaos, only one thing remains certain: it has never been more dangerous to call oneself a pirate.

xxxx

Legion of Leia: I was in South Africa on the set when you were filming that crazy storm sequence in season three. What sort of set pieces are we going to see this time around?

Toby Stephens: It’s huge. There’s loads of stuff that will keep fans extremely happy, I’m sure.

Legion of Leia: Flint had a crazy few seasons. I’m curious about whether or not you think his destiny was set with Miranda’s (Louise Barnes) death.

Toby Stephens: I think yes, it kind of compounded the way he was going. I mean, I think before Miranda died, maybe people could reason him out of certain choices, but I think when Miranda dies, that’s the last nail in the coffin in terms of him going after England in this relentless way. And also, I would say, the other thing that compounds it is finding an ally in Silver. The fact that they become partners in this enterprise, it seems that Flint can only function when he has somebody who he’s allied with or is an alter-ego for him. Someone who can balance him and he can work through. So that is both good for him and bad for him in a way.

Legion of Leia: In the last episode, there is that conversation between Flint and Silver where they’re like, oh, we’re friends. But bad things happen to Flint’s friends. We know a bit about where this is going to go because of “Treasure Island.” What’s ahead for Flint here?

Toby Stephens: Yeah, well, I think it’s really the end game for the whole series, and we know it’s a tragedy because there was no great revolution in the pirate world. There was no emancipation of the pirates and the slaves. It didn’t happen, so why did it not happen and what happens to Flint at the end of that, when his dreams are crushed? What happens to Silver and him? How does that play out? And also, how does the Silver that we know become the eponymous Long John Silver of “Treasure Island?” How does that happen? And I think season four brilliantly leads us to a point where where, it’s a very satisfying ending, but also leaves you to fill in the gaps between there and “Treasure Island.” You kind of know who these people are at the end of this, but it’s a kind of really cool thing to allow people to do that themselves rather than go, look, this is what happens, all the way to the end. It leaves you to do some work yourself.

Legion of Leia: I love that. This show has sent me to Wikipedia more often than you would believe!

Toby Stephens: [laughs] I know!

Legion of Leia: How much research do you do for a role like this, or do you rely mostly on the script?

Toby Stephens: Do you know what? It’s a combination of laziness and there is method to it. I just go with what is in the script. I mean, like you, I’ll go to Wikipedia if I need to know something, if I don’t know what something is. But whether or not it has real historic context, for me is immaterial because I’m working in a fictive world. It’s a fictive world with dashes here or there of historic fact. A pinch here, a pinch there, and I need to work in that world, so it’s better if I stick there.

Legion of Leia: I did love seeing how much was actually built on the set and how many little touches were there, historical and fictive, both.

Toby Stephens: Yeah, what I love is the detail in terms of everybody else, the props, etc. There was a lot of care taken about what would have been there, what wouldn’t have been there, creating that texture of the world, where you can believe it.

Legion of Leia: When we were there, we were hearing stories of bugs in the walls!

Toby Stephens: We were always having problems with–there were these crickets. And they would get in. We would call them “sea crickets!” [laughs] You would be in a take and you would hear [makes cricket noises]. We’re supposed to be in the middle of something scene! [laughs] Or there would be birds up in the rigging going “cheep, cheep!” And you just go, oh my God, there’s another hour in ADR!

Legion of Leia: Did you have to do a ton of ADR?

Toby Stephens: Oh yeah! I have become the master of ADR. I breeze it now! I kind of like it because sometimes you can actually improve things. You know? There was a scene I did in the first season where it was with Gates (Mark Ryan), and it was a storm, and we’re having this conversation and we’re having a drink, and we’re on the set–it was the beginning when they used to gimbal the set. It was so noisy! There was water coming in, dripping everywhere. They wanted it to look authentic. Because it was quite a stressful set to be on [laughs], for some reason my [in a high-pitched voice] my voice was up here! I watched it–I mean, I had to loop it because there was so much noise there, but I thought, I sound like an hysteric! I managed to re-voice the whole thing and kind of couch it where Flint speaks normally. That’s a case in point where you can really improve on things.

Legion of Leia: I can’t imagine trying to speak clearly during some of those storm scenes!

Toby Stephens: I mean, it was mad! This job was amazing because I loved the people and I loved working on it, but there are aspects that I won’t miss. It was totally exhausting. By the end of this last season, I was literally hanging in rags, because it makes such demands on you. You’ve got enormous amounts of dialogue and enormous amounts of acting to do, and then at the same time, you’ve got all of this physical stuff to do, and it’s day in and day out. And you’re in the costumes and you’re in baking heat, and it was long, long days. No other job I would be able to do, in terms of acting–I mean, I’m not working in a coal mine��but there is no other job I could do that would come near this. It sort of made me immune to–it made everything else seem like a breeze. It was so arduous. And some of the stuff we did in season four, some of the stuff that I did towards the end, it was really difficult. Really difficult.

Legion of Leia: Having seen that storm scene and the tanks of water being dumped on you and the ship moving back and forth and the yelling–it was crazy!

Toby Stephens: Yeah, it was also the length of time it went on for. Because we also did two weeks straight, and then we kept on coming back for pickups because it was so particular. And also, it’s part of the reason why I’m so proud of the show, is that they had such exacting standards for what they wanted. They’d cut it together and realize they were missing bits, or that they could get bits better, but it was a drag. You had to get back on this deck and they were spraying you with stuff and they had the engines on. It was brutal. But you look at the end result and you go, that will stand. In ten years time, it will look amazing.

Legion of Leia: What are you going to miss the most, now that the show is over?

Toby Stephens: I think I’ll miss all the people that I worked with. One of the things about the job is, you create these very intense and very fun relationships with people, creative relationships with people, very creative, and then they dissolve and move on. I’ll miss that, and working with such great writers. John [Steinberg], Robert [Levine] and Dan [Shotz], you know, just brilliant writing, fantastic showrunners. They were so good and we had a really intense relationship. I’ll miss that.

Legion of Leia: What do you have coming up next?

Toby Stephens: So I just started doing the reinvention of Lost In Space for Netflix, so I literally just started working for them. I’m really excited for that. It’s a brilliant segue from one genre to another. [laughs] It’s a really fun reinvention of it. It’s really clever, and I’m really excited about it. I think this will be fun in terms of, it’s servicing fans, making a show for now.

Legion of Leia: Also, different costumes. Maybe not so much wool in the heat!

Toby Stephens: I think it will be differently uncomfortable. [laughs]

Legion of Leia: Those costumes were insane and it was so hot while you were filming.

Toby Stephens: Yeah, it was tough, and also in the brutal sun all day long. Standing on ships. It was killer. And the boots. I remember always complaining. I bitched and moaned about my boots all the time. [laughs] These things are killing me! Can you imagine these pirates going, “Jeeze, man! Couldn’t we have flip flops? Could we have a pair of thongs? Why do we have to wear these things?” [laughs]

Legion of Leia: I feel like pirates should have worn fewer clothes!

Toby Stephens: Yeah! [laughs] But apparently they didn’t. They didn’t, actually. The whole thing of pirates wearing all of that is baloney. They actually–they had very light shirts and stuff. Apparently they just didn’t wear much.

Legion of Leia: That was for fancy pirates.

Toby Stephens: And also, it was just for show. Also, what Black Sails kind of gets into is, a lot of it was p.r. It was p.r. by the English, because they wanted to demonize these people, but it was also their own p.r.–like Blackbeard having fuses on his beard and stuff like that. It was all to make people scared.

Legion of Leia: You can see that even with what Billy [Tom Hopper] is doing at the end of season three with Silver.

Toby Stephens: Yeah, and here’s a really fun thing. You get to the end of this season, and you take a screenshot of characters at the end of this season and you compare them to screenshots from the beginning of season one and they’re just like–the journey that they’ve been on, and the toll it’s taken on them is really cool. I mean, Luke just looks terrible at the end of it! And he was so beautiful at the beginning! [laughs] And the same with Tom Hopper who plays Billy Bones. You see he’s headed towards the Billy Bones of “Treasure Island.”

Legion of Leia: I wanted to ask you about Flint and Billy. There is such a tense relationship there with so much history. How is that going to shift this season?

Toby Stephens: Yeah, it really comes to a head. It comes to blows. They’re not going to be able to–it’s really interesting the way Billy goes, I think, in this season. It’s been a long time coming.

Legion of Leia: Do you think Flint has any of the idealism left that he had at the beginning?

Toby Stephens: Well, what’s really interesting at the end of it, one realizes how personal this is for Flint. And that, actually, it’s not really some altruistic scheme that he has to liberate everybody. He’s playing out his own psychodrama in reality. And how demented–how he will not stop. How it will go on and on and on. And somebody has to stop that. You know, it’s a tragedy because we know that there was no–it’s got to end somewhere. It’s not going to be good.

Legion of Leia: I do have to ask you about working with your family! [Toby’s wife Anna-Louise Plowman plays Mrs. Hudson and his brother Chris Larkin joined the cast as a Redcoat this season]

Toby Stephens: Yeah! It was wonderful, actually! It was so wonderful because I hadn’t spent so much time with my brother for a while. And was really great hanging out with him. And it was a bit strange. We had one scene where we were given direction to look at each other across–we had no lines together, but we had to look at each other across this town square. And I suddenly realized, this is really difficult because nobody on Earth knows me as well as my brother does. And to try and pretend with one another is just impossible! There cannot be any artifice! [laughs] So both of us, it was hopeless! I said, you look at my chest and I’ll look at your forehead. [laughs] It’s impossible! You can’t hide!

Are you guys excited for season four? Let us know in the comments! Black Sails will return to Starz on January 29, 2017.

sources: Legion of Leia (unfortunately I can't put link because it wasn't secured)

[be-not-afeared]

Jaime Lannister and John Silver: of arcs and endings

Or, herein follows a possibly niche comparison between the character arcs of Jaime Lannister (Game of Thrones, HBO, 2011-2019) and John Silver (Black Sails, Starz, 2014-2017), in which I will argue that Jaime’s character arc fails not because of Jaime’s actions, but because of the way his story is framed to the viewer throughout the series, using Silver as a springboard to explore the requisites for a tragic yet satisfying ending.

(Yes, this is 5K words long. No, I am not sorry. Spoilers for Jaime’s and Silver’s storylines in their respective shows, and while I’ve tried to stay vague about the Bigger Picture, read at your own risk.)

Okay, so. I was, and still am, to an extent, a huge Game of Thrones fan. I’ve pored over the books, been to conventions, and spent a good couple of years while I was at uni discussing fan theories on message boards into the early hours of the morning. Jaime Lannister has been one of my favourite fictional characters for over a decade. Yet I certainly wasn’t alone in watching in horror as years of hopeful build up was thrown away in the span of one and a half episodes during the final season of the show. There are *many* things that hurt about season 8 of Game of Thrones. But the swift 180 we see in Jaime, from aiding the Starks in the Battle of Winterfell and finally choosing Brienne, to abandoning her to return to Cersei 20 minutes later, was, for me, one of the deepest cuts.

When I started watching Black Sails this August, I was immediately compelled by Silver – unsurprisingly, as someone who has exactly one favourite character type: Traumatised and Morally Grey Anti-Villain. Watching Silver’s character develop over the four seasons of Black Sails was an absolute joy, and his ending in the finale, though *incredibly difficult*, was nuanced and in character and satisfying. (Am going to try and keep as vague as possible on details here, because Black Sails is an incredible show that more people should watch and I don’t want to completely spoil the ending).  Silver and Jaime are two characters with a lot of similarities and their characters arcs appear to run in direct parallel with each other: both selfish and arrogant men who become more empathetic and invested in others as the series progresses, in large part prompted by the loss of a limb. However, the gulf in reception of their overall arcs can be pinpointed to one huge disparity between the way both storylines were framed to the audience, and that is difference between redemption and tragedy.

“I was that hand”

But first! Let’s start with the more obvious stuff.

When we meet Jaime Lannister and John Silver in the pilots of their respective shows, they are both introduced as arrogant and self-serving – yet charming – men, who place the needs of themselves (and Cersei, in Jaime’s case) above all else. Silver kills and impersonates the cook on the merchant ship Flint’s crew captures, and has no qualms about lying his way onto the crew whilst simultaneously planning to sell the Urca schedule to the highest bidder. For Silver, his own survival comes before any sense of moral code. We are told stories about Jaime before we properly meet him  – that he killed the previous king, Aerys Targaryen, that he has no honour – but nothing that we see first-hand contradicts this; at the end of the pilot he attempts to kill a child to cover up his and Cersei’s incestuous relationship. Silver is certainly supposed to be more likeable than Jaime, but both men, despite their lack of morals, are presented as charming, clever, and good with a one-liner. As we move through the early seasons of both shows, they are consistent in these traits, although Jaime is presented as an outright antagonist whereas Silver from the outset is a morally grey unknown entity, keeping viewers on our toes wondering if he’ll turn against Flint, against Billy, against Eleanor. Things change, for both men, however, with the direct lead up and fallout of the loss of a limb: Jaime’s hand and Silver’s leg.

The introduction of Brienne of Tarth as Jaime’s foil kickstarts his path towards becoming the honourable man he once dreamed of being. During their roadtrip across Westeros, she challenges him and is able to get under his skin in a way we haven’t yet seen before. This comes to a head when the duo are captured, and Jaime intervenes during her attempted rape, lying about her ransom worth and saving her from an awful fate. The result? The immediate amputation of Jaime’s sword hand, representative of Jaime’s identity (“I was that hand”). Jaime is punished for the first selfless act we see him commit on the show with the loss of the source of his power and self-worth.

Silver, in a similar fashion, finds himself in a position to save the crew he has spent two seasons disparaging. When he is offered the opportunity to betray his crew for an escape route, he refuses (the reasons for this refusal never outright stated, although I imagine Flint’s “where else will you wake up in the morning and matter” and Billy’s “that’s our brother you’ve got there” both factor heavily). Again, the result of this refusal is the brutal torture and eventual amputation of Silver’s leg – a man who in his own words is “not a joiner”, prone to taking what he needs and leaving, to reinventing himself, to always having an escape route. As actor Luke Arnold says: “He's a guy who's always had one leg out the door, and then they cut it off.”

What is interesting here is not only that we have two characters who are *punished* for moving beyond their selfishness, but that that punishment is specifically catered towards their defining characteristics. Jaime is left unable to fight, unable to defend himself, unable to uphold his reputation. Silver is left unable to run, unable to leave his past behind him, unable to remain without attachments. Both are left vulnerable.  The loss of Jaime’s hand forces him to reinvent himself in a world ruled by swords; as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, father to Tommen, and an honourable man working to uphold his oath, through Brienne, to Catelyn Stark. The loss of Silver’s leg, however, leaves him *unable* to reinvent himself; forcing him to rely on his crew and paving the way for the growth of his relationship with Flint and Madi. In losing their limbs both Jaime and Silver are set on paths towards gaining empathy, and are able to become invested in those around them.

 “Defined by their histories, distorted to fit their narratives”

Game of Thrones and Black Sails both engage heavily with ideas of myth-making and storytelling. Stories are woven into the mythology of Westeros; a world with thousands of years of history revealed to us slowly over the seasons to suit the narrative and the teller. We are told the story of Rhaegar Targaryen’s kidnap and rape of Lyanna Stark in the pilot, and at first this serves to provide a tragic landscape for Robert’s unhealthy relationship with his wife and his crown. It is only as the show develops and we hear more about Rhaegar and Lyanna that we realise there is more to this story; in season 5 Littlefinger recounts the events of the Tourney of Harrenhal to foreshadow the reveal of Jon’s parentage later that season, that Rhaegar and Lyanna had a happy and consensual relationship and that it is Robert who could be viewed as the villain of this sequence. We are taught through watching the show to never assume that any given story is true. Black Sails similarly plays with the idea of the power of the storyteller, combining historical pirates with fictional pirates and an origin story for Treasure Island, and going to great lengths to show that history is in the hands of the victor. Most of the primary sources of pirate history are from the perspective of civilised England, and in the process of watching the show we come to realise the bias inherent in these histories; much like in Game of Thrones, they are stories, and should not be assumed to be either true or accurate. As Jack says in the finale: “a story is true, a story is untrue […] The stories we want to believe, those are the ones that survive”.

Jaime Lannister and John Silver are both characters defined by stories that are forced upon them without choice: the Kingslayer and Long John Silver. We meet Jaime as the Kingslayer; our opinion of him is immediately formed by the story of him stabbing in the back the King he had sworn to protect, and cemented by the fact that our protagonist, Ned Stark, a man we like and trust, is the one telling this story. The Kingslayer’s presence is so strong in the first two seasons of the show that Jaime becomes nameless, reduced to this one defining act. It is only after the loss of his hand, and through his developing bond with Brienne, that he is finally able to tell his own story and we realise our entire perception of Jaime’s character has been based on an incorrect interpretation of events: that in killing Aerys Targaryen Jaime was saving the population of Kings Landing from destruction via wildfire. It is only after the truth of this story has been revealed to us that Jaime is able to begin moving past the Kingslayer and forging a new identity.

We see this in reverse in Black Sails, for the story of Long John Silver is not introduced until the season 3 finale, but like Jaime, this story is not told by Silver. Billy creates the myth of Long John, commits the acts attributed to him, and uses him as a figurehead for the pirate rebellion all without Silver’s knowledge or consent. Season 4 sees Silver wrestle with this identity of King of the Pirates, surrounded by people who want to use ‘Long John Silver’ for their own benefit: Billy, Israel Hands, even Flint. As the power and influence of Long John Silver the story grows, John Silver the man is disregarded, and his value reduced to how he can further everyone else’s individual causes. Though he does embrace this title (for a time, at least) to further “Flint and Madi’s war”, a cause he doesn’t truly believe in beyond his investment in Flint and Madi as people, we come to realise that the ‘character’ of Long John Silver that we know from Treasure Island is only that: a character, a story, a collective created for a larger cause that Silver himself eventually betrays.

I have seen some criticism of this scene, but for me one of the few redeeming moments of the Game of Thrones finale was Brienne writing Jaime’s story in the Book of White. Despite Jaime’s less than satisfactory conclusion, with this act he is finally able to move past the Kingslayer; Brienne has rewritten his narrative, and he will be remembered as a Knight who “died protecting his Queen”. Silver is offered no such release. By contrast, the story of Long John Silver is all that will be remembered; the worst fear for a man who cannot bear for his own story to be known. Indeed, we learn that “those who stood to benefit most from [Long John Silver] were the most eager to leave it all behind”. While Jaime is able to escape the story of the Kingslayer, the story of Long John Silver is what will endure, “all that is left of [him] is the monster in the story they tell their children”. Hello Treasure Island.

 “Reviled by so many for my finest act"

We can see here that Jaime and Silver’s narratives deal with similar themes, but often in contrasting ways. Just as with storytelling, Jaime and Silver’s backstories are key parts of their storylines in their respective shows, but operate with very different functions. (It is only as I am writing this that I’m realising how similar the themes of Game of Thrones and Black Sails actually are? If only Game of Thrones had the follow through of Black Sails... We were all rooting for you, etc etc).

Jaime’s backstory, and the truth of the act that earned him the title ‘Kingslayer’, is revealed to us mid-way through season 3. This comes at a very key moment for his character: Jaime has just lost his hand and is at his most vulnerable, and Brienne’s stubborn and persistent honour is clearly starting to affect him. “I trust you,” he says to her in the bathroom scene in 3x05, and we can assume that this is the first time he has said this to someone who isn’t a Lannister in quite some time, possibly ever. Essentially, the reveal of Jaime’s backstory comes at a moment where we are already beginning to soften towards him and are therefore open to hearing an alternative interpretation of events. While Jaime needs to be able to tell his story to begin to move past the identity of the Kingslayer, if this reveal had come too soon it wouldn’t have had the same dramatic effect, as viewers wouldn’t have been open to seeing him in a different light. All we saw of Jaime in the first two seasons was the “man without honour” that everyone believes him to be; by mid-season three we are already beginning to realise that there is perhaps more to him that meets the eye, so the reveal of his backstory has the most impact.

(This is exactly what Black Sails does with Flint’s backstory, and I firmly believe that if we had been told his story in season one as was originally the plan it wouldn’t have been anywhere near as effective. We needed to know more about Flint, and to see his uneasy partnership with Silver begin to develop as we delved into the backstory piece by piece, so that by 2x05 our hearts were ready to be broken. Buuut that’s a different essay.)

Black Sails loves a backstory. As we move through the show we slowly learn why and how our favourite characters came to be in Nassau , and universally these reveals add to our understanding of that character and their motivations: for Flint, for Billy, for Max, for Jack. We enter season four with Silver as the only character we don’t know anything about prior to the pilot. Surely then, we were about to get a ‘Jaime Lannister bathroom scene’ equivalent, a moment that will add depth and understanding to Silver’s character? Were any of the stories he has told about his past true? Who is Solomon Little? … Instead, what we get is one of my favourite sequences of the entire show, in which, after Flint realises that he knows nothing of Silver’s past, Silver reveals that Flint, and by proxy the viewer, knows “of [him] all [he] can bear to be known”. Silver is the ultimate storyteller, master of manipulating and deceiving others through the power of a narrative, yet he cannot bear to be the story himself. We never learn Silver’s backstory, and all he reveals of his past is that it speaks to “events of the kind no one can divine any meaning from, other than the world is a place of unending horrors”; he has chosen to repress his past, has rendered it unspeakable, and both Flint and the viewer are only left to wonder at what these “horrors” could be.

Although this lack of backstory adds nothing to our view of who Silver *was*, it is key to understanding who Silver *is*, and *why* Silver makes some of his more controversial choices further down the line. Silver’s need to repress his past is as key to his character as Flint’s need to define himself by his own backstory. We understand from this that Silver has experienced a level of trauma which is unspeakable, quite a feat for a show with plenty of other horrific backstories and especially pertinent given that Silver is one of our most gifted orators. Silver’s inability to process his past explains a lot of his actions in the early seasons; his coping mechanism has been to move through life without forming attachments, convincing himself that he doesn’t need (and shouldn’t need) other people. It is safe to assume that Madi and Flint are the first people he has let himself be truly vulnerable with, which paints his actions throughout season four in a different light; loving people is new for Silver, and he doesn’t know how to do it in a healthy or selfless way. The placement of this scene is as important to Black Sails as Jamie’s bathroom scene is to Game of Thrones; we needed to have already seen Long John Silver’s significance to the war spiral beyond Silver’s control, to have seen him become compromised by his love for Madi and the beginnings of the collapse of his partnership with Flint, for this scene to pack the punch that it aims for and to beautifully set up the culmination of his arc in the finale. How devastating, for a man who cannot bear for himself to be known, to be the one figure whose story will outlive them all.

Both of these scenes have stayed with me long past my first watch, and feel vital to understanding Jaime and Silver as characters. For Jaime, his backstory informs all his actions moving forward, his desire to transcend the Kingslayer, to become an “Oathkeeper”, or even “Golden-hand the Just”. For Silver, his lack of backstory informs all his actions up to this point in the narrative and prepares us for the choices to come. Just as Jaime is defined by his past, Silver is defined by his *lack* of past.

 “This is not what I wanted”

So, we’ve tracked Jaime and Silver’s characters throughout the show, but how do they both end? The answer, of course, is… tragically. Jaime is offered a glimpse at what could be a peaceful life, in Winterfell with Brienne, before turning it down to return to Cersei’s side only to meet his end while the duo try to escape the collapsing walls of Kings Landing. Silver betrays Flint and Madi in a horrific fashion, ensuring that they both survive though knowing that in doing so he was destroying his relationship with Flint and that there was a chance Madi would never forgive him his actions. (Or, this is my chosen interpretation of the ending, in any case, although the point still works if you prefer one of the other readings). Just thinking about Silver’s ending in Black Sails makes me want to cry. Thinking about Jaime’s ending in Game of Thrones makes to want to cry too, although for a very different reason. Neither are the ending we would hope for these characters in an optimistic and ideal world. But Silver’s decision to betray Flint and Madi feels narratively satisfying in a way that Jaime’s decision to betray Brienne and return to Cersei never could. Why is that?

Jaime Lannister’s character progression from season 3 onwards was set up as a redemption arc. We thought we were watching a jaded and selfish man become an honourable man. The show, admittedly, takes its sweet time with this journey in comparison to the book equivalent, and inserts some *interesting* deviations which I won’t dwell on here (looking at you 4x03 and the entirety of season 5). But, ultimately, the journey that Jaime finds himself on from the moment he loses his hand seems to be heading for a triumphant ending. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t expecting him to survive the series. But I was expecting him to go out in a blaze of glory – fighting side by side with Brienne, perhaps, or protecting Bran, or one of the other characters he had wronged in the past. There was also always the chance that he would end up fulfilling the much subscribed to book theory of the valonqar, although this admittedly looked less likely as that particular line of the prophecy was cut from the show. When Jaime finally leaves Cersei at the end of season 7 it is such a triumphant moment – after years of struggling with these warring parts of himself, his toxic love for Cersei and his growing moral conscience, a decision had been made and a tie cut. We enter season 8 assuming that there is no going back. We don’t get a hint of any conflicting feelings from Jaime about this decision in the first half of season 8; we are focused on preparation for the Battle of Winterfell, and revelling in the joy of having Jaime and Brienne in the same place for longer than a single episode for the first time since season 4. We get the knighting scene (which, let’s be honest, is where the season peaks). We get the battle. We get the sex scene between Jaime and Brienne (which I… don’t love, for many reasons up to and including the weird virgin shaming jokes from Tyrion in the previous scene and their level of intoxication, but still gives no hint that Jaime is battling an inner war). And then later in that same episode, despite Brienne pleading with him to stay, we get Jaime’s snap decision to return to Kings Landing to attempt to save Cersei: “You think I’m a good man? […] She’s hateful, and so am I”.

The issue here isn’t the decision itself, or Jaime’s choice of words. We know that Jaime isn’t a good man. We know that he’s done awful things for Cersei’s love. And, if we think about it, it makes sense that he wouldn’t be able to leave behind a lifelong co-dependent and unhealthy relationship without looking back, and that he would be driven to return to Cersei’s side when the reality of her impending death hit. The issue is that none of this decision making is presented in the show itself; there was no build up, no foreshadowing. Instead of showing us why this decision was made, the show presents this scene as a shock twist, leaving the viewer with whiplash wondering how Jaime’s story could have taken such an unexpected turn so quickly. The redemption arc that we all thought we were watching was not a redemption arc at all, and don’t think I was alone in finding this revelation deeply unsatisfying.

Let’s leave Jaime for a moment and turn to John Silver. Even for viewers who entered Black Sails without knowing they were watching a prequel to Treasure Island (such as myself!), we can assume that most people have heard of the fictional pirate Long John Silver: the ‘villain’ of Robert Louis Stevenson’s adventure who embodies what it means to be a “gentleman of fortune”.  When we meet clean-shaved, smarmy, two-legged Silver in the pilot most viewers will at least have an idea of the trajectory his arc will take – and that it won’t end with him and Flint skipping off into the sunset hand in hand. We know, because of history, that the pirate rebellion is doomed to fail, that slavery does not end in the West Indies, that Nassau does indeed fall back under English rule, and that piracy is eventually stamped out of New Providence. And we know, because of Treasure Island, that John Silver will end up hunting for Captain Flint’s treasure, while Billy Bones dies from a stroke at the very idea of a visit from Long John and Flint drinks himself to death in Savannah. In essence, we know that we are watching a tragedy.

The genre of tragedy dates back to Ancient Greece, and describes a narrative that presents an examination of human suffering while evoking a sense of catharsis. Aristotle defines tragedy as “an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude … through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation [release] of these emotions.” In other words, in order for a tragedy to achieve this state of emotional release, we as the viewer need to both anticipate (or, fear) the resolution and feel sympathy (or, pity) towards the tragic hero. Black Sails does this masterfully. The pathway towards the destruction of Silver and Flint’s partnership has its grounds as early as season 2, before it has even really started to develop, where Silver talks of his fears of being “used and discarded” by Flint. In the finale of season 3 it is made explicit during their conversation before the battle, with Silver interrogating what he sees as the pattern of Flint’s loved ones dying “not just during [their] relationship, but because of it”. Silver finds himself “unnerved by the thought that when this pattern applies itself to [Flint] and [Silver], that [he] will be the end of [Flint]”. As they lock eyes across the water later on in this episode, the setup of their opposition, complicated by the genuine care between them, is complete, and we enter season 4 dreading the crumbling of their relationship. Season 4 dangles this dramatic irony over us; every time Flint mentions the indestructible force of their partnership, the things they can achieve when there is “no daylight” between them; every time Silver mentions that Flint has his “genuine trust and friendship”; every time they both speak of their partnership in the same terms as the love that Silver holds for Madi, “I’m committed to Flint, I’m committed to Madi” / “he is my friend, too”, we dread the moment where this will all change. We may not know how it will play out, but we know it is coming. The “fear” is very much present. As, indeed, is the “pity”. We understand why Silver makes the decision he does, even if we don’t agree with it. The show has taken lengths to track the development of Silver’s ability to care and make himself vulnerable to others; we believe in his love for Madi, and understand why he believes that he is doing the right thing. Silver’s tragic flaw is that in gaining empathy his selfishness moves to encompass those he cares about; he will do dark things to protect them without consideration of their own choices or agency.  The finale of Black Sails is difficult, beautiful, and yes, tragic, but we end Silver’s story understanding and perhaps even empathising with the decisions he made, believing him when he says that “this is not what [he] wanted”.

 Tragedy vs redemption

John Silver’s story is a tragedy. And I believe that Jaime Lannister’s story is also a tragedy; a deeply flawed man who tries to escape the inevitability of an abusive and unhealthy relationship, only to eventually fall back into this cycle and become consumed by it. The problem is that this wasn’t the story we thought we were watching. The ending of Jamie’s character arc has none of the fear, none of the pity, none of the catharsis of Silver’s, because there was no signposting towards this end. If Jaime’s arc had been treated as a tragedy from the outset then perhaps it would have felt emotionally satisfying rather than rushed and unexpected.

Admittedly, as Jaime is not as central to Game of Thrones as Silver is to Black Sails, the show could not spend as much time detailing his inner world as Black Sails does to the latter. However, if the show had framed Jaime’s story with a sense of tragedy rather than triumph, then his decision to return to Cersei in season 8 would have had the same inevitability as Silver’s betrayal. In season 1 of Game of Thrones, as in the first instalment of A Song of Ice and Fire, Cersei tells Ned Stark that she and Jaime “are more than brother and sister. We shared a womb, came into this world together. We belong together”. However, the show doesn’t include Jaime and Cersei’s later, darker ruminations, that “we will die together as we were born together” (Jaime, ASOS), and “we will leave this world together, as we once came into it” (Cersei, AFFC). Jaime and Cersei’s doomed fate in the books is entangled in a way it never is in the show, and doubly so when you factor in the possibility of Jaime actively causing Cersei’s end due to the valonqar prophecy. In addition to this, if we had seen Jaime leave Cersei earlier in the narrative and then grapple with this decision, showing him struggling to be the man Brienne believes him to be and overcome his past actions, then his failure wouldn’t have seemed so out of the blue. With very little effort or changes on the part of the show, Jaime’s *entire* arc could have been framed in a way that would have made his death a tragically fitting end to his and Cersei’s story.

Jaime and Silver both end their respective narratives in very similar places to when they were introduced, or at least they do on the surface: Jaime unable to leave Cersei even in death, Silver alone and eventually chasing treasure (yes, Madi is still in the picture, but I don’t think we are meant to infer that their future relationship will be a trusting one). However, for Silver, this similarity is only surface deep, for we followed his growth and development and understand the tragedy of his choices. Although Jaime goes through a very similar pattern of growth, the framing of his arc as redemptive means that the unexpected nosedive into tragedy in season 8 doesn’t have the weight or impact that it intends, and we are left without understanding *why* he makes his choices. Jaime’s arc is a failed tragedy that doesn’t fulfil the cathartic requirements of the genre, but with a bit of reframing it could have been as emotionally resonant as Silver’s.

Long story short: watch Black Sails.

[paperficwriter]

Be Thou My Vision

Aziraphale and Crowley! In Paris! In 1899! And there are some homages to Moulin Rouge, which is one of my favorite films. Enjoy!

Paris, 1899, in the neighborhood of Monmartre, a steady snow fell and covered the rooftops, the cold wind carrying the sound of can-can music from the nearby red windmill. Crowley had dragged Aziraphale to the Moulin Rouge to mingle with the bohemians, but when someone passed him a bottle of absinthe, some sugar and a metal spoon, he had lost track of him.

Now, though, it was almost midnight, and on New Years, it was utterly inappropriate for Crowley to not be with his best friend (note: it was still easier to call it that - a friendship - than to label it as something different, or something that might get them too much attention from both the mortal and immortal worlds both. It seemed the popular thing to do among humans of similar presentation too, though Crowley had a feeling that would lead to some confusion later on…), especially since he was in the same city for once.

He took the steps of the apartment structure that had been built over a cafe two at a time, long legs demonically enhanced and leaving small sparks with each footfall on the landings, like struck flint. 

When he got to the loft, Aziraphale was staring out the window, a book against his chest, his chin in his hand. Crowley followed his gaze out over the city towards the Eiffel Tower, barely visible in the snow as it thickened. Although he reclined on the purple chaise lounge that Crowley had acquired for him (because he insisted that he hated sleeping, that it was unnecessary, that he would much rather stay up and read), there was a tension to his shoulders, and he pulled a thick, velvet coat around himself.

Compared to Crowley, who was bare but for suspenders and cotton slacks, he was quite overdressed.

“What’s with the coat, angel?” Crowley asked. By his internal clock, there was still about five minutes. Plenty of time.

“It’s quite stylish, I’ll have you know!” Crowley jerked back like a dog that had been admonished. Aziraphale rarely snapped at him (not counting when he deserved it), and he must have realized it too, because he quickly said, “I’m sorry, dear boy. Really, it’s not you I’m irritated with.”

“Right.” Crowley sat down beside him, plucking the book away and putting it down on the shelf next to them. “So. You’re irritated with---”

“Your friends!” Aziraphale raised his hand with a flourish and then brought it down on his knee. “Those bohemian boys of yours! I walked in just behind you and they cut me off and said I…” He trailed off, pouting into his collar. Aziraphale trailed off, pouting into his collar. Crowley had a love-hate relationship with that pout; it was so utterly adorable and yet he would sink ships and burn bridges both when someone made his angel upset.“They said I looked like some bourgeois pig, with my fancy clothes and corpulence, as they put it.”

“Your French accent really is terrible.” Crowley tugged at his sleeve.

“I know! Do you think that helped?!” Aziraphale crossed his arms over his chest, and the pout intensified to near-explosive lengths (Crowley would be the one doing the exploding). “I’m not an idiot,” he finally said. “I know I could change this form. I know that I could be less...of what I am, but I like this body, Crowley. And I don’t like when people make me feel like I should be ashamed of it.”

In the distance, Crowley could hear the sounds of people counting backwards in French. Champagne was being shaken, lips puckering, the cold bellringer at Notre Dame (who actually had a very fine back, but a shit liver) grabbing the rope and beginning to pull…

And Crowley threw his hands up to Hea-- well, he threw them up. And everything stopped.

Everything except Aziraphale, whose eyes focused on the snowflakes now hovering motionless in the air like stars. “Crowley, you know you are not supposed to do that! You’ll be reprimanded for sure--”

“Pah,” Crowley remarked, slouching onto the bed beside him. “If I can’t have New Years with you happy, then no one can have it.”

“That’s...a little dramatic, dear boy.” 

“It’s the turn of the century, angel! Let them wait on their little bohemian revolution.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue at him, but didn’t actually make any further remarks on the situation. The world truly was so still when everyone wasn’t making such loud to-do’s about everything. 

“I’m not going to let it start like this, with you not appreciating how beautiful you are.”

He could see the little jump in Aziraphale’s shoulders, and heard the sharp intake of breath. His round cheeks went a little rosy, and his warm hand found Crowley’s chilly one. “Crowley…” he whispered. 

It wasn’t their first kiss. But given that about forty years before, when Crowley didn’t think there would be any more kisses ever (foolish, thinking a fight would end anything -- it never did, but it always felt that way at the time), now he would take it. He would delight in it, as he always did. Soft lips. A warm nose pressed into his narrow cheekbone. The smell of books and candlelight.

“We shouldn’t,” Aziraphale murmured, fingers hopelessly tangled in red hair and a suspender strap.

“That’s never stopped us before, angel.” It took two hands to get at the topcoat’s buttons. “You don’t have to cover up in all this.”

“What if someone is watching?” Aziraphale glanced both up and down, as if it needed to be clarified that he didn’t mean some passing Parisian pervert. 

He managed it, starting on the next set, talking as he went in that rapid-fire sinister sensuality that was so very, very much his style. “No one’s watching, and I’ll file it as a divine temptation. There I was, in Paris, promoting terrible imbibing of hallucinogenic drinks, when what to my wandering serpent eyes should appear, but an angel in doubt.”

“I’m not in doubt! Don’t even joke, Crowley!” The demon kissed the center of his furrowed brows, nuzzled there with his face until he relaxed. “There’s no holy oath against a little insecurity now and then.”

“I still won’t have it, angel.” There. The last of the damnable buttons undone. Who had been in charge of the last change in fashion? His side, or Upstairs? He wasn’t sure, but something needed to be done about the next trend to come. Burying his face against Aziraphale’s chest and soft stomach, he squeezed, hissing, overcome very suddenly by how much he loved this body, loved all of his constant companion. Which was so much not like what a demon should do, and that made him all the gladder to express it.

Aziraphale squeezed his head and held him just as near in turn. “You’re being positively ridiculous. You make it sound like you found me drowning in tears like the lead in some...Sarah Bernhardt play.”

“You really think that after so many thousands of years…” Crowley gazed up at him with his golden eyes, and he wondered for a second what they looked like, the two of them, in this affectionate embrace that was only intimate when you really peered at it. What kind of painting might they resemble? Caravaggio? Lomi? Rubens? “You really think I need to see you crying to know when you’re hurt?”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, averting his eyes to his dress shirt and tutting. “I’m ruining your good time being so…”

“Vain?” he couldn’t help joke. 

“Don’t!” This time Aziraphale smiled, and he gently slapped his cheek. It didn’t even make a sound. “Do you, though?” he asked in a whisper. “Do you really think--”

Another kiss, a kiss for ‘yes.’ A kiss for ‘of course, silly clever thing.’ A kiss for ‘forever, from the start of Day One until the End.’ That was true. He was glad to be kissing him instead of saying it, how there was always fondness back when Heaven resembled sunken gardens and nebulas and sun-warmed clouds and not Versailles. And how when he first slithered his way back after All That Unfortunate Nonsense, he saw him standing there at the Eastern Gate and thought, ‘maybe’...right up until She gave him that sword and he smiled like the sun and Crowley - Crawly - fled the scene to talk to that lady about the apple.

Could he really blame him for going doe-eyed when he said that he had just given it away?

“Show me.” Damn the angel’s endearing eyes and his pitiful smile. 

“What do you think I’m doing exactly?”

“Show me more. Please. However will I be a true believer, and how will you be a true tempter?”

Crowley smirked. He had already lost. No amount of fussing over it would change that. Not that he wanted to. But he also couldn’t just give Aziraphale the satisfaction. With the wave of his hand, the shirt, the pants, everything but his sock garters and silky, knee-length drawers remained. They were open in the back, he could tell. Such was in the style. That was his lot’s doing. “Animal!” Aziraphale scolded, but he was smiling and blushing.

“How can I appreciate you when you have to layer a hundred garments over the good parts?” Crowley slid down to his knees, chin tucked but eyes up. He lovingly kissed the softest part of his thigh. “Let us pray…”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale studied each press of lips, caress of fingers, slip of tongue, and he seemed to melt on the lounge until he was picked up in the demon’s strong arms. He leaned up to rest his forehead against Crowley’s, and it tingled a little, like lightning in the air at the top of a tower just as the stormcloud rolled in. It was where his halo would be. Where it perhaps still was.

He missed his wings, but he wouldn’t tell him that tonight. Because he would manifest them immediately and someone would notice that time had stopped, because he would have his hands in them all night. 

The bed creaked under their bodies, Aziraphale on his back and Crowley sitting between his legs. He snapped his fingers and what remained of his own clothing was tucked away. All of it would be in the dresser by the door in the morning.. “I think it’s like...when people walk out into the sun,” Crowley said, coming up to touch around his knee, to appreciate their dimples before moving back up, sliding on his belly like the serpent that he was, that he still was even after all this time. “They hate how it gets in their eyes...makes them ssssweat...turn red...but who could ever actually hate the sun? How it always glows…”

He gave a peck to each side of his chest, the dip of his neck. When his hand slipped into the folds of Aziraphale’s undergarments, he was pulled down into that body that was as giving as goose feathers. He pecked at his neck. “You’re soft, angel.”

“I know,” he said, and it might have come out dejected if not for the moan of pleasure as he found warm, hard flesh to put his hand on. 

“Don’t ever think poorly of that. Not when it’s something I love about you. One of many things. Things I could very well die for.”

“Let’s...not talk about things like that now, dearest.” Aziraphale guided him into another kiss, and when he waved a hand downward, everything was gone, leaving them both blissfully as naked as they had come into the world (though perhaps looking a bit less humanish). 

“Aw. I like the garters.”

“Really? I can bring them back.”

“No, no.” Crowley squirmed out of his arms and knelt, gazing down at his whole visage there. Without the world turning, the scrutiny of his eyes was a slow drag of a bow across a cello. “This is perfect.”

Aziraphale messily hugged the pillow beside him against his face. Now, he truly did remind him of a cherub. “I’m ready for you, love.”

He returned to lying on top of him, the kiss coming with his sharp teeth for just a second, only enough to make Aziraphale gasp in a way that amused him as much as it aroused. “One day, I’ll have you start to finish. With all the preparations that they like to do with fingers and oil and...other things, maybe…”

“And one day,” Aziraphale echoed, stroking his cheeks, “may I be granted the patience to handle the wait.”

Crowley entered the sanctity of him.

Blissful wet, and tight. Always tight. But didn’t they all love their ideology around virgins, about every touch being like the first touch? Not that Crowley was complaining. Aziraphale’s body always responded like this was a gift, like this was a union. It was never just fucking with Aziraphale. At least not now. Not yet. Maybe that would be a ‘one day’ too, when these moments weren’t years apart. Sometimes centuries.

When momentary indiscretions could be something as commonplace as tea time and duck ponds.

“Crowley...oh, my darling...my...Crowley…”

“Aziraphale…”

They could end it at any time, but they never did. They always left this part of themselves so very mortal at the end, so the natural progression could take over, so they could feel the other unraveling and know it wasn’t because of some magic trick.

Aziraphale was always ruined first. Pretty little thing, like he was starved for it, like it was a sweet treat that he had never had and might never have again. And, admittedly, then he might go back for seconds, as it were, but Crowley never pointed it out. All was the better for him.

When he spilled, it was like rising. And it only lasted a second, only ever a second, even when there were no seconds actually passing, like it was now. When he Fell, it was eternity. When he Rose, it was bobbing for just a moment and then settling back again.

But Aziraphale was always there, ready to hold him, to keep him from grieving.

“Go on,” the angel said now, his hair a mess across the pillows, curling up under the sheets like a cat. “I’m ready.”

“Oh, of course, if his Majesty is ready.” Crowley kissed his nose, closed his eyes, and the snow fell again. The music swelled, and bells began to ring out. Everyone kissed, and they did too, and just like this, so still, Crowley could swear he could actually feel the world turn. 

[feathersandblue]

A compilation of relevant Treasure Island quotes as pertaining to Captain Flint (the real one, not the parrot)

"Look, Jim, how my fingers fidges," he continued in the pleading tone. "I can't keep 'em still, not I. I haven't had a drop this blessed day. That doctor's a fool, I tell you. If I don't have a drain o' rum, Jim, I'll have the horrors; I seen some on 'em already. I seen old Flint in the corner there, behind you; as plain as print, I seen him; and if I get the horrors, I'm a man that has lived rough, and I'll raise Cain. Your doctor hisself said one glass wouldn't hurt me. I'll give you a golden guinea for a noggin, Jim." 

"Ah! Black Dog," says he. "He's a bad un; but there's worse that put him on. Now, if I can't get away nohow, and they tip me the black spot, mind you, it's my old sea-chest they're after; you get on a horse—you can, can't you? Well, then, you get on a horse, and go to—well, yes, I will!—to that eternal doctor swab, and tell him to pipe all hands—magistrates and sich—and he'll lay 'em aboard at the Admiral Benbow—all old Flint's crew, man and boy, all on 'em that's left. I was first mate, I was, old Flint's first mate, and I'm the on'y one as knows the place. He gave it me at Savannah, when he lay a-dying, like as if I was to now, you see. But you won't peach unless they get the black spot on me, or unless you see that Black Dog again or a seafaring man with one leg, Jim—him above all." 

(Capter III, The Black Spot, spoken by the captain, aka Billy Bones)

For—you would have thought men would have been ashamed of themselves—no soul would consent to return with us to the Admiral Benbow. The more we told of our troubles, the more—man, woman, and child—they clung to the shelter of their houses. The name of Captain Flint, though it was strange to me, was well enough known to some there and carried a great weight of terror.

(Capter IV, The Sea-chest, Jim Hawkins)

"One at a time, one at a time," laughed Dr. Livesey. "You have heard of this Flint, I suppose?"

"Heard of him!" cried the squire. "Heard of him, you say! He was the bloodthirstiest buccaneer that sailed. Blackbeard was a child to Flint. The Spaniards were so prodigiously afraid of him that, I tell you, sir, I was sometimes proud he was an Englishman. I've seen his top-sails with these eyes, off Trinidad, and the cowardly son of a rum-puncheon that I sailed with put back—put back, sir, into Port of Spain."

(Chapter VI, The Captain’s Papers)

O, not I," said Silver. "Flint was cap'n; I was quartermaster, along of my timber leg. The same broadside I lost my leg, old Pew lost his deadlights. It was a master surgeon, him that ampytated me—out of college and all—Latin by the bucket, and what not; but he was hanged like a dog, and sun-dried like the rest, at Corso Castle. That was Roberts' men, that was, and comed of changing names to their ships—Royal Fortune and so on. Now, what a ship was christened, so let her stay, I says. So it was with the Cassandra, as brought us all safe home from Malabar, after England took the viceroy of the Indies; so it was with the old Walrus, Flint's old ship, as I've seen amuck with the red blood and fit to sink with gold."

"Ah!" cried another voice, that of the youngest hand on board, and evidently full of admiration. "He was the flower of the flock, was Flint!"

"Davis was a man too, by all accounts," said Silver. "I never sailed along of him; first with England, then with Flint, that's my story; and now here on my own account, in a manner of speaking. I laid by nine hundred safe, from England, and two thousand after Flint. That ain't bad for a man before the mast—all safe in bank. 'Tain't earning now, it's saving does it, you may lay to that. Where's all England's men now? I dunno. Where's Flint's? Why, most on 'em aboard here, and glad to get the duff—been begging before that, some on 'em.

"Gentlemen of fortune," returned the cook, "usually trusts little among themselves, and right they are, you may lay to it. But I have a way with me, I have. When a mate brings a slip on his cable—one as knows me, I mean—it won't be in the same world with old John. There was some that was feared of Pew, and some that was feared of Flint; but Flint his own self was feared of me. Feared he was, and proud. They was the roughest crew afloat, was Flint's; the devil himself would have been feared to go to sea with them. Well now, I tell you, I'm not a boasting man, and you seen yourself how easy I keep company, but when I was quartermaster, lambs wasn't the word for Flint's old buccaneers. Ah, you may be sure of yourself in old John's ship."

"So?" says Silver. "Well, and where are they now? Pew was that sort, and he died a beggar-man. Flint was, and he died of rum at Savannah. Ah, they was a sweet crew, they was! On'y, where are they?"

(Chapter XI, What I Heard in the Apple Barrel)

"Now, I'll tell you what," he went on. "So much I'll tell you, and no more. I were in Flint's ship when he buried the treasure; he and six along—six strong seamen. They was ashore nigh on a week, and us standing off and on in the old Walrus. One fine day up went the signal, and here come Flint by himself in a little boat, and his head done up in a blue scarf. The sun was getting up, and mortal white he looked about the cutwater. But, there he was, you mind, and the six all dead—dead and buried. How he done it, not a man aboard us could make out. It was battle, murder, and sudden death, leastways—him against six. Billy Bones was the mate; Long John, he was quartermaster; and they asked him where the treasure was. 'Ah,' says he, 'you can go ashore, if you like, and stay,' he says; 'but as for the ship, she'll beat up for more, by thunder!' That's what he said.

(Capter XV, The Man of the Island, Ben Gunn)

"That!" he cried. "Why, in a place like this, where nobody puts in but gen'lemen of fortune, Silver would fly the Jolly Roger, you don't make no doubt of that. No, that's your friends. There's been blows too, and I reckon your friends has had the best of it; and here they are ashore in the old stockade, as was made years and years ago by Flint. Ah, he was the man to have a headpiece, was Flint! Barring rum, his match were never seen. He were afraid of none, not he; on'y Silver—Silver was that genteel."

(Capter XIX, The Garrison in the stockade, Ben Gunn)

"Dead—aye, sure enough he's dead and gone below," said the fellow with the bandage; "but if ever sperrit walked, it would be Flint's. Dear heart, but he died bad, did Flint!"

"Aye, that he did," observed another; "now he raged, and now he hollered for the rum, and now he sang. 'Fifteen Men' were his only song, mates; and I tell you true, I never rightly liked to hear it since. It was main hot, and the windy was open, and I hear that old song comin' out as clear as clear—and the death-haul on the man already."

(Chapter XXXI - Tresure hunt: Flint’s pointer, various pirates))

"I don't feel sharp," growled Morgan. "Thinkin' o' Flint—I think it were—as done me."

"Ah, well, my son, you praise your stars he's dead," said Silver.

"He were an ugly devil," cried a third pirate with a shudder; "that blue in the face too!"

"That was how the rum took him," added Merry. "Blue! Well, I reckon he was blue. That's a true word."

"Darby M'Graw," it wailed—for that is the word that best describes the sound—"Darby M'Graw! Darby M'Graw!" again and again and again; and then rising a little higher, and with an oath that I leave out: "Fetch aft the rum, Darby!"

The buccaneers remained rooted to the ground, their eyes starting from their heads. Long after the voice had died away they still stared in silence, dreadfully, before them.

"That fixes it!" gasped one. "Let's go."

"They was his last words," moaned Morgan, "his last words above board."

Dick had his Bible out and was praying volubly. He had been well brought up, had Dick, before he came to sea and fell among bad companions.

Still Silver was unconquered. I could hear his teeth rattle in his head, but he had not yet surrendered.

"Nobody in this here island ever heard of Darby," he muttered; "not one but us that's here." And then, making a great effort: "Shipmates," he cried, "I'm here to get that stuff, and I'll not be beat by man or devil. I never was feared of Flint in his life, and, by the powers, I'll face him dead. There's seven hundred thousand pound not a quarter of a mile from here. When did ever a gentleman o' fortune show his stern to that much dollars for a boozy old seaman with a blue mug—and him dead too?"

(Chapter 32 - The Voice Among the Trees, Long John Silver and various pirates)

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“Hook Or Me This Time”

Odd things happen to all of us on our way through life without our noticing for a time that they have happened. Thus, to take an instance, we suddenly discover that we have been deaf in one ear for we don't know how long, but, say, half an hour. Now such an experience had come that night to Peter. When last we saw him he was stealing across the island with one finger to his lips and his dagger at the ready. He had seen the crocodile pass by without noticing anything peculiar about it, but by and by he remembered that it had not been ticking. At first he thought this eerie, but soon concluded rightly that the clock had run down.

 Without giving a thought to what might be the feelings of a fellow-creature thus abruptly deprived of its closest companion, Peter began to consider how he could turn the catastrophe to his own use; and he decided to tick, so that wild beasts should believe he was the crocodile and let him pass unmolested. He ticked superbly, but with one unforeseen result. The crocodile was among those who heard the sound, and it followed him, though whether with the purpose of regaining what it had lost, or merely as a friend under the belief that it was again ticking itself, will never be certainly known, for, like slaves to a fixed idea, it was a stupid beast.

 Peter reached the shore without mishap, and went straight on, his legs encountering the water as if quite unaware that they had entered a new element. Thus many animals pass from land to water, but no other human of whom I know. As he swam he had but one thought: "Hook or me this time." He had ticked so long that he now went on ticking without knowing that he was doing it. Had he known he would have stopped, for to board the brig by help of the tick, though an ingenious idea, had not occurred to him.

 On the contrary, he thought he had scaled her side as noiseless as a mouse; and he was amazed to see the pirates cowering from him, with Hook in their midst as abject as if he had heard the crocodile.

 The crocodile! No sooner did Peter remember it than he heard the ticking. At first he thought the sound did come from the crocodile, and he looked behind him swiftly. They he realised that he was doing it himself, and in a flash he understood the situation. "How clever of me!" he thought at once, and signed to the boys not to burst into applause.

 It was at this moment that Ed Teynte the quartermaster emerged from the forecastle and came along the deck. Now, reader, time what happened by your watch. Peter struck true and deep. John clapped his hands on the ill-fated pirate's mouth to stifle the dying groan. He fell forward. Four boys caught him to prevent the thud. Peter gave the signal, and the carrion was cast overboard. There was a splash, and then silence. How long has it taken?

 "One!" (Slightly had begun to count.)

 None too soon, Peter, every inch of him on tiptoe, vanished into the cabin; for more than one pirate was screwing up his courage to look round. They could hear each other's distressed breathing now, which showed them that the more terrible sound had passed.

 "It's gone, captain," Smee said, wiping off his spectacles. "All's still again."

 Slowly Hook let his head emerge from his ruff, and listened so intently that he could have caught the echo of the tick. There was not a sound, and he drew himself up firmly to his full height.

 "Then here's to Johnny Plank!" he cried brazenly, hating the boys more than ever because they had seen him unbend. He broke into the villainous ditty:

"Yo ho, yo ho, the frisky plank, You walks along it so, Till it goes down and you goes down To Davy Jones below!"

 To terrorize the prisoners the more, though with a certain loss of dignity, he danced along an imaginary plank, grimacing at them as he sang; and when he finished he cried, "Do you want a touch of the cat [`o nine tails] before you walk the plank?"

 At that they fell on their knees. "No, no!" they cried so piteously that every pirate smiled.

 "Fetch the cat, Jukes," said Hook; "it's in the cabin."

 The cabin! Peter was in the cabin! The children gazed at each other.

 "Ay, ay," said Jukes blithely, and he strode into the cabin. They followed him with their eyes; they scarce knew that Hook had resumed his song, his dogs joining in with him:

"Yo ho, yo ho, the scratching cat, Its tails are nine, you know, And when they're writ upon your back -- "

 What was the last line will never be known, for of a sudden the song was stayed by a dreadful screech from the cabin. It wailed through the ship, and died away. Then was heard a crowing sound which was well understood by the boys, but to the pirates was almost more eerie than the screech.

 "What was that?" cried Hook.

 "Two," said Slightly solemnly.

 The Italian Cecco hesitated for a moment and then swung into the cabin. He tottered out, haggard.

 "What's the matter with Bill Jukes, you dog?" hissed Hook, towering over him.

 "The matter wi' him is he's dead, stabbed," replied Cecco in a hollow voice.

 "Bill Jukes dead!" cried the startled pirates.

 "The cabin's as black as a pit," Cecco said, almost gibbering, "but there is something terrible in there: the thing you heard crowing."

 The exultation of the boys, the lowering looks of the pirates, both were seen by Hook.

 "Cecco," he said in his most steely voice, "go back and fetch me out that doodle-doo."

 Cecco, bravest of the brave, cowered before his captain, crying "No, no"; but Hook was purring to his claw.

 "Did you say you would go, Cecco?" he said musingly.

 Cecco went, first flinging his arms despairingly. There was no more singing, all listened now; and again came a death-screech and again a crow.

 No one spoke except Slightly. "Three," he said.

 Hook rallied his dogs with a gesture. "'S'death and odds fish," he thundered, "who is to bring me that doodle-doo?"

 "Wait till Cecco comes out," growled Starkey, and the others took up the cry.

 "I think I heard you volunteer, Starkey," said Hook, purring again.

 "No, by thunder!" Starkey cried.

 "My hook thinks you did," said Hook, crossing to him. "I wonder if it would not be advisable, Starkey, to humour the hook?"

 "I'll swing before I go in there," replied Starkey doggedly, and again he had the support of the crew.

 "Is this mutiny?" asked Hook more pleasantly than ever. "Starkey's ringleader!"

 "Captain, mercy!" Starkey whimpered, all of a tremble now.

 "Shake hands, Starkey," said Hook, proffering his claw.

 Starkey looked round for help, but all deserted him. As he backed up Hook advanced, and now the red spark was in his eye. With a despairing scream the pirate leapt upon Long Tom and precipitated himself into the sea.

 "Four," said Slightly.

 "And now," Hook said courteously, "did any other gentlemen say mutiny?" Seizing a lantern and raising his claw with a menacing gesture, "I'll bring out that doodle-doo myself," he said, and sped into the cabin.

 "Five." How Slightly longed to say it. He wetted his lips to be ready, but Hook came staggering out, without his lantern.

 "Something blew out the light," he said a little unsteadily.

 "Something!" echoed Mullins.

 "What of Cecco?" demanded Noodler.

 "He's as dead as Jukes," said Hook shortly.

 His reluctance to return to the cabin impressed them all unfavourably, and the mutinous sounds again broke forth. All pirates are superstitious, and Cookson cried, "They do say the surest sign a ship's accurst is when there's one on board more than can be accounted for."

 "I've heard," muttered Mullins, "he always boards the pirate craft last. Had he a tail, captain?"

 "They say," said another, looking viciously at Hook, "that when he comes it's in the likeness of the wickedest man aboard."

 "Had he a hook, captain?" asked Cookson insolently; and one after another took up the cry, "The ship's doomed!" At this the children could not resist raising a cheer. Hook had well-nigh forgotten his prisoners, but as he swung round on them now his face lit up again.

 "Lads," he cried to his crew, "now here's a notion. Open the cabin door and drive them in. Let them fight the doodle-doo for their lives. If they kill him, we're so much the better; if he kills them, we're none the worse."

 For the last time his dogs admired Hook, and devotedly they did his bidding. The boys, pretending to struggle, were pushed into the cabin and the door was closed on them.

 "Now, listen!" cried Hook, and all listened. But not one dared to face the door. Yes, one, Wendy, who all this time had been bound to the mast. It was for neither a scream nor a crow that she was watching, it was for the reappearance of Peter.

 She had not long to wait. In the cabin he had found the thing for which he had gone in search: the key the would free the children of their manacles, and now they all stole forth, armed with such weapons as they could find. First signing them to hide, Peter cut Wendy's bonds, and then nothing could have been easier than for them all to fly off together; but one thing barred the way, an oath, "Hook or me this time." So when he had freed Wendy, he whispered for her to conceal herself with the others, and himself took her place by the mast, her cloak around him so that he should pass for her. Then he took a great breath and crowed.

 To the pirates it was a voice crying that all the boys lay slain in the cabin; and they were panic-stricken. Hook tried to hearten them; but like the dogs he had made them they showed him their fangs, and he knew that if he took his eyes off them now they would leap at him.

 "Lads," he said, ready to cajole or strike as need be, but never quailing for an instant, "I've thought it out. There's a Jonah aboard."

 "Ay," they snarled, "a man wi' a hook."

 "No, lads, no, it's the girl. Never was luck on a pirate ship wi' a woman on board. We'll right the ship when she's gone."

 Some of them remembered that this had been a saying of Flint's. "It's worth trying," they said doubtfully.

 "Fling the girl overboard," cried Hook; and they made a rush at the figure in the cloak.

 "There's none can save you now, missy," Mullins hissed jeeringly.

 "There's one," replied the figure.

 "Who's that?"

 "Peter Pan the avenger!" came the terrible answer; and as he spoke Peter flung off his cloak. Then they all knew who 'twas that had been undoing them in the cabin, and twice Hook essayed to speak and twice he failed. In that frightful moment I think his fierce heart broke.

 At last he cried, "Cleave him to the brisket!" but without conviction.

 "Down, boys, and at them!" Peter's voice rang out; and in another moment the clash of arms was resounding through the ship. Had the pirates kept together it is certain that they would have won; but the onset came when they were still unstrung, and they ran hither and thither, striking wildly, each thinking himself the last survivor of the crew. Man to man they were the stronger; but they fought on the defensive only, which enabled the boys to hunt in pairs and choose their quarry. Some of the miscreants leapt into the sea; others hid in dark recesses, where they were found by Slightly, who did not fight, but ran about with a lantern which he flashed in their faces, so that they were half blinded and fell as an easy prey to the reeking swords of the other boys. There was little sound to be heard but the clang of weapons, an occasional screech or splash, and Slightly monotonously counting -- five -- six -- seven -- eight -- nine -- ten -- eleven.

 I think all were gone when a group of savage boys surrounded Hook, who seemed to have a charmed life, as he kept them at bay in that circle of fire. They had done for his dogs, but this man alone seemed to be a match for them all. Again and again they closed upon him, and again and again he hewed a clear space. He had lifted up one boy with his hook, and was using him as a buckler [shield], when another, who had just passed his sword through Mullins, sprang into the fray.

 "Put up your swords, boys," cried the newcomer, "this man is mine."

 Thus suddenly Hook found himself face to face with Peter. The others drew back and formed a ring around them.

 For long the two enemies looked at one another, Hook shuddering slightly, and Peter with the strange smile upon his face.

 "So, Pan," said Hook at last, "this is all your doing."

 "Ay, James Hook," came the stern answer, "it is all my doing."

 "Proud and insolent youth," said Hook, "prepare to meet thy doom."

 "Dark and sinister man," Peter answered, "have at thee."

 Without more words they fell to, and for a space there was no advantage to either blade. Peter was a superb swordsman, and parried with dazzling rapidity; ever and anon he followed up a feint with a lunge that got past his foe's defence, but his shorter reach stood him in ill stead, and he could not drive the steel home. Hook, scarcely his inferior in brilliancy, but not quite so nimble in wrist play, forced him back by the weight of his onset, hoping suddenly to end all with a favourite thrust, taught him long ago by Barbecue at Rio; but to his astonishment he found this thrust turned aside again and again. Then he sought to close and give the quietus with his iron hook, which all this time had been pawing the air; but Peter doubled under it and, lunging fiercely, pierced him in the ribs. At the sight of his own blood, whose peculiar colour, you remember, was offensive to him, the sword fell from Hook's hand, and he was at Peter's mercy.

 "Now!" cried all the boys, but with a magnificent gesture Peter invited his opponent to pick up his sword. Hook did so instantly, but with a tragic feeling that Peter was showing good form.

 Hitherto he had thought it was some fiend fighting him, but darker suspicions assailed him now.

 "Pan, who and what art thou?" he cried huskily.

 "I'm youth, I'm joy," Peter answered at a venture, "I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg."

 This, of course, was nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy Hook that Peter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the very pinnacle of good form.

 "To't again," he cried despairingly.

 He fought now like a human flail, and every sweep of that terrible sword would have severed in twain any man or boy who obstructed it; but Peter fluttered round him as if the very wind it made blew him out of the danger zone. And again and again he darted in and pricked.

 Hook was fighting now without hope. That passionate breast no longer asked for life; but for one boon it craved: to see Peter show bad form before it was cold forever.

 Abandoning the fight he rushed into the powder magazine and fired it.

 "In two minutes," he cried, "the ship will be blown to pieces."

 Now, now, he thought, true form will show.

 But Peter issued from the powder magazine with the shell in his hands, and calmly flung it overboard.

 What sort of form was Hook himself showing? Misguided man though he was, we may be glad, without sympathising with him, that in the end he was true to the traditions of his race. The other boys were flying around him now, flouting, scornful; and he staggered about the deck striking up at them impotently, his mind was no longer with them; it was slouching in the playing fields of long ago, or being sent up [to the headmaster] for good, or watching the wall-game from a famous wall. And his shoes were right, and his waistcoat was right, and his tie was right, and his socks were right.

 James Hook, thou not wholly unheroic figure, farewell.

 For we have come to his last moment.

 Seeing Peter slowly advancing upon him through the air with dagger poised, he sprang upon the bulwarks to cast himself into the sea. He did not know that the crocodile was waiting for him; for we purposely stopped the clock that this knowledge might be spared him: a little mark of respect from us at the end.

 He had one last triumph, which I think we need not grudge him. As he stood on the bulwark looking over his shoulder at Peter gliding through the air, he invited him with a gesture to use his foot. It made Peter kick instead of stab.

 At last Hook had got the boon for which he craved.

 "Bad form," he cried jeeringly, and went content to the crocodile.

 Thus perished James Hook.

 "Seventeen," Slightly sang out; but he was not quite correct in his figures. Fifteen paid the penalty for their crimes that night; but two reached the shore: Starkey to be captured by the redskins, who made him nurse for all their papooses, a melancholy come-down for a pirate; and Smee, who henceforth wandered about the world in his spectacles, making a precarious living by saying he was the only man that Jas. Hook had feared.

 Wendy, of course, had stood by taking no part in the fight, though watching Peter with glistening eyes; but now that all was over she became prominent again. She praised them equally, and shuddered delightfully when Michael showed her the place where he had killed one; and then she took them into Hook's cabin and pointed to his watch which was hanging on a nail. It said "half- past one!"

 The lateness of the hour was almost the biggest thing of all. She got them to bed in the pirates' bunks pretty quickly, you may be sure; all but Peter, who strutted up and down on the deck, until at last he fell asleep by the side of Long Tom. He had one of his dreams that night, and cried in his sleep for a long time, and Wendy held him tightly.

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THERE never was such an overturn in this world. Each of these six men was as though he had been struck. But with Silver the blow passed almost instantly. Every thought of his soul had been set full-stretch, like a racer, on that money; well, he was brought up, in a single second, dead; and he kept his head, found his temper, and changed his plan before the others had had time to realize the disappointment. "Jim," he whispered, "take that, and stand by for trouble." And he passed me a double-barrelled pistol. At the same time, he began quietly moving northward, and in a few steps had put the hollow between us two and the other five. Then he looked at me and nodded, as much as to say, "Here is a narrow corner," as, indeed, I thought it was. His looks were not quite friendly, and I was so revolted at these constant changes that I could not forbear whispering, "So you've changed sides again." There was no time left for him to answer in. The buccaneers, with oaths and cries, began to leap, one after another, into the pit and to dig with their fingers, throwing the boards aside as they did so. Morgan found a piece of gold. He held it up with a perfect spout of oaths. It was a two-guinea piece, and it went from hand to hand among them for a quarter of a minute. "Two guineas!" roared Merry, shaking it at Silver. "That's your seven hundred thousand pounds, is it? You're the man for bargains, ain't you? You're him that never bungled nothing, you wooden-headed lubber!" "Dig away, boys," said Silver with the coolest insolence; "you'll find some pig-nuts and I shouldn't wonder." "Pig-nuts!" repeated Merry, in a scream. "Mates, do you hear that? I tell you now, that man there knew it all along. Look in the face of him and you'll see it wrote there." "Ah, Merry," remarked Silver, "standing for cap'n again? You're a pushing lad, to be sure." But this time everyone was entirely in Merry's favour. They began to scramble out of the excavation, darting furious glances behind them. One thing I observed, which looked well for us: they all got out upon the opposite side from Silver. Well, there we stood, two on one side, five on the other, the pit between us, and nobody screwed up high enough to offer the first blow. Silver never moved; he watched them, very upright on his crutch, and looked as cool as ever I saw him. He was brave, and no mistake. At last Merry seemed to think a speech might help matters. "Mates," says he, "there's two of them alone there; one's the old cripple that brought us all here and blundered us down to this; the other's that cub that I mean to have the heart of. Now, mates - " He was raising his arm and his voice, and plainly meant to lead a charge. But just then - crack! crack! crack!-three musket-shots flashed out of the thicket. Merry tumbled head foremost into the excavation; the man with the bandage spun round like a teetotum and fell all his length upon his side, where he lay dead, but still twitching; and the other three turned and ran for it with all their might. Before you could wink, Long John had fired two barrels of a pistol into the struggling Merry, and as the man rolled up his eyes at him in the last agony, "George," said he, "I reckon I settled you." At the same moment, the doctor, Gray, and Ben Gunn joined us, with smoking muskets, from among the nutmeg-trees. "Forward!" cried the doctor. "Double quick, my lads. We must head 'em off the boats." And we set off at a great pace, sometimes plunging through the bushes to the chest. I tell you, but Silver was anxious to keep up with us. The work that man went through, leaping on his crutch till the muscles of his chest were fit to burst, was work no sound man ever equalled; and so thinks the doctor. As it was, he was already thirty yards behind us and on the verge of strangling when we reached the brow of the slope. "Doctor," he hailed, "see there! No hurry!" Sure enough there was no hurry. In a more open part of the plateau, we could see the three survivors still running in the same direction as they had started, right for Mizzenmast Hill. We were already between them and the boats; and so we four sat down to breathe, while Long John, mopping his face, came slowly up with us. "Thank ye kindly, doctor," says he. "You came in in about the nick, I guess, for me and Hawkins. And so it's you, Ben Gunn!" he added. "Well, you're a nice one, to be sure." "I'm Ben Gunn, I am," replied the maroon, wriggling like an eel in his embarrassment. "And," he added, after a long pause, "how do, Mr. Silver? Pretty well, I thank ye, says you." "Ben, Ben," murmured Silver, "to think as you've done me!" The doctor sent back Gray for one of the pick-axes deserted, in their flight, by the mutineers, and then as we proceeded leisurely downhill to where the boats were lying, related in a few words what had taken place. It was a story that profoundly interested Silver; and Ben Gunn, the half-idiot maroon, was the hero from beginning to end. Ben, in his long, lonely wanderings about the island, had found the skeleton - it was he that had rifled it; he had found the treasure; he had dug it up (it was the haft of his pick-axe that lay broken in the excavation); he had carried it on his back, in many weary journeys, from the foot of the tall pine to a cave he had on the two-pointed hill at the north-east angle of the island, and there it had lain stored in safety since two months before the arrival of the HISPANIOLA. When the doctor had wormed this secret from him on the afternoon of the attack, and when next morning he saw the anchorage deserted, he had gone to Silver, given him the chart, which was now useless - given him the stores, for Ben Gunn's cave was well supplied with goats' meat salted by himself - given anything and everything to get a chance of moving in safety from the stockade to the two-pointed hill, there to be clear of malaria and keep a guard upon the money. "As for you, Jim," he said, "it went against my heart, but I did what I thought best for those who had stood by their duty; and if you were not one of these, whose fault was it?" That morning, finding that I was to be involved in the horrid disappointment he had prepared for the mutineers, he had run all the way to the cave, and leaving the squire to guard the captain, had taken Gray and the maroon and started, making the diagonal across the island to be at hand beside the pine. Soon, however, he saw that our party had the start of him; and Ben Gunn, being fleet of foot, had been dispatched in front to do his best alone. Then it had occurred to him to work upon the superstitions of his former shipmates, and he was so far successful that Gray and the doctor had come up and were already ambushed before the arrival of the treasure-hunters. "Ah," said Silver, "it were fortunate for me that I had Hawkins here. You would have let old John be cut to bits, and never given it a thought, doctor." "Not a thought," replied Dr. Livesey cheerily. And by this time we had reached the gigs. The doctor, with the pick-axe, demolished one of them, and then we all got aboard the other and set out to go round by sea for North Inlet. This was a run of eight or nine miles. Silver, though he was almost killed already with fatigue, was set to an oar, like the rest of us, and we were soon skimming swiftly over a smooth sea. Soon we passed out of the straits and doubled the south-east corner of the island, round which, four days ago, we had towed the HISPANIOLA. As we passed the two-pointed hill, we could see the black mouth of Ben Gunn's cave and a figure standing by it, leaning on a musket. It was the squire, and we waved a handkerchief and gave him three cheers, in which the voice of Silver joined as heartily as any. Three miles farther, just inside the mouth of North Inlet, what should we meet but the HISPANIOLA, cruising by herself? The last flood had lifted her, and had there been much wind or a strong tide current, as in the southern anchorage, we should never have found her more, or found her stranded beyond help. As it was, there was little amiss beyond the wreck of the main-sail. Another anchor was got ready and dropped in a fathom and a half of water. We all pulled round again to Rum Cove, the nearest point for Ben Gunn's treasure-house; and then Gray, single-handed, returned with the gig to the HISPANIOLA, where he was to pass the night on guard. A gentle slope ran up from the beach to the entrance of the cave. At the top, the squire met us. To me he was cordial and kind, saying nothing of my escapade either in the way of blame or praise. At Silver's polite salute he somewhat flushed. "John Silver," he said, "you're a prodigious villain and imposter - a monstrous imposter, sir. I am told I am not to prosecute you. Well, then, I will not. But the dead men, sir, hang about your neck like mill-stones." "Thank you kindly, sir," replied Long John, again saluting. "I dare you to thank me!" cried the squire. "It is a gross dereliction of my duty. Stand back." And thereupon we all entered the cave. It was a large, airy place, with a little spring and a pool of clear water, overhung with ferns. The floor was sand. Before a big fire lay Captain Smollett; and in a far corner, only duskily flickered over by the blaze, I beheld great heaps of coin and quadrilaterals built of bars of gold. That was Flint's treasure that we had come so far to seek and that had cost already the lives of seventeen men from the HISPANIOLA. How many it had cost in the amassing, what blood and sorrow, what good ships scuttled on the deep, what brave men walking the plank blindfold, what shot of cannon, what shame and lies and cruelty, perhaps no man alive could tell. Yet there were still three upon that island - Silver, and old Morgan, and Ben Gunn - who had each taken his share in these crimes, as each had hoped in vain to share in the reward. "Come in, Jim," said the captain. "You're a good boy in your line, Jim, but I don't think you and me'll go to sea again. You're too much of the born favourite for me. Is that you, John Silver? What brings you here, man?" "Come back to my dooty, sir," returned Silver. "Ah!" said the captain, and that was all he said. What a supper I had of it that night, with all my friends around me; and what a meal it was, with Ben Gunn's salted goat and some delicacies and a bottle of old wine from the HISPANIOLA. Never, I am sure, were people gayer or happier. And there was Silver, sitting back almost out of the firelight, but eating heartily, prompt to spring forward when anything was wanted, even joining quietly in our laughter - the same bland, polite, obsequious seaman of the voyage out.