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Fever clung to him, sending chills through his body in spite of the Caribbean heat. The fever would not be so bad if not for the pain that followed. Dr. Howell came to him then, insisting he take a dosage of laudanum. Silver wanted to refuse, would have refused—his need for self-preservation rejecting drugs that could potentially diminish his agency—but a stern glare from Flint made him reconsider. The opiate already beginning to swirl through his senses, Silver allowed sleep to take him.
It wasn't dreams but nightmares that plagued him. Again and again, he felt utterly helpless as he watched the axe swing down, making a ruin of his leg. Each time Silver woke, convulsing wildly as he tried to reach for his leg—now gone, with only a too-fresh wound on a tender stump remaining.
As with the first time he'd woken, Flint was there. Unlike that first time, there was no warmth on his face, and rarely did he approach Silver except to grunt a question if he needed anything. There were brief moments when Silver thought he saw worry in those grey-green eyes, but it was swiftly replaced with coolness.
Something uncomfortably like remorse gnawed at Silver. It had been like this since he'd told Flint what had happened to the Urca treasure, that Jack’s crew had by now in all likelihood retrieved it. He replayed the conversation over in his mind, wondering not for the first time if Flint suspected the true nature of his role in that scheme. At the time when he'd handed the information to Max, he had felt Flint had betrayed him, using Silver to further his own gains when he had no longer had any intent to retrieve the gold. And though Silver had crossed people in the past, there was something distinctly uncomfortable being on the other side of betrayal.
Even more troublesome was the idea that Flint’s opinion of him mattered. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to yearn for it, these past few weeks. When Silver had first woken after losing his leg, and seen the softness in Flint’s expression, something within him had lurched, wanting to close that bit of distance between them. And then he had ruined it by speaking about the gold.
Or Flint’s behavior could be the result of what had happened at Charles Town. Silver had pieced together some of the information, knew that Miranda Barlow had been killed and that Flint and Vane had left the town in ruin. He could only imagine how that loss was affecting Flint, and that could very well be the reason for his distance now. In spite of the dangers it presented, Silver found himself wanting to repair what damage he could. He was keenly aware that if they were to work together, they would need to be on speaking terms once more.
(And how strange it was, even through the fever and pain and lingering haze of opiates, that Silver had already accepted the reality of his role as quartermaster. The knowledge that the crew had chosen him, that they needed him, had affected him more than he cared to admit)
“Can I ask what you would have done with it?” Silver asked, his voice piercing the tense silence of the Man-of-war’s cabin. “The gold. You must have had some sort of higher plan—somehow I don't think it was simply a hunger for riches.”
Flint looked up from his desk, his body gone rigid. Again, Silver wondered how much he knew, or suspected. Silver’s pulse seemed to pound against his temples, and he felt a shortness of breath as a spasm of pain shot up his leg. Then, the tension in the air seemed to ease slightly. Flint turned in his chair to face Silver better.
“What makes you so certain there was some grand design in it all? Everyone else has been happy to attribute my aims to simple greed.”
Briefly, Silver was reminded of another occasion when he sat across from Flint in this very cabin. “I know you well enough to know you would not undertake such a risky venture, with the chance of bringing on the wrath of Spain or England, if you did not have some sort of loftier goal in mind. And I know you do not want the world to view you as a villain.”
Flint frowned, and Silver admonished himself internally. Now was not the time to remind Flint that a great many people now viewed him as a villain.
“My goal was the same I set out to achieve in Charles Town,” Flint said at last. “Legitimacy for Nassau, a chance for the pirates to prosper through craft or trade. A way for its people to not live in fear.”
For Silver, who until very recently had only set goals that would further his own aims, the idea of aspiring to something so...philanthropic, was foreign to him. He took a moment to smooth the wrinkles in the coverlet on his lap. Just looking at the way the blanket dipped where the rest of his leg should have been made anxiety clench in the pit of his stomach. “How was the gold going to achieve that?”
“I would have used it as leverage against Spain or England, for Nassau to be brought back into the fold of civilization. But that was before…”
Flint trailed off, that haunted look returning to his eyes. And anger too, simmering beneath the surface. Silver had been on the surgeon’s table when Flint had given the order to destroy Charles Town, but he could see now the echo of that rage in his bearing. “...that was before they shot her before my very eyes. Civilization has shown its true face to me, and I no longer want any part in it. I would sooner have Nassau be independant from any king. That would require the gold as well, however, and it is long out of my reach.”
Flint’s gaze seemed to pierce him, and Silver wondered if there was scrutiny in those eyes. Guilt was not a feeling with which he was personally familiar. So often in the past, when he first felt the inklings of regret, he would shake it off and continue as he always had. Guilt is natural, he’d told Eleanor Guthrie some time ago. It also goes away, if you let it. And yet, he could not seem to let this guilt go away. Not if he wished to remain a part of this crew. Not if he wished to regain any of the regard Captain Flint might have once held for him. The only course open to him, then, was to attempt to repair the damage caused by his actions. His mind turned over possibilities as he finally grasped what Flint had hoped to achieve. “Not necessarily,” he said.
* * *
The proposal had seemed simple enough in Silver’s mind. Vane would be all to happy to tell England and Spain to go fuck themselves, and the idea of being part of something so momentous would appeal to Jack. Tell the truth of what you want to achieve for Nassau to Captain Vane and Captain Jack, and see if common ground can be found. He didn’t add “What do you have to lose?”—all too aware of what Flint had recently lost. But the sentiment was there. The gold was already out of Flint’s hands, so there was no harm in laying out his intentions before Vane and Jack, in the hopes of possibly achieving something. And by helping mediate, Silver hoped he could atone for his own part.
Of course, that was before Silver had witnessed Flint’s complete inability to maintain composure during a parley between captains. They were meeting in the office once held by Eleanor Guthrie, the very room where Silver had been handcuffed for several days. His leg was throbbing in pain. The wound was only barely healed over, far too early to attempt wearing a boot, which meant Silver had insisted on being the first into the room so no one would see him struggling on crutches. He’d turned down anything to help manage the pain—he needed his wits about him to get through this, particularly with a captain as bullheaded as Flint.
Flint, who still found it difficult to accept that the gold was no longer within his grasp. Flint who potentially harbored suspicions about his quartermaster, but had likely ascertained that he could do nothing about those suspicions without drawing the ire of his crew. Flint, who had decided to take his hostility out on the man who now had possession of the gold.
In Silver’s current state, he could hardly step between Flint and Jack. He could only pointedly glare daggers at the man every time Flint’s jaw clenched and it seemed he might lose his composure. Except, of course, that Flint was not currently inclined to listen to his quartermaster’s unspoken advice to behave. When that composure snapped, it was a surprise to everyone when Vane stepped to Jack’s defense.
“What’s to stop me from going back to the Man-of-war and finishing the job I started when you held the fort?” Flint snapped. “This entire venture depends on that gold, and you’d trust him with it?”
“And you would leave the fort even more damaged, when it’s just as necessary for the gold’s protection?” Vane asked. “Jack can manage the gold as well as any of us can. I trust him.”
The effect of these words was noticeable on Jack, who seemed to preen under the praise.
“Besides,” Silver interjected. “I think it was agreed that in order to protect Nassau’s freedom, we should divide our assets where they will be strongest. With your military knowledge, Captain, that strength is in leading the pirate fleet.”
His own words sounded far away to his ears, as if he heard them from deep underwater. His head was swimming, pain making him feel delirious. His greatest asset to him had always been his adaptability and his quick tongue, and now it felt like that, too, was slipping from his grasp. Silver drew a sharp breath, suddenly lightheaded in the stifling room.
Jack’s quartermaster, Featherstone, was speaking, his words piercing through the fog. “...really ought to have Vane’s quartermaster here as well, for it to be a proper parley.”
“He perished when my crew retook the ship,” Flint said.
“Actually,” Silver said, letting out a mirthless laugh, “he perished when my brothers recovered me from his hands, after he hacked my leg to pieces.”
Everyone in the room fell silent at this revelation. Flint’s face looked stricken, his eyes wide. There was concern there, true concern, and for some inexplicable reason this struck Silver as profoundly amusing. He let out another laugh.
“Jesus,” Flint said, reaching forward to place a hand on Silver’s forehead. “He needs water. Can we continue this discussion later?”
“As long as we can keep it civil,” Vane said.
“After what your man did, don't talk to me about civility,” Flint spat.
“If he betrayed my orders then he was no longer my man.”
“Gentlemen—” Jack attempted to intervene.
“Well if you hadn't brought him onto my ship in the first place—”
Even through the haze of nausea and dizziness Silver could feel everything beginning to slip away. This slim chance of achieving Flint’s goal for Nassau. His chance to atone for his role in ruining that dream in the first place.
Silver’s hand shot up, clinging to Flint’s wrist. Flint’s eyes met his, wild and somehow greener in their ferocity. Silver said nothing, just breathed through clenched teeth and flared nostrils. Whatever nonverbal ability to sway Flint he'd lacked before, that was clearly no longer the case. Flint’s eyes lost their heat, his gaze falling to the floor.
“Some water, please,” Flint said, his tone calmer. “And an hour’s time. I give you my word we can discuss matters then for the good of Nassau’s future.”
Silver’s vision swam, awareness ebbing at him like waves. When he came back to himself, Flint was the only one left in the room. He poured water into a copper mug and raised it to Silver’s lips. Silver drank gratefully, bringing his hands up to cup the mug. They brushed Flint’s fingers, and even that brief contact made something within Silver’s chest stutter.
“I’m sorry,” Flint said. “When you...said you had suffered a misfortune at the hands of Vane’s lieutenant, I incorrectly judged the gravity of that misfortune. I was...too occupied with what had occurred in Charles Town.”
“Did you not wonder at the crew’s eagerness to name me quartermaster?” Silver asked.
“I attributed it to the power of your storytelling, coupled with the crew telling of your attempt to sabotage Vane’s escape from the bay,” Flint said. He seemed...genuinely contrite, as though he blamed himself for not having the full knowledge of how events had transpired. “Please...what happened?”
Silver looked down at his lap. His left trouser leg had been folded and pinned up to prevent it from dragging, which kept the actual stump out of his sight. He could feel it though, the ache of healing flesh, the phantom awareness of where the rest of his leg ought to be. He closed his eyes, and the swing of the axe flashed in his memory.
“Vane’s quartermaster planned to abandon him. He was angry that Vane had gone to rescue you, and wanted to quit the bay as soon as possible, but he didn’t have enough of his own men remaining to man the ship.”
Silver paused, taking a steady breath. Flint didn’t prompt him to continue, but simply sat there patiently. “They selected me from the crew,” Silver said. “Offered me safe passage back to Nassau if I would name ten men willing to help man the ship. The rest would be put to death. When I refused…”
In his mind’s eye, the axe swung, shattering bone. Silver took a shuddering breath. He felt a hand touch his, and opened his eyes to find Flint looking at him, brows knit with anguish. “I had no idea,” Flint said. “That must have taken extraordinary strength, to refuse him.”
“There was no bravery in it,” Silver said, bitterness creeping into his tone. “There was no ultimatum, my leg for giving up the ten names. He just enjoyed the violence of it. My leg was past repair with his first blow of his axe. And there were many.”
“This from a man who once claimed torture wouldn’t work on him because he would say anything to make the pain stop,” Flint said. “Yet you didn’t give up any of your crew. That takes strength, to remain defiant even when the damage is irreversible. Don’t sell yourself short.”
Silver took another shuddering breath, a sob threatening to escape. “Can you blame me if I do so?” he asked, gesturing down at himself.
Why did it matter so much to Flint? Why was he so perturbed at the idea that Silver might regard himself poorly? He had no reason to care. Silver had been nothing but a thorn in his side for weeks. A reluctant ally at best and a traitor to him at worst. A cumbersome quartermaster who wasn’t even able to pull his own weight on the ship. Why care about him?
“I know a thing or two of blaming oneself,” Flint said, his voice somber. “So I will not pretend that such feelings are so easily spoken away. But know that I value your presence among the crew. I value your presence here. I—I would that the circumstances had been different, but I am glad to call you my quartermaster.”
Silver blinked at him with wide eyes, unable to form a proper response to that. Something stirred in his chest, and he was acutely aware of their proximity. Flint’s hand still touched his, and Silver was seized by the sudden urge to raise that hand to his lips, to kiss those fingers, to confess in full his role in the gold’s disappearance and beg Flint’s forgiveness.
Such thoughts were dangerous, Silver told himself. He had no idea how such a gesture would be received, and furthermore divulging the truth of the gold could damage whatever this...thing was, that was forming between them. There was no sense in taking such a risk, especially when the danger to himself was so great. Silver gently extricated his hand, reaching for the copper mug again to take another drink of water.
“Thank you,” he allowed himself to murmur.
His head was clearer for having had the water, and after several minutes more the throbbing pain in his leg faded to a dull ache. At Silver’s insistence, the other captains were invited to return. True to his word, Flint was much more composed during this portion of the negotiations, shooting concerned glances at Silver every few minutes to see how he fared. By the time the setting sun was beginning to cast long shadows through the window, it seemed the captains might reach an agreement.
“Perhaps we could continue this tomorrow, gentlemen,” Jack said. “And discuss then how best to unite the island behind our plan.”
Toasts were made, glasses raised, and the meeting was ended. Silver remained seated as everyone filed out of the room, staring at the crutches where they leaned against his chair.
“Would you like some help?” Flint asked.
“I wouldn’t,” Silver said. He knew how strenuous the short distance from here to the jetty would be, but he wouldn’t be seen being carried or supported. “Go on without me, I’ll be along in a short time.”
Flint frowned, and for a moment it seemed he might press the matter. His brows furrowed, but fortunately Silver could detect no pity in his eyes. Finally, Flint gave a sigh and nodded his understanding. “I’ll have a boat prepared to take you back to the ship when you’re ready.”
Flint left, and Silver took a deep breath, steeling himself for the moment he would have to rise from the chair. The door to the room opened, and it was Max who entered.
“Ah,” Silver said. “I should have known you would be the new owner of this establishment.”
“Jack told me what happened to you,” Max said, her tone soft. “It can be difficult after such an ordeal, proving yourself not only to them, but for your own sake.” It wasn’t sympathy in her eyes, but something closer to empathy, and Silver recalled what she had survived. He nodded, both an acknowledgment that he understood and appreciated the gesture.
“Your share of the gold,” Max said. “I have it portioned already, whenever you would like it.”
With all that had happened, Silver had almost forgotten that his entire reason for giving over the information was so that he would have a greater share at the end of it. What he had wanted since this whole unfortunate business began. The entire reason he’d gotten himself entangled in Flint’s net in the first place. Freedom. From hunger, from wages...from you.
Yet, even as Silver considered what that fortune might mean for him, Flint’s words from weeks ago came back to him. Those men listen to you. They give a shit about what you have to say. What you think, what you want them to think. Where else in the world is that true? Where else would you wake up in the morning and matter? You walk out on this, and where the fuck are you going?
He could take the fortune in gold. But that would mean leaving the crew behind. Leaving Flint behind. Possibly damaging this treaty. And then what? He would have enough money that he’d never need to work again, but what would he be? What was the point of it all? He’d thought, when he achieved riches, he would not want for anything. Now, all he wanted was his leg back. And if he couldn’t have that, a ship full of men who looked up to him and respected him, a captain who said he was glad to call Silver his quartermaster—God help him, but Silver needed that more than he needed gold right now.
Silver took the crutches under his arms and pushed himself up from the chair. Navigating the table, he passed Max.
“Distribute my share into whatever is needed to keep this treaty afloat,” Silver said. “I give up my claim to it.”