We soon reached the mouth of North Inlet, but we had to wait for a higher tide before we could take the ship in. We sat on the deck in silence over another meal.
“Jim,” said Hands at last, with that same strange smile, “would you go down to the cabin and get me a—a—shiver my timbers, I can’t think of the name—a bottle of wine? This brandy is too strong for my head.”
I did not believe a word. He wanted me off the deck, that was clear, but I could not guess why. His eyes never met mine, and he kept smiling like a guilty child.
“Some wine?” I said. “Much better.”
I ran down the steps to the cabin, making as much noise as I could. Then I took off my shoes, ran quietly to the front of the ship, climbed a ladder and put my head out on deck. He did not know that I could see him. And my worst fears came true.
He was on his hands and knees. His leg clearly hurt him, but he crawled quickly across the deck and pulled a long knife out of a pile of rope. It was red with blood up to the handle. He tested the point on his hand, hid the knife inside his jacket and crawled back to his place.
That was all I needed to know. Hands could move, he had a weapon, and he wanted to kill me. But I felt sure of one thing: we both wanted the ship safe on the sand, so that she could sail again later. Until then, I thought, my life was safe.
I went back for my shoes and came up with a bottle of wine. Hands lay just as I had left him. He knocked the neck off the bottle, drank deeply and said, “Here’s luck! It may be my last drink, lad.”
“Then if I were you, Mr. Hands,” I said angrily, thinking of the knife in his jacket, “I would say my prayers. There’s a man you killed lying at your feet.”
“For thirty years I’ve sailed the seas,” he answered, “and I never saw good come from goodness. The man who strikes first, that’s my man. Dead men don’t bite. That’s what I think. And now,” he said in a different voice, “enough of this. The tide is high enough. You take my orders, Captain Hawkins, and we’ll sail right in.”
The way into North Inlet was narrow, but Hands was an excellent guide. “A little to the right,” he called. “Steady—a little to the left—steady!” I obeyed every order, breathless with excitement, until he cried, “Now!” I turned the tiller hard, and the Hispaniola ran toward the low, sandy shore.
I was so excited that I forgot to watch Hands. I was leaning over the side, waiting for the ship to touch the sand, when something made me turn my head. Perhaps I heard a sound; perhaps it was an instinct, like a cat’s. There was Hands, already halfway to me, with the knife in his right hand.
We both cried out when our eyes met: I in terror, he in fury. He threw himself forward, and I jumped to the side. As I did, I let go of the tiller. It swung across, hit Hands in the chest and stopped him for a moment.
By then I was out of the corner and free on the open deck. At the main mast I took a pistol from my pocket, aimed and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The powder was wet with sea water. Why hadn’t I loaded my pistols again long before?
Hands was wounded, but he moved surprisingly fast, his face red with fury. I put my hands against the mast and waited. When he moved to one side, I moved to the other, as in a game I had often played among the rocks at home, but never with a heart beating like this.
Suddenly the Hispaniola hit the sand and fell over on her side. We both fell and rolled down the steep deck, and the dead man in the red cap rolled after us. I was up first, because Hands was caught under the body. I jumped onto the ropes of the back mast and climbed as fast as I could. The knife hit the mast just under my feet. I did not stop until I was sitting high up on the mast.
Hands stared up at me in surprise and disappointment. Now I had time. I put fresh powder in my pistols and loaded them again.
When Hands saw this, he pulled himself onto the ropes too, with the knife between his teeth, and began to climb slowly, groaning at every step. I was ready long before he was a third of the way up. With a pistol in each hand, I spoke to him.
“One more step, Mr. Hands,” I said, “and I’ll shoot. Dead men don’t bite, you know.” And I laughed.
He stopped and took the knife from his mouth.
“Jim,” he said, “I’d have got you if the ship hadn’t fallen over, but I have no luck. I’ll have to give up. And that’s hard for an old sailor, beaten by a ship’s boy like you.”
I was listening and smiling, as proud as a rooster, when suddenly his right hand flew back over his shoulder. Something flew through the air like an arrow. I felt a blow, then a sharp pain, and I was pinned to the mast by my shoulder. In the pain and surprise of that moment, both my pistols went off, and both fell from my hands. They did not fall alone. With a choked cry, Hands let go of the ropes and fell head first into the water.