The three of them sit closer to the fire now, the coffeehouse thinning out as the hour grows late. Selkirk
has loosened a bit — the stiffness of a man long at sea giving way to the ease of storytelling. He reaches into his coat and brings out a small, battered flask. The metal is dented, the lid slightly warped.
He sets it on the table.
Selkirk: “I kept this from the Cinque Ports. There was a scrap of verse etched on it — not by me. Some sailor’s hand. A call for Flip — rum, beer, sugar, whatever a man could throw together. Sailors’ comfort.”
He turns the flask so they can see the faint scratching.
Selkirk: “I had only a little left when Stradling put me ashore. I drank it the first night. Foolish, maybe. But a man doesn’t know how long he’ll be alone.”
Defoe studies the flask with a kind of anthropological interest, as though it were a relic from a vanished tribe.
Defoe: “And after that night, no drink at all.”
Selkirk nods.
Selkirk: “Four years and four months without a drop. I didn’t miss it after a while. The island clears a man’s head. Makes him plain. You wake with the sun, sleep with the dark, and everything in between is work or hunger.”
Manley’s voice is gentle, but edged with curiosity.
Manley: “And when you returned to civilization, you went back to drink.”
Selkirk gives a rueful smile.
Selkirk: “Aye. Too quick. The first tavern in Juan Fernández, then Valparaíso, then London. The noise of the world… it drives a man to soften it.”
Manley lifts an eyebrow, not judging, only observing.
Manley: “Perhaps the island taught you something worth keeping.”
Selkirk looks at her, surprised by the kindness in the question.
Selkirk: “Maybe it did. But a man can’t live sober in London the way he lived sober on Más a Tierra. Here the world presses in.”
He pauses, then shifts the flask aside and leans forward, elbows on the table.
Selkirk: “The first days on the island were the hardest. I walked the shore till my legs shook, looking for any sign the Cinque Ports might return. But she was gone. The sea was empty.”
Defoe listens intently, quill hovering above his notebook.
Selkirk: “I climbed the ridges. High as I could. The island’s spine is steep, sharp. From the top you can see the whole world — or what little of it reaches that far. I saw fruit trees — figs, some wild plums. And goats. Plenty of goats.”
Manley smiles faintly.
Manley: “Your first companions.”
Selkirk chuckles.
Selkirk: “Aye. They were quicker than they looked. I had no gun, so I had to chase them. At first I couldn’t catch a one. They’d leap up the rocks like spirits. But hunger teaches a man new tricks.”
He gestures with his hands, describing the terrain.
Selkirk: “I found a spring — sweet water, cold as winter. And caves. Good shelter. The island wasn’t cruel. Just indifferent. If you worked, you lived.”
Defoe’s voice is low, almost reverent.
Defoe: “You adapted quickly.”
Selkirk nods.
Selkirk: “A man who’s fought all his life learns to fight the land too. But the island… it wasn’t a foe. It was a world without quarrel. No men to anger, no captains to defy. Just the sea, the goats, and myself.”
Manley watches him with a soft, perceptive gaze.
Manley: “And in that quiet, you found a way to live.”
Selkirk looks into the fire, and for a moment his face is peaceful — the peace of a man who once belonged to a place without clocks, without taverns, without the weight of other people’s tempers.
Selkirk: “Aye. I did.”
The fire crackles. Outside, Fleet Street murmurs. Inside, the three of them sit in a small circle of warmth, the sailor’s voice carrying them back across oceans to the first days of solitude, when a man learned to live without drink, without company, and without the world — and found, for a time, that he could.
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