Pieces Of Eight js-2

by John Drake

  Selena had never seen a city before, only the log cabins of Savannah, and even though Allardyce came from Bristol, it was years since he'd seen it, and both had been months at sea or on an island devoid of life. So Charlestown hit them like a punch in the face, except it was a joyful punch, if such a thing can be. It was exhilarating, fascinating, and totally, utterly absorbing.

  They forgot their orders and strolled along — not quite hand-in-hand, but very much united in wonder — and were led deeply astray by the shops along the western side of Bay Street. Selena had only two eyes where a hundred were needed to drink in the wonders that lay behind the huge glass windows of the shops, and in the end it was Allardyce, only slightly less fascinated than her, who remembered what they were here for.

  "Miss Selena… ma'am?" he said. "We'd best up-anchor and set sail, ma'am. To Mr Pimenta's house in Broad Street. Orders, ma'am." He touched his hat.

  Selena rejoined reality. She looked at her clothes, which in fairness to Flint were the best he could get by sending her ashore with Charley Neal the previous afternoon. At least Neal was familiar with the town and its shops, for Selena wouldn't have known where to start. She'd never been shopping in her life. The result was the outfit she was wearing; the gown wasn't cheap — it was made of embroidered silk — but it was green, which didn't suit her, and it was a poor fit. The lace cap was good, but she had no means of dressing her hair. The English redingote she wore against the cold was shabby and old, the shoes were ugly.

  Selena was sunk in shame as Allardyce thundered on the iron door-knocker of Mr Meshod Pimenta's intimidating house. When the shiny door opened to reveal a black manservant gleaming in livery, Allardyce — nervous and seeing gold lace — saluted deferentially and jerked his thumb at Selena.

  "Mrs Garland come ashore, Cap'n," he said, "for to parlay with Mrs Pimenta."

  Fortunately, Thomas — Mr Pimenta's butler — was used to receiving guests of all ranks and races, for Charlestown society was not that of London, and a far wider spectrum of humanity came through Mr Pimenta's front door than would ever have been welcome at the Court of St James's.

  So Mr Allardyce was smoothly led off to the servants' hall by a lesser minion while Mrs Garland was relieved of her redingote and ushered up to the first floor by Thomas himself, and into Mrs Esther Pimenta's salon.

  Two ladies were waiting, both young, both with hair in ringlets, both wearing large quantities of jewellery. They were olive-skinned, Hispanic, and had bright faces but no claims on beauty. One wore an elaborate brocaded dress in pink, the other an elaborate brocaded dress in blue. They were perched on French chairs with bright-gilded, filigree limbs, en suite with a gilded table supporting a Sevres porcelain tea-service in blue, white and gold. The room was elaborately furnished in bright colours, and crammed with everything that glittered or twinkled or shone: cloisonne fish bowls abutted Canton enamelware, and the walls were hung with Chinese wallpaper of unworldly exoticism and fierce brilliance.

  Selena was not quite blinded, but it was close.

  "Mrs Garland," said Pink Gown, rising, "I am Mrs Esther Pimenta, and this lady — " she indicated Blue Gown "- is my friend, Mrs Zafira Nunez Cardoza." She took Selena's hand and presented her as if to a duchess. "Zafira, my dear," she said, "allow me to introduce Mrs Garland, wife of one of Mr Pimenta's most important new friends."

  Even hideously embarrassed and wishing herself dead, Selena noted those words. Flint would be impressed.

  Meanwhile Blue Gown was frowning. Blue Gown held strong views on blacks, and was present solely to oblige Pink Gown, who held identical views and was receiving a nigger- woman in her salon only because Mr Pimenta had first cajoled, then begged, and finally screamed in her face a dreadful secret never made know to her before: Meshod Pimenta had overextended his credit and was in desperate need of Captain Flint's trove of gold and silver coin. Mrs Flint must therefore be received — and in this matter there was to be no denial — for Captain Flint must at all costs be indulged in the hope that he might be persuaded to become a little more open about how much he'd got and where he'd damn-well got it!

  Pink Gown knew all this. Blue Gown didn't. She'd not been told.

  "So," she said nastily, "who are your friends, Mrs Garland? Where do you come from?"

  Selena thought of the master's special house, and the master on his back, half-naked, eyes bulging, and choked on his own vomit. She thought of Flint, peering at her through holes drilled in the cabin wall. She thought of Long John, probably gone from her life forever… and tried to invent a family history on the spot.

  It wasn't very good. It wasn't very convincing. Blue Gown and Pink Gown sneered. More questions followed. Awkward questions, drawing evasive answers. When tea was served, even Selena's obvious familiarity with the etiquette of teacups didn't help. They sneered at that too.

  Selena was sunk in despair and fighting the tears. She stared at the floor and hoped that they'd leave her alone. But they didn't. It just got worse.

  Then the door burst open and a third lady rushed in, too fast for Thomas to announce her. This one had a silver-laced gown.

  "Esther! Zafira!" she cried, then, "Oh!" as she caught sight of Selena and turned her delicate nose up. Silver Gown's views on the place of blacks in society were even stronger than those of Pink Gown or Blue Gown,

  "Judith!" said Esther Pimenta, and took fright. This could irreparably damage her standing in Charlestown society. Mrs Judith Harrow was not exactly a friend; she was more of a rival.

  "This is Mrs Garland," said Mrs Pimenta defensively, "the wife of a most important and prosperous merchant."

  "Mrs Garland," said Mrs Harrow, nodding briefly. That done, she set about ignoring the insufferable presence of a black, for she had come with more satisfying sport in mind. Triumphantly she waved a newspaper at Esther Pimenta. "Look! Look!" she said. "The latest edition, just arrived, of Le Mercure de France! Only five weeks old! And it describes La Pompadour's latest gown!"

  Esther Pimenta gritted her teeth. The entire world of fashion was led by France, and the entire world of French fashion was led by the beautiful thirty-one-year-old Madame de Pompadour, official mistress to King Louis XV. Wretched outposts like London or Charlestown could only follow and adore, and Esther Pimenta had made it her business to be first with the news from Paris. Mrs Harrow was here to gloat.

  Selena was forgotten as the three ladies fell upon the newspaper, brows furrowed, lips pursed, eyes peering as they fought to pull meaning out of the article in question.

  "See! It is about La Pompadour — there's her name!"

  "Douilles de lacet... what's that?"

  "What's that word? That one there — "

  Selena stared. They couldn't read French! She was amazed. She'd been raised as companion to Miss Eugenie Delacroix, the master's daughter, a society belle who had enjoyed the finest clothes — endless hours had been spent making alterations to her vast array of gowns — and whose education had encompassed the arts of elocution, etiquette, dancing, drawing… and a mastery of the French language. To which end a

  French governess had been on hand to ensure that the girls spoke with the accent of Versailles as they read aloud from the latest journals and books shipped in from Paris.

  Selena's life had turned upside down since then. Rejected by Miss Eugenie, she'd seen things and done things these Charlestown ladies couldn't imagine. She'd grown fast in a hard world, and in that world she was more than a match for them, for all their status as married women — white women — with rich husbands. How ironic to discover that she was also their superior in their world.

  "May I see?" she said. She had to say it several times before they noticed. Even then it was only with utmost bad grace that they handed her the newspaper.

  "Hmm," she said, "douilles de lacet — lace sleeves '… Madame was enchanting in lace sleeves worn treble: long and trailing at the wrist, but narrow at the bend of the elbow where they were gathered with ribbons of lace en suite. The effect bril
liant, cascading…"'

  Selena looked up and saw their faces. Round eyes, round mouths. It was hard not to laugh. She read on, unconsciously sitting up and straightening her back as she did so, and speaking in the clear, precise manner of her upbringing, not the lazy speech she'd fallen into in the company of seamen.

  After that things happened by quick stages. First there was a discussion on La Pompadour's outfit, with Selena accepted first as an equal, then as leader, for these Charlestown ladies had few ideas of their own and were accustomed to being ruled by their dressmakers. Next, Esther Pimenta called for her collection of moppets — Parisian fashion dolls, not toys — of which she had a number, and which she loved dearly but did not properly understand. Selena duly explained them, showing how their tiny pleats, seams and cut, gave detailed guidance to the dressmaker. Finally they went into Mrs Pimenta's dressing room, where she kept her gowns, and Selena explained them, too. As she talked, a great truth was hammered into three thick heads: namely that Mrs Garland — be she black as the Devil's boot — was an outstandingly beautiful and clever woman: graceful, cultured and charming.

  When Selena finally emerged from Mr Pimenta's house, it was in triumph, head high and servants grovelling, with Tom Allardyce gaping in her wake. And in due course…

  Mrs Garland was invited back.

  Mrs Garland became a friend.

  Mrs Garland was introduced to Mrs Pimenta's entire circle.

  She was loaned some of Mrs Pimenta's gowns.

  And within a week, she had become the sensation of Charlestown.

  Chapter 16

  Dawn, 14th November 1752

  Camp Silver

  The island

  "Sixty-seven days to go," said Israel Hands, looking at the log-calendar outside Silver's tent.

  "Aye, Mr Gunner," said Silver. "An' it'll be sixty-six when the bell strikes noon and we take out today's peg. But remember, it ain't reckoned by the Astronomer Royal at Greenwich — it's only our best guess." And with that he hitched up his pack and started off along the path into the trees, with Billy Bones and two dozen hands following along behind.

  There was a planked pathway now for heavily laden men to make their way off the sandy beach and on to the firm ground beyond, and there were well-hacked paths through the jungles, connecting the island's four forts: Fort Silver above the southern anchorage, Fort Foremast in the far north, Fort Hands by the swamps in the middle of the island, and Fort Spy-glass protecting the main lookout station.

  Silver had elected to build four small forts rather than one big one because he didn't plan to hide behind walls but to strike Flint from behind and at night. With four forts, Silver's men would have the chance to move round the island secretly, knowing there was always safe shelter nearby once they'd struck their blow.

  Under Silver's leadership, life on the island had settled into a steady pattern of heavy labour, with working teams — each under their rated leaders — completing the four forts, cutting the trees and bushes around them to give clear fields of fire, and now, with the main works complete, taking care that stores were equally distributed, signals agreed and the nimblest men and boys practised daily — and at night too — in running messages between the forts, finding the best and fastest routes, against the time when they would have to fight against overwhelming numbers, and fight as a team.

  Today, leaving Israel Hands in command at Fort Silver, Long John himself was setting out with Billy Bones, Sarney Sawyer, two dozen men and two ship's boys, for the northern inlet, where the Elizabeth lay in ruins. Captain Springer, having grounded the vessel, had unloaded everything in the attempt to re-float her and fourteen brass nine-pounders now lay abandoned on the beach. Silver hoped to use these guns to fortify the island's other major anchorage, in case Flint should come in that way.

  They had plenty of powder, saved from Lion, and there was still time to dig earthworks and mount the guns, which, being brass, ought to be weather-proof. But everything depended on the gun-carriages with their specialised iron fittings being sound after nearly three years lying on a tropical beach, and likewise that there was enough nine-pounder shot left un-rusted.

  "Mr Bones," said Silver as he hopped steadily along the path through the palms, his parrot firmly anchored aboard his shoulder, "a word, if you please."

  "Aye-aye, Cap'n," said Billy Bones, and came alongside.

  "The shot, Mr Bones," said Silver, "you say you stacked it clear of the tide?"

  "Aye-aye, sir. That we did. Right off the beach an' under the trees, lest it should rain."

  "Weren't there no caves nor nothing?"

  "No, Cap'n. Leastways, not nearby…" said Bones uneasily, as was habitual for him when thinking of Flint. "And… him … he took the best of the shot for Betsy, the new ship as we built out o' the wreck of the old 'un."

  "But there was still shot left?"

  "Aye, Cap'n. Betsy could only bear six guns, and Elizabeth had shot for twenty."

  It took a long day for Silver and his men to reach the northern inlet. Skirting to the west of the marshes which occupied the middle of the island — a region thick with bulrushes, willows and outlandish swampy trees — they found a bit of open ground bordered by marshland on one side and thick forest on the other. It was hot, stinking and buzzing with mosquitoes, but at least they could step out without hacking a path… and there was an old friend waiting for them.

  "Cap'n," said Billy Bones, as they trudged along, "look'ee there!"

  "Bah!" said Silver, aching and raw from heavy exercise. "That bugger can please himself. I'm not stopping for him."

  It was Ben Gunn. Crouched over, half hidden, fleet of foot and muttering to himself and the monkey that ran alongside him, he was keeping pace with the marching column.

  "Prob'ly wants some cheese, I shouldn't wonder," said Bones, which was precious close to the truth. Ben Gunn couldn't stand loneliness, nor a diet of nuts and fruit.

  Little by little, he closed the gap until finally he joined the column, ducking and bobbing and with a finger always to his brow, cringing before Long John and Billy Bones.

  "All right, Mr Gunn," said Silver when they next stopped to rest. "Come aboard again, and take your share o' the load. But if you join this crew, you must work your passage. You and your soddin' monkey!" They all laughed at that, and the monkey chattered and larked and ran from man to man in the most affectionate way. And Ben Gunn was happy again.

  The monkey became a great favourite. Though it always went back to Ben Gunn, it spent a little time with everyone, leaping into men's arms, climbing up their legs and curiously examining their clothes and gear. Silver alone was not touched by its little hands, for it steered clear of him — the parrot saw to that.

  "Bugger off! Bugger off!" she screeched, flapping her wings and snapping her beak, sending the monkey running away in terror.

  When they reached the northern inlet, they found the brass guns in fine condition and the shot stacked in pyramids, just as Billy Bones had left it; and while those on the top and the outside were rusted useless, there was plenty of good round shot within. Furthermore, most of the gun carriages were either sound or could be repaired.

  This was a huge relief to Silver; and he immediately set Bones to work, surveying the inlet, and marking out new battery with sticks knocked into the ground.

  That night, as they sat by their campfire with the grog going round, Long John stood up and addressed his men.

  "Shipmates," he said, "this shuts the back door in Flint's face." He turned to Sarney Sawyer: "I'm leaving you in charge, Mr Bosun. Mr Bones and I shall be off tomorrow, back to Fort Silver, but I've drawn a plan for mounting a dozen o' them guns behind earthworks, and on good timber platforms, so's to bear on any ship as comes in to anchor. So — " he raised his mug "- here's to ourselves, and hold your luff…"

  "… plenty of prizes and plenty of duff!" they cheered.

  Ben Gunn's monkey chattered and scampered round the camp. The men tickled it and offered it rum.

/>   Next morning, Silver, Bones and two men set off, leaving Sarney Sawyer with twenty-two men, two boys, Ben Gunn and the monkey. Sawyer's crew worked busily and — as ordered by Long John — sent one of the boys each morning to run a report to Fort Silver and back. This could be done within a day, provided the lad carried only a water canteen — which was indispensable — and no other load.

  But on the seventh day no runner came to Fort Silver.

  At first, Long John didn't worry. Sarney Sawyer had plenty to do and there could be good reason for not sending his daily report. But no reports came the following day either, or any day thereafter.

  It was just before noon on the eleventh day, as Silver was preparing to send a man north to find out what was going on, that Ben Gunn entered the camp.

  Gunn was madder than ever: thin, wild-eyed and snivelling. He mumbled and sniffed and wrung his hands. There were sentries on watch, now, day and night, and one of these escorted him to Silver, who was seated in his big tent, re-rigged inside the fort.

  "Won't speak to none but you, Cap'n," said the man, and nudged Ben Gunn with his musket butt. " Oi… you! You won't talk to no bugger, will you?"

  "No," said Ben Gunn. "None but John Silver."

  "Well," said Silver, "you're here now, matey. So what've you got to say?"

  "I killed him," said Ben Gunn, and the tears rolled down his face.

  "What?" said Silver, sitting up sharp. "Killed who? What's happened to Sarney's crew?"

  "I killed him, I did. Cut his little throat… as the quickest way, like."

  And Ben Gunn broke into sobs and groans, and pulled a leather-bound book out of his shirt and put it on Silver's table. Then he wept some more, sighed and wiped the snot and snivel from his face.

  "I didn't know, Cap'n," he said. "'Tweren't my fault. I didn't know till I saw this."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "This," said Ben Gunn, and opened the book at a place he'd marked with a twig. Silver saw a page of neat drawings of monkeys. And there was a sketch of a monkey's hand, heavily marked with little round scars.