by John Drake
An hour later Flint and Bentham emerged; Bentham grinning, Flint smiling. And Flint was changed. In childhood, his father had made it painfully clear to young Joseph that certain acts — bodily acts — were so inexpressibly vile that God had forbidden men to perform them, except with whores. Hence Flint's problem, a problem made worse by unfortunate experiments, but recently and miraculously soothed by his feelings for Selena, feelings which he knew were finer than lust, but which — tragically for him — he did not fully understand, and which in a normal man could have been his salvation.
But Flint was Flint, and saw things his own way. What he'd just enjoyed, he'd enjoyed with a whore. A black whore. Now… Selena was black, and she'd been bought from Charley Neal's liquor store, where all the girls were whores … ipso facto he could do with her what he'd just done here! Flint could hardly wait, and the very thought of it — even after his recent exertions — caused a vigorous stand of manhood to rise up between his thighs.
It was a fine start to business. Flint took to Bentham wonderfully, and accepted "him" as him with never another thought. They sat in the long room, where they were joined by Neal and O'Byrne, and talked.
"Danny," said Flint. "I may call you Danny, may I not?"
"Of course… Joe." Neal and O'Byrne nodded in approval.
"I need ships, Danny. Ships… with crews. Crews accustomed to our profession."
"Joe, I have both! And I'm open to offers — offers in gold."
"Danny, I do have some gold… a little…"
"How much, Joe?"
"Enough to keep the lower deck happy…"
Flint smiled. He knew Bentham was facing mutiny if things didn't improve.
"Truth is, Danny," said Flint, "I need to convey men and stores…"
"But where, Joe? Where'd we be going? And what to do?"
"Danny! If only I could say!"
"Aye, I've heard you can't even tell Meshod Pimenta."
"And what might you know about that, Danny?"
"A little."
And there Joe Flint foundered. Like Pimenta, Bentham wanted to know what was on offer, where it was, and what had to be done to get it. But Flint wouldn't tell. He trusted nobody. Not even Neal, who had got him alongside Pimenta and Bentham in the first place.
Neal had his own plans, of course. He was over sixty and fed up with the squalor of Savannah. He'd made his pile and wanted a house in Dublin. But he knew all too well what Flint did with those who knew his secrets, once they ceased to be of use to him. So Charley was desperate to keep Flint happy, in the hope Flint might… just might… let Charley go. And with that in mind he resolved to take a risk, even though he knew there were things he wasn't supposed to mention.
"Gentlemen," he said, "if I might make a suggestion…?"
"What suggestion?" said Flint.
"Let's hear it, Joe!" said Bentham. "Charley's a sharp 'un, and no mistake."
"Joe, Danny," said Neal, "there's another way to help one another."
"Oh?" they said.
"Yes," said Neal. "Now, gentlemen…" Neal's legs trembled under the table, but he pressed on: "There's gold in this… yes?"
"Yes," said Flint and Bentham. So far so good.
"There'll be fighting to get it," said Neal, "yes?"
Flint blinked, fast.
Holy Mary, Mother of God! thought Charley. He's going to blow…
"So what?" said Bentham. "How else would we get it?"
"Oh?" said Flint, surprised. "You know that?"
"Of course, or you'd not be talking to me, would you?"
"No," said Flint, and relaxed.
Thank God! thought Neal. "So," he said, "a lot more men will be needed."
"Charley!" said Flint, blinking again.
"Aye!" said Bentham, and nodded.
Charley summoned courage. Charley jumped.
"At least three hundred men…"
Flint shook with anger. His hands dived into his pockets. Neal knew he'd gone too far.
"God help me, God help me, God help me…" Flint fumed.
But Bentham laughed. "Hold hard, Joe," he said. "The poor swab's only trying to lend a hand."
"He should shut his trap!" snapped Flint, but he took his hands from his pockets.
"So we needs a lot more men," said Bentham. "And I knows where to find 'em."
Neal held his breath. That was exactly what he'd hoped Bentham would say. Neal could have told Flint himself, but that would have got him deeper into danger for knowing too much. Better it came from Bentham.
"Where?" said Flint, recovering on the instant.
"Ah," said Bentham, "if only I could say!" and he winked at Flint. "But I'll tell you this: they're some o' the finest fighting men you ever saw, and I can take you to 'em. So, how much gold is there, Joe? And where is it? And who's sitting on top of it?"
Ahhhh, thought Neal, basking in the warmth of a job well done. There it is, Joe: you've got your ships and your army and all you've got to do is trust the bugger! Neal smiled. He saw himself in one of the fine new houses in Drogheda Street, with a staff of servants and a cellar of wine.
But Flint wouldn't have it. He frowned. He wouldn't and couldn't tell.
His stubbornness had Neal despairing and Bentham sneering, when the flat, heavy detonation of artillery could suddenly be heard echoing round the town: threatening, steady and continuous. Everyone in the Golden Fish sat bolt upright and strained to listen.
1 p.m., 20th November 1752
21 Broad Street
Charlestown, South Carolina
There is no sight that stirs human emotions like that of a beautiful woman in a beautiful gown. Esther Pimenta and her friends gasped and clapped as Selena entered the salon dressed in a sack-back gown underpinned with stays and panniers, laced across the bust with ribbon, and with sleeves bearing cuffs trimmed with French lace.
The gown was the pride of Esther Pimenta's collection: fearfully expensive, superbly cut, and of the most lustrous yellow silk. It was a gown to enhance the beauty of any woman, but never had it shown to such advantage as when worn by Mrs Selena Garland. Only her darkness could set off the yellow quite so well. Only her daintiness, elegance and femininity could so perfectly compliment the complex trimming of the gown, which on lesser women was merely pretty, but on her was glorious.
Selena smiled at them and curtsied, and they rose and returned the compliment and applauded still louder. Esther Pimenta applauded with them, even though it was her gown, and even though she could never wear it again for fear of the comparisons that would be drawn. But in compensation she glanced at Mrs Judith Harrow, whose rivalry had been definitively squashed by the delivery into Charlestown society of the exotic black nymph Esther was parading before them now. She didn't actually own the nymph, but Charlestown treated her as if she did.
Selena spotted the glance and smiled to herself. It was an enormous pleasure to be a woman, to dress as a woman, to be among women, and to recover all the elegance that had been hers when Miss Eugenie Delacroix had loved her It was a joy to be among something softer and cleaner than dirty sailors with their constant violence, gluttonous drinking and filthy speech.
At the same time, she was aware that, while Meshod Pimenta was indulging her because he still had hopes of a bargain with Flint, Mrs Esther Pimenta was parading her round town in fine gowns for an entirely different reason. It was the same reason Eugenie Delacroix had taken Selena as a companion. She had become a doll again, a little black doll to be dressed and made pretty and shown off, displaying for society's entertainment the tricks she'd been taught: speaking properly, using a teacup and reading French. At least, that was how it seemed to Selena now, listening to the applause — supposedly for her, but actually aimed at Esther Pimenta.
Ah well! Selena shrugged. She'd learned to live for the day. There was little point in making plans. She was as trapped now as ever she'd been on the Delacroix plantation. So she played the role, sat down, took tea, chatted and gossiped and was persuaded to read onc
e more from the Mercure and to suffer the pride and ownership in Esther Pimenta's eyes as she did so. Then…
Windows shook, tea-cups rattled to the thud-boom of artillery. The ladies gasped, and a servant was sent to find out why the guns of the battery were firing — if it was the batteries and not the French! Or even the Spanish! There was real fear in the room. Charlestown's walls hadn't been built for nothing; her residents were all too aware that a war which started in Europe with proper warnings and diplomacy might announce itself out here by the arrival of an enemy fleet with guns run out and loaded.
Meanwhile, Selena had her own cause to be alarmed. What if Flint were taken? What if he were killed? Where could she go? What would Meshod Pimenta do? She'd seen how he looked at her.
"There ain't no cause to worry, ma'am," said Thomas the butler, hurrying into the salon. "It's an English squadron, salutin' off Fort Johnson as they comes into the bay. There's four ships, ma'am, and…"
But nobody was listening. The ladies were all transported into excitement, in anticipation of the wonderful calendar of social occasions that must follow the arrival of a naval squadron — a squadron packed with officers who would need to be entertained by the town.
"Ladies!" cried Esther Pimenta, before Judith Harrow should think of saying anything. "Up! Up!" she clapped her hands like a schoolteacher. "Why are we sitting here when a fine new squadron is coming in? Let's go up on the walls to see them!"
So Esther Pimenta led her own squadron through the streets of Charlestown, and since the weather was cool but comfortable, the squadron sailed without cloaks or topcoats, the better to demonstrate the fact that they were the elite of Charlestown, proclaimed by the rich colours and costly materials on display. Under full sail, they proceeded down Broad Street towards the Half Moon Bastion and a fine view of the bay.
Meanwhile, the town shook to the multiple concussions of warships discharging their guns. The city walls and bridges were black with townspeople cheering, gaping, and pointing across the confluence of the Ashley and Cooper rivers to where a Royal Navy squadron was coming in — and doing so in style! Where merchantmen crept nervously under topsails, the squadron charged into the anchorage under full sail, as only men-o'-war could do with their massive, expert crews. And the four ships sailed in a line astern that could have been drawn with a ruler and measured with a chain.
They were led by HMS Oraclaesus, flying a commodore's broad pennant at the main and a red ensign astern. She was one of the finest ships in King George's navy: an eight-hundred- ton frigate, the first of her class, mounting twenty-eight twelve- pounder guns, with two hundred and fifty men aboard, including fifty marines. Behind her came Bounder, Leaper and Jumper: identical sloops of two hundred tons each, with ten six-pounders and a hundred and fifty men embarked. Like the flagship, they were brand new, with no expense spared in their fitting out, right down to the very latest advance in shipbuilding: actual copper sheathing on their hulls — a technical marvel that gave greater speed, and complete protection from ship-worm.
Any man could see that the bringing together of such splendid ships showed serious political interest was at work. Undoubtedly some heavy purpose was being served here.
Having saluted Fort Johnson at the mouth of the bay, the four ships forged onward in silence, coming closer and closer to the out-jutting piers of Charlestown, heeling to the wind under bulging sails: topmasts and topgallants curving to the strain, colours flying, white water under their bows. Not even a bosun's call was heard as the squadron drove deep into the anchorage. It was a magnificent sight, but the show had only just begun.
Boom! A gun spouted smoke from the bows of the flagship and — like parts of a machine — the four vessels came into the wind together. It was majestic to behold: like dancers performing a quadrille, they came about in perfect synchronisation, dropped anchor with a roar and a rumble, and simultaneously struck canvas.
When the powder smoke cleared, the four ships were as steady at anchor as if they'd been there a week.
There was a moment's silence then a band struck up on the flagship's quarterdeck and all hands in all four ships, sang with a will:
God save Great George our king!
Long live our noble king!
God save our king…
Grown men wept at the beauty of it, and those who knew the words of this patriotic song joined in with choking voices: especially those who dreamed of the homeland; especially those afraid of the French; especially those who were seafarers — and that meant most of Charlestown.
Two who did not sing with choking voices were Joe Flint and Danny Bentham; both being infinitely far from King George's grace and his navy's favour. Also not singing were Charley Neal and Brendan O'Byrne who — as Irishmen — had no time for songs about English kings. These four stood silent on the Half Moon Bastion among the crowds of singing, cheering Charlestownians, but they still marvelled at the seamanship displayed.
"Look at 'em!" said Bentham. "You've got to credit the bastards!"
"Aye," said Flint, as the ghost of pride arose, "it takes the navy to do that!"
Flint and Bentham meant what they said. They honestly believed they'd never see a finer sight. But they were wrong.
"Joe?" said a familiar voice, right alongside.
Flint turned into a cloud of colour. He'd been so entranced, he'd never noticed. But there it was: a shoal of women in their gowns. He didn't know how many there were because he saw only one — Selena… Selena in the yellow silk gown. He'd seen her before a thousand times, but never like this.
His jaw dropped. A shudder ran up his body from ankles to neck. He shivered and marvelled as the thunderbolt struck. Never — not ever, in all his life — had he seen a creature so beautiful. Everything he'd ever thought about Selena came together like broken fragments magically reforming as a vase.
And of course, in the same instant, he realised that she was a goddess.
The filthy acts men performed upon whores could never be applied to her.
Tears sprang from his eyes.
She was a thousand miles from him.
Flint was true to his upbringing, and in Hell his father smiled.
"Selena…" said Flint.
"Joseph," she said, "may I introduce…" and she brought forward a gaggle of women, one of whom seemed to be Pimenta's wife, and they simpered and smiled, and all the while he gazed at Selena. A wooden block could have seen the worship in his mind, and she certainly could… as could her companions; and she registered the tremendous envy in their eyes. For Flint was a dazzlingly handsome man and — in their innocence — they must have supposed that his character matched his beauty.
Selena sighed. What did they know? What could she say? So she faced front, raised her head, and fell back on good manners. She spoke, but Flint didn't hear at first. He was away in his dreams.
"Joseph?" she said. "Joseph!"
"What?" he said finally.
"Who are these gentlemen?" she was saying. Flint turned to look.
"Oh!" he said. "May I present Captain Daniel Bentham, and…"
Flint stopped, hit by a second bolt.
Danny Bentham was positively grovelling before Selena. Any lower and he'd have hit the ground. He had hold of the hand she'd offered, and was slobbering over it while gazing at Serena in naked, drooling adoration. Flint could all but hear the pulse that beat in his veins.
It wasn't only Joe Flint that had been pierced to the heart by a beautiful lady in a beautiful gown.
Chapter 19
12.30 p.m., 20th November 1752
Aboard Lucy May
Charlestown Bay, South Carolina
The frigate's guns flashed and thundered as she led her consorts splendidly past Fort Johnson, and saluted the British Flag. She stormed past the six ships of the Patanq fleet and comprehensively ignored them, for they were mean and shabby vessels compared with herself, and she was on the king's own duty besides.
Aboard Lucy May — the nearest equivalent within the
Patanq fleet to a flagship — the passing of the squadron caused a tremendous stir, such that the vessel almost rolled gunwale under as three hundred members of the Patanq nation surged forward for a better view.
"Belay that!" cried Captain Noll Foster. "The buggers is only saluting the fucking fort!" But they paid him no attention; not the women and children, anyway. These terrified creatures simply yelled and pointed and climbed into the rigging… and then when they saw that there was no risk to themselves, their mood spun on a sixpence and they laughed and joked and the children made faces at Foster and chattered at him.
"Get out o' them fuckin' shrouds, there!" cried Foster, yelling at the children. They jabbered and laughed all the more, so he turned to two Patanq men who stood apart from the rest. "I say!" he said. "I say there! Can't you get them little sods out o' the fuckin' rigging?"
The two Patanq so addressed were Dreamer and Dark Hand. Dreamer stared at Foster till the other blinked, then said a word to Dark Hand, who snapped his fingers, and the children fell silent, and stopped playing, and climbed back on deck and went softly to their mothers.
"Huh!" said Foster. "Fuckin' little sods!" And he stalked off to the stern, to be with his crew. He was more comfortable there. Among them he could convince himself he was still in command. The two Patanq watched him go. They spoke in their own language.
"Always these same words," said Dark Hand. "Fucking… sod… bugger."
"Yes," said the other, "they cannot speak without them."
"Tell me, Dreamer, you are wise: do these words have any meaning?"
"Oh yes," said Dreamer, "but mainly they are used to strike blows."
"The French have similar words," said Dark Hand.
"And the Spanish," said Dreamer, "and the Germans. All of them do."
"And we have none!"
"Except those we have learned from these… buggers," said Dreamer, and smiled. Dark Hand would have smiled too, but these days it was hard to smile in Dreamer's company for he looked so ill. The lifelong affliction — the curse that he'd suffered since childhood — was striking so often now, and worse than ever, bringing pain and dark visions. Not all of these proved true, for Dreamer's visions never told the entire truth, but always they were disturbing and tormenting.
