Pieces Of Eight js-2

by John Drake

  Nevertheless, it was Danny Bentham who'd arranged the great council of Charlestown harbour. He'd been the one who'd chosen presents that the Patanq sachems would appreciate: fine shirts with ruffles at neck and cuff, body-paint of Chinese vermillion and verdigris, Stroud blankets in rich colours, and good hand-mirrors in strong frames… that and the powder, shot and rum that any fool would have given.

  And months earlier it had been Danny Bentham who had acted as intermediary in finding ships to take the Patanq nation on its wanderings. Naturally, he had taken a slice of the Patanq's money in the process, for it had been hard work; most shipmasters — especially good seamen with prime vessels — refused outright, unwilling even to consider taking Indians aboard ship. Of those that said yes, the majority were desperate or in command of worn-out vessels. So, even if he had dipped his hand in their purse, he'd not dipped too deep, and he'd acted fairly on their behalf… or at least as fairly as he was capable of.

  For their part, the Patanq leaders were also desperate, though Dreamer and Dark Hand gave no indication of this when Captain Bentham came to them proposing a solution to their present problems. They were prepared to trust him… within limits… and to meet Captain Flint for a great council.

  The bargaining had been long, and hard. It had lasted all day. For the white men it had been maddeningly slow, with eloquent speeches by the two Patanq sachems using formal and poetic words. But agreement was now close, and a tobacco pipe was passing from hand to hand, giving each man his chance to speak. The whites were shifting and fidgeting to ease limbs unused to sitting cross-legged on a hard wooden deck. But Dark Hand and Dreamer were impassive; they spoke in steady, deep voices seemingly devoid of emotion.

  "So," said Dreamer, "we are agreed that this cause is not part of the coming war that the English will fight with the French." The whites nodded. "Because the English are sending messengers across the land to find allies for this war, and the Patanq will not be part of it." The whites nodded. "Good," said Dreamer, "then I ask the sachem Flint to tell us again what it is that we must do. And for what reward…"

  The pipe was passed to Flint, who drew on it, and spoke.

  "I shall lead the Patanq nation — the entire nation, in their ships — to an island where there is buried a great quantity of gold and silver. Only I know the location of the island, and only I know where the gold is buried. But the island has been stolen by others. There are about seventy of them. They are well armed, with powder and muskets, and maybe cannon. They are strong men who will fight hard, and who know that we are coming." Flint looked at the two Patanq, and each nodded briefly. So far so good. There was no point in pretending it would be easy.

  "I propose," said Flint, "that we fight these men, and kill them, and recover the gold…" He blinked. "And… and…" he paused, "I promise that I will share the gold equally with the Patanq nation." With this Flint stopped, as if exhausted by heavy labour. He looked down. He frowned.

  Charley Neal held his breath. Every other white man present held his breath as Flint faced the last fence: the fence that had blocked all agreements so far.

  "I believe," said Flint, "that the value of this treasure… in English money…" he took a breath. He made the effort: "I believe the value to be… over eight hundred thousand pounds."

  There was a united gasp at this colossal figure. Only the two Patanq remained unmoved — at least externally.

  Dreamer stretched out his hand, seeking the pipe.

  "Here," said Flint, and handed it to him so he could speak. Dreamer took a long, slow time, thinking and smoking. Then:

  "Good," he said. "It is my word that we should do this thing." He turned to his companion: "What is your word, my brother?"

  Dark Hand took the pipe.

  "I say yes.'" He looked at Flint. "The Patanq nation puts three hundred warriors into the field. They are yours for this cause."

  Flint sighed. He closed his eyes and nodded. Charley Neal dared to breathe, Danny Bentham and Brendan O'Byrne grinned, and Van Oosterhout closed his eyes, the better to make the delightful calculation of what his own share might be, when converted into Nederlanse Gulden.

  "There are other matters…" said Dreamer.

  "Oh?" said the white men.

  "Yes," said Dreamer, and pointed at Van Oosterhout: "Men say that you, Red Beard, are skilled at finding a way across the waters. You will take command of this ship and the Patanq fleet. You will bring the women and children safe to the island. And you — Sun Face — " he turned to Flint "- you that have secrets to find this island: you will share them with Red Beard. For I tell you, Sun Face — " he fixed Flint with his eye — "if Red Beard does not come to the island, then you and I shall not be friends."

  Flint bade farewell to his plan to lose the Patanq women and children at sea, and nodded.

  "And," said Dreamer, "we shall go tomorrow to all the ships of the fleet, taking Red Beard to the shipmasters that they shall know him as the leader who shall bring them to the island of gold, where they shall be kept from the fighting but shall be richly paid. For without this, why should they obey Red Beard?"

  "So be it," said Flint, amazed that he'd ever thought Dreamer a savage.

  "Good," said Dreamer. "Meanwhile, I and Dark Hand, and the three hundred warriors, will sail. Some in your ship — " he pointed at Flint. "And some in your ship — " he pointed at Bentham. "And some in your ship — " he pointed at Parry. "I have spoken!"

  A great argument followed, for it had never occurred to Bentham, O'Byrne and Parry that they would be outnumbered aboard their own ships, so there was much shouting and pointing. But Dreamer sat impassive and the agreement was breaking apart when Flint spoke. In that dire moment, facing failure of all his plans, he thought of other days and imagined how someone else would have resolved this impasse: someone whom he'd greatly admired.

  "What does it matter?" he said. "If we can't rely on one another, there's neither point nor prospect in this expedition. We're either jolly companions or we're not!" He reached across to Dreamer. "We've followed your customs all day, sir, so now here's one of mine. It is my word that we should sail as you ask, and I offer you my hand on it as a gentleman of fortune…"

  The gesture was so splendid, and Flint's prestige so great, that Bentham, Parry and O'Byrne shut up, and held their breath to see what should happen next.

  There was silence as Flint and Dreamer looked at each other across a poisoned wasteland — a sea of scars — ruined by the collision of two races that were opposite in culture, incompatible in spirit, and utterly mutually hostile. Physically the two men could not have been more different: the thin, sickly Patanq hook-nosed, tattooed, dark and wrinkled, with his shaven skull, and his rings and his feathers and his dangling lock of hair… and Flint the smooth, menacing white man with his beautiful face, and his shining smile and immense charm.

  Then Dreamer slowly reached out his hand and clasped Flint's, and the white men cheered. Agreement was reached.

  So toasts were drunk, and Flint, Bentham, Neal and the others stood up and smiled, and stretched their legs, and nodded and told one another what jolly dogs they were and what a fine deal they'd made. Many more of the Patanq came up from below and then… a sudden and dreadful transformation took place. The immensely dignified Dreamer took up one of the rum bottles that had been given as a present, knocked off the neck with his hatchet, and up-ended the bottle over his mouth. Dark Hand did the same. The other Patanq warriors yelled and squabbled for their share of the drink. They drank to be drunk. They drank to oblivion. They screeched and hollered and staggered and fought and fell. It was bedlam and chaos aboard Lucy May.

  Soon the women and children came up too, and there was Dreamer, sat in the middle of a circle of them, propped up, grinning and guzzling and singing, while they howled with laughter and egged him on.

  "It's always the same," said Danny Bentham, seeing the expression on Flint's face. "They can't help it, Joe. They just pour it down." Bentham searched for words to explai
n and excuse. He had to, because he'd been the one who'd sold these men to Flint as mighty warriors.

  "They don't brew no drink of their own, d'you see? It's uncharted waters for 'em. They got no pilot nor guide. Where we might drink a bottle with a friend, or a good dinner, they drink the whole damn cellar all in one go, just so soon as they get hold of it. They don't know no better, d'you see? They'll fight. Never doubt that, Joe. But they just can't help it with the rum."

  "Yes," said Flint, thoughtfully, "I'd heard that. Heard it, but never seen it." He drew Bentham aside, finding a quiet corner. "I'm glad you took my lead, Danny, over sailing with so many warriors aboard."

  "I did wonder, Joe. But I supposed you had your reasons."

  "Which I did, Danny."

  "And which were…?"

  "Well, they'll outnumber us — outward bound."

  "Yes?"

  "But that don't matter, because we'll all be of one mind."

  "To find the island?"

  "Yes. But once on the island, it's them who'll fight John Silver's men." "Ah!"

  "And there won't be half so many of them… homeward bound."

  "Suppose not."

  "And beyond that, any time we need, we can splice the main brace."

  "And see the lot of 'em three sheets to the wind!"

  They stood a while, looking at the pitiful spectacle of the virile Patanq reduced to slobbering drunkards. Then Flint roused himself.

  "Well," he said, "boats away, I think. We're done this day."

  "Joe," said Bentham, "just one more thing…"

  "What?"

  "Our agreement — about the lady… that stands?"

  "God bless your soul, yes!" said Flint. "I gave my word!"

  As it was now dark, Danny Bentham couldn't quite see the expression on Flint's face.

  Then Charley Neal and Van Oosterhout came up, followed by Captain Foster, who had just learned that he was no longer even nominally the master aboard his own ship. There was a considerable deal more shouting and arguing before Neal and Flint could go over the side and into Walrus's launch, but their unique powers of persuasion triumphed in the end.

  "Goodnight, Cap'n Flint!" cried Bentham, as his own boat pulled away.

  "Goodnight, Cap'n Bentham!" cried Flint, waving his hat.

  "You send my sea-chest tomorrow, yes?" cried Van Oosterhout, leaning over Lucy May's rail. "And my instruments and my tables?"

  "Of course, Mr Mate," said Flint, teeth gleaming in the darkness.

  "Better I come back with you tonight!" said Van Oosterhout in surly mood.

  "What's that?" said Flint, affecting deafness.

  "Why do I stay here now? I do not agree!"

  "Goodnight, Mr Mate!" cried Flint. It was better that Van Oosterhout stayed where he was. Had Dreamer not offered so excellent an excuse, Flint would have invented one.

  "Give way!" said Flint. The oarsmen swayed, the oars splashed, darkness wrapped Lucy May, and the harbour spread out in sombre shadows all around, with distant lights from Charlestown, a dark forest of spars and rigging over the ships in the anchorage, and the water slick and gleaming in the moonlight.

  On the ship, among his women and children, Dreamer bawled out a song and was so gracious as to give his wives a go at the bottle. He laughed aloud as the white man's fire ran through his body… and then he stopped. He stopped, and fell silent and sat up, and all his good drunkenness ran away like water from a smashed pot.

  He thought of the white sachem: the one greater than all others. The one who struck fear with his eyes. Then he thought of the left-handed twin, who cut his way from his mother's body at the Beginning, and made everything that was bad. Dreamer now knew that this twin was indeed

  Satan, though he had many other names: Warty-Skin, Ugly- Face and Stone-blade were common. But he was also named for the stone from which sharp blades were struck. That stone was called… Flint.

  "Well, Cap'n," said Charley Neal, "that went very well!" He was still wheezing with the effort of clambering down the side of a ship in darkness. He was too fat and too old for ship's boats, what with them rocking and heaving and trying to put him over the side. But for the first time since Flint had dropped anchor in Savannah, Neal could see his way clear of his troubles. The day had indeed gone well.

  "Aye," said Flint, then, "Watch your steering there!" he snapped at the man at the tiller. "Follow my orders, you swab!"

  Hmm, thought Charley, Flint was in one of his moods. You could never tell with Flint, for it'd been an uncanny couple of days. First Flint had gone head over heels for Selena and turned into another man entirely, such that none of the old things mattered any more. Then there was the bizarre matter of Bentham being caught in the same trap, and coming to Flint, asking for her hand in marriage — marriage, for Christ's sake! — when the bastard knew she was supposed to be Flint's bloody wife! Or did he know she wasn't? Who could tell? Bentham was as mad as Flint. Differently mad, but bloody mad all the same.

  None of that mattered though. All Flint's problems were over. He didn't need Pimenta now. He could bring Selena back aboard and roger her cross-eyed. Flint had secured three good ships to carry an army, he'd got his army, and if the Patanq fleet was to trail along behind him — why, Joe Flint would soon lose them! And then he'd get rid of all the rest of the poor bloody Indians who thought he was going to treat them fair! That's my boy. That's Joe Flint!

  Best of all, thought Charley Neal, there's myself right at the centre of all these happy events. Wasn't it myself stopped

  Flint murdering Danny Bentham when he went goggle-eyed over Selena? Wasn't it myself explained that Bentham was the key to the Patanq? And wasn't it myself spent bloody hours talking Flint into making agreement with the Indians, and telling them — and nobody else — enough to bring them aboard of his blasted expedition to the blasted island?

  Holy Mary Mother of God! Neal had guided him like a child. He'd shown him the true and righteous path. And now it was time for Charley Neal to dip his bread in the sauce. There'd never be a better time. No matter how many of Flint's secrets he knew, there were others who knew as much, and even Flint couldn't be planning to get rid of everyone, could he? Having done all that Flint asked, Charley felt sure he must be well on the way to Dublin now.

  "Captain," he said, "I've been thinking. You know I've always planned to go back to Ireland one day…"

  "Have you, Charley?"

  "I have, Joe."

  "And when might this be?"

  "Well, Joe…" Neal frowned, he looked around. "Where are we going?"

  "To the ship, Charley."

  "But we're heading for the harbour mouth."

  "Are we, Charley?"

  The oarsmen pulled steadily towards deep water and the ebb tide sweeping out to sea. The boat was no more than a tiny smudge on twinkling waves under a black sky pricked with stars. When the moon went behind a cloud, the boat was invisible.

  There was a small struggle and a soft splash.

  Chapter 22

  Late evening, 24th November 1752

  The Corner Tavern

  At the junction of Church Street and Broad Street

  Charlestown, South Carolina

  The tavern's reception rooms were packed with the elite of Charlestown in their finest clothes: the governor and his lady — who were the host and hostess — the councillors and their ladies, the assemblymen, churchmen, lawyers, merchants, and all their ladies, along with every other man in the town who'd sold his soul for an invitation in the interest of advancement in colonial society, together with their ladies.

  A fortune had been spent on candles, the town's bakers had lost their flour to powder hundreds of wigs, the finest musicians in the Carolinas were playing, corks popped in volleys, wine flowed as if without cost. Outside, the streets were packed with all those who couldn't get in but had come to ogle the rich and the mighty, and especially to cheer the arrival of Commodore Sir Richard Scott-Owen and the officers of his squadron, come to save Charlestown from
rape and pillage by the French — for what other purpose could this naval presence have?

  In the midst of all this, Selena was transported nearly unto heaven, even though she knew it would be her last night in Charlestown, and that Allardyce — at Flint's orders — would be knocking at Meshod Pimenta's door in the morning to take her out to the ship. She knew all about Flint's business with the Indians, and what that meant, because Flint had told her. He'd told her earlier that evening, aboard the ship, and he'd gazed at her and opened his heart.

  "You go to the ball, my dear," he'd said. "You enjoy yourself."

  "The invitation says Mr and Mrs Garland... won't you come, Joe?"

  "Can't be done. I've three hundred savages to embark aboard this ship and Danny Bentham's, and shiploads of stores to shift. I want that done neat and nimble! I've no time for dancing, but I'm happy for you to go."

  And then he kissed her! He dared to kiss her cheek, then her chin… then her lips. He put his arms around her and held her close, and kissed her with something approaching a lover's passion… something approaching it, but not quite reaching it… which was a huge relief to Selena, who dared not reject him, but would not encourage him; not while she had strength of mind to be her own woman and make her own choices.

  So she stared up at him as, finally, he released her with a smile. The workings of his mind were a mystery, but she'd known something like this was coming ever since he'd seen her in the yellow gown. At least he wasn't a full man towards her… not yet.

  "Now," he said, "go to the ball!"

  So he stayed aboard, and in the boat pulling for the shore, she wished Charley Neal hadn't gone: headed back to Ireland, according to Flint, seizing the sudden good luck of a ship on the tide for Dublin. It was a shame, because

  Charley was kind and wise, and she could have spoken to him.

  Soon, however, she forgot the dangers all around her and began to enjoy herself in the company of Meshod and Esther Pimenta and their friends… and the delight of wearing the spectacular yellow gown… and knowing she was spectacularly beautiful, and that every man in the room was elbowing his way forward to ask her to dance! This was especially wonderful, because — while she'd grown up on such books as Tomlinson's Art of Dancing and Rameau's Le Maitre a Danser, and while she'd learned the minuet with Miss Eugenie and the maids — she'd never danced with a gentleman. Plantation nigger-women didn't do that.