Pieces Of Eight js-2

by John Drake

  It was a surprising pleasure to have women and children aboard ship. Van Oosterhout had never been to sea in a ship teeming with children. There were all ages on board, from babes in arms, to toddlers who must constantly be watched, to little boys who swarmed in the rigging and screamed in their incessant games. They were fine little fellows, bright eyed and brown-skinned, utterly unlike their hard-faced fathers, and they smiled and played and seemed endlessly happy.

  And as for the young women…

  Hmm, thought Van Oosterhout, and unconsciously glanced at Captain York, who looked pleased with himself — as well he might, for he'd got a favourite among the Indian girls. Sally, he called her, and he was taking her to bed every night, and making a great deal of noise in the doing of it… an intoxicating thought… But there was duty to be done, and Van Oosterhout completed his noon observation, then turned his telescope on the rest of the fleet.

  They were a wallowing, lumpish collection of rigs and gear, lumbering along, anxiously keeping together for the miserable reason that they feared getting lost. This amazing fact he'd learned the first time he took his observations aboard Lord Stanley and York did the same. Van Oosterhout discovered that where he thought in terms of placing a precise cross on the chart, York had more modest aims.

  "It's lead, log and latitude for me, Mr Van!" he said. "I was bred up to the coastal trade from Whitby to London, the which is in sight of land, or close by, and is sailed by learning from your dad, as I did! I can find me latitude at a pinch, but mainly I sails by finding them places again the which I has already been to, and has the knowledge of."

  "Oh?" said Van Oosterhout. "Then how did you cross the Atlantic?"

  "Why," said York, "I came out years ago, in company with other ships of the West India convoy for fear of war with the Dons. And there was plenty on board of the other ships as knew the deep waters and had sailed the West Indies afore." He shrugged. "So I followed them, mostly."

  "I see," said Van Oosterhout, realising he'd been mistaken in his assumption that others knew what he knew. "What about the other shipmasters of our fleet? Are they lead, log and latitude?"

  York grinned. "God bless you, sir! Some o' them buggers couldn't find St Paul's if they was anchored at the Tower!"

  Van Oosterhout was brought back to the present by the sound of singing. It was coming from the fo'c'sle. He looked up. The Indian girls were playing some sort of game, in a ring, holding the little children in their arms so they could pass a ball around. They laughed and sang. They were a pretty sight, and the seamen looked on and smiled.

  Just casually, and telling himself he'd no particular thought in mind, Van Oosterhout wandered down the deck, past the mainmast, past the belfry and the capstan, just idly wandering towards the singing, and the laughing. The women saw him coming and laughed all the louder. Then three young women broke away from the crowd and made a great business of chanting some sort of song, and clapping their hands and looking at him.

  Van Oosterhout stared. Patanq women were tall and slender. Their clothes — by the standards of a Protestant Dutchman — were saucy in the extreme, with skirts that showed their fine legs and tunics that didn't hide the bounce of their breasts. They wore many bright beads, and had smooth skins and wonderful slanted eyes. Van Oosterhout gulped. He didn't wish to be a libertine like Captain Foster of Lucy May with his dirty hand up a skirt. But still…

  The three girls advanced upon him, clapping and singing and stepping out some sort of dance. Those on the fo'c'sle joined in the song, and the girl in the middle smiled at Van Oosterhout, and looked him straight in the eye, and pressed something into his hands. Then the three of them ended the song with a stamp and a clap of the hands and ran off.

  Van Oosterhout looked at what she'd given him. It was a little wooden doll, neatly carved, brightly painted, very much male and very much aroused.

  "Oof!" said Van Oosterhout, and blushed bright red. But the girl smiled at him. And that night, he made as much noise as Mr York as she knelt upright on his loins in his narrow bed, pressing her buttocks on to his thighs to drive all well home, and digging her nails into his chest and biting his ears and laughing and laughing and laughing.

  And as he gazed at the long black hair swirling over naked brown shoulders, in the lantern-light, and the lovely breasts… even intoxicated with pleasure as he was, the calculating part of Cornelius Van Oosterhout's mind congratulated itself for keeping faith with Flint, because that meant keeping faith with Dreamer — and Van Oosterhout knew he wouldn't now be enjoying the favours of this delectable girl if he hadn't. He even wondered whether she was giving herself to him for precisely that reason? Doubtless they had their own forms of marriage and chastity? But who cared…

  "Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" said Van Oosterhout.

  So… a fine merry voyage it was too, until late February of the new year, when Van Oosterhout's calculations told him that the fleet would soon be running on to the northern archipelago as shown in his copy of Flint's chart. His orders from Flint were that he must on no account approach the island from any other direction, and that he must sail with utmost care, and only in daylight, and with a careful lookout for the perils ahead.

  "There, Mr York!" cried Van Oosterhout, pointing.

  "Aye!" said York, shouting in his ear. "Damned easy to run on to it!"

  Indeed," said Van Oosterhout, "but we have Flint's chart!"

  The two were swaying in Lord Stanley's fore-top with the lookouts beside them and the wind blowing so strong it was hard to speak. Behind them the whole fleet was hove to, for the deadly rocks and quicksands of the archipelago were but a few miles off, and Lord Stanley was ahead and seeking the entrance to Flint's Passage, the safe route southwards through the archipelago. Even such a navigator as Van Oosterhout couldn't pinpoint the entrance without going in to look for it.

  It took two days of hard work before Van Oosterhout was satisfied that he'd found the entrance. Meanwhile he had the fleet come to anchor in the lee of a vast sandbank that broke the force of the prevailing winds. It was no harbour, but it was better than the open seas. Then he took Lord Stanley's longboat, rigged for sail with a small crew, and with the chart on his knees, and with Captain York left in command of the fleet, Van Oosterhout entered Flint's Passage, and headed for the island.

  It wasn't easy passing through rocks and shoals, but eventually it was done, and they cleared the shallows… and there was the island! Not just a smudge on the horizon, but a clear profile of land, trees and hills. Van Oosterhout looked at it. He knew that he could find it again. He knew Flint could. But… the fingers-and-thumbs persons who steered the ships of the Patanq fleet couldn't. Not without detailed sailing instructions.

  So, he wondered, could there be advantage in this? Presumably Flint would dig up the treasure and share it out. But what if he didn't? What if something went wrong? Van Oosterhout didn't know, but it was fascinating to speculate, and the wheels turned and turned in his mind. Meanwhile, there was work to be done. Flint would have anchored in the northern inlet. Van Oosterhout steered towards it, keen to discover how things had gone for Flint and the Patanq warriors.

  Chapter 31

  Afternoon, 15th February 1753

  The woods near Flint's Camp

  The northern inlet

  Flint was happy. Everything was going well. He'd shaken off Bentham, O'Byrne and the rest. Even they left him alone when he dropped his breeches and squatted behind a tree. And as soon as they'd gone, he'd darted off to spend some time alone, to develop some ideas in his mind. But first he had to make sure his courtiers were really gone…

  Ah, there they were! He peered between the leaves and saw the backs of his ever-present followers as they wandered back to camp to find their lord and master — himself — whom they loved so dearly because only he knew where the treasure lay. Flint smiled and corrected himself, because in fact he knew the several different places where various parts of it lay, accompanied in some cases by members of that happy band who'd been so de
lighted to come ashore with their commodore to do the hard work of burying. Flint thought of their innocent faces: so coarse, so open, and so ridiculously expectant. He laughed when he thought what he'd done with them.

  Then he strolled along the beach towards the wreck of Elizabeth, keeping close under the shadow of the trees so he shouldn't be seen.

  Every day now, the savages pressed him to raise some of the treasure. Enough to pay them. Every day he pointed out that the last fort had not fallen. Ridiculously, that was accepted by Dreamer as excuse enough. And so it went on, with Flint content. He hadn't yet quite worked out how he would raise the goods and ship them aboard Walrus, and sail off leaving the island — and all those on it — but he had several good ideas, including a most ingenious plan for a frontal assault on the fort, which would trim a few dozen more off the total of Patanq warriors, of whom there were more than he needed and more than enough to be dangerous.

  That's why he had to be alone. So he could think. And he liked to come to the remains of the old Elizabeth for the memory of days past… which brought back thoughts of Silver. It was always Silver, before anything: Silver, Silver, Silver! The only man he feared. The only man he'd ever admired. The man who'd taken Selena, the island — even the damned parrot. Flint half raised a hand to his shoulder to stroke the bird that wasn't there.

  "Bah!"

  And then he smiled. He smiled with the enormous relief that all Silver's preparations had been in vain. All that planning and calculating and back-breaking labour — all of it futile! A few forts, that was all it amounted to, of which all but one had fallen. Was that really the best Silver could do? Perhaps he'd-

  "Sun Face!"

  Flint jumped as if scalded. He'd not heard. He'd not seen. Damn! Damn! Damn! It was always the same.

  Dreamer, Cut-Feather and some others had come out of nowhere, from some path in the woods. And they had a prisoner

  "Well, bless my living soul!" said Flint, for trembling wretchedly between two of the tall warriors, his arms bound tight with leather thongs, was a man he knew.

  "Good day to you, Ben Gunn!" said Flint.

  "Cap'n! Cap'n!" cried Ben Gunn, desperate in terror. "God bless you, sir, for a Christian gentlemen, and don't let these heathen take me!" He shuddered and shivered and looked around. "I knows Indians, Cap'n. I been in the Americas years ago, and I seen what they done to their prisoners!" Ben Gunn fell to his knees, with the tears rolling down his cheeks. "Don't let poor Ben Gunn come to that, Cap'n! Not him! Not you, Cap'n…" On and on he went.

  Well, thought Flint, here's Ben Gun, got hold of the wrong end of the stick! Unlike other Indians, the Patanq did not torture their prisoners. They killed and scalped them, certainly. But they didn't play with them. No need to tell Ben Gunn that, though, Flint decided.

  "Shut him up!" said Flint. Dreamer nodded and one of the Patanq clouted Ben Gunn's head a heavy smack.

  "Ugh!" said Ben Gunn, knocked half senseless.

  "We found him in the forest," said Dreamer. "He has spied on us for many days. He treads softly and moves fast, but we caught him at last." Dreamer looked at Ben Gunn. "He is clever in the forest, but his mind is broken." He turned back to Flint. "And now he begs your protection, Sun-Face. He says he is your man."

  "Mine?" said Flint, stepping forward and poking Ben Gunn with the toe of his shiny boot. "Are you mine, Ben Gunn?" He smiled his smile. "I thought you went over to Silver."

  "No! No! Not I!" said Ben Gunn, and out poured a tumbling torrent of words, which were the adventures of Ben Gunn as told by Ben Gunn. He was particularly eloquent on the subject of monkeys. Flint listened, and a possibility twinkled elusively at the back of his mind. But first he must get a firm hold on the very slippery Ben Gunn.

  "You're no use to me, Mr Gunn," he said. "I shall give you to the Patanq."

  Ben Gunn howled in terror. It was a hideous death for him: death by slow torture.

  "Or perhaps not," said Flint, once he was sure Ben Gunn had taken sufficient fright. "Dreamer — he is my man. He is under my protection. Release him."

  Ben Gunn grovelled and slobbered and kissed Flint's boots when they cut him free, and followed Flint when he walked off towards the ruined ship, and the Patanq disappeared into the forest.

  Flint found a quiet corner where the trees sheltered them from view but they could see the moss-grown timbers, and there were some rocks to sit on.

  And there Flint had a very long and most fascinating conversation with Ben Gunn and pumped him dry of every scrap of information held within his miserable memory. And in that dark and tangled place — among the disconnected jumble of facts, fears and misapprehensions — Joe Flint found some gemstones.

  Or at least they were gemstones to Flint. They were rubies, sapphires and diamonds, and this because Joe Flint perceived certain unique opportunities. He then concentrated his mind on devising a means to exploit them. The result was a plan that decent men would have despised and rejected. But Flint was proud of it. He was proud, and amazed that Ben Gunn — damaged, wretched creature that he was — should be the source of so much power.

  So Flint turned to practicalities, and began to give Ben Gunn his orders, and to make arrangements… arrangements which, to his annoyance, were interrupted by the arrival of that peerless navigator, that esteemed friend of Selena, that confidant of Cowdray, that practitioner of the Batavian art of silat: Cornelius damned Van Oosterhout. For the Dutchman had chosen that moment to land his longboat right opposite the northern inlet camp, and having disembarked he began strutting up and down, and sending men to find Captain Flint so that he might proclaim the safe delivery of the women and children of the Patanq nation.

  At first, Flint was taken aback. He had long since realised that Van Oosterhout was by far the most talented and intelligent of all his followers, and therefore the most dangerous. The last thing Flint wanted was the Dutchman joining the politics Bentham was brewing behind his back, and in any case he couldn't abide Van Oosterhout's solemn, self-satisfied face and just wanted him out of the way. But how? He could order him back to his ship, but what would he get up to there, out of Flint's sight?

  Fortunately, Flint was seized with inspiration. He greeted Van Oosterhout with smiles, and called for fruits and rum, and sent an Indian runner to bring the good news to Dreamer and Cut-Feather. Then he had a private word with the master of silat.

  "You're come not a moment too soon," said Flint.

  "Why?" said Van Oosterhout.

  "Because… the treasure is threatened!"

  Van Oosterhout's eyes made circles.

  "I can trust none but you!" said Flint.

  "Me?"

  "Yes! For there's mutiny and murder ahead, and we need new burial sites…"

  They talked for nearly an hour before Van Oosterhout was convinced. Then he nodded firmly, shook Flint's hand and set off with map, notebook and compass, on a most privileged and trusted mission: to check that the treasure was still where it should be, and to survey new sites for its re-interment, in case of need. Flint even passed over some of his own notes for guidance, and when Van Oosterhout walked off, Flint congratulated himself on a job well done.

  Van Oosterhout would be busy for weeks, especially once he'd dug up some of the treasure, and goggled over it — for Flint knew the key to Van Oosterhout. Otherwise what was he doing here? He'd had plenty of opportunity to run. With Van Oosterhout it was gold, gold, gold. And Spanish dollars, of course.

  Fortunately, he'd be on his own, sworn to secrecy, and unable to take more than a handful or two for himself. Better still, during their intense conversation, Flint had taken a close look at Van Oosterhout's face beneath the sandy whiskers, and seen how easily the Dutchman's total silence could be assured.

  And so back to Ben Gunn. Making haste, before Bentham and O'Byrne could close in, Flint found the mad creature and made completely sure that he knew what was expected of him.

  "Tell me what sort of men you must find," said Flint.

  Ben Gunn
told him.

  "And where must you take them?"

  Ben Gunn told him.

  "And what must they do?"

  Ben Gun told him.

  "And finally," said Flint, "tell me what shall happen to you, should you play me false."

  Ben Gunn shuddered. He lowered his eyes. A thin stream of terror ran from his bladder and down his skinny leg, and made a dark patch in the sand.

  "You'll give me to the savages."

  "And what if you try to run away?"

  "They'll catch me anyway."

  "And what will they do to you?"

  In a tiny voice, with eyes tight shut, and hands over his face, Ben Gunn told him. Ben Gunn knew, because Flint had told him. Flint listened and nodded and looked to the future, and saw all things smoothed and his plans going forward like a ship in a steady blow — never suspecting that another threat, one he'd thought dead and gone, was even now reaching out to grab him.

  Two bells of the forenoon watch

  15th February 1753

  Aboard HMS Oraclaesus

  The Atlantic

  The maintop of a frigate in a lively sea was lavishly provided with opportunities for a man to kill himself.

  It was a timber platform some twenty feet long by fifteen wide; rounded forward and square-cut aft (where, it must be said, there was a flimsy rail that might stop a man from going over and dropping a hundred feet to the hard deck or the hungry sea). Likewise, to either beam, the main topmast shrouds with their ratlines closed the maintop under a narrowing pyramid of black-tarred rope, making it almost impossible to go over either way. But forward, the top was entirely innocent of restraint, and inboard, where the platform admitted the great shafts of the mainmast and topmast, there were great gaps — lubbers' holes — that lay in wait for some fool to put his foot in, and proceed downwards by that swift route.