Pieces Of Eight js-2

by John Drake

  Clang-Clang! Clang-Clang! Clang-Clang! Clang-Clang!

  Peering between the trees, with his monkey cuddled to his chest, Ben Gunn saw the cheering and tears and the pride, and the jolly companionship re-made, and he near as damnit ran back to join in. But he saw Billy Bones and remembered how Billy Bones had cuffed him and threatened him with a flogging… and poor Benn Gun fell to sobbing and weeping, for he couldn't stand another dose of that.

  Chk-chk-chk! The monkey, sensing his distress, clung to him with all its might. Ben Gunn hugged it and turned and fled: swiftly, silently, barely disturbing the leaves and bushes as he passed. At least he had a shirt now, and a hat… and a spade. He had a long-hafted spade, for he'd been working on the entrenchments and had kept hold of it.

  He ran deep into the forest till he could hear nothing of Silver and his men, only the surf and the birds and the insects. When he was tired, he rested, and the monkey found fruit to eat, and later they found a stream for water… and time passed sweet and easy for Ben Gunn. Nights and days followed. He wandered. He found the monkey tribe again, and his own pet was welcomed back among chattering kindred that picked over its fur and climbed aboard Ben Gunn, and frolicked and skylarked and played.

  Some days later — Ben Gunn kept no reckoning — he found yet another sign that men had been here before. He was on high ground, by the western shore of the island, where the trees grew sparse, and the sea glittered to the horizon. Here, he found a place with no trees at all, for they'd all been felled and the stumps dug up. There were lines of crosses: squat wooden crosses, hewn from ship's timbers. Most had fallen over, but a few stood more or less upright. At one end was the caved-in remains of a little house, also of heavy timber, but moss-covered and half- flattened with age.

  "Cetemary," he said, mis-pronouncing the word, and he took off his hat. He looked around and felt at peace. To Ben Gunn, a cemetery was like a church. It was holy. It gave him the same pleasure as being in church with his mother — which he dimly remembered — but with the benefit of being out in the sunshine with the birds and the flowers.

  He walked up and down the lines of graves, peering at the crosses, which seemed to have names carved into them. Ben Gunn couldn't read very well, not having attempted the feat for many years. But he wasn't illiterate either. It just took a lot of time for him to spell out the words and to understand them.

  He pushed his way into the little house: just one room, ten foot by twenty, where the wind and the rain had penetrated for decades. There was a ruined bed with a body on it. A leathery skeleton under dust and leaves and filth, clad in rags, with some bits missing, and the rest twisted and broken… but on one narrow bone a bright green emerald twinkled in a golden ring — which was off that instant and on to Ben Gunn's finger, and Ben Gunn grinning and chuckling and merry.

  He searched further. There was quite a lot more: a chest of writing materials — pens, ink-bottles, and a leather-bound notebook — together with what looked like a bible and a prayer book. He ignored these, as well as the remains of rosary beads, and a brass crucifix — he could tell it was brass by the taste — and there were some rusty tools. But there was a good dagger in a sheath, a few gold coins, and a pair of silver-mounted pistols, still un-rusted inside a tight- shut box that he prised open with his spade. They were of antique design with external mainsprings in the Spanish style. Useless as they were without powder or shot, Benn Gunn took these too.

  That night he slept under the trees, but he came back next day, followed by some more of the monkeys, which joined in the fun of turning the ruined house inside out.

  He found no more loot and was going away in disappointment when a thought occurred to him. Perhaps some of the dead had been buried with rings on their fingers?

  It took little time to reach the first coffin, which was buried shallow, no more than three feet down. Ben Gunn scraped the earth clear with his spade and wondered how best to get inside… and then he wondered whether he really wanted to see what was inside… Hmmm… it couldn't be much worse than the dry bones in the house, could it? But the ground was dry here, and the wood of the coffin looked sound. There might be more meat inside the coffin than there'd been inside the house… Ben Gunn dithered.

  Then the emerald spoke to him from his left hand, and he raised the spade and drove it into the middle of the coffin… which surrendered with a rotten crunch, letting in the spade, and letting out such a stench as sent Ben Gunn staggering back, heaving and snorting and pawing at his face to rid himself of the contamination.

  The monkeys didn't seem to mind it so much. They perched on the shattered lid, sniffing and chattering and endlessly grooming one another's fur. But that was the end of Ben Gunn's career as a resurrectionist. He went off and found a stream and soaked himself in it to get rid of the smell.

  He didn't go back, except once to the house to check he'd missed nothing, this time taking the old notebook for curiosity, and later spending hours trying to pick the meaning out of it. After some effort he concluded that it was a diary, written by someone called de Setubal, who wrote not in English but some other language: Spanish, perhaps? And he could easily read the year dates that appeared at each entry, and which started at 1689.

  Days passed. For a while it was a pleasant time for Ben Gunn.

  There was no Billy Bones to frighten him, and he had the monkeys for company… except that they weren't proper company, not being able to talk, and he began to get hungry too, through not having proper victuals. Worse still, the monkeys fell ill. They lay in their tree-nests trembling, and developed festering spots on the palms of their hands and the soles of their feet. Ben Gunn was dreadfully afraid then, in case they should die and leave him absolutely alone — for he hated being alone — but eventually they all got better, and resumed their playing, unharmed except for tiny grey scars where the spots had been.

  Ben Gunn cuddled his favourite, caressed its little hand and noticed that the scars were just like those on his own cheeks… those left after his childhood survival from smallpox.

  Chapter 14

  Dusk, 16th October 1752

  Aboard Lucy May

  Charlestown harbour

  Dark Hand and Dreamer stood at the rail of the ship, wrapped in their blankets. They looked at the other five ships of the fleet, and they looked out to the open sea beyond the harbour. They stood in silence and wondered what to do, for there was a great unease among the Patanq, and fifty warriors stood waiting their word.

  It was not that the ship was bad or uncomfortable. There were two hundred and forty-nine Patanq aboard, and to a people accustomed to being crammed in a smoky long house, there was room enough. Nor was there the least threat from the ship's crew, who numbered only twenty-five and were not fierce men.

  The problem was that the ships had not moved since the Patanq had come aboard.

  "Do you think they truly wait for the wind?" said Dark Hand.

  "Yes," said Dreamer. "They need the wind to fill the sails, and who can command the wind?"

  "But the wind blows all the time."

  "It blows the wrong way."

  "The old women say the sailors can bring the right wind if they choose."

  "Nonsense!"

  "And the old women talk to the young women, and they talk to the warriors."

  "Then let the warriors talk to me, and not mutter in corners!"

  Dark Hand gathered his courage.

  "Dreamer… I speak to you now for the warriors. They fear that a great mistake has been made. They believe we should never have given up the homeland."

  Dreamer sighed. He closed his eyes. He looked back forty years…

  He was eight years old, it was the Time of the Planting — the year's most joyous festival, with singing, dancing and feasting, and the young women of the Sisters of the Corn running from house to house, drenching everyone with water — supposedly to drive out things evil, but actually in fun.

  It was night. The village slept behind its moat and heavy palisade: w
hole tree-trunks trimmed and set in place, with watch towers, fighting platforms and gates. Inside, there were four long houses, each a hundred paces long and twenty wide: timber-framed, bark-covered, round and smooth, highest in the middle, sloping towards each end, and cut with smoke- holes for the hearth-fires. In each house, many families slept on their benches, surrounded by kinfolk.

  It was peaceful and quiet, until the Dreamer awoke and screamed. He saw the lights that flashed, and he howled and sobbed as the pain stabbed again and again. Around him the people awoke and grumbled and coughed and spat and scratched themselves, and asked what was the noise… until they heard that the Dreamer was dreaming again. Then they fell quiet and listened, because already the child had a reputation.

  The Dreamer's father and mother were young. They were inexperienced. But the grandmother was a powerful matriarch, and she summoned her even more powerful brother, Teller-of- Stories, leader of the False-Faces. This revered wise man got up in the middle of the night, donned his mask of office, and hurried to the Dreamer's bedside. It was dark in the long house, with more shadow than light from the fires, and people were clustered around the bed where the boy lay moaning and vomiting into the bowl his mother had put beside him.

  "Ah," said Teller-of-Stories, seeing this great crowd all talking and pointing and looking over one another's shoulders in awe and in fear. And the old man nodded in satisfaction that so many were here to see his magic.

  So he sat on the ground by the child, and he rocked to and fro, and he chanted a powerful poem, and shook a tortoiseshell rattle, and the people echoed the responses… After a while, the child was comforted and ceased to howl. When he opened his eyes and saw the red mask, and recognised the noble figure sitting beside him, he smiled.

  "Ahhhhhh," said the people, and they smiled too. And when dawn came, and the sun shone, the people entirely lost their fear of what the little Dreamer might have dreamed this time. But later, when Teller-of-Stories talked with Dreamer and heard what the child had seen, even Teller-of-Stories trembled. And then he thought deeply and summoned all his considerable knowledge and experience, and gave his explanation.

  "The things you have seen are not of our nation," he said, "nor any nation of the Iroquois peoples. We have no 'Satan', we have no 'Hell' — this is nonsense from the priests of the white man! You have heard these things from them."

  "No, Teller-of-Stories," said the child, "I saw them myself."

  "It is not possible."

  "It is. I saw Satan."

  Teller-of-Stories sighed.

  "There is no Satan. Listen now to the truth!" He closed his eyes and began to tell one of the Great Truths: "In the beginning, the daughter of Sky Woman had twins…" But then he looked at the child, and smiled. "You know this already. You tell it."

  Dreamer nodded. Of course he knew. Everyone knew. He spoke:

  "She had twins. One was called Upholder-of-heaven, Sky- Grasper and Sapling. He was the right-handed twin who made all that is straight and beautiful in the world. The other was not born but cut his way out of his mother. He was called Warty-Skin, Ugly-Face and Stone-Blade. He was the left- handed twin, who made all that is crooked and ugly in the world."

  "You see?" said Teller-of-Stories. "There is balance in the world. Beauty balances ugliness, but goodness and badness are the acts of men! There is no god of evil."

  "There is," said Dreamer. "He is Satan. I have seen him."

  Dreamer opened his eyes and returned to the present. The dream of Satan was only the first of many dreams. They had taught him much about the power of the white man. Now he turned to the warriors, who stood apart in the gathering dark, afraid to approach him.

  "Come here, my brothers," he said. "Come close and we shall sit down together." So they came and they sat. They sat in council as if around a fire, and Dreamer spoke.

  "Who says that we should not have left the homeland?"

  It was a long council. Every man spoke who wished to, and Dreamer listened to them all, not seeking to argue or interrupt.

  "Now listen to me," he said when the last man was finished, and a proper silence had shown that his words had been considered.

  "You say that we are strong? That we are one of the seven nations… the Mohawk, the Oneida, the Patanq, the Onondaga, the Cayuga, the Seneca and the Tuscarora?"

  "Yes!" they said.

  "And I say that if we were seventy nations the white man would still be stronger, because he makes iron and we do not." He looked at them. "Or perhaps I am wrong? Perhaps there is one here that can show me how to make a musket? And the powder and lead to feed it?"

  They were impressed. But this was just the beginning. Dreamer had much more to say and it was fearfully convincing.

  "So," he said, when he was done, "we are finished here. There is nothing for us in our homelands. Believe me, for I have seen it! Within our children's lifetime there will be no long houses, no nations, no confederacy. We shall be gone — " he shrugged "- except as mice, in the corners the white man does not want."

  Silence.

  "So we must move the nation," he said.

  "Yes," they said.

  "But now, you say, 'If we must move, then we should go by land.'"

  "Yes," said some.

  "And march through the lands of the other nations — when already the confederacy is failing, and trust is dying? No, brothers! They would not let us pass, and we are the smallest of all the nations and could not fight our way through."

  Silence.

  "So we must go by sea. We have bought ships with gold. It is the only way to save the nation. We shall go north to open lands where we shall make a new homeland. We shall survive! Listen, my brothers, while I tell you of the new lands we shall win…"

  They smiled and made themselves comfortable, for Dreamer painted wonderful pictures with words.

  It was dawn before the council ended. Dreamer had calmed the doubters: a great achievement, for his plan demanded unimaginable courage of a land-locked, forest people. And all this he did with the same arguments that he'd used before, and would doubtless have to use again, for it is commonplace that men must hear the truth many times before they will believe it.

  Finally, with these great matters settled for the present, and with the sun rising out of the ocean, and the women bringing food and drink, Dreamer should have relaxed. But he couldn't because, as so often it did when the work was done, blindness struck the centre of his eyes, and the shimmering crescents flickered yellow, violet and black… and Dreamer knew that he would suffer.

  And in the suffering there came another vision of Satan.

  And Dreamer saw the Hell that, despite all his efforts, Satan was bringing to the Patanq nation.

  Chapter 15

  Two bells of the forenoon watch (c. 9 a.m. shore time)

  13th November 1752

  Aboard Walrus

  Charlestown harbour

  "Don't make me, Joe," said Selena. "Don't make me…" Her intuition had told her to ask nicely. And it was working: Flint was hesitating. She was wildly upset, bitterly resenting being forced to do something she hated, and she wanted to lose her temper, and scream and stamp. But she didn't… just.

  She looked at him, sitting on the seat that ran under the stern windows of his cabin. He sighed and shifted and looked back at her. There were just the two of them alone together, and he was deeply worried, but he wasn't threatening.

  He'd changed. On the island he'd been mad and dangerous. But he wasn't like that now, especially after yesterday on the ramparts. Now he was trying to square what she wanted with what he wanted. And that was new.

  Then, to her amazement, he got up and took her hand, and looked straight into her eyes… and smiled. He'd never done that before. To him, she'd never been more than a possession: an object of lust, like the paintings of naked flesh that gentlemen kept in their private rooms. He was incredibly handsome when he smiled, and — being dangerous — he was exciting too. Nobody seeing that smile would ever guess what
he was really like. Selena wondered what was he really like?

  But then he shook his head.

  "I'm sorry, my chick," he said. "Pimenta's too important to insult. I need his help and you've got to go — and that's my last word in the matter."

  Then there was stamping and shouting. Plenty of it, on both sides. But in the end, Selena found herself in Walrus's launch, being rowed ashore by four hands, with Tom Allardyce in command, plucked of his cutlass and pistols and jammed into landsman's clothes. Selena may have been unhappy, but Allardyce was terrified.

  "What if I'm seen, Cap'n?" he'd said. "Seen by them as knows me? I'd be took and hanged!" But it didn't take long to convince Mr Allardyce that the fury of those ashore was the least of his worries. Flint achieved this by gripping the reluctant sailor by the throat and explaining that he shouldn't fear a hanging, only what would happen to him should he disobey orders here and now. After that, Allardyce kept quiet, even when he was ordered to follow Miss Selena like a fart- catcher once they were ashore, and under no circumstances to go ahead or alongside of her, because today she weren't Miss Selena at all, but Mrs Garland.

  The launch made fast to Middle Bridge, one of the big wharves that stood out on piles over the Cooper River. There were proper stairs up to its deck, where Selena and Allardyce were transported out of their misery by the heaving life of one of the New World's most prosperous towns.

  Even the bridge itself had a market and shops, the city walls stretched out on either hand, and beyond that, fine brick buildings reared up in ranks, chimneys smoked, spires rose, flags waved, dogs barked, and there was an enormous bustle and jostle of people: old and young, black and white, rich and poor, master and servant, ladies in gowns and tradesmen in aprons, all stepping out before swinging inn-signs, painted shopfronts, paved sidewalks, bellowing hawkers and bright- striped barbers' poles.