by John Drake
"Stop it!" she cried, breaking into Flint's hideous lecture. "D'you think I could be part of that? D'you think the whole world is like you? D'you think I don't know a better man? Get away from me! I despise you!"
Flint blinked. His face went white. He shook with rage. He had reached out. He'd reached for something he wanted badly, never dreaming it wasn't his for the taking, and he'd been scorched, sizzled and seared, right down to the bone.
Danny Bentham was watching from the trees, teeth grinding in rage. It was all the worse because Selena had forced Bentham to face the loathsome truth that her lusting after other women was cause for derision so far as the rest of the world was concerned.
So when Selena cried out and pulled away from Flint, and when he seized her and began to slap her face with the full swing of his arm, Danny Bentham was already running forward with drawn steel and lunging at Flint with all the strength of her seventy-seven inches and fifteen stone.
"Bastard!" she cried, but should have kept quiet. Either that or move a lot faster, for the same rapier-thrust - delivered a split-second earlier - would have sliced into Flint's spine and out through his sternum. Instead, Flint heard, and saw, and a cutlass flashed, and the rapier was parried, and Bentham stumbled and nearly went over.
"Ugh!" cried Flint, "Bang!" cried one of his pistols, and missed, and then whizzed as he threw it, spinning and empty, at Bentham's head. Clash! It was cut from the air by Bentham's blade as she stamped and came on again, stabbing at Flint's legs, and Flint jumping clear, and hacking shallow into Bentham's sword arm.
"Aaaaah!" screamed Bentham.
Bang! Flint's second pistol - pulled left-handed - shot flame, smoke and a ball that tore through Bentham's scalp, scoring blood and flesh. Then Bentham was coming forward and thrusting left and right and dripping blood, and Flint was staggering back under such an onslaught as he'd never faced before, from a huge opponent with a vastly greater reach than his own, and Bentham shrieking and roaring and cursing and damning, who'd fought men face-to-face all her life and had never been beaten, and was the full, raging, blinding equal of Flint in lunatic, animal ferocity.
But Flint recovered like lightning. Dropping his cutlass, he ducked under her swinging arm and shoulder-charged with all his strength, knocking Bentham over. The two went down struggling, pummelling, kicking, biting and gouging, and Flint pulled a razor-edged knife from his sleeve and tried repeatedly to get the point under Bentham's ribs, and was repeatedly fended off, and so searched elsewhere, and sliced sharp and accurate into Bentham's left thigh, opening the great artery that ran alongside of her femur.
"Ow!" said Bentham, more in anger than pain, for the wound didn't hurt all that much. But she soon slackened her grip and Flint shoved clear, and jumped up, and leapt back, and staggered away, safe from all harm.
And there he stood, panting and gasping with the sweat dripping off his nose, as Danny Bentham's heart did all the hard work of killing her by pumping her life's blood straight out through the side of her leg with enough force to spatter the sand for a good three fathoms all around.
It didn't take long. A couple of minutes and the twitching, wriggling body gave up twitching and wriggling… and stopped groaning and damning… and breathing… and lay quiet.
"Huh!" said Flint, when he'd got his breath back, and he walked over and savagely kicked the late Captain Bentham. Damnation! he thought. This would mean trouble with Bentham's crew, especially O'Byrne. He turned to Selena, suddenly penetrated with guilt for what he'd done to her, and fumbled for words to explain, to beg forgiveness, to win back something - anything - other than rejection. But it was too late. Selena was gone.
* * *
Chapter 33
25th February 1753
Aboard Oraclaesus
The southern anchorage
Oraclaesus crept warily towards a fine natural harbour enclosed in a curving sweep of white sand fringed with trees, with Hastings and Povey in the maintop hysterically yelling down to their superiors that this was indeed Flint's island, the very one and only - bugger them blind - and this was the southern anchorage, and another anchorage - not so good - was to the north where the wreck of the Elizabeth must be lying - God damn the pair of them if it weren't - and there was the bloody damn stupid blockhouse they'd been made to build by Flint, and where he'd caned their precious arses for pointing out it was a waste of sodding time, and…
"Hallo!" said Povey. "What's that?"
"Where?" said Hastings.
"There! It's a bloody fort. Earthworks, guns an' all!"
"God bugger and beach me, so it is!"
"That weren't there before!"
"Well, it bloody-well is now!"
"I'll go below and tell the captain, shall I?" said Povey.
"Aye-aye, sir," said Hastings who was the senior, but in his excitement revealed a deeper truth.
On the quarterdeck, Commodore Scott-Owen noted the presence of such matters as forts and blockhouses, but without immediate interest. He had a vastly complex task to complete: the getting of four vessels into an unknown harbour without beaching or stranding any of them.
Being his calm self again - outwardly - he left the execution of these practical matters exclusively to his subordinates. But all responsibility sat exclusively upon himself, for it was himself first and foremost whom their lordships would break, should any of this expensive and beautiful squadron be lost without good reason. So, while Scott-Owen knew he had good officers and good crews, and while he sensibly kept out of their way, he wrenched his guts into agonised knots, worrying and worrying and worrying as the work was done.
Boats were launched and sent ahead, sounding the way. Leaper led the squadron, with Oraclaesus, Bounder and Jumper following in her wake. Guns were run out and matches lit in case of eventualities. Marines were mustered with sixty rounds, canteens filled and three days' rations packed into their knapsacks, and every tradesman from purser to carpenter prepared his list of stores, for no opportunity should ever be lost to make these good on landfall.
The most pressing need was for fresh water, with heavy work to be done in bringing up the water butts from the ground tiers down below, and filling them ashore in the streams Mr Hastings and Mr Povey said were easily found, then hoisting their ponderous weight back aboard. The urgency of this latter task was particularly acute for the sloops, which were thereby prevented from cruising the island at once to search for Flint's ships as Scott-Owen would have wished. So this too had to be allowed for and planned for, to be undertaken the very moment the squadron had anchored.
Thus there followed the most wonderful display of disciplined chaos as the hundreds of men aboard the four ships darted this way and that, busy in their labours, doing a dozen things at once… and never ever getting in each other's way. With the exception of Scott-Owen, every creature aboard had some vital task to perform; even the ships' cats were on duty against vermin stowaways.
"Commodore, sir?" said Captain Baggot of Oraclaesus, passing through the press, and touching his hat in salute.
"Captain!" said Scott-Owen, delighted to have some role, but instantly adopting his pose of calm. "Ah-hem!" he said, and folded his hands behind his back.
"Here's the list, sir," said Baggot. "The landing party, sir."
"Ah! Show me!"
"Here, sir… One hundred seamen and all fifty marines from this ship…"
"Good, good!"
"With seventy-five men each from the sloops."
"Good!"
"Making a total of three hundred and seventy-five men, sir."
"Excellent! And a brace of pistols to each seaman? Not just one each?"
"Indeed, sir. And muskets, too, for as many as possible."
"And cutlasses sharpened?"
"Indeed, sir!"
"And shining?"
"Indeed, sir!"
"Excellent! Never neglect that, Captain Baggot!"
"Indeed not, sir! The moral effect, sir! Gleaming blades, sir!"
The c
ommodore nodded, the captain saluted… and went about his busy business, leaving Scott-Owen to go back to his pacing of the deck, and his worrying, and his looking at the island and worrying some more.
Later, once all preparations had been made that could be made, the furious activity aboard the four vessels reduced to one, dull, heavy task, for the wind had failed and the squadron had to be brought in by kedging. This was a tremendous labour of many hours duration, with each ship sending a boat ahead with a kedge anchor, and dropping the anchor, and then hauling in the cable by the capstan… and then raising the anchor and sending it forward again… and then the same thing over again… and then again… and again… such that the sun was sinking by the time the job was finally done, and the squadron neatly moored within cannon shot of the beach.
At that stage, the hands were sent to their supper, for there could be no landing in the dark. Not on an unknown island.
So the entire squadron, from commodore to cooper, from captain to carpenter, sat down to a merry meal and made enough noise to be heard from end to end of the anchorage as they bawled out shanties and toasted every jolly thing they could think of. They particularly toasted that most wonderful, beloved and splendid system whereby ships and treasure captured in His Majesty's service are condemned by a Court of Admiralty and the value - some of it, anyway - distributed among the officers and men concerned, as prize money.
They drank a toast to "Prize!" because two mighty assumptions were held by every man of the squadron. First, that Captain Flint and his ships and men were somewhere on or about this island - an assumption for which there was very little evidence. Second, that Captain Flint, being a famous pirate, was in possession of a vast fortune - an assumption for which there was no evidence whatsoever, but which was a beloved and unchallengeable item of faith.
Thus it was incredible good fortune for the squadron that both assumptions were absolutely correct, and that - even without taking into account the men left aboard the squadron's ships - their landing force alone, being three hundred and seventy- five men, was more numerous than the entire force ashore, including Flint's men, Silver's men and Dreamer's men combined.
All they had to do now was find Flint, persuade him to divulge the location of his treasure, and they'd every man jack of them be rich. What could go wrong with so simple an expectation as that? How could Flint prevail over so many?
Night, 25th February 1753
Flint's camp
The northern inlet
Flint crept through the camp. He stepped over and around the snoring bodies. He circled the smouldering campfires and the dark tents. He wasn't as silent as a Patanq, but silent enough to leave these hogs in their snorting slumber. And as for the sentries, they saw him and saluted and turned back to their duties. After all, he was their captain and their leader. Why shouldn't they let him pass? Why shouldn't they remain silent and not call out a challenge when he cheerfully smiled and put a finger to his lips. There were men asleep, after all.
He found O'Byrne's tent. He slid inside. He smelt the foul breath and the fug, and dropped on his knees beside the neat camp-bed that Hercules's people had built for their first mate, who was now on his back with his mouth open, and Flint thankful that the kindly darkness hid the display of revolting bad teeth and bad gums, and a thick-furred tongue.
He put a hand over O'Byrne's mouth and gripped O'Byrne's right hand, where it cuddled O'Byrne's constant and faithful bed-fellow: a long, sharp dagger. Flint gripped hard enough to keep the hand still, but not so hard as to be a threat.
"Urrr!" said O'Byrne, and two pale eyes opened over the bulbous, rum-swollen nose.
"Shhh!" said Flint, "Captain Bentham needs you!" And he withdrew his hand, and hesitated, and thought of Billy Bones, upon whose shirt he'd have wiped the snot and slobber from his palm… but not Mr O'Byrne's shirt. No! There was a need for care with him.
"What d'ye fuckin' mean, in the middle of the fuckin' night?" growled O'Byrne. But he didn't use the knife and he didn't shout.
"Mr O'Byrne," said Flint, and looked around as if in fear of eavesdroppers, "we're going to need some help, Danny Bentham and I! And we thought first of you. We thought of you before anyone!" But O'Byrne wasn't so easily led.
"Where's the cap'n?" he said, brimming with suspicion, and he sat up and pulled on breeches and boots. "What's afoot?"
"Ah…" said Flint, with a sly grin, and O'Byrne stopped dead, and glared at him. Careful, careful, careful, thought Flint. "Truth is, Mr O'Byrne, Danny and I were raising a little of… the goods."
"Oh?" said O'Byrne, his eyes widening at the introduction of this wonderful thought: the thought of thoughts compared with which there is no other thought. "The goods, you say?" he licked his lips, but frowned. "And why wasn't I told?"
"Shhh!" said Flint, and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Because the agreement was between Danny and myself, privately. If he'd told you, then I'd have had to tell Allardyce, and then everyone would've known!"
"Oh, would they now?" said O'Byrne. "So where's the cap'n?"
"Fallen in the blasted hole, and I can't get him out, great hulking fellow that he is!" Flint grinned. He winked. He worked every last ounce of his charm. "But he sent you this as a little something for yourself!" Flint reached into his pocket and drew out a leather purse, which he tipped out on to O'Byrne's grimy bed.
O'Byrne goggled and gaped… and became heart, soul, mind and strength committed to the enterprise in hand, for there lay a dozen gold doubloons - each one worth fifteen to twenty dollars - together with a string of pearls and three big rubies!
Instinctively, he grabbed them and fondled them, and loved them, and kissed them, and bit one of the coins… and grinned, and stuffed everything back in the purse, and put the purse in his own pocket, and finished his dressing and stuck his knife in his boot, and took up his usual pistols and cutlass, and smiled his gap-toothed, rotting smile… and got up as Flint beckoned, and followed him like a dog.
And so, out of the camp past a sentry that Flint knew was asleep, and into the forest, along a path beaten by many feet that led southward towards Silver's forts, and finally to a dark, quiet place where a hole had been dug.
"Cap'n, sir!" cried O'Byrne, and ran eagerly forward…
Later Flint returned alone, with a handkerchief bound round his left hand, where he'd been just a little careless. He was carrying a spade and was cheerful. Bentham's crew would follow him now. They already stood in awe of the famous Captain Flint. He'd have to speak to them, of course, and he rehearsed the tale of the tragic falling out between Bentham and O'Byrne, and how they'd grappled and gone into a stream and been washed away… or perhaps fallen off a cliff… or flown to fairyland in the arms of Queen Titania? What did it matter? A glimpse of gold would bring them round, and the selfsame purse that had persuaded Mr O'Byrne was already back in Flint's pocket, standing by for further duties.
And so it was. And Joe Flint replaced Danny Bentham and Brendan O'Byrne as if they'd never been, and - the actual words occurred to Flint - Bentham's crew became jolly companions one and all with Flint's own crew, and lived in happy expectation of riches for two whole days.
Night, 25th February 1753
A lonely place
The island
Van Oosterhout sat by his campfire with his arms round his knees and his head bowed. It was black dark beyond the firelight with no friendly creatures within miles; but he was too deep in thought to worry about any hostile ones that might be creeping, now that the sun had gone to bed.
"Kalf!" he said, and "Oetlul!" and repeated it in the English that had now become so familiar: "Idiot!" he said. "Bloody idiot!" For he was sure that Flint had made a fool of him. It only remained to work out why.
Van Oosterhout stirred the fire with a stick, and put on more wood for a better light. He reached into his knapsack and took out Flint's notes, as if yet another look at the neat writing would reveal why Flint had sent him wandering round the island to check on burial sites so artful
ly chosen, so utterly secure and so completely unvisited by anyone other than Van Oosterhout.
And they were the true sites. Oh yes! Van Oosterhout had tested that with his spade. He'd even - purely in the cause of philosophical satisfaction - opened some of the chests to take a modest sample… one that now weighed heavy in the bottom of the knapsack. And then he'd re-buried and made everything smooth, and had re-planted the stringy grass, and had scattered twigs and branches overall, as if by nature not artifice.
In fact, growing suspicious as to the true reason for his quest, Van Oosterhout hadn't even bothered to dig after the first two sites. It seemed pointless; besides it was heavy work and he couldn't carry away more than he'd already got. So he'd just stood and looked at the secret places, and worried. And that was days ago. Since then he'd been wasting time on the other half of Flint's orders: seeking out new burial sites, of which he'd found plenty… but why?
"Stront!" he said. "Shit!" He fiddled with his boar's-tusk moustaches and stroked his beard. Why was he sent on this fool's errand? It couldn't be that Flint just wanted him out of the way, could it? More important, why would Flint give him such knowledge? And was it wise - was it safe - to share Flint's secrets? Van Oosterhout remembered standing on the plank with the ocean below and a pike at his breast, and Flint's excited, delighted eyes as he made ready to push.
A spasm of real fear shook Van Oosterhout and he looked out into the night, and resolved to give up these dangerous, solitary wanderings and get back to the main camp as soon as it was light. Then at least there'd be other eyes to see what Flint might do, and he'd not be alone and vulnerable as he slept.
Finally, as on each night of his life, he closed his eyes and asked the Good Lord to forgive him his sins, and so found a moment of peace before falling asleep.