Pieces Of Eight

Chapter 12

Captain Flint was surprised. He was surprised because Mr Meshod Pimenta had finally said something surprising.

So far this morning, Joe Flint, Charley Neal and Selena had toured — in succession — the Ashley Bastion, The Pallisades, Granville's Bastion, a bastion whose name Flint had forgotten, and had gazed upon a twelve-foot moat. All the while, Pimenta had refused to discuss business, lecturing instead on the enormous, concrete-faced earthworks and the great numbers of guns that made the walled city of Charlestown one of the most powerful fortifications in the entire British colonies. When he was not doing that, he was praising the city for its energy and resourcefulness in recovering from the hurricane, which — he said — had thrown it flat on its back in September.

Charley Neal had arranged the meeting and Flint was in his shore-going rig: plain hat and coat and no weapons — at least none visible. He'd insisted on having Selena in tow, dressed in some plain but respectable women's clothes he'd found for her, because he was jealous of Van Oosterhout and Cowdray and wouldn't leave her on the ship with them. He'd even acquired a nice respectable name for the occasion; in

Charlestown he was Captain Garland, that being Uncle Peter's name, who'd first taken him to sea, and his mother's maiden name besides. Pimenta, though, knew exactly who he was.

To make matters worse, it was a horrible day: grey, cold, drizzling with rain, and the waters of the Cooper River flowing dark and dismal. Flint, unused to tolerating fools, was heavy with dull rage with Pimenta's endless prattle about the great world war that was coming, the war which according to him would be the conclusion of all previous colonial wars: King George's War, Queen Anne's War, and the rest.

Pimenta said this would be the final fight for the North American continent. He said the Catholic French would march down from Montreal with beating drums. He said the Catholic Spaniards would march up from Florida with banners flying. He said the heathen Indians would fall upon the loser with scalping knives.

Flint was bored. War between various combinations of Britain, France and Spain was the natural condition of the world he knew. He could imagine no other state of affairs. All he cared about was raising a loan so he could hire ships and men to re-take his island. But Pimenta spoke only of war… until Neal and Selena hung back to look at one of the big rampart guns, which she then proceeded to explain to him, Selena now being knowledgeable about such things where he was not, to his considerable amusement and admiration.

Then Pimenta surprised Flint.

The short, fat young man, in his expensive, untidy clothes, stuck a finger under his hat, ran it through his curly black hair, scratched his head, and stopped talking. He stared at Selena, and sidled up to Flint, coming far closer than Flint liked. He took Flint's arm and whispered:

"Nice little nigger-bitch you got there. Have you thought of selling?"

"Nigger?" said Flint. "Where?" He saw only Selena.

"Her!" said Pimenta. "How much… to a friend?"

"Selena?" said Flint. "Sell Selena? As a slave?" At that moment Meshod Pimenta's life hung on a thread, for Flint was struck by a lightning bolt of emotion at this gross insult to the woman that he… the woman that he… that he… that he…

Pimenta survived only through Flint's inability to recognise, to define and to accept.

"Ooof!" said Pimenta, stepping back with hand to mouth. Flint was positively fizzing with anger, like a bomb with a lit fuse. In such a mood there were few men alive who could look Flint in the eye without being paralysed by terror, and Pimenta felt his legs quivering beneath him.

Fortunately for him, Neal had been listening. Charley Neal was sharper than Flint knew. He'd only been brought along from Savannah because Flint needed a bridge to the money- men, but Neal saved Flint's plans and his neck by darting forward, grabbing Flint's arm and linking it with Selena's. He then hustled them away together and took Pimenta aside for a lecture of his own.

In the unthinking instant, Flint threw his arms around Selena, turned his back on Pimenta, and trembled as he stroked her cheek, ignoring the amazement of those citizens of Charlestown who beheld a white man embracing a black woman. But their amazement was nothing beside Selena's, for she'd seen Pimenta's leering face and guessed what he wanted, and realised that Flint was protecting her. He who'd only ever shown a covetous lust that he couldn't even consummate! Now he was holding her with fierce passion, and physically placing himself between her and danger.

Flint was unusually quiet after that. He kept looking at Selena, and finding excuses to touch her, which was unwelcome in the extreme to Selena for fear of where this might lead. But she'd grown fast and far when it came to understanding Joe Flint — even exercising a degree of control over him — so while she gave no sign of favour at his attentions, she didn't flinch or pull away but waited to see what opportunities might present from this new behaviour.

Flint turned nasty again when they went to board the launch. Alan Morton, Flint's quartermaster, who was in charge of the boat, stood forward with his hat in his hands, ducking and bobbing and grovelling.

"Cap'n, sir," he said, "one o' the hands has run."

"Run?" said Flint. "What d'you mean, run?"

"Hopped ship, Cap'n, sir. Deserted, sir."

Flint looked into the boat. There should have been four hands sitting with oars vertical, awaiting orders. There were only three. And they were avoiding his eye.

"Who knows about this?" said Flint.

"It were Tommy Farrell, Cap'n, sir," said Morton. "Had his trug in the boat, Cap'n, sir, and legged it."

Flint scowled. He reached out and took Morton by the scruff of his shirt.

"Joe!" said Neal. "Don't. It'll draw attention."

"Will it, though?" said Flint, and squeezed Morton's throat. "Tommy Farrell, eh? What if he blabs?"

"Dammit, Joe," said Neal, "do you think half Charlestown don't know who you are? It don't make no difference what Farrell says!"

"Farrell?" said Flint, and let go of Morton's throat. "Well, he's no great loss! Farrell's one of the ship's 'white mice', that none of the rest will have at their mess-table." He smiled slowly at Morton, who dared to sigh with relief. "But it's stopped grog for you, my lad, till you learn to keep order among the hands." Morton shed tears, Flint boarded the boat, and Farrell was forgotten.

Later, as the launch pulled out to Walrus where she lay at anchor among the forest of masts in Charlestown harbour, Neal — so far as he dared — read the rule book to Flint concerning Meshod Pimenta. He was a brave man to do so, for Flint, Selena and he were huddled in the sternsheets under a tarpaulin at the time, and they were damp and miserable with cold.

"He's the biggest merchant in Charlestown, Joe," said Neal.

"He's a tight-fisted Hebrew," said Flint.

"And I'm a papist! Cormac O'Neal, I was christened."

"'Tain't the same. He's too mean to talk business!"

"Joe," said Neal, greatly daring, "in the first place it ain't easy to find men that wants to deal with you…" Flint's eyes blinked and Neal gulped in fright. "You've got a reputation, Joe, so you've got to offer a sweetener. Pimenta wouldn't talk business 'cos you wouldn't do what I said. You wouldn't tell him about the island."

"Nor will I!" said Flint, and fell silent. Charley Neal groaned in despair for the unravelling of all his diligent diplomacy.

"Charley," said Selena, "what about Bentham? In Savannah you said we might see him here."

"Danny boy?" said Neal. "Danny Bentham?" He sat up in the launch, peered among the dark hulls and spider-web rigging of the dozens of ships moored in the harbour. Neal had a sharp eye for ships, keen as a seaman's.

"There — " he said, pointing over the cold water "- the snow Hercules: three hundred tons, bearing ten six-pounders, two brass nines, and about thirty men. That's Danny's flagship. And alongside of it, there's his second vessel, the sloop Sweet Anne: Captain Lewis Parry, a hundred and eighty tons, bearing eight six-pounders, six four-pounders, and about twenty men."

"Snow?" said Selena. "Like in winter, in the north? How's that different from a sloop?" She was fast learning the arcane naming of ships, but this was a new one.

"Well, a sloop, you know," said Flint, "being a two-masted vessel, handy and fast, and usually of no great size." She nodded. "A snow is also two-masted, but strongly built, with an auxiliary mast stepped a few feet aft of the mainmast, on which the gaff is set."

"Hmm," said Selena, "but why does Captain Bentham have only fifty men, in two vessels? "That's not many for a gentleman of fortune!"

Flint nodded in approval. "That's my little chick!" he said, and turned to Neal. "My lady is right. It's not many men."

"Ah," said Neal, "Danny's had some bad luck."

"What sort?" said Flint.

"This and that," said Neal. "But he's got two good ships. And, he's a man in need. So he'll meet you. But for God's sake, be sweet, Joe!"

"Isn't he a pirate?" said Selena, looking at the great number of guns on the walls and bastions of Charlestown, and the Union Jack that flew over them. "Why don't they sink him?"

"There's good reasons!" said Neal. "This isn't Savannah, where anything goes, but if a captain knows people, and he comes in nice and quiet, and brings letters of introduction…" Charley shrugged. "Just as we've got a letter from the Governor of Savannah, Danny — " he nodded at Hercules "- well, Danny's got one from Sir Wyndham Godfrey of Upper Barbados, who'd oblige Old Nick himself for the usual fee."

Flint studied Bentham's ships.

"Those two, with Walrus, would answer my purpose."

"Aye," said Neal, "but Danny won't do it for the love of you."

"I know," said Flint. "And it comes back to ready money. So how did you say farewell to Mr Pimenta?"

"Ahhhh…" said Neal. "Hmmm…"

"Well?"

"Now you'll appreciate, Joe, that you made it hard for me?"

"Perhaps."

"No, but you did. You scared the shite out of the poor man."

"Bear up and shake a reef, Charley! Get on with it."

"Well, I told him Miss Selena is your wife…"

"What?" said Flint.

"Huh!" said Selena.

"And I went so far as to say that there is a very great deal of money involved in your business, and all of it in ready coin or precious metal."

Flint scowled. One of the oarsmen — who'd seen that expression before, and knew what might follow — missed his stroke and went over in a rumbling clatter of confusion. The boat swerved.

"Avast there, you no-seaman lubber!" cried the stopped- grog Morton, happy to take out his misery on another. "Do that again and I'll kick my boot heel-deep up your bastard arsehole!"

Clunk… Clunk… Clunk… the stroke resumed.

"Joe," said Neal, "I didn't mention the island, or John Silver, or anything. But if there isn't gold in this for Pimenta, then he won't touch us. He knows who you are and what you are." Neal raised a hand in defence. "Joe, don't give me that look! This is a very big man. You're only safe from the guns of Charlestown because he knows you. You and Danny Bentham both."

"Huh!" said Flint. "So what does this big man say to me?"

"He says you're invited to his house for dinner with some other gentlemen this afternoon at three," said Neal, and looked at Selena. "And Mrs Garland is invited to call upon Mrs Pimenta tomorrow, the which is an astonishing act of condescension towards a lady of colour and shows how much Pimenta is interested."

"Good!" said Flint.

"What shall I wear?" said Selena.

"To freedom, gentlemen!" said Meshod Pimenta, raising a glass when the meal was done and the port going round. The dining room was the biggest in Pimenta's splendid residence, a town- house equal to any in London and built on classic Palladian lines.

"Freedom!" they said, and drank to it.

There were eight men round the table, all in their finest embroidered coats, silk stockings, diamond-buckled shoes, and Flint was the most splendid of them all: gleaming, shining and charming. He was surprised to note that, while two of the guests were Sephardic Jews like Pimenta, the rest were gentiles — merchants from the top rank of Charlestown society — and all parties easy and comfortable together.

"I am three generations a Carolinian," said Pimenta. "My father and myself born here, and my grandfather — God rest him — came as an infant, loyal to no other land. Thus I pray for the time when the democracy of the Greeks reigns in Carolina and we shall rule ourselves as free men!"

"Enough!" said one of his friends, smiling. "No republicanism tonight, Pimenta. Spare us this day at least! Here's health to our sovereign, say I. Gentlemen… the king!"

"The king!" cried the self-same men and drained their glasses, Pimenta among them. But he wasn't done.

"Delacroix — " he said, turning to the young man who'd toasted the king, "- you're a modernist, so you must be a lover of freedom."

"What?" said Delacroix.

"Yes," said Pimenta, "your plantation is the biggest in the colony. You are the future!"

"Am I?" said Delacroix, who was not the brightest man present.

"Indeed," said Pimenta. "This colony was founded on the Indian trade — " he pointed to the magnificent ceiling above them, painted in celebration of colonial trade, depicting idealised noble savages exchanging skins and furs for knives and blankets — "but all that's past. The Indians are an obstacle now, not an opportunity. They can't be put to work; they love to fight, and they're dangerous!"

"Aye," said his friends.

"Which is why we were pleased to be rid of the Patanq," said Pimenta, warming to his subject. "We need to be rid of them, for the future — the modern way — is the importation of blacks to raise rice, cotton, sugar and tobacco. That will make the colony rich and will give us freedom!"

"Aye," they said.

"And what about the blacks?" said Flint.

"What about them?" said Pimenta.

"Shall they be free?"

"Sir!" Pimenta smiled. "Shall our cattle be free? And our horses?"

Everyone laughed, including Flint. He'd only asked for devilment.

Later, when Pimenta's friends were admiring his new billiard table — imported at great expense from England — Pimenta had a private word with Flint. Thanks to Charley Neal's intercession that morning, he'd overcome his fright at Flint's anger, and had managed to deceive himself that he was dealing with a normal man: a man of business like himself.

As before, he came too close and he grasped Flint's arm with patronising familiarity. Flint peered down at this arrogant little maggot, and hoped to get him — one day soon — at sea on board the Walrus, where a certain plank was patiently waiting for him.

"Captain," said Pimenta, "you must be a fine fellow, 'cos Mr Neal says so." And he whispered confidentially, "We do a deal of business, Charley and I, and Charley says there's money inside of you." He poked Flint. He actually poked his short, podgy, white finger into Captain Joseph Flint's belly! But Flint smiled. He never flinched, he never budged, he never moved. He simply smiled, and charmed Pimenta, who was completely deceived and sufficiently encouraged to develop his argument a little further.

"So, Captain," he said, "you're situated thus: you need money to get money. Yes?"

"Yes," said Flint. He spoke smoothly, easily, handsomely, as if he hadn't the least objection — not in all the world — to being cross-questioned by a greasy little goblin that needed slitting and gutting and salting.

"So," said Pimenta, "I have to know three things. First: how much have you got? Second: where is it? Third: how much is for me?"

"Ah," said Flint, and smiled and smiled. "Now we touch upon most confidential matters."

"But nothing you can't tell we," said Pimenta, edging so close that Flint could smell the wine on his breath. He nudged Flint and winked, "Trust me, Joe, as I trust you…"