Pieces Of Eight

Chapter 22

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.

So she danced. And never noticed that one particular gentleman — a gentleman in green silk — was looking at her very curiously and very carefully, and taking great care that she should not see him.

She danced with shoals of others, though, including both the young gentlemen who seemed to be the centre of attention among Commodore Scott-Owen's officers: Lieutenant George Hastings, a tall, shy young man, with curly hair, and Mr Midshipman Povey, a relative youngster — he was just fifteen — but already settling into heavy muscle and lead- footedness. He was a poor dancer but an exceedingly jolly fellow who made her laugh.

He said a number of very silly things to her when he came up and begged a dance, and even contrived to whisper in her ear, so he could tickle it with the tip of his tongue. Some men were nervous around beautiful women, but not David Povey, for all his youth. She rapped him with a fan for that, but she still laughed.

"It's all his mother, you know!" he said, when he led her on to the floor away from a reluctant Hastings. "I'm nothing, don't you know! Unlike your good self — you're like an elf from a story book!" And he gazed at her in wonderment — but then, all the gentlemen did. Selena was becoming used to it.

And all the while the gentleman in green stared harder at Selena.

"What about Mrs Hastings?" she said, as the band struck up and they executed the formal steps of the minuet, timing their conversation to the gentle rising and falling of the music, and the gliding choreography of the other dancers in their silks and brocades.

"Lady Hastings. Constance Manners as was."

"Yes?"

"Well, her sister — Lady Catherine Manners as was — is married to the Prime Minister, Mr Pelham."

"Oh!" said Selena.

"So she's got the most colossal interest, don't you know."

"What's interest?"

"It's what runs the navy, ma'am. It's who you know!" He grinned. "We was knocked about a bit, you see, me and George Hastings, so his ma, the lovely Lady Constance — who's so lovely, she's almost as lovely as you…"

Selena laughed, intoxicated.

"… Lady Constance had a word in the right ear, and that's why we got such fine ships and Commodore Scott-Owen, who's the best there is!"

"But what for?"

"So's we can hunt him down. We're the only ones left who know him."

"Know who?"

"Him. We sailed with him, did Hastings and me. We were set adrift by him."

"Who?"

"What? Don't you know? I thought everyone knew."

"I don't."

"Flint. That villain Flint! We're here to catch him and hang him."

The gentleman in green saw Selena's hand go to her mouth.

"This is the poster," Mr Governor, said Commodore Scott- Owen, and the blue-and-gold, white-powdered, sea-service officer handed a rolled sheet of paper to the red- and-gold, white-powdered James Glen, the middle-aged, long-faced professional politician who'd been Royal Governor of South Carolina since 1743. "This is the reason for our presence in Charlestown, which soon will be common knowledge."

"Thank you, Commodore," said Glen, Scots accent still strong after all his years away. "But can't this wait?" He looked at the pleasures of the ball, from which he'd been drawn into a quiet a corner, trailed by a clutch of councillors and assemblymen: climbers-of-the-greasy-pole who sniffed after him even tonight… just as Scott-Owen was likewise followed by a clutch of his officers.

"No time, sir!" said Scott-Owen, a serious and surprisingly young man — he was barely thirty — who was determined to make the most of the ships and command he'd been given. "We have so little time before the villain knows we're in the Americas. We must maintain the precious advantage of surprise!"

"Huh!" said Glen, unrolling the document and feeling the paper. "Who paid for this? Thirty inches by twenty-two, finest quality…"

"Don't worry, sir," Scott-Owen smiled a small smile, "the navy's paying." He looked down. "Handsome, don't you think? And we've enough of 'em to post in the high street of every British town in the colonies!"

Glen read:

Selena fell back on the ancient excuse of a headache. Which worked. She danced no more, and Esther Pimenta fussed over her, and sat her down on one of the chairs that lined the room, and a cold drink was found, and a series of most solicitous gentlemen came to voice their sympathy. Mr Midshipman Povey was one of them, offering my heart in a handkerchief if she'd only fly off with him to Elysium. He was very young and very charming, but she wished him dead, because he was here to hang Flint, and Flint was her only way back to Silver…

So she wanted to be out and gone. She wanted to be back aboard Walrus and warning Flint. She didn't know what'd brought the navy down on him — bad luck? Betrayal? Cunning? But she had to warn him… or did she? Perhaps this was the way out? Perhaps she could be free? But she was supposed to be his wife. What did that mean? Would they hang her for it? Or would they pity her? Would they send her on her way with their blessing and a guinea from the poor box? And in any case, could there ever be another life for her… somewhere, anywhere… with John Silver? If he could get off the island or she could get back on it? Flint was the only man who knew how to find the island, and he wanted to kill Silver! Her head spun. She didn't know. She'd have run straight out of the door, but she was laced into a gown worth a fortune, and she'd surely be seen and followed.

So she sat where she was, and it helped her excuses that she really did look ill. She cowered in her chair, till even Esther Pimenta got fed up with her, and deserted her to make the most of the evening. It was very late when finally the Pimentas left with Mrs Garland: the two ladies riding the short distance to Pimenta's house in sedan chairs.

The gentleman in green watched all this, and came to a conclusion.

At Pimenta's house, the servants took over. Selena was extracted from her gown and put to bed in the pretty bedroom that was hers when she stayed with the Pimentas. Esther Pimenta wanted badly to talk over the evening, but found her little protégée to be wooden, distant and cold. So she gave up, and was in her dressing room in the middle of being extracted from her own gown when there was a heavy knocking at the front door.

She listened. The front door was opened by Thomas the butler. There were voices. Thomas came upstairs. He went into her husband's dressing room. More feet on the stairs. More voices. Raised voices! Then feet came upstairs fast, and Meshod himself burst into her dressing room with the fear of God on his face.

"Esther!" he said, then caught sight of her maid. "You! Get out!" he said, bundling the girl outside. "Esther, what's Mrs Garland's name?"

"Why?"

"Never mind why — what's her damn name?"

Esther Pimenta gaped. Meshod never used strong language.

"What's her bloody name? Her given name?"

"Selena."

"God help us! God help us all!"

Pimenta clapped a hand to his brow and walked up and down the little room while his wife looked on in horror. She'd never seen her clever, devious husband in fear. Then he breathed deep, opened his eyes and stopped pacing. He came close and spoke softly.

"Listen," he said, "there are things you don't know."

"What things?"

"Her husband's not Garland… he's Flint!"

"Flint?" she said, standing up and clutching at him. "The pirate?"

"Yes. The one the navy's chasing."

"And you let his wife into the house!"

"I didn't know the damned navy was coming!"

"You should have known!"

"Shut up! There's big money — Charley Neal said it's hundreds of thousands."

"What money?"

"Never mind. I'd hoped to get her out tomorrow, quietly…"

"Mr Pimenta!" a loud voice from downstairs. "You must bring the girl, sir! You must bring her now!"

Pimenta shrugged, a helpless gesture, and put a finger to his lips.

"Leave this to me," he said.

He went out on to the landing, to Selena's bedroom, and knocked. She opened the door. She'd heard the noise. She was dressed; dressed in the green gown that she'd worn when first she came to the house. It didn't fit. It didn't suit her. Not like the yellow silk. Pimenta couldn't help but notice.

"Mrs Garland," he said, "there are gentlemen downstairs…"

"Bring her down, sir!" came a loud voice. "Down this instant, I say!"

"Say nothing of your husband!" said Pimenta. "All our lives depend on it!"

She nodded and they went downstairs to the hall, where Thomas was standing with a lighted candelabrum, and two gentlemen who were looking up at her. One was a commoner: a big, heavy man, with thick boots and a greatcoat and a staff of office. He was nothing, but the other was young and arrogant, obviously commanding wealth and power. He was powdered, and wore a swirling cloak. Beneath the cloak was embroidered silk: a coat, vest and breeches, en suite and all in green.

Selena, however, saw only his face. She recognised him and nearly fainted. She stumbled and Pimenta caught her and put an arm around her.

"Mrs Garland," he said, "these gentlemen are Constable Granger — " the big man nodded curtly "- and Mr Archibald Delacroix."

Selena flinched again, and Pimenta patted her hand and tried to make all normal.

"Never fear, my dear," he said. "Mr Delacroix is a good friend and a frequent visitor to this house." He looked at Delacroix. "Isn't that so, sir?" But Delacroix gave him only the briefest nod. He wasn't here to see Pimenta.

He pointed at Selena and stepped forward, grim-faced.

"You're the one!" he said. "I've been watching you all evening. I wasn't quite sure at first, for you've changed. But I'm sure now. You're Selena, the slave that murdered my father!"

Selena groaned. She shook her head. It wasn't true. She'd not murdered anyone. Her own mother had taken her to the master's "special house" where he raped the slave girls that took his fancy. She'd left her there, and told her to be good, for the sake of her family. And Selena had tried, but the master was a sweating oaf who'd had too much food and drink… and had choked on his own vomit on the floor at her feet. And so she'd run away. That was the truth, but who'd believe it? No white man, that was for sure! And never the master's son. Not when his face was flushed with revenge.

"Oh yes!" he said, staring at Selena, "you're the one." Then he frowned mightily as the delight of capture faded and darker thoughts erupted.

"Have you any idea what disturbance you brought upon my estates?" he said. "That a slave should kill the master and escape? D'you realise what ideas that plants in the minds of the rest?" He licked his lips as wild pictures formed in his mind. "An example must be made of you. You shall be stripped naked before them all, and the hide flogged off you. The hangman shan't get a touch of you till I've done that."

"Sir!" said Granger. "Leave this to the law. If she's a runaway, she'll be returned to you as your property. But if she's done murder, then there must be due process of law."

"Don't tell me the law," said Delacroix nastily. "I can buy you, and the law, and all the lawyers in Charlestown. You just mind your tongue and don't get in the way of your betters!"

"Well," said Constable Granger, less certain now, "she's still got to be arrested."

"Pah!" said Delacroix. "Come here!" And he stretched out his hand for Selena. She dodged and he missed. He lunged again, caught her, and — stung to anger — SMACK! He struck her back-handed across the face.

Meshod Pimenta, who'd kept quiet thus far, jumped forward and seized Delacroix's hand. He was shaking with fright and all his instincts told him to keep out of this, but Selena was a woman, and Meshod Pimenta had a mother and sisters, as well as a wife.

"Don't!" he said. "Don't hit her!"

"Keep out of this… Jew.'" said Delacroix.

Pimenta stood in agony. Delacroix was a member of the planter aristocracy, the most powerful class in the colonies. The Jews were accepted in Charleston, with a new synagogue on Union Street to prove it, and Pimenta did much business among the gentiles, including Delacroix himself… but… but… there were those who wanted no Jews — some of the Anglicans and Dutch Protestants, for instance — so he dared not make an enemy of Delacroix. Pimenta stood back.

"Good!" said Delacroix. "Now, Constable… take her in charge!"

Granger stepped forward, producing a set of manacles from his coat pockets.

Selena looked round, head ringing from the blow. There was no help. She had only herself. She wrenched free. She slipped her hands through the slits in gown and petticoat, to the pocket hoops beneath that shaped the gown: linen bags stiffened with cane and ideal for the little things ladies carried. But Selena was a lady who'd lived among Flint and his pirates, and her hands came out with a pair of pistols: short in the barrel, wide in the bore. She levelled them both at Delacroix.

"You'd never dare!" he said, and laughed. He might have been right, for Selena had no plan, her hands were trembling and the pistols were shaking madly. But Delacroix made a mistake. He grabbed her. "Come here, you nigger bitch!"

CRACK! CRACK! The pistols went off together. One — jammed against Delacroix's vest and its trigger deliberately pulled by Selena — seared the silk and dropped him to his knees, fumbling at the hole blown into his vitals, and gulping and choking as the living colour drained from his face, leaving a pallid expression of infinite disbelief.

"Uuuuuuuuh…" he said in his death-gasp and fell, face down, on the floor.

"God help us!" said Pimenta, seeing ruin for himself and all his kin.

"Oh…" said Granger, weakly, "oh, my liver and lights…" And with that he slumped beside Archibald Delacroix. The second pistol — discharged convulsively with the first — had picked its own target and sent a ball fairly into him.

Now there were two dead men in Meshod Pimenta's Hall. Two dead men and a runaway slave who was making a habit of murder.