Pieces Of Eight

Chapter 32

Flint put away his notebook. It had served its purpose: this was a site that did not appear in the notes given to Van Oosterhout. Looking around him, the forest glade began to seem familiar now that he was actually in it, but even he couldn't have found it without the notes. He sighed in contentment, took out his pocket compass, opened it, and set his back to one of the giant pines that rose over the island like a cathedral spire. He let the needle steady itself… took a bearing… and paced out the correct number of steps.

"Here, my jolly boys!" he said. "Bring your spades and your strong arms, and dig here!"

"Huzzah!" they cried.

"Shhhh!" said Flint. "Hush lads! We don't want the savages upon us, do we now? Helping themselves with their greedy fingers!"

They grinned, and dropped their spars and tackles, laid aside pistols and cutlasses, and took up their spades and began to dig furiously, while Flint sat on a rock watching them.

He fanned himself with his hat, for it was hot and dark in the glade, with legions of buzzing insects, and a stifling scent

of pine and wild garlic. He spread his fine coattails neatly on the rock so that they shouldn't be creased. He fingered the linen of his shirt, and the plume in his hat, and tried to put on a serious face… and failed totally. For he couldn't help chuckling at their bright eagerness, and the vigour with which they threw up the earth, and drove in their spades, already imagining themselves home in England, rogering tarts, gorging themselves on rum-duff, and riding in gilded carriages.

Look at them! he thought. Those bright eyes… those smooth cheeks! But that was too much. It was just too much. He doubled up laughing, for Ben Gunn was — even at this very moment — off about his duties, choosing men of quite a different kind, and Flint laughed at the thought of it.

The six men doing the digging grinned and nudged one another as they worked. It was a fine thing to see the captain so merry, for Christ help a poor sailorman when he wasn't! But they didn't stop digging. They'd been told most explicitly that this wasn't the great share-out they all dreamed of. Still… a man couldn't help but hope that just a little might — entirely accidentally and by chance — drop into his own pockets when nobody was looking. Or perhaps into the tops of his hungry boots… for no one would notice that, now, would they?

Thunk! Scrape! Thunk! went the spades. Then: CLUNK!

"Ah!" said Flint, up like a cat and among the diggers on the instant. He grinned. He looked into the sandy, earthy hole… There they were! Three fine chests of iron-bound wood. In fact, only one was visible, but Flint knew that two more were there. "Careful now, my boys — my jolly boys!" he said. "There's over five thousand Spanish dollars in these boxes, and I want them out of the ground, and not spoilt!"

"Oh?" said one of the diggers. "Is that all? We thought there was hundreds of thousands…"

"Aye!" said his mates, miserable as children denied a feast, and surly besides.

"No, my lovely boys!" said Flint. "Not here. But there's plenty elsewhere!"

And he said it so nicely, and tapped a finger against his nose with such an air of secrets shared among shipmates, that they nodded and smiled and beamed.

"AAAAH!" they said, and were well content. They remained content as their captain explained what was to be done, and why, and where the dollars were to be taken. And they marvelled at his foresight in bringing spars and ropes so a pair of men could easily manage one of the heavy chests by slinging it from a spar laid over their shoulders. And above all they thrilled at the knowledge that they knew where the treasure lay — some of it, anyway — and nobody else did!

And neither did they know that what they'd raised was worth considerably more than five thousand dollars, since one of the chests — the smallest but the heaviest — didn't contain silver dollars, but gold doubloons. Flint thought it best not to tempt their naughtiness with such knowledge as that. Especially as there were some stones in there as well… precious stones.

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest! he sang as he led the way. It was the good old song he always sang when happy. But he sang only to himself. He sang silently. He didn't want these poor souls bellowing out the chorus and drawing attention to the three chests swaying along to their new home. Aside from Van Oosterhout, six men now knew the whereabouts of at least some of the goods, and six was enough, because God alone knew how many Patanq savages were hiding in the woods, a-creeping and a-spying.

So Flint was merry as he walked, occasionally looking back to make sure that they were following. Indeed, he was so merry that it soon became very hard for him to deny himself the fun of ensuring personally and with his own hand that the shared secret went no further. But he managed to hold these urges in check. For one thing he wasn't about to carry three hundredweight of treasure by himself. And for another… there was a totally new and totally wonderful game to be played: a game he'd never played before, and he didn't want to spoil it.

When the work was done, Flint sent his spadesmen to get drunk at a quiet place he'd shown them, and where he would join them later. As soon as they were out of sight, he settled down to enjoy a little interlude by himself before returning to the camp and the enfolding arms of Bentham and the rest. He smiled. Things were shaping up nicely. Not everything had gone to plan, but there'd been compensating surprises. For the time being, a little of the raised coinage would keep the savages happy, and the promise of more should spur them on to greater efforts against John Silver. Alas, it would involve sitting down with the savages for yet another of their appalling formal councils — a dull task, but unavoidable. And then he must deal with Bentham, who was too nosy; and Cowdray and Van Oosterhout, who were too clever; and even Mr O'Byrne, who was too ugly! A lesser man would have trembled at the tasks ahead, but not Joe Flint.

Finally there was Selena… and the thought of her stopped Flint dead in his tracks. His mouth dropped open in horror. And this time he trembled like any lesser man. For he'd been on the point of making a most appalling mistake. He realised in that instant that it would be necessary to tell Selena everything. In particular it would be necessary to tell her what he was going to do with those who were surplus to requirements. Otherwise his wonderful scheme for killing almost everyone would end up with Selena among the dead.

And Flint could not bear the thought of anything harming Selena. Not a hair of her head. Not a fingernail. Not an inch of her lovely body.

As was her habit, Selena walked away from the camp, and into the darkness, as ever keeping the edge of the trees on one side and the waters of the inlet on the other. That way, even in darkness she kept her sense of direction. She had nothing to fear. There were no wild beasts in the woods and the only wild men were Flint's or Silver's or Dreamer's — none of whom would harm her. She was immensely privileged, and she knew it. The only trouble was that she had no idea which of these various parties she wanted to be part of.

Bentham was following her. She knew that too. He… she … still wouldn't let her alone. Whatever it was that burned inside Danny Bentham was stronger even than the lust that drove men to make fools of themselves. But Selena wasn't afraid of men or Danny Bentham any more, just tired of all of them, and their greed and their violence and the hideous things they did to one another. That, and the equally hideous knowledge that she could think of no better or finer place to run to… even if she could run.

"Selena!" said Bentham.

"Oh, go away."

"I got to talk to you."

She nearly killed him there and then, overwhelmed by the surge of anger, the thought blazing in her mind: Draw! Fire!

But she didn't. She'd killed in self defence, but wasn't quite ready for cold-blooded murder. So she thought a bit… and tried something new. She turned to face him.

"Flint don't like you talking to me," she said, and saw at once that she'd hit the mark. Bentham scowled, but for a moment she saw the fright in his big, smooth face.

"Damn Flint!" said Bentham. "He's nothing to me!"

"Really?" she said. "Let's see you tell him that!"

Bentham wasn't done, though. He stepped forward, then stopped about ten feet off, and raised his hands.

"Selena," he said, "we're near the end o' this voyage."

"What voyage?"

"The raising of Flint's treasure."

"Oh… that."

"There was another council earlier, with Dreamer."

"I know."

"Flint had a plan. A plan to take Silver's fort."

"Yes."

"It's clever."

"It would be, since it came from him. But don't trust your life on it."

"I won't — it's the Patanq who'll take the risks!"

"So?"

"Well… once it's done, and we're done with Silver, then my share'll make me rich, and I'm fixed on givin' up the sea life, and going ashore and — "

"Selena!"

Flint's voice. Distant. Coming from the direction of the camp.

"Better not let him find you with me," said Selena.

"Bollocks to that! I'll skin and gut the swab!"

"Really?"

Bentham turned and stared at the distinctive figure coming towards them along the beach.

"He knows I come along here," said Selena, "but he hasn't seen you yet. You've still time to make up your mind… So," she sneered, "just what are you going to do now, Mister Bentham?"

Bentham thought. Flint was the only creature who knew where the treasure was buried. Flint couldn't be killed. Not even harmed.

"I want you, Selena," he said. "I'll find a way!" And with that Bentham ran and hid in the dark woods. He hid so well that when Flint marched up there wasn't even a sniff of him, and Selena was quite alone.

Flint stepped up to her, took her hands and kissed them.

"Selena!" he said.

"What d'you want?"

"I have good news."

"What?"

"Things are going well. We're going to be rich."

"We are?"

He smiled, but only God knew what was behind the smile. Certainly Selena had no idea. Not when Flint could smile one instant and kill the next.

"Ah!" he said. "I see you are unsure. No matter, I've been unsure myself. Unsure for months."

"Have you?" she said, and prickled in fright because she guessed where this was leading.

"I thought I wasn't fit," he said. "Would you believe that? Not fit for you." And he smiled again, and spoke such words as drew Selena clean out of her depth, and into very deep waters indeed.

For Flint was arguing a case. Where a normal man — a man in love — would have pleaded and begged, Flint was beating the drum that marshalled the facts, that destroyed the opposition. He did it with great skill, magnified by his undoubted charm, and founded on the rock-bottom truth that he was master of one of the greatest treasures ever assembled in one place.

Selena was still young. She had no experience of life beyond the Fitzroy plantation, Charley Neal's liquor store, or sailing with gentlemen of fortune. By comparison, life with Flint was the best she could hope for — that was how Flint told it. That was what he was offering. And Selena wondered. She really wondered. Perhaps this was the best she could get in a vicious, cruel world, because it could be, it might be, a very comfortable best… and perhaps Flint himself had changed?

A second later she was convinced of it, for Flint was so persuasive that he succeeded in persuading even himself and took the final step, as a rush of genuine feeling overcame him.

"Marry me!" he said. "Be my wife!"

There was utter silence as each reacted to these extraordinary words. Selena could not believe that he'd actually spoken them, while Flint was astounded that something so powerful could exist within himself without him knowing, until it burst forth, passionate, spontaneous and sincere. And in that uncanny moment they stood together on the brink of the fathomless, uncharted unknown.

"Joe," she said, "where do we go from here?"

"I'll tell you," he said, "we've come to a parting, Selena!"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't think we're going to share the goods, do you? With the rest?"

"Well, yes!"

Flint laughed aloud. "God bless you, no! There's you and me, and there's those we do not want. Now listen, my little flower, for this is what I shall do with them and this is what you must do to be safe…"

And so he explained. He explained in detail, and a great shame fell upon Selena that she'd considered — even for an instant — the possibility of giving herself to Flint while John Silver still lived. Even if Long John were a thousand miles away and she might never see him again.

"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.