Pieces Of Eight

Chapter 39

Flint looked through the thick, green undergrowth which was entirely different from the undergrowth anywhere else in this strange place. Little lizards like salamanders — perhaps actual salamanders — were crawling across fat, glossy leaves, feeding on the tiny black ants that swarmed there. And the ground was firm beneath the trees, not damp and soft.

Flint looked and nodded quietly. There they were: four of them, the men picked out by Ben Gunn, according to orders. But there was no Ben Gunn anywhere in sight. Doubtless gone a-wandering. Still, the mad creature had done his duty all right. The four men were exactly what Flint wanted, that much was clear even from this distance.

Well done, Mr Gunn, thought Flint, while the four sat anxious and afraid and constantly looking over their shoulders. They'd obviously heard the sounds of fighting, for they'd got themselves into a nice tight corner, with a cluster of huge rocks behind, so they couldn't be crept up on. A-ha! thought Flint, taking in the boat: a fine big launch, hauled well clear of the tide. And Good! as he cast an eye over the timber slides laid out in front of the launch and greased, in accordance with his orders. The heavy boat would go smoothly down to the water, hauled by the few hands available. What fine lads they've been, and no mistake! thought Flint. Everything so tight and seamanlike.

Better still, staring hard at the boat, Flint could make out one of the chests that made up a fine fat half of its cargo, the same chests that had been left in the cove three days ago by his six spadesmen — a body of men who had now rejoined their comrades, but upon whose absolute discretion he could rely. He could rely on them because he'd extracted the most fearful oaths, given by moonlight, with round eyes shining, and right hands raised, and Flint blessing their smooth cheeks and knowing that in no time at all they'd be beyond all possibility of betraying anybody.

And so back to the present…

Flint deliberately rustled the undergrowth and the four men jumped up and levelled muskets.

"Who-zat?" they cried. Flint stepped forward.

"Who goes there!" he chided. "You must say that, lads. For it's proper."

"Who goes there?" they said, and "Cap'n!" for they were immensely relieved.

"We heard shooting, Cap'n!" said one.

"And gunfire from the ships!" said another.

"Aye!" they all said.

"Lads," said Flint, "there's nothing to worry about!"

"No?" they said.

"No! So let's sit down, and I'll explain."

So they sat down, and Flint smiled, and insisted they take a pull of the rum.

Then he explained as only he could explain, with his wonderful charm: the smooth, easy companionship that kept his audience enthralled, and more than that privileged to be part of so wonderful a scheme, and fully understanding why — temporarily — they alone must go forward to the Patanq Squadron, through the archipelago, taking two chests of silver and one of gold — happy smiles all round at this — together with that other half of their cargo, which lay square in the centre of the launch, covered in a tarpaulin.

Of the twenty white men that had sat down to council the previous evening, only four were left alive after the fight. They were swiftly killed and plundered, and their bodies burned.

"So," said Laoslahta, "we have two dozen good scalps, and now we turn to greater matters. Come close, my children!"

They gathered round him, standing shoulder to shoulder, feathered and painted, with guns, knives and hatchets. They formed the dense half-circle that was the proper way to stand when a great man spoke. There were over a hundred and fifty of them now, the scouts and separated forces having been drawn in, save only a few keeping watch on the red-coats.

Now all stood listening: Cut-Feather and the other sachems in the front rank, and the others behind, in strict order of precedence.

"Listen to my words!" said Laoslahta.

"We listen, O father!" came the rumbling response.

"We are in hard times, my children."

"We listen, O father!"

"Many have died," said Laoslahta, "but worse may come, for it is bad enough for warriors to die — and my cheeks run with tears for those we have lost — but now death falls upon our women and our children!"

It was formal. It was poetic. It was paced by Laoslahta's pauses and the deep-voiced chanting of the listeners. But it was sharp as a razor, telling every man his duty and his task, and as soon as Laoslahta finished speaking, the warriors split into three groups.

The first, some hundred strong and led by Laoslahta himself, set off for the northern inlet to secure the ships. The second, thirty strong and led by Cut-Feather, ran southward to harass and slow the advance of the red-coats, with strict orders to fall back before them and not press home an attack.

The third, a group of just five men, the best trackers in the nation, was tasked with finding Flint. Laoslahta took them aside and greeted each one by name. He gave them their orders: special and solemn orders. Then he embraced them and blessed them and thanked them. Finally he knelt before them, with tears in his eyes, and begged their forgiveness, which they freely gave, being brave men.

He did not expect to see any of them again. Not this side of the grave.

Then all three groups ran off about their duties. They moved with utmost speed, for time was short and the peril was great.

The launch ran smoothly over the slipway: two dozen six- foot logs, greased and laid across the boat's path to keep her clear of the sand that would cling, and drag, and stop her moving. Flint didn't even have to lend a hand. He stood back smiling as his four men heaved with a will, and got her under way. And once they were on the sloping run to the water's edge, the boat's own weight sent her down with a rumble and a roar, splashing into her natural weightlessness as the salt water took her.

"All stores aboard!" said Flint. "Leave nothing behind." There was no such a thing as a small boat over-provisioned for a voyage. Every cask of water, every tub of biscuit, might be needed.

"Aye-aye, sir!" they said, and three leapt to it, while one stayed with the boat, even without orders, so she shouldn't float off on her own.

Such good lads, thought Flint, and he tried to laugh at them and be merry… but couldn't quite manage it. Something was troubling him now that they were leaving. He wondered what.

So he stood back and let the four of them get aboard with what they'd recovered, and he let them take up their oars, and sit up like good boys, and face astern while he clambered aboard and sat in the sternsheets and took the tiller.

"Give way!" said Flint, and the boat pulled out of the small cove, and was soon in the fresh air and heaving rollers of the open sea. "Rig for sail!" said Flint, and he looked back at the island — and felt a surge of pain. He frowned. He worried… which wasn't like Joe Flint at all. He'd made his decision. He knew what had to be done. He was confident that — as before — he would leave the treasure safe and cosy, and come back in strength another day. He'd got his copy of the map, and his notebook, and enough coin aboard to pay for a new expedition, and — once he'd dealt with all those persons who were surplus to requirements — he'd have at least one good ship, and a crew to man her, to take him wherever he needed to go. So what was it that he was missing?

Flint had a most wonderful mind. It was inventive and organised. It was full of tight compartments with strong doors, guarding the places where thoughts were stored, letting them out on command. It was what made him so single-minded and formidable a man. But one door had burst open all on its own. He couldn't keep it shut, because he knew what was inside it. He'd known all the time what it was that he was missing. And it wasn't it. It was her… of course.

"AAAAAAAAAAAH!" he roared in anger and pain. The hands gaped in fright at their captain beating his fists against the thwart, like a child in a tantrum, crying, "No! No! No!" to the four winds and the open sea and the calling gulls.

"Cap'n?" said the man nearest to Flint. "What is it?"

He should've kept quiet. He got a kick that smashed front teeth and bloodied his nose, and a torrent of filthy abuse such as no man had ever heard before from Joe Flint, who never used a cuss-word nor an oath, and despised those who did.

But Flint recovered. He wiped his face. He tidied himself. He leered at the hands and went round pulling their noses — except him with the blood on his face; Flint patted his cheeks instead — and laughed.

"Well, my boys!" he said. "We're situated as we are, and that's a fact. As we are and not as we'd wish to be!"

"Aye-aye, Cap'n," they said warily.

"So here's to some other day."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n."

"And meanwhile there's work to do."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n."

Flint looked at the tarpaulin and what it covered. Then he got out his map and looked at the boat's compass, and made sure they were on course for Flint's Passage through the archipelago. Hmm. The wind was fair, the boat was charging along merrily. Flint smiled. It should be interesting. It would certainly be something new.

Silver threw himself upright in the speeding boat. Selena looked back. The Indians were racing along the beach with sand flying from their heels. But they were a good two hundred yards off, while there was less than thirty yards between herself and Silver's boat. She looked at Silver. He looked at her.

It is a fact of human nature that, on sudden meetings, first reactions are true reactions, for truth comes quick and instinctive. And it comes all the faster with a tribe of savages bearing down with knives, hatchets and muskets.

"John!" she said, and ran towards the boat.

"Selena!" he said, and leapt clumsily out, and hopped forward and — wonder of joyful wonders — Silver was staggering back as the small, dark figure threw herself at him and clung to him, and him to her, and with only three legs between them, they wobbled and swayed… while certain death came on, a hundred and fifty strong, and a nasty death besides. But all doubts were blown away and all fears made nothing, and eyes clenched in absolute happiness, and each only aware that in all the world there was none other, and never would be, never could be, never should be, not for ever and ever amen.

"John! John! Get aboard!" cried Israel Hands. "Swing the boat, lads!"

They nearly did it. They threw Selena aboard. They heaved the boat round, all hands together. They pointed the prow at safety. They seized oars and pulled for their lives. A man can't run in water over his thighs, and he certainly can't fight another man in a boat. That's all it would take. A few strokes, good strokes, and they'd be free. Silver, meanwhile, was hauling his pistols and aiming and shooting at the savages: Click. Click. Soaked priming! Nothing! So he and Selena — the only ones not rowing — commenced picking up every firelock in the boat, and pulling them out of men's belts, and blazing back at the dense, on-rushing hordes and dropping two, but not stopping the rest. Then they were battering pistol-butts into the heads and arms of the brown devils that came plunging and whooping forward, and the boat rocking from the impact, and slippery wet bodies climbing aboard, and cutlasses and knives out, and the men dropping the useless oars and fighting for their lives, and roaring and yelling and crying. It went on, and on, and on…

And then it stopped. It stopped when Silver and his men grew tired. For the Patanq weren't fighting. They were defending and hanging on. They were taking wounds, and some even dying, but they weren't striking back. Silver was held down by three of them. Every man in the boat, and Selena too, was held helpless by overwhelming weight of numbers. A great mass of humanity filled and pressed down on the launch and gasped and panted and sweated and slowly got back its breath.

Utter despair filled Silver. It was over. All over.