Pieces Of Eight

Chapter 43

It was getting cooler. The closer the launch got to the archipelago the cooler it got… cooler and safer, for as ever there was a mist over the archipelago. Once in Flint's Passage, the launch would be invisible and safe. Safe from pursuit, though not from the passage itself where the sea rolled and heaved and broke over some of the bigger rocks, leaving the rest hidden. They lay a fathom or two below the waves, waiting patiently, knowing that in time their patience would be rewarded.

In fact there was a great need for patience all around. Flint had to be patient, knowing that the only cure for his ills was a slow one; it might take months or even years to re-unite him with what was his. And the four hands whom Flint had brought along as crew must be patient too: they were anxious to get out of sight, but had to sail easy because of the rocks Flint had warned them of.

Then came the sound of gunfire from the sloops that were engaging Walrus. Poisonous rage boiled out of Flint's very liver at sight of his darling in another man's hands — and was promptly suppressed. Flint smiled to calm the hands, who were gaping at the distant ships and the rolling smoke. The Royal Navy was their bogey man, and they were unsettled.

"Never fear, lads," said Flint. "That'll be the saving of us. Let them fight. Let them smash one another. And whatever's left can beach and wreck itself trying to follow us through Flint's Passage, that only myself knows the running of!"

They nodded at that, the oafs. God's bowels, but they were stupid! To them, Flint's Passage was as insurmountable an obstacle as the walls of Troy. Well, maybe it was, to anyone without Flint's chart… or a copy of it. There was a thought! Could Van Oosterhout be aboard one of those ships? Flint thought not. He'd be no friend to the navy or to Silver. Or would he? Who could tell? Best assume that he was with them. Best make good time through the passage and get the Patanq fleet under way — after he'd attended to them, of course. That might prove difficult; he would have to be very careful how he went about it…

Thus thought Joe Flint as he ordered his men to strike the sail and take up their oars, and occupied himself with the little matter of getting through the archipelago without ripping the bottom out of the launch or running her aground. He'd done it before, of course, and had even added notes to his chart to make it easier. But still it would require all his attention, even with so small a boat as this.

Spreading the chart on a thwart, Flint took bearings of the island with quadrant and compass, noting the lie of the hills and the shape of its black profile rising out of the sea. Yes, they were on course for the archipelago and Flint's Passage.

"Give way!" said Flint, and took the tiller. He looked along the boat. He looked at the swaying oarsmen, the neat-furled sails and the masts laid along the thwarts, and he looked at the chests and the big tarpaulin.

Ahhhh, he thought, and nodded to himself.

Ten thousand dollars' worth of silver, gold and stones in the chests — enough to get him the men and ships he would need. He couldn't go back to Charlestown, but there were other ports. The colonies were full of them. He might even go to England. To Bristol perhaps, or Plymouth…?

But for now the gems and doubloons were as nothing compared with what he'd got under the tarpaulin. There, in the dark, was something even more vital to his plans. It was a pity it needed such constant attention.

"Stroke oar!" said Flint.

"Aye-aye, Cap'n."

"Heave off that tarpaulin — it's not so hot now. And change the water!"

Stroke oar leaned forward. He filled a pot with fresh water. He lifted the tarpaulin, he opened a little trapdoor he replaced an empty pot with the filled one, which had to be lashed in place to prevent spillage.

Chk-chk-chk!

A hand reached out — a furry little hand — and took the man's index finger as a child might: with perfect gentleness and innocence. Stroke oar's pock-marked cheeks crinkled in a smile, for he liked the little buggers. His mates — equally scarred — grinned too.

Nearly noon, 26th February 1753

Aboard Walrus

Two miles south of Flint's Passage

Dreamer got up. He staggered. He'd just vomited into a bowl held out for him by Dr Cowdray.

"Fetch water!" said Cowdray. "And a cloth to clean him."

Cut-Feather cradled Dreamer his arms. The other sachems were gathered round, looking anxiously into Dreamer's eyes, and the one who ran for water and a cloth thought it an honour to do so.

"He should lie in a darkened room," said Cowdray.

"Father," said Cut-Feather, "come — we will find you a bed."

"No…" said Dreamer, closing his eyes to the intolerable pain that burned in the side of his head. Usually when the lights and the pain struck, Dreamer would try to sleep. But this time he had to speak. It was difficult, for half his face was numb and tingling, and his tongue would not obey. "Bring One-Leg," he said. "One-Leg Silver." He had to say it several times before they understood.

"What is it?" said Silver, when Cut-Feather ran to the helm to fetch him.

"One-Leg!" said Cut-Feather, beckoning urgently. "Come! Come!" Silver cursed, for he had work to do. But with the ship full of armed men who thought Dreamer the next thing to God, he thought it best to obey.

"Dutchman," he said, "take the watch. See this ship into Flint's Passage."

"Yes, Captain," said Van Oosterhout. "But a boat must go ahead to sound the way."

"Well and good," said Silver, for that made sense. He looked to Israel Hands, Mr Joe and the others who'd gathered at the helm to pore over the Dutchman's chart of the archipelago, then jerked a thumb at Van Oosterhout: "This here's a good seaman," he said. "Do as he tells you!"

"Aye-aye, Cap'n!"

"One-Leg," said Cut-Feather, "now!" And he dragged Silver down into the waist, where Dreamer was surrounded by a crowd of murmuring, frightened Indians.

"What's wrong with him?" said Silver, coming close to the swaying, drooling figure hanging in the arms of his followers, eyes screwed shut, head rolling from side to side.

"He has the migraine," said Cowdray. "The worst case I've ever seen."

"He suffers," said Cut-Feather. "And he sees!"

"Sees what?" said Silver.

"He sees the future."

"Does he now?" said Silver. "And what does he see?"

"We do not know. But he calls for you!"

"Dreamer," said Silver, "it's me. What is it?"

Dreamer tried to speak. His mouth opened. Patanq words came out, slow and laboured.

"What's he saying?" said Silver, but Cut-Feather shook his head.

"He speaks bad words, One-Leg. His tongue is not his to command."

"Facial paralysis," said Cowdray. "It comes with migraine."

"Flint!" cried Dreamer, making a huge effort.

"Flint?" said Silver.

And in that instant the foremast lookout hailed.

"Boat ahead!" he cried. "Fine on the larboard beam!"

"Yes!" cried Dreamer, briefly conquering the affliction that put false words in his mouth. "Flint!" he said, pointing ahead. "There!" He opened his eyes and stared straight into Long John's face… and Silver flinched as hideous terror leapt out of Dreamer's mind and into his. It was terror of Flint and what Flint was going to do. It was occult and uncanny, and Silver staggered back, and crossed himself as he'd not done since a child.

But was it real? Was Flint really there? How could this blasted savage know where Flint was? Silver hopped to the rail, and aimed his glass where Dreamer had pointed. But he couldn't see anything. He was looking straight into a bank of mist and heat-haze on the surface of the sea. No doubt they could see more from the tops. He turned to Dreamer again.

"Is it Flint? What's the swab doing?"

But Dreamer had no more words, nor even strength to stand. They laid him gently down while everyone looked to John Silver.

"Flint!" said Silver, and looked past the masts and sails and out over the bow into the fog. Then he grabbed Cut-Feather's arm and shook him, for Cut-Feather — war sachem of the

Patanq nation — was groaning in fright. "What's Flint doing?" said Silver.

"Sun-Face goes to the fleet," said Cut-Feather. "We thought we had left him on land. But he has a boat! He goes to our women, taking his demons!" He looked at Dreamer. "Our father saw this! He foretold the demons! He said Flint would take demons to kill our women and children."

"What bloody demons?"

"Small demons. Demons with tails."

"And horns and cloven hoofs? Pah!"

"John!" Selena was pulling at his arm. "Listen! I know something — it might be important. He said a terrible thing to me. And we argued and he hit me."

"Flint?"

"Yes! He spoke to me on the beach. He said he wouldn't share the goods, except with me…" She saw the jealousy on Long John's face. "Don't blame me, John! That's what he said! He said he'd not share it with anyone but me. He said he'd kill the rest: the seamen and the Indians, and their women and children too. And I was to hide on the island till it was done, so I'd be safe. When I asked him how he'd do it, he laughed and he said 'with smallpox'."

And there it was. Silver jumped the gap. He understood. He thought of Sarney Sawyer and his men, and the old Jesuit and his men… and Ratty Richards's face, staring up dead and disfigured in the moonlight.

Silver was sickened.

"It's the monkeys!" he said. "There's some left. Flint's got 'em!"

"Monkeys?" said Cowdray. "What've monkeys to do with smallpox?" Silver told him. Cowdray gaped.

"I knew he was not a good man, but — "

"What'll it do to them?" said Selena. "The Indians?"

"Smallpox?" said Cowdray. "It is most dreadful for them. They have no resistance and few survive." He shook his head.

"But that would be ordinary smallpox — this is worse! If it kills nine in ten white men…" he paused, pushed beyond knowledge. "If Indians catch it, perhaps none may survive." He turned to Van Oosterhout. "How many are embarked in the Patanq fleet?"

"About twelve hundred," said Van Oosterhout. "Mostly women and children, and a few old ones. Them and about two hundred seamen." He looked at Cut-Feather. "Are they all of your women? Are there no more?"

"They are all," said Cut-Feather. "They are everything. If they die, the nation dies."

Lieutenant Clark gasped. He clenched his fists. He ground his teeth. The tears sprang from his eyes at the shame of it. He'd shot so fast across Walrus's bow that he'd failed to rake her with his broadside and he'd run on beyond her. So he'd attempted to resume pursuit by tacking through the wind, but bodged the manoeuvre such that Bounder fell all aback with her mainsail thundering against the mast, her blocks rattling and her people not daring to look him in the eye while the speeding schooner forged onward with her sails bulging and those damned bloody pirates openly laughing at the navy and making lewd signs with their fingers over the stern.

Clark looked at his men. A great guilt was on his head. He knew that it was his fault; had an admiral been looking on, his career would be at an end now, and his name would live on as a figure of fun and contempt: the man who let Flint get away by pitiful, lubberly no-seamanship.

But then fortune smiled. One of his rivals was in an even worse state.

"Cap'n! Cap'n!" cried one of his mids. "Look — the flagship's on fire!"

"What?"

Clark leapt to the rail, clapped a glass to his eye…

"Bugger!" there was smoke pouring off the tangled wreckage of Leaper's deck, where her ruined mainsail hung in rags. No flame yet. Could be anything — a smouldering wad from the enemy's guns, a firelock discharged by accident… It was all too easy for a ship that had been battered and left rolling like a barrel to catch light. And then… and then… Ah! thought Clark, and the sun came out in glory as he realised who was now in command, what with Lieutenant blasted Heffer's ship being disabled.

"Make to the squadron!" he cried. "Jumper to assist Leaper!"

"Aye-aye, sir!" said the signals midshipman.

"And the rest of you, get this ship under way and after them!"

He stabbed a finger towards Walrus, and wondered how much she had aboard in treasure, and how much might now be his, given the complexities of shifting precedence.

After that, things slid smooth as silk. Bounder's crew excelled themselves in the speed with which they made good their previous mistakes. She was got before the wind, and once under way began to demonstrate just what a rake- masted, copper-bottomed vessel was capable of in the way of speed, to the extent that her young captain and his young crew were soon united in the thrill of the chase, the hopes of prize money, and yelling out to one another that they really were overhauling the pirate schooner, which unaccountably was slowing and lowering a boat as it crept into the mist bank ahead under close-reefed topsails. Soon, it would soon be in gun range, and Clark was contemplating bringing one of his maindeck guns into the fo'c'sle, just to show what he could do, when…

CRRRRUNCH!

Bounder ran full on to a sandbank going twelve knots. The lookouts hadn't being paying attention. They'd not seen the swirling waters. Or perhaps they just weren't visible.

Bounder had reached the archipelago. She'd reached it, found it, and sat on it. There was no possibility of her going anywhere else that day.

Flint was in the bow, paying careful attention to his chart and his compass… and the job was getting done. They were running the passage, hidden from view, and it was Flint's happy impression that any pursuit would be a slow one, because there was less water in the passage now than when he'd led through Walrus, Sweet Anne, and Hercules.

Ah! he thought. Poor Danny Bentham. Where is he now — him and Mr Bulldog O'Byrne?

Then the mist cleared ahead.

Huh! thought Flint. The climate was strange here, unique. It was like a door opening. And so he got his first sight of the Patanq fleet.

"Ah-hah!" he said, and snapped his fingers in delight, and his four hands grinned as they saw their captain so happy, for they knew how much their own happiness depended on his.

Flint looked at the thicket of masts and yards and the angular geometry of rigging lines… and he sighed with relief. For he saw at once that a certain problem was solved, one that had been causing him some concern.

"Chk-chk-chk!" he said to the monkeys. There were four of them.

"Chk-chk-chk!" they said, and looked at him with their intelligent eyes.

"Stand by, my pretties!" he said. "You shall have some new friends soon."