Pieces Of Eight

Chapter 35

Flint roused himself, sick from the rum he'd drunk last night. He hated being drunk and seldom ever was, but the Patanq had insisted, and they were in so ugly a mood that he couldn't say no. As usual, they had ended up rolling, roaring drunk and would probably be unconscious for hours yet.

He stood up, dusted and tidied himself as best he could, swilled his mouth with water from his canteen, and spat on the ground. He looked round the Indian encampment: no tents, just canvas thrown over bent saplings to make little round huts, all neat and tidy. He looked further… Ah, yes! Their sentries were out on the high ground, with their guns cuddled in their arms and their blankets over their shoulders against the cold morning. Presumably they'd been denied their go at the rum last night. Cut-Feather was sharp enough for that.

Flint's men — and he'd wisely brought plenty of them, bristling with firelocks — were asleep on the ground under their own blankets, and Flint shivered inside his long, full-skirted coat, that most times was too hot to…

"Sun-Face," said Dreamer, and again Flint jumped at the shock of being taken unawares. He spun round. Ah! There he was, the wrinkled little troll! There he was, with his blanket and his black eyes and his stone face, and his tattoos and nose ring. He was close enough to touch. Flint shook his head… how did they do it? Where had he come from? Was it the bare feet? Probably. Hmm… Dreamer was alone…

"Dreamer!" said Flint. "Where are Cut-Feather and the rest?"

"Where are your own men?" said Dreamer.

Flint's eyes darted round the camp. Other than the sentries, everyone else was asleep, tucked up tight by the rum. And just as well. It'd been close last night. Another interminable council, sat cross legged on hard ground with a ceremonial fire in the middle and the Patanq in ceremonial face-paint, and ceremonial feathers… and ceremonial farts, for all Flint cared.

Sometimes, rum caused fights, but last night it was only the rum, and the quantities sunk by the Patanq, that had prevented one.

"We must talk, you and I," said Dreamer.

"Must we?"

"The matter is not settled. This war has gone badly. Men will die today."

Flint sighed. Here it came again. The blasted savages whinging, and moaning their losses, and not getting on with the job.

"Dreamer," he said.

"No. That is not my name."

"What?"

"Listen to me, Sun-Face-Flint. You, who are the evil twin."

"What are you talking about?"

"We, the People, are not of the Iroquois, for that is a foolish and mistaken name invented by the French…"

Flint clenched his hands. He groaned. Another dose of

Patanq oratory was about to be shovelled down his throat. He would have preferred castor oil.

"We are of the Haudenosaunee," said the fierce little man, "the People of the Long House. And we are not Patanq, which is another foolish name invented by white men. We are the Pah-Tah-Tana-Quay, which means 'those who dig to live'. For we were first to grow the maize, the squashes and the beans, and which we name the Three Sisters."

Flint groaned. The Indian continued:

"Joseph Flint," he said, "a man never gives his true name."

"No?"

"No. Unless there is some great reason."

"So you say."

"But I tell you that I am not Dreamer. I am… Laoslahta."

"Are you indeed? How splendid for you!"

"Laoslahta means seer. It means teller of the future. And so…"

"Look here," said Flint, "where is this leading? What quarrel lies between us? Last night I promised you a thousand silver dollars…" Flint knew this was insulting by Indian standards. He knew he shouldn't interrupt. He knew he should let the blasted brown dwarf complete what he was saying, but he just couldn't bear to hear any more. "A thousand dollars," he insisted. "Didn't that show good faith?"

Laoslahta's face did not move. No emotion showed. Not a flicker. He continued as if Flint had never spoken.

"Sun-Face! It is my word that you shall know my name. So that you may understand."

Flint sighed.

"Understand what?"

"That I see, as I did last night." Flint sneered, Laoslahta continued: "Last night I was smitten with lights, and pain. And afterwards I saw."

"And what did you see."

"You raised ten thousand dollars, not one."

Flint frowned. He grew angry. Little swine! he thought. He's had men watching while we dug!

"The silver you have promised me is only a fraction of what you raised."

"Nonsense! It's all of it! I told you last night that the rest — the main bulk of the treasure — is in Silver's fort, which is why you must take it!"

"No. You raised ten thousand dollars."

"Joseph Flint!" said Laoslahta. "I have dreamed of you for years. I feared you greatly. But now things are changing — so listen…"

"Listen to what?" said Flint, and looked round the silent camp.

"Be patient!" said Laoslahta. "Listen!"

Flint listened. But aside from a stick cracking in the smouldering fire, the wind in the trees, and of course the booming surf that you didn't even hear any more… there was no sound. He stared at Dreamer — Laoslahta, if that's who he really was — but could read nothing in the dark, emotionless face. So Flint waited, and nothing happened.

"Bah!" said Flint. "Enough of this nonsense!"

"Wait!"

"Huh!"

Flint sneered. But then: Whoof-boom! Whoof-boom! Whoof-boom! Explosions beat flat and echoing across the island. They came from the north, followed by the rattle of small-arms fire. Pure dread struck Flint. It might be the ships!

"That is your ship, Joseph Flint," said Dreamer. "One-Leg is taking your ship from you. And there is more. There are four ships in the southern anchorage. They are King George's. They will put many men ashore this day. But One-Leg has escaped them and abandoned his fort. Tell me, Joseph Flint, has One-Leg given up the treasure under his fort… or is there no treasure there?"

Flint gaped. He gasped. He'd never been so utterly taken aback in all his life.

Then much happened very fast.

Laoslahta threw off his blanket and swung at Flint with a tomahawk.

Cut-Feather — watching and waiting — leapt up and screamed a war-cry.

Flint's bosun staggered to his feet and bawled for all hands on deck.

And the whole camp awoke and reached for its arms.

Flint very nearly died. He very, very nearly died. His mind was in such turmoil that only his speed saved him.

He blocked the hatchet with his forearm: catching it below the blade and against the wood. He seized Laoslahta with his free arm — one hundred pounds of writhing, demonic fury — and over they went and down in a bitter conflict, which was pulled apart as a dozen men of each side rushed forward to save their leaders in a wild, brawling, tumbling melee of thickheaded, stumbling seaman against thick-headed stumbling Patanq, and musket against pistol, knife against tomahawk, and all the anger and hatred bursting out that had been so barely contained last night.

Flint ran. He drew cutlass and struck down all in his path. But he ran. He ran away and left twenty of his men to fight the ninety Patanq that were in the camp. He ran with all his might, keeping clear of the swampy ground, across the open scrubland, and into the cover of some trees. Once safely out of sight, he sat down. He couldn't just run. The Patanq would track him as soon as they'd finished the fight — which was still raging. He could make out screams, yells, gunfire, but the din grew less and less by the second… then triumphant whoops from the Patanq… the solitary shrieking of a man being scalped who wasn't quite dead… then silence.

Flint sat with his head in his hands.

Think! Think, think think… Was Walrus lost? What was Silver doing? Where was Selena? Had the navy landed in strength? How could that be? How would they know?

How could they find the island? How many men were left? Who was alive and who was dead? Was Dreamer — Laoslahta — dead? And how the blasted Hell did Dreamer know so much? Could his dreams be more than dreams?

Flint had little time in which to make some dreadful decisions. He was alone. He had nobody to advise him and wouldn't have listened if he had. But crooked in spirit, and warped in humanity as he was, he still had all the talent, courage and skill — and the invincible determination — to make a most splendid sea-service officer, if only it weren't for all the rest.

So Flint thought fast and made decisions.

He abandoned the island.

He abandoned the treasure — for the moment.

He fell back on pure self-preservation…

And made entirely new plans.