Flint was deeply happy. The goods were buried and only he knew where.
Well, the lucky six had an approximate knowledge of the burial sites — he looked at their ugly faces as they sat patiently in the sand, awaiting his orders. They were illiterate clods. Even if he'd given them his notebook with its careful bearings and measurements, they couldn't have used it. Nonetheless, they'd remember trees and rocks and other landmarks, bless their hearts. But that didn't matter. Not at all. Not as far as Joe Flint was concerned, because here on the island he was unchained from any limitations on his ability to deal with these unfortunates.
More precisely — did he but know it — here on the island he'd been joined by his old friend Temptation, who'd returned chuckling and merry, and just bursting with new ideas. Always previously Flint had been constrained by higher powers: King George's law, John Silver's articles, even the stolid conservatism of Billy Bones. But not here! Here he was alone with the lucky six, and boundless opportunity.
He fondled the shifting, muttering parrot that swayed and fidgeted and rubbed itself against his head, and he looked towards Lion and Walrus, moored out in the smooth waters of the southern anchorage. They were both still visible in the tropical dusk, though a tired red sun was touching the horizon in the west.
Now then, my jolly boys… thought Flint, studying the ships, are you awake and lively to your duties, there on board?
Clang! said Walrus, the bell sounding clearly across the water.
"Ah!" said Flint.
Clang! said Lion after a pause, for no two ships kept quite the same time.
One bell of the first watch, thought Flint, time for sunset, and he turned to those who considered themselves so fortunate to be ashore with him, and he smiled with gleaming teeth as the sun surrendered to the darkness and delivered up the island unto the terrors of the night.
"Build a fire, my hearties," he cried. "Build her big, for it's time to feast. Biscuit and pork, sauerkraut and salt herring!"
"And rum, Cap'n?" they said.
"Aye, lads!" said Flint, and playfully pulled the nose of the nearest man. "Grog for all hands, like the good fellows you are." They cheered wildly and set to, running about like schoolboys on holiday.
"Aren't they just the roaring boys, though?" he said confidentially to the bird. Two were Silver's men: Rob Taylor, and James Cameron. The rest were his: Franky Skillit, Henry Howard, Peter Evans, and Iain Fraser. Six men: the lucky six, as the rest had believed when lots were drawn. Flint positively wriggled with glee at the thought of that, and of the downcast, miserable faces of all those whose luck had failed them, keeping them out of the burial party.
The burial party, thought Flint. God damn and gut me! That's what they called it. Their own precious words! He marvelled at the eternal truth that no wit is sharper than that of actuality.
So he watched contentedly as they built a huge bonfire, far too big for their needs, and he watched as they skewered chunks of salt pork and fish, and stove in the head of a cask of sauerkraut. He looked around the little camp they'd set out on the beach, all calm and snug and quiet… and inky-black dark without even the moon for company. But the jolly red faces beamed in the firelight and the men jostled one another for the best places to roast their meat, and the rum pannikin went round. Flint laughed, and raised his voice.
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest!" he sang.
"Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum…" they replied.
"Go it, you bold dogs," cried Flint, and they took up the song.
Flint took a cut of pork, offered by one of the half-drunk men, bit into it and swallowed and choked himself laughing at the thought that — at the great council — all hands, led by Blind Pew, had solemnly voted that the only man they would trust in the secret burial of the goods was… Cap'n Flint. He'd not even had to argue the point! Flint chewed the succulent pork and the juices ran down his chin, and his shoulders heaved in silent laughter. He was enjoying himself enormously, and the best was yet to come.
When he'd done with the meat, and wiped the tears from his eyes, Flint sat beside the fire in the sand and took a modest sip from the rum, and became the jolliest companion any of the rest had ever known. He laughed along with them and told them what fine fellows they were, and how they'd drive in their carriages in England, with a tart on either arm, to take their seats in the House of Lords.
"Three cheers for Cap'n Flint!" cried Iain Fraser, and they gave three cheers that set the hills echoing.
"Thank you, lads," said Flint, and stretched his limbs and stood up by the fireside in the velvet night with the insects twittering loudly and the dull rumble of the breakers ceaselessly pounding the westward rocks and cliffs. "But there's no cause for cheers," he said, and smiled indulgently as the fools cheered and cheered again.
"God save the Cap'n!" cried Rob Taylor, who was a small man and whose curse it was that whenever he drank round for round with his mates, he got drunk first, for there weren't many places in his small body for the drink to go to, other than his head.
"Thank you, Rob," said Flint, and almost lost control of the mood of solemnity he was now trying to create. The trouble was that the look of spaniel-eyed worship on little Taylor's face was almost beyond bearing. And look at the rest of them! How easy it had been to win their affection with a few days ashore and their bellies full of food and drink.
"Ah-hum!" said Flint, clearing his throat and striking a more serious pose. "Lads," he said, "on the morrow, with all the digging done, and our spades and picks laid aside, we begin the final task of taking precise bearings." It was nonsense, of course, for all necessary bearings were already in his notebook. Damn it! He had to cough hard to disguise the unstoppable snigger at their solemn faces.
"So sleep well, like the good fellows you are," he said, grinding his fingernails into his palms so that the pain would kill the laughter. "And don't be afeared of anything in the night, for we shall set a guard as before… even though I doubt there's much to worry about, these days," and he peered out thoughtfully into the night.
His words set the mood. His manner sent signals to the others, and they too squinted out into the dark, though they knew not what for, since none of them had ever been on the island before.
"I know this place, lads," said Flint. "I was here years ago. It offers a safe anchorage, with good water to fill the butts, and a fine stand of timber for spars and planking, and with goats for fresh meat besides…" he paused and looked into the eyes of each man in turn. "But every night or so, we'd lose a man…"
Flint had himself well in hand now, and he was playing them like a flute.
"We never did find the cause," said Flint, "though we posted guards, and double guards, and doubled them again." Flint shuddered as if some evil thing had walked past in the dark. "All we did know, lads, was that it wasn't just men. Not savages even… but something worse." He waved a hand towards the dark woods. "Some said it was hairy apes that hid in the depths of the forest and only came out at night. Others said they'd seen… things…"
There was dead silence now from his little audience. Meat and drink were laid aside and they gaped at him open-mouthed with terror and wished themselves safe aboard ship. In their own element, with their mates around them, facing dangers they understood, they were brave men; but not here, not against the unknown and the occult. Especially the latter.
"Being as it was a king's ship," continued Flint, "we had marines to do the soldiering for us, and they were our guards. One night a whole company of them gave a volley out into the dark, all together at ten paces, when a dark shape was seen creeping towards our camp. But not a hair or a drop of blood did we find in the morning. After that, why, some of the men went looking for silver to cast into bullets."