So, no black spots were made nor passed into Cap'n Danny's hands. But he knew that he was humiliated, and that one more failure would see him rising to the yardarm, his hands tied behind him.
Danny Bentham needed a success. He needed one badly.
Chapter 12
Captain Flint was surprised. He was surprised because Mr Meshod Pimenta had finally said something surprising.
So far this morning, Joe Flint, Charley Neal and Selena had toured — in succession — the Ashley Bastion, The Pallisades, Granville's Bastion, a bastion whose name Flint had forgotten, and had gazed upon a twelve-foot moat. All the while, Pimenta had refused to discuss business, lecturing instead on the enormous, concrete-faced earthworks and the great numbers of guns that made the walled city of Charlestown one of the most powerful fortifications in the entire British colonies. When he was not doing that, he was praising the city for its energy and resourcefulness in recovering from the hurricane, which — he said — had thrown it flat on its back in September.
Charley Neal had arranged the meeting and Flint was in his shore-going rig: plain hat and coat and no weapons — at least none visible. He'd insisted on having Selena in tow, dressed in some plain but respectable women's clothes he'd found for her, because he was jealous of Van Oosterhout and Cowdray and wouldn't leave her on the ship with them. He'd even acquired a nice respectable name for the occasion; in
Charlestown he was Captain Garland, that being Uncle Peter's name, who'd first taken him to sea, and his mother's maiden name besides. Pimenta, though, knew exactly who he was.
To make matters worse, it was a horrible day: grey, cold, drizzling with rain, and the waters of the Cooper River flowing dark and dismal. Flint, unused to tolerating fools, was heavy with dull rage with Pimenta's endless prattle about the great world war that was coming, the war which according to him would be the conclusion of all previous colonial wars: King George's War, Queen Anne's War, and the rest.
Pimenta said this would be the final fight for the North American continent. He said the Catholic French would march down from Montreal with beating drums. He said the Catholic Spaniards would march up from Florida with banners flying. He said the heathen Indians would fall upon the loser with scalping knives.
Flint was bored. War between various combinations of Britain, France and Spain was the natural condition of the world he knew. He could imagine no other state of affairs. All he cared about was raising a loan so he could hire ships and men to re-take his island. But Pimenta spoke only of war… until Neal and Selena hung back to look at one of the big rampart guns, which she then proceeded to explain to him, Selena now being knowledgeable about such things where he was not, to his considerable amusement and admiration.
Then Pimenta surprised Flint.
The short, fat young man, in his expensive, untidy clothes, stuck a finger under his hat, ran it through his curly black hair, scratched his head, and stopped talking. He stared at Selena, and sidled up to Flint, coming far closer than Flint liked. He took Flint's arm and whispered:
"Nice little nigger-bitch you got there. Have you thought of selling?"
"Nigger?" said Flint. "Where?" He saw only Selena.
"Her!" said Pimenta. "How much… to a friend?"
"Selena?" said Flint. "Sell Selena? As a slave?" At that moment Meshod Pimenta's life hung on a thread, for Flint was struck by a lightning bolt of emotion at this gross insult to the woman that he… the woman that he… that he… that he…
Pimenta survived only through Flint's inability to recognise, to define and to accept.
"Ooof!" said Pimenta, stepping back with hand to mouth. Flint was positively fizzing with anger, like a bomb with a lit fuse. In such a mood there were few men alive who could look Flint in the eye without being paralysed by terror, and Pimenta felt his legs quivering beneath him.
Fortunately for him, Neal had been listening. Charley Neal was sharper than Flint knew. He'd only been brought along from Savannah because Flint needed a bridge to the money- men, but Neal saved Flint's plans and his neck by darting forward, grabbing Flint's arm and linking it with Selena's. He then hustled them away together and took Pimenta aside for a lecture of his own.
In the unthinking instant, Flint threw his arms around Selena, turned his back on Pimenta, and trembled as he stroked her cheek, ignoring the amazement of those citizens of Charlestown who beheld a white man embracing a black woman. But their amazement was nothing beside Selena's, for she'd seen Pimenta's leering face and guessed what he wanted, and realised that Flint was protecting her. He who'd only ever shown a covetous lust that he couldn't even consummate! Now he was holding her with fierce passion, and physically placing himself between her and danger.
Flint was unusually quiet after that. He kept looking at Selena, and finding excuses to touch her, which was unwelcome in the extreme to Selena for fear of where this might lead. But she'd grown fast and far when it came to understanding Joe Flint — even exercising a degree of control over him — so while she gave no sign of favour at his attentions, she didn't flinch or pull away but waited to see what opportunities might present from this new behaviour.
Flint turned nasty again when they went to board the launch. Alan Morton, Flint's quartermaster, who was in charge of the boat, stood forward with his hat in his hands, ducking and bobbing and grovelling.
"Cap'n, sir," he said, "one o' the hands has run."
"Run?" said Flint. "What d'you mean, run?"
"Hopped ship, Cap'n, sir. Deserted, sir."
Flint looked into the boat. There should have been four hands sitting with oars vertical, awaiting orders. There were only three. And they were avoiding his eye.
"Who knows about this?" said Flint.
"It were Tommy Farrell, Cap'n, sir," said Morton. "Had his trug in the boat, Cap'n, sir, and legged it."
Flint scowled. He reached out and took Morton by the scruff of his shirt.
"Joe!" said Neal. "Don't. It'll draw attention."
"Will it, though?" said Flint, and squeezed Morton's throat. "Tommy Farrell, eh? What if he blabs?"
"Dammit, Joe," said Neal, "do you think half Charlestown don't know who you are? It don't make no difference what Farrell says!"
"Farrell?" said Flint, and let go of Morton's throat. "Well, he's no great loss! Farrell's one of the ship's 'white mice', that none of the rest will have at their mess-table." He smiled slowly at Morton, who dared to sigh with relief. "But it's stopped grog for you, my lad, till you learn to keep order among the hands." Morton shed tears, Flint boarded the boat, and Farrell was forgotten.
Later, as the launch pulled out to Walrus where she lay at anchor among the forest of masts in Charlestown harbour, Neal — so far as he dared — read the rule book to Flint concerning Meshod Pimenta. He was a brave man to do so, for Flint, Selena and he were huddled in the sternsheets under a tarpaulin at the time, and they were damp and miserable with cold.
"He's the biggest merchant in Charlestown, Joe," said Neal.
"He's a tight-fisted Hebrew," said Flint.
"And I'm a papist! Cormac O'Neal, I was christened."
"'Tain't the same. He's too mean to talk business!"
"Joe," said Neal, greatly daring, "in the first place it ain't easy to find men that wants to deal with you…" Flint's eyes blinked and Neal gulped in fright. "You've got a reputation, Joe, so you've got to offer a sweetener. Pimenta wouldn't talk business 'cos you wouldn't do what I said. You wouldn't tell him about the island."