So Flint stood on the threshold, afraid to advance, afraid to retreat. He dared not hold back for fear men would think him a eunuch, but he dared not go forward and be proved one. Long seconds passed. Neal stared in growing disbelief as Flint dithered and quivered. Joe Flint that had no fear of any man. Joe Flint that every man was in terror of.
But then… maybe… Looking into the room, Flint found that… just possibly… he wasn't quite so lost as he'd feared, for he felt that something might be stirring that had long been dormant.
Finally he summoned his courage, stepped forward, and slammed the door shut behind him.
The room was bright lit. Bentham was in shirt and breeches on a couch with two tarts from the top end of the Charlestown trade. Both were stark naked except for laced- up riding boots, tight black gloves and little feathered hats tied with ribbons under the chin. They were exceedingly well chosen by Bentham himself, who was hopelessly addicted to the flesh. That's where his money went, and he knew how to spend it.
One girl was white, the other black, and the white girl was laughing while the black girl rode on Bentham's back, one hand inside his shirt and the other cracking him with a riding whip.
"Take that, sir!" cried the black girl.
"Ow!" cried Bentham, and flinched at the blow.
Flint gulped. There was definitely something awake below, even if he was in a fury with Neal over Danny Bentham not being what "he" was supposed to be — as witnessed by the scene in front of him, with Bentham's open shirt revealing what it was that the black girl's hand was squeezing!
"Cap'n Flint?" cried Bentham, spotting his guest and shaking off his rider. "Is it you, Cap'n?" Throwing the whores aside, he — she? — stood up, hitched breeches, tucked in his breast, and stepped forward with a smile.
Bentham was big: taller than Flint, and handsome and friendly and on his uttermost best behaviour. Flint was taken aback, and allowed Bentham to shake his hand, and sit him down and offer him a glass and a girl.
"Which d'you fancy, Cap'n? All charged to me, of course."
"The black one," murmured Flint, his mind fevered.
"Nancy," said Bentham. "They're all called Nancy or Poll," he laughed, and the girls simpered and giggled, and Flint gasped as Nancy sat her silky-soft, dark, warm self in his lap and curled her smooth arms round his neck and stuck her tongue in his ear.
An hour later Flint and Bentham emerged; Bentham grinning, Flint smiling. And Flint was changed. In childhood, his father had made it painfully clear to young Joseph that certain acts — bodily acts — were so inexpressibly vile that God had forbidden men to perform them, except with whores. Hence Flint's problem, a problem made worse by unfortunate experiments, but recently and miraculously soothed by his feelings for Selena, feelings which he knew were finer than lust, but which — tragically for him — he did not fully understand, and which in a normal man could have been his salvation.
But Flint was Flint, and saw things his own way. What he'd just enjoyed, he'd enjoyed with a whore. A black whore. Now… Selena was black, and she'd been bought from Charley Neal's liquor store, where all the girls were whores … ipso facto he could do with her what he'd just done here! Flint could hardly wait, and the very thought of it — even after his recent exertions — caused a vigorous stand of manhood to rise up between his thighs.
It was a fine start to business. Flint took to Bentham wonderfully, and accepted "him" as him with never another thought. They sat in the long room, where they were joined by Neal and O'Byrne, and talked.
"Danny," said Flint. "I may call you Danny, may I not?"
"Of course… Joe." Neal and O'Byrne nodded in approval.
"I need ships, Danny. Ships… with crews. Crews accustomed to our profession."
"Joe, I have both! And I'm open to offers — offers in gold."
"Danny, I do have some gold… a little…"
"How much, Joe?"
"Enough to keep the lower deck happy…"
Flint smiled. He knew Bentham was facing mutiny if things didn't improve.
"Truth is, Danny," said Flint, "I need to convey men and stores…"
"But where, Joe? Where'd we be going? And what to do?"
"Danny! If only I could say!"
"Aye, I've heard you can't even tell Meshod Pimenta."
"And what might you know about that, Danny?"
"A little."
And there Joe Flint foundered. Like Pimenta, Bentham wanted to know what was on offer, where it was, and what had to be done to get it. But Flint wouldn't tell. He trusted nobody. Not even Neal, who had got him alongside Pimenta and Bentham in the first place.
Neal had his own plans, of course. He was over sixty and fed up with the squalor of Savannah. He'd made his pile and wanted a house in Dublin. But he knew all too well what Flint did with those who knew his secrets, once they ceased to be of use to him. So Charley was desperate to keep Flint happy, in the hope Flint might… just might… let Charley go. And with that in mind he resolved to take a risk, even though he knew there were things he wasn't supposed to mention.
"Gentlemen," he said, "if I might make a suggestion…?"
"What suggestion?" said Flint.
"Let's hear it, Joe!" said Bentham. "Charley's a sharp 'un, and no mistake."
"Joe, Danny," said Neal, "there's another way to help one another."
"Oh?" they said.
"Yes," said Neal. "Now, gentlemen…" Neal's legs trembled under the table, but he pressed on: "There's gold in this… yes?"
"Yes," said Flint and Bentham. So far so good.
"There'll be fighting to get it," said Neal, "yes?"
Flint blinked, fast.
Holy Mary, Mother of God! thought Charley. He's going to blow…
"So what?" said Bentham. "How else would we get it?"
"Oh?" said Flint, surprised. "You know that?"
"Of course, or you'd not be talking to me, would you?"
"No," said Flint, and relaxed.
Thank God! thought Neal. "So," he said, "a lot more men will be needed."
"Charley!" said Flint, blinking again.
"Aye!" said Bentham, and nodded.
Charley summoned courage. Charley jumped.
"At least three hundred men…"
Flint shook with anger. His hands dived into his pockets. Neal knew he'd gone too far.
"God help me, God help me, God help me…" Flint fumed.
But Bentham laughed. "Hold hard, Joe," he said. "The poor swab's only trying to lend a hand."
"He should shut his trap!" snapped Flint, but he took his hands from his pockets.
"So we needs a lot more men," said Bentham. "And I knows where to find 'em."
Neal held his breath. That was exactly what he'd hoped Bentham would say. Neal could have told Flint himself, but that would have got him deeper into danger for knowing too much. Better it came from Bentham.
"Where?" said Flint, recovering on the instant.
"Ah," said Bentham, "if only I could say!" and he winked at Flint. "But I'll tell you this: they're some o' the finest fighting men you ever saw, and I can take you to 'em. So, how much gold is there, Joe? And where is it? And who's sitting on top of it?"
Ahhhh, thought Neal, basking in the warmth of a job well done. There it is, Joe: you've got your ships and your army and all you've got to do is trust the bugger! Neal smiled. He saw himself in one of the fine new houses in Drogheda Street, with a staff of servants and a cellar of wine.
But Flint wouldn't have it. He frowned. He wouldn't and couldn't tell.
His stubbornness had Neal despairing and Bentham sneering, when the flat, heavy detonation of artillery could suddenly be heard echoing round the town: threatening, steady and continuous. Everyone in the Golden Fish sat bolt upright and strained to listen.