Soon the women and children came up too, and there was Dreamer, sat in the middle of a circle of them, propped up, grinning and guzzling and singing, while they howled with laughter and egged him on.
"It's always the same," said Danny Bentham, seeing the expression on Flint's face. "They can't help it, Joe. They just pour it down." Bentham searched for words to explain and excuse. He had to, because he'd been the one who'd sold these men to Flint as mighty warriors.
"They don't brew no drink of their own, d'you see? It's uncharted waters for 'em. They got no pilot nor guide. Where we might drink a bottle with a friend, or a good dinner, they drink the whole damn cellar all in one go, just so soon as they get hold of it. They don't know no better, d'you see? They'll fight. Never doubt that, Joe. But they just can't help it with the rum."
"Yes," said Flint, thoughtfully, "I'd heard that. Heard it, but never seen it." He drew Bentham aside, finding a quiet corner. "I'm glad you took my lead, Danny, over sailing with so many warriors aboard."
"I did wonder, Joe. But I supposed you had your reasons."
"Which I did, Danny."
"And which were…?"
"Well, they'll outnumber us — outward bound."
"Yes?"
"But that don't matter, because we'll all be of one mind."
"To find the island?"
"Yes. But once on the island, it's them who'll fight John Silver's men." "Ah!"
"And there won't be half so many of them… homeward bound."
"Suppose not."
"And beyond that, any time we need, we can splice the main brace."
"And see the lot of 'em three sheets to the wind!"
They stood a while, looking at the pitiful spectacle of the virile Patanq reduced to slobbering drunkards. Then Flint roused himself.
"Well," he said, "boats away, I think. We're done this day."
"Joe," said Bentham, "just one more thing…"
"What?"
"Our agreement — about the lady… that stands?"
"God bless your soul, yes!" said Flint. "I gave my word!"
As it was now dark, Danny Bentham couldn't quite see the expression on Flint's face.
Then Charley Neal and Van Oosterhout came up, followed by Captain Foster, who had just learned that he was no longer even nominally the master aboard his own ship. There was a considerable deal more shouting and arguing before Neal and Flint could go over the side and into Walrus's launch, but their unique powers of persuasion triumphed in the end.
"Goodnight, Cap'n Flint!" cried Bentham, as his own boat pulled away.
"Goodnight, Cap'n Bentham!" cried Flint, waving his hat.
"You send my sea-chest tomorrow, yes?" cried Van Oosterhout, leaning over Lucy May's rail. "And my instruments and my tables?"
"Of course, Mr Mate," said Flint, teeth gleaming in the darkness.
"Better I come back with you tonight!" said Van Oosterhout in surly mood.
"What's that?" said Flint, affecting deafness.
"Why do I stay here now? I do not agree!"
"Goodnight, Mr Mate!" cried Flint. It was better that Van Oosterhout stayed where he was. Had Dreamer not offered so excellent an excuse, Flint would have invented one.
"Give way!" said Flint. The oarsmen swayed, the oars splashed, darkness wrapped Lucy May, and the harbour spread out in sombre shadows all around, with distant lights from Charlestown, a dark forest of spars and rigging over the ships in the anchorage, and the water slick and gleaming in the moonlight.
On the ship, among his women and children, Dreamer bawled out a song and was so gracious as to give his wives a go at the bottle. He laughed aloud as the white man's fire ran through his body… and then he stopped. He stopped, and fell silent and sat up, and all his good drunkenness ran away like water from a smashed pot.
He thought of the white sachem: the one greater than all others. The one who struck fear with his eyes. Then he thought of the left-handed twin, who cut his way from his mother's body at the Beginning, and made everything that was bad. Dreamer now knew that this twin was indeed
Satan, though he had many other names: Warty-Skin, Ugly- Face and Stone-blade were common. But he was also named for the stone from which sharp blades were struck. That stone was called… Flint.
"Well, Cap'n," said Charley Neal, "that went very well!" He was still wheezing with the effort of clambering down the side of a ship in darkness. He was too fat and too old for ship's boats, what with them rocking and heaving and trying to put him over the side. But for the first time since Flint had dropped anchor in Savannah, Neal could see his way clear of his troubles. The day had indeed gone well.
"Aye," said Flint, then, "Watch your steering there!" he snapped at the man at the tiller. "Follow my orders, you swab!"
Hmm, thought Charley, Flint was in one of his moods. You could never tell with Flint, for it'd been an uncanny couple of days. First Flint had gone head over heels for Selena and turned into another man entirely, such that none of the old things mattered any more. Then there was the bizarre matter of Bentham being caught in the same trap, and coming to Flint, asking for her hand in marriage — marriage, for Christ's sake! — when the bastard knew she was supposed to be Flint's bloody wife! Or did he know she wasn't? Who could tell? Bentham was as mad as Flint. Differently mad, but bloody mad all the same.
None of that mattered though. All Flint's problems were over. He didn't need Pimenta now. He could bring Selena back aboard and roger her cross-eyed. Flint had secured three good ships to carry an army, he'd got his army, and if the Patanq fleet was to trail along behind him — why, Joe Flint would soon lose them! And then he'd get rid of all the rest of the poor bloody Indians who thought he was going to treat them fair! That's my boy. That's Joe Flint!
Best of all, thought Charley Neal, there's myself right at the centre of all these happy events. Wasn't it myself stopped
Flint murdering Danny Bentham when he went goggle-eyed over Selena? Wasn't it myself explained that Bentham was the key to the Patanq? And wasn't it myself spent bloody hours talking Flint into making agreement with the Indians, and telling them — and nobody else — enough to bring them aboard of his blasted expedition to the blasted island?
Holy Mary Mother of God! Neal had guided him like a child. He'd shown him the true and righteous path. And now it was time for Charley Neal to dip his bread in the sauce. There'd never be a better time. No matter how many of Flint's secrets he knew, there were others who knew as much, and even Flint couldn't be planning to get rid of everyone, could he? Having done all that Flint asked, Charley felt sure he must be well on the way to Dublin now.
"Captain," he said, "I've been thinking. You know I've always planned to go back to Ireland one day…"
"Have you, Charley?"
"I have, Joe."
"And when might this be?"
"Well, Joe…" Neal frowned, he looked around. "Where are we going?"
"To the ship, Charley."
"But we're heading for the harbour mouth."