Scott-Owen went ashore at once to consult with the governor, anxious to ensure that every possible co-operation would be given to re-fit Oraclaesus and sequester all necessary stores and ship's fittings. Money at least was not a problem, since Scott-Owen had a substantial war chest aboard for precisely such emergencies.
It was at the governor's residence, with Mr Povey and two marines in attendance for dignity's sake, that Scott-Owen took the first step towards the tremendous surprise that was awaiting him in Charlestown.
Governor Glen wasn't in. Which left the governor's butler facing a dilemma.
"Sir," he said, "my master is gone out — " he looked around to check for eavesdroppers "- on most secret business."
"Oh?" said Scott-Owen. "Is it the king's business?"
"Yes, sir!" said the servant, not quite adding Of course.
"Then what it?"
"I do not know, sir."
"Hmm," Scott-Owen looked at him. Servants usually knew everything.
"Then where's he gone? Can you not tell me that? My own business is also urgent."
The butler paused. The butler pondered. He reached a decision.
"My master is gone to the lock-up, sir."
"The what?"
"The cells where the constables secure felons, sir."
"And where might that be?"
The butler told him, and Scott-Owen dashed off through the streets of Charlestown in full dress and silk stockings with his marines and midshipman scuttling astern.
The gaoler at the lock-up — a dingy stone building in the base of one of the town's many bastions — was awestruck at the arrival of so magnificent a person, and bowed low. In his suit of grubby clothes and leather apron, he looked like a tradesman as he stood in his dirty little vestibule with its entrance barred by a half-door and a small wooden counter. The place reeked of damp.
"Yes, Commodore. Yes, sir," he said. "The governor is already here, sir. Down in the cells, sir, with Constable Carleton and Constable Denny."
"What the hell is he doing here?" said Scott-Owen, and saw the same, shifty look on the gaoler's face as there'd been on the butler's. "Pah!" he said. "Where is he? This way, is it?" There was a short corridor, leading into the building. The gaoler nodded. Scott-Owen turned to the marines. "You wait here," he said.
With Mr Povey in his wake he plunged into the corridor, which led to a double row of six cells, three on each side, with heavy studded doors. One of the doors was open, and voices could be heard from within. Voices and the sound of blows.
"Last time, cocky!"
"I dunno. I dunno." "Right!"
Thump! "Aaaah!" Thump! "Aaah!" Thump! "Aaah!"
Scott-Owen darted forward. One big fellow was holding a seaman — identifiable as such from his slops and striped shirt — while another laid into him with meaty fists. The man doing the beating had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves for the work, while Governor James Glen stood looking on. The victim had already taken a considerable battering and his eyes were mostly closed, and blood smothered his face.
"What in God's name is going on here!" roared Scott-Owen in his best mast-head bellow. "Marines — to me!" The clatter of hobnails on stone flags was soon followed by a pair of muskets with bayonets fixed, while Povey drew his dirk — a blade more ceremonial than functional, but it was all he had. "Release that man at once," cried the commodore, "in King George's name!" As a red-blooded Englishman his every sympathy was with the under-dog. Especially when he was a seaman.
The two bruisers jumped as if scalded. They let go the seaman, who slumped to the floor. Then, mouths open in surprise, they turned to Governor Glen.
"Ah!" said Glen. "Dear me. Dear me." He frowned. He thought. He smiled ingratiatingly. "Commodore Scott-Owen," he said, "I'm delighted to see you. I should have sent after you had you not come by yourself!"
"What?" said Scott-Owen, who immediately launched into a rant on the iniquities of torture and the war that must soon be fought against France and Spain, the natural homes of such vile and detestable practises… et cetera, et cetera.
Glen let him finish. He was a far more complex creature than Scott-Owen. He waited patiently till the young officer ran out of words. Then he spoke:
"Commodore," he said, "this is one of Flint's men."
"Who is?" said Scott-Owen.
"Him — " said Glen, pointing at the seaman. "Tommy Farrell's his name."
"He's a pirate?"
"Indeed! One of Flint's chickens. He got drunk in a tavern and boasted of it."
"Did he?" said Scott-Owen. Glenn nodded.
"He was arrested yesterday." Glenn looked at the bruisers. "Wasn't he?"
"That's right," said one of them. "By me and Constable Denny, here."
"Aye," said the other. "Me and Constable Carleton." They nodded.
"We been looking for scum like him," said Carleton.
"Since Constable Granger disappeared," said Denny.
"But they found something bigger," said Glen.
"What do you mean?" said Scott-Owen.
Glen spoke quietly to Scott-Owen. He tried to whisper, but everyone heard every word.
"He knows something… about Flint's treasure. Can we speak privately?"
"Oh!" said Scott-Owen, who, for all his rapid promotion, had been unlucky in the matter of prize money — which is to say he'd never had any. "Oh!" he said again. "Perhaps we might step outside?"
They did. Governor Glen and Commodore Owen stepped out into the bright cool sunshine, and took a stroll up and down, and talked. It was mainly Glen that talked and Scott- Owen that listened. Mr Povey, the marines, the constables and the gaoler watched them. Their eyebrows shot up at one stage when Scott-Owen stopped in his tracks, grabbed Glen's arm, and said:
"HOW MUCH?"
"Shhh!" said Glen. They carried on talking. They talked for quite a while. Finally they shook hands like brothers, smiled like sunshine, and each dashed off in a different direction, bent on the common cause of getting Oraclaesus to sea in such a time as would amaze not only mankind but Almighty God Himself.
Later, aboard Oraclaesus, Scott-Owen summoned all officers to his stern cabin. Not only were all the lieutenants, midshipmen and senior warrant officers of the flagship present, but the commanders and first lieutenants of Leaper, Bounder and Jumper too. It was a sea of blue coats and gold lace, with every chair taken and men standing at the back and sides. The excitement was intense, because A GREAT SECRET was to be revealed — which, like all secrets, was already leaking furiously, to the point there was hardly a creature aboard the four ships that didn't have a good idea what was going on.
"Gentlemen," said Scott-Owen, "earlier today I met with the Honourable James Glen, Governor of the Royal Colony of South Carolina."
"Ah," they said.
"I also met one Thomas Farrell, lately a pirate on board Flint's ship Walrus." "Oh?"
"This miserable creature has been persuaded — we need not ask how — to reveal that Flint has amassed a great treasure and has buried it on a secret island." Everyone looked at Lieutenant Hastings and Midshipman Povey, now sitting like greyhounds in sight of a rabbit. "Aye, gentlemen," said Scott- Owen, "is it not it a treat that we have on board the only two British officers who've been on Flint's island and know where it is?"