"Huzzah!" they cheered.
"And is it not a treat that our very duty is to chase Flint, when it's certain that it is to this secret island that he's bound… and… and… It's a fortune in prize money to all hands once we lay hold of him!" "HUZZAH!"
"Mr Hastings, Mr Povey," said Scott-Owen, "will you give us the benefit of your knowledge? Show us where it lies — this secret island!" Scott-Owen indicated a number of large charts, unrolled and flattened out with weights on the cabin table, representing the Caribbean, the Americas, and the Atlantic.
"Aye-aye, sir!" said Hastings and Povey, and passed through the press to stand at the table, where they re-iterated the discussion they'd had so many times since being cast adrift by Flint three years ago. There were grins and nudges from most of those present, because Hastings and Povey had bored all hands with their constant discussion of the location of Flint's island, and nobody had paid attention, since there'd been no reason to go to there: they were chasing Flint, whose natural home was the Caribbean or the Americas, where rich prizes could be taken. What would he want with a lonely island in an empty ocean?
So they'd thought! But now, everything was different, and Hastings and Povey were allowed their moment of theatre.
"Well," said Hastings, "Flint cut us loose a day's sail from the island."
"And we were in Trinidad on July the second."
"After thirty-two days at sea under sail."
"Which means we could have covered anything up to three thousand miles."
"Which we didn't, 'cos we were becalmed a lot of the time."
"And discoursing."
"You were saved by a Spanish frigate, were you not?" said Scott-Owen.
"Yes, sir, San Dominico, Captain de Oveira, on course for Port of Spain."
"And you'd been heading west?"
"Yes, sir. Hoping to make the Windward Isles." "So where was your starting point?" said Scott-Owen. "Where's the island?"
Hastings and Povey looked at one another. Hastings was the elder. He was a lieutenant while Povey was a midshipman. But Povey was a first-class navigator and Hastings was not. Hastings glanced at the chart and nudged Povey.
"Ah-hm!" said Povey. "As best as I can guess, sir…" and he leaned forward, and stretched out his hand, and every man present ceased breathing. "It'd be about — here!" And he stuck his finger on the chart.
Scott-Owen picked up a pencil, moved the finger slightly, and marked the chart with a firm, bold cross.
Chapter 27
It was cold. The sea was lively. The wind was erratic, there was mist and fog, and Joe Flint was on the limit of his skills. He was attempting to lead three ships southwards through the vast horseshoe of dangers that guarded the island to the north, east and west. He did so because he had to, having guessed that Silver would discover the archipelago and pay less heed to danger from the north, offering Flint his only chance of a surprise landing, since the island's two anchorages were unsafe to enter at night, and the southern anchorage would certainly be watched.
So he was taking Flint's Passage: a death-trap of swirling waters, vicious rocks, mist and hungry sandbanks, some displaying the wooden bones of ships, barnacled, weed-draped and rotting. The route was made all the more dangerous because it was impossible to see much more than a ship's own length ahead, for there was always fog here, no matter what the weather all around.
Flint himself led the way, taking Danny Bentham's longboat — the best in the flotilla — and the best of the men, the best compass, and his own chart. He had a lead-line going in the bow, and men probing with pikes besides, for the dangers were hidden, being constantly awash, and many ships had run unknowing to their ruin hereabouts, especially at night or in bad weather, with timbers smashed and cargoes lost, and men drowned and never heard of again.
Even to those who knew the dangers it was fearful work. Flint was dripping sweat as he concentrated on finding the way, with a dozen men at the oars and Allardyce at the tiller, steering to Flint's hand-signals, and doing his best to keep the boat on course against the fierce, ever-changing currents.
"Back larboard, back larboard… Pulltogethernow!" cried Allardyce.
"By the deep four!" cried the leadsman.
"Back starboard, back starboard… Pulltogethernow!"
"By the mark five!"
Close behind the longboat came Walrus, Hercules and Sweet Anne in line astern, under close-reefed topsails, creeping onward with lookouts posted, anxious faces peering over the rails, and each helmsman placing his ship exactly in the wake of the one ahead, knowing certain shipwreck lay in wait on either side. Flint, meanwhile, looked back constantly to make sure the flotilla was following on the true course, and — seeing the lumbering hulls, and the extreme narrowness of the "safe" channel — even he wondered if he wasn't making a mistake.
Aboard Walrus the fo'c'sle was crowded. Men pointed and muttered and argued the best course through the hazards — but they offered no advice to Flint. They knew better than that. Among them, Dark Hand and Dreamer stood talking in their own language. They watched these ship matters, but left them to the white men. They had other issues.
"Why do we follow him?" said Dark Hand, looking at Flint.
"Because he knows the way," said Dreamer.
"No! Not this path through the angry waters. Why do we serve his purpose?"
"Because he will pay us in gold."
"But he is the Devil. He is our Devil as well as the white man's."
"We have no Devil."
"But you dream of our Devil. And you say his name is Flint."
"His gold will save our people."
"But he is evil."
"It will buy us our new lands."
"But how can we build good upon evil?"
Dreamer said nothing, for he didn't know. But who could blame him? No philosopher born has ever solved that particular puzzle.
Next to Dreamer and Dark Hand, and in their own different world, Selena and Cowdray were also discussing Flint.
"Are you saying he hasn't come near you?" said Cowdray.
"Yes," she said.
"But he treats you like a princess. We all assumed — "
"Then don't assume!"
"But I thought you'd come to an… er…"
"To a what?"
"To an accommodation. To a friendship."
"Huh!" she said.
Cowdray moved closer and whispered, "Is it still Silver, for you?"
She said nothing.
"Ah!" he said, but she looked away.
"What choice have I got?" she replied at last, staring at Flint.
He was standing upright in the bows of the big longboat, chart in hand, making quick darting movements of his hands to guide the boat. He was leading the whole flotilla and the four hundred men embarked. He alone bore the responsibility.
Whatever his flaws, he was unquestionably a remarkable man and Selena wondered where her future lay.
At the summit of Foremast Hill, George Merry and Whitey Lowery had a stock of victuals, a good tent and a fine view in all directions, especially to the north. And now they wrestled for their fine telescope.
"Gimme that!" said Whitey.
"Garn!" said Merry, and pulled away. But Whitey was the stronger. He snatched the big glass, set it to his eye, adjusted the focus… and tingled in excitement.