At first, Flint was taken aback. He had long since realised that Van Oosterhout was by far the most talented and intelligent of all his followers, and therefore the most dangerous. The last thing Flint wanted was the Dutchman joining the politics Bentham was brewing behind his back, and in any case he couldn't abide Van Oosterhout's solemn, self-satisfied face and just wanted him out of the way. But how? He could order him back to his ship, but what would he get up to there, out of Flint's sight?
Fortunately, Flint was seized with inspiration. He greeted Van Oosterhout with smiles, and called for fruits and rum, and sent an Indian runner to bring the good news to Dreamer and Cut-Feather. Then he had a private word with the master of silat.
"You're come not a moment too soon," said Flint.
"Why?" said Van Oosterhout.
"Because… the treasure is threatened!"
Van Oosterhout's eyes made circles.
"I can trust none but you!" said Flint.
"Me?"
"Yes! For there's mutiny and murder ahead, and we need new burial sites…"
They talked for nearly an hour before Van Oosterhout was convinced. Then he nodded firmly, shook Flint's hand and set off with map, notebook and compass, on a most privileged and trusted mission: to check that the treasure was still where it should be, and to survey new sites for its re-interment, in case of need. Flint even passed over some of his own notes for guidance, and when Van Oosterhout walked off, Flint congratulated himself on a job well done.
Van Oosterhout would be busy for weeks, especially once he'd dug up some of the treasure, and goggled over it — for Flint knew the key to Van Oosterhout. Otherwise what was he doing here? He'd had plenty of opportunity to run. With Van Oosterhout it was gold, gold, gold. And Spanish dollars, of course.
Fortunately, he'd be on his own, sworn to secrecy, and unable to take more than a handful or two for himself. Better still, during their intense conversation, Flint had taken a close look at Van Oosterhout's face beneath the sandy whiskers, and seen how easily the Dutchman's total silence could be assured.
And so back to Ben Gunn. Making haste, before Bentham and O'Byrne could close in, Flint found the mad creature and made completely sure that he knew what was expected of him.
"Tell me what sort of men you must find," said Flint.
Ben Gunn told him.
"And where must you take them?"
Ben Gunn told him.
"And what must they do?"
Ben Gun told him.
"And finally," said Flint, "tell me what shall happen to you, should you play me false."
Ben Gunn shuddered. He lowered his eyes. A thin stream of terror ran from his bladder and down his skinny leg, and made a dark patch in the sand.
"You'll give me to the savages."
"And what if you try to run away?"
"They'll catch me anyway."
"And what will they do to you?"
In a tiny voice, with eyes tight shut, and hands over his face, Ben Gunn told him. Ben Gunn knew, because Flint had told him. Flint listened and nodded and looked to the future, and saw all things smoothed and his plans going forward like a ship in a steady blow — never suspecting that another threat, one he'd thought dead and gone, was even now reaching out to grab him.
The maintop of a frigate in a lively sea was lavishly provided with opportunities for a man to kill himself.
It was a timber platform some twenty feet long by fifteen wide; rounded forward and square-cut aft (where, it must be said, there was a flimsy rail that might stop a man from going over and dropping a hundred feet to the hard deck or the hungry sea). Likewise, to either beam, the main topmast shrouds with their ratlines closed the maintop under a narrowing pyramid of black-tarred rope, making it almost impossible to go over either way. But forward, the top was entirely innocent of restraint, and inboard, where the platform admitted the great shafts of the mainmast and topmast, there were great gaps — lubbers' holes — that lay in wait for some fool to put his foot in, and proceed downwards by that swift route.
Which was one of many reasons why, aboard His Majesty's ships nine men were killed as a result of mishap, shipwreck or disease, for every one so fortunate as to be killed by England's enemies.
None of which worried Lieutenant Hastings or Mr Midshipman Povey, who'd been bred up to the sea and imagined no other life, and today were at the pinnacle of professional joy, finding themselves at the epicentre of such a manoeuvre as only men-o'-war could perform at all, and which, in their opinion, only King George's ships could do well.
Each had a telescope and each had a ship under observation.
The ships were Leaper and Bounder. Of these, Leaper — observed by Hastings — lay to larboard, and Bounder- observed by Povey — lay to starboard, each being some twenty miles off: the furthest distance from which signals were visible by the aid of a glass. Then to larboard of Leaper was Jumper, another twenty miles off. So, with four ships deployed in line abeam, and the outermost ships looking their twenty miles further out on each side… that meant a total width of one hundred miles was under observation as the ships proceeded on course.
"Signal coming up, sir!" said Povey as a hoist of flags ran up the halyard and broke into the wind. The signal read "Inquiry" — a challenge to ensure all ships were alert and smart.
Hastings and Povey studied Leaper and Bounder.
"Acknowledge!" said Hastings, as Leaper responded with signal flags. "Aye-aye Leaper!" he roared, for the benefit of the officer of the watch, below.
"Aye-aye Bounder!" cried Povey.
"Aye-aye Jumper!" cried Hastings, as Leaper hoisted the "Repeat Acknowledge", indicating Jumper too was awake and alert.
Thus ship spoke to ship in seconds across a hundred miles. A remarkable feat of seamanship, but routine to those involved. Which was just as well, because they had to keep it up day after weary day to find Flint's island, for the ocean is mighty and laughs at so small a distance as a hundred miles. Also, for all Mr Povey's natural talent for navigation, he'd not put his finger on quite the right spot. Nobody could have done better, but it was only a guess, and nothing less than the skilled teamwork of a naval squadron could have found the island based on that guess.
In the event, all was merriment and anticipation aboard Commodore Scott-Owen's ships, for they came within sight of the island's southern anchorage after only ten days of searching. It could have taken much, much longer, and every man of them knew it, and there wasn't one who didn't believe they were blessed with especially good luck. The future could only be bright.
Chapter 32
Flint put away his notebook. It had served its purpose: this was a site that did not appear in the notes given to Van Oosterhout. Looking around him, the forest glade began to seem familiar now that he was actually in it, but even he couldn't have found it without the notes. He sighed in contentment, took out his pocket compass, opened it, and set his back to one of the giant pines that rose over the island like a cathedral spire. He let the needle steady itself… took a bearing… and paced out the correct number of steps.