"Ow!" said Bentham, more in anger than pain, for the wound didn't hurt all that much. But she soon slackened her grip and Flint shoved clear, and jumped up, and leapt back, and staggered away, safe from all harm.
And there he stood, panting and gasping with the sweat dripping off his nose, as Danny Bentham's heart did all the hard work of killing her by pumping her life's blood straight out through the side of her leg with enough force to spatter the sand for a good three fathoms all around.
It didn't take long. A couple of minutes and the twitching, wriggling body gave up twitching and wriggling… and stopped groaning and damning… and breathing… and lay quiet.
"Huh!" said Flint, when he'd got his breath back, and he walked over and savagely kicked the late Captain Bentham. Damnation! he thought. This would mean trouble with Bentham's crew, especially O'Byrne. He turned to Selena, suddenly penetrated with guilt for what he'd done to her, and fumbled for words to explain, to beg forgiveness, to win back something — anything — other than rejection. But it was too late. Selena was gone.
Chapter 33
Oraclaesus crept warily towards a fine natural harbour enclosed in a curving sweep of white sand fringed with trees, with Hastings and Povey in the maintop hysterically yelling down to their superiors that this was indeed Flint's island, the very one and only — bugger them blind — and this was the southern anchorage, and another anchorage — not so good — was to the north where the wreck of the Elizabeth must be lying — God damn the pair of them if it weren't — and there was the bloody damn stupid blockhouse they'd been made to build by Flint, and where he'd caned their precious arses for pointing out it was a waste of sodding time, and…
"Hallo!" said Povey. "What's that?"
"Where?" said Hastings.
"There! It's a bloody fort. Earthworks, guns an' all!"
"God bugger and beach me, so it is!"
"That weren't there before!"
"Well, it bloody-well is now!"
"I'll go below and tell the captain, shall I?" said Povey.
"Aye-aye, sir," said Hastings who was the senior, but in his excitement revealed a deeper truth.
On the quarterdeck, Commodore Scott-Owen noted the presence of such matters as forts and blockhouses, but without immediate interest. He had a vastly complex task to complete: the getting of four vessels into an unknown harbour without beaching or stranding any of them.
Being his calm self again — outwardly — he left the execution of these practical matters exclusively to his subordinates. But all responsibility sat exclusively upon himself, for it was himself first and foremost whom their lordships would break, should any of this expensive and beautiful squadron be lost without good reason. So, while Scott-Owen knew he had good officers and good crews, and while he sensibly kept out of their way, he wrenched his guts into agonised knots, worrying and worrying and worrying as the work was done.
Boats were launched and sent ahead, sounding the way. Leaper led the squadron, with Oraclaesus, Bounder and Jumper following in her wake. Guns were run out and matches lit in case of eventualities. Marines were mustered with sixty rounds, canteens filled and three days' rations packed into their knapsacks, and every tradesman from purser to carpenter prepared his list of stores, for no opportunity should ever be lost to make these good on landfall.
The most pressing need was for fresh water, with heavy work to be done in bringing up the water butts from the ground tiers down below, and filling them ashore in the streams Mr Hastings and Mr Povey said were easily found, then hoisting their ponderous weight back aboard. The urgency of this latter task was particularly acute for the sloops, which were thereby prevented from cruising the island at once to search for Flint's ships as Scott-Owen would have wished. So this too had to be allowed for and planned for, to be undertaken the very moment the squadron had anchored.
Thus there followed the most wonderful display of disciplined chaos as the hundreds of men aboard the four ships darted this way and that, busy in their labours, doing a dozen things at once… and never ever getting in each other's way. With the exception of Scott-Owen, every creature aboard had some vital task to perform; even the ships' cats were on duty against vermin stowaways.
"Commodore, sir?" said Captain Baggot of Oraclaesus, passing through the press, and touching his hat in salute.
"Captain!" said Scott-Owen, delighted to have some role, but instantly adopting his pose of calm. "Ah-hem!" he said, and folded his hands behind his back.
"Here's the list, sir," said Baggot. "The landing party, sir."
"Ah! Show me!"
"Here, sir… One hundred seamen and all fifty marines from this ship…"
"Good, good!"
"With seventy-five men each from the sloops."
"Good!"
"Making a total of three hundred and seventy-five men, sir."
"Excellent! And a brace of pistols to each seaman? Not just one each?"
"Indeed, sir. And muskets, too, for as many as possible."
"And cutlasses sharpened?"
"Indeed, sir!"
"And shining?"
"Indeed, sir!"
"Excellent! Never neglect that, Captain Baggot!"
"Indeed not, sir! The moral effect, sir! Gleaming blades, sir!"
The commodore nodded, the captain saluted… and went about his busy business, leaving Scott-Owen to go back to his pacing of the deck, and his worrying, and his looking at the island and worrying some more.
Later, once all preparations had been made that could be made, the furious activity aboard the four vessels reduced to one, dull, heavy task, for the wind had failed and the squadron had to be brought in by kedging. This was a tremendous labour of many hours duration, with each ship sending a boat ahead with a kedge anchor, and dropping the anchor, and then hauling in the cable by the capstan… and then raising the anchor and sending it forward again… and then the same thing over again… and then again… and again… such that the sun was sinking by the time the job was finally done, and the squadron neatly moored within cannon shot of the beach.
At that stage, the hands were sent to their supper, for there could be no landing in the dark. Not on an unknown island.
So the entire squadron, from commodore to cooper, from captain to carpenter, sat down to a merry meal and made enough noise to be heard from end to end of the anchorage as they bawled out shanties and toasted every jolly thing they could think of. They particularly toasted that most wonderful, beloved and splendid system whereby ships and treasure captured in His Majesty's service are condemned by a Court of Admiralty and the value — some of it, anyway — distributed among the officers and men concerned, as prize money.
They drank a toast to "Prize!" because two mighty assumptions were held by every man of the squadron. First, that Captain Flint and his ships and men were somewhere on or about this island — an assumption for which there was very little evidence. Second, that Captain Flint, being a famous pirate, was in possession of a vast fortune — an assumption for which there was no evidence whatsoever, but which was a beloved and unchallengeable item of faith.
Thus it was incredible good fortune for the squadron that both assumptions were absolutely correct, and that — even without taking into account the men left aboard the squadron's ships — their landing force alone, being three hundred and seventy- five men, was more numerous than the entire force ashore, including Flint's men, Silver's men and Dreamer's men combined.