All they had to do now was find Flint, persuade him to divulge the location of his treasure, and they'd every man jack of them be rich. What could go wrong with so simple an expectation as that? How could Flint prevail over so many?
Flint crept through the camp. He stepped over and around the snoring bodies. He circled the smouldering campfires and the dark tents. He wasn't as silent as a Patanq, but silent enough to leave these hogs in their snorting slumber. And as for the sentries, they saw him and saluted and turned back to their duties. After all, he was their captain and their leader. Why shouldn't they let him pass? Why shouldn't they remain silent and not call out a challenge when he cheerfully smiled and put a finger to his lips. There were men asleep, after all.
He found O'Byrne's tent. He slid inside. He smelt the foul breath and the fug, and dropped on his knees beside the neat camp-bed that Hercules's people had built for their first mate, who was now on his back with his mouth open, and Flint thankful that the kindly darkness hid the display of revolting bad teeth and bad gums, and a thick-furred tongue.
He put a hand over O'Byrne's mouth and gripped O'Byrne's right hand, where it cuddled O'Byrne's constant and faithful bed-fellow: a long, sharp dagger. Flint gripped hard enough to keep the hand still, but not so hard as to be a threat.
"Urrr!" said O'Byrne, and two pale eyes opened over the bulbous, rum-swollen nose.
"Shhh!" said Flint, "Captain Bentham needs you!" And he withdrew his hand, and hesitated, and thought of Billy Bones, upon whose shirt he'd have wiped the snot and slobber from his palm… but not Mr O'Byrne's shirt. No! There was a need for care with him.
"What d'ye fuckin' mean, in the middle of the fuckin' night?" growled O'Byrne. But he didn't use the knife and he didn't shout.
"Mr O'Byrne," said Flint, and looked around as if in fear of eavesdroppers, "we're going to need some help, Danny Bentham and I! And we thought first of you. We thought of you before anyone!" But O'Byrne wasn't so easily led.
"Where's the cap'n?" he said, brimming with suspicion, and he sat up and pulled on breeches and boots. "What's afoot?"
"Ah…" said Flint, with a sly grin, and O'Byrne stopped dead, and glared at him. Careful, careful, careful, thought Flint. "Truth is, Mr O'Byrne, Danny and I were raising a little of… the goods."
"Oh?" said O'Byrne, his eyes widening at the introduction of this wonderful thought: the thought of thoughts compared with which there is no other thought. "The goods, you say?" he licked his lips, but frowned. "And why wasn't I told?"
"Shhh!" said Flint, and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Because the agreement was between Danny and myself, privately. If he'd told you, then I'd have had to tell Allardyce, and then everyone would've known!"
"Oh, would they now?" said O'Byrne. "So where's the cap'n?"
"Fallen in the blasted hole, and I can't get him out, great hulking fellow that he is!" Flint grinned. He winked. He worked every last ounce of his charm. "But he sent you this as a little something for yourself!" Flint reached into his pocket and drew out a leather purse, which he tipped out on to O'Byrne's grimy bed.
O'Byrne goggled and gaped… and became heart, soul, mind and strength committed to the enterprise in hand, for there lay a dozen gold doubloons — each one worth fifteen to twenty dollars — together with a string of pearls and three big rubies!
Instinctively, he grabbed them and fondled them, and loved them, and kissed them, and bit one of the coins… and grinned, and stuffed everything back in the purse, and put the purse in his own pocket, and finished his dressing and stuck his knife in his boot, and took up his usual pistols and cutlass, and smiled his gap-toothed, rotting smile… and got up as Flint beckoned, and followed him like a dog.
And so, out of the camp past a sentry that Flint knew was asleep, and into the forest, along a path beaten by many feet that led southward towards Silver's forts, and finally to a dark, quiet place where a hole had been dug.
"Cap'n, sir!" cried O'Byrne, and ran eagerly forward…
Later Flint returned alone, with a handkerchief bound round his left hand, where he'd been just a little careless. He was carrying a spade and was cheerful. Bentham's crew would follow him now. They already stood in awe of the famous Captain Flint. He'd have to speak to them, of course, and he rehearsed the tale of the tragic falling out between Bentham and O'Byrne, and how they'd grappled and gone into a stream and been washed away… or perhaps fallen off a cliff… or flown to fairyland in the arms of Queen Titania? What did it matter? A glimpse of gold would bring them round, and the selfsame purse that had persuaded Mr O'Byrne was already back in Flint's pocket, standing by for further duties.
And so it was. And Joe Flint replaced Danny Bentham and Brendan O'Byrne as if they'd never been, and — the actual words occurred to Flint — Bentham's crew became jolly companions one and all with Flint's own crew, and lived in happy expectation of riches for two whole days.
Van Oosterhout sat by his campfire with his arms round his knees and his head bowed. It was black dark beyond the firelight with no friendly creatures within miles; but he was too deep in thought to worry about any hostile ones that might be creeping, now that the sun had gone to bed.
"Kalf!" he said, and "Oetlul!" and repeated it in the English that had now become so familiar: "Idiot!" he said. "Bloody idiot!" For he was sure that Flint had made a fool of him. It only remained to work out why.
Van Oosterhout stirred the fire with a stick, and put on more wood for a better light. He reached into his knapsack and took out Flint's notes, as if yet another look at the neat writing would reveal why Flint had sent him wandering round the island to check on burial sites so artfully chosen, so utterly secure and so completely unvisited by anyone other than Van Oosterhout.
And they were the true sites. Oh yes! Van Oosterhout had tested that with his spade. He'd even — purely in the cause of philosophical satisfaction — opened some of the chests to take a modest sample… one that now weighed heavy in the bottom of the knapsack. And then he'd re-buried and made everything smooth, and had re-planted the stringy grass, and had scattered twigs and branches overall, as if by nature not artifice.
In fact, growing suspicious as to the true reason for his quest, Van Oosterhout hadn't even bothered to dig after the first two sites. It seemed pointless; besides it was heavy work and he couldn't carry away more than he'd already got. So he'd just stood and looked at the secret places, and worried. And that was days ago. Since then he'd been wasting time on the other half of Flint's orders: seeking out new burial sites, of which he'd found plenty… but why?
"Stront!" he said. "Shit!" He fiddled with his boar's-tusk moustaches and stroked his beard. Why was he sent on this fool's errand? It couldn't be that Flint just wanted him out of the way, could it? More important, why would Flint give him such knowledge? And was it wise — was it safe — to share Flint's secrets? Van Oosterhout remembered standing on the plank with the ocean below and a pike at his breast, and Flint's excited, delighted eyes as he made ready to push.