"No, lad," said Silver, "just enough to warm 'em up — and they've already had that!" He patted the boy on the shoulder. "You put that back in the cask. We'll have it later, once we've done."
"Aye-aye, Cap'n!" he said, and Silver saw his teeth gleam in the dark… which wasn't so dark. The sun was coming up.
"Now then, lads," said Silver. "Just once more, so all hands shall know, tell me your duties, one by one as I asks." He turned first to Israel Hands: "Mr Gunner?" And Israel Hands rattled off his duties as did the other chosen ones.
"Well and good!" said Silver. "Stand by oars, and not another word to be spoken now. And the jolly-boat to take station in line astern of the admiral, which is myself!"
They laughed at the small joke.
"Give way!" said Long John, and they pulled slowly as the dawn glow came up on their starboard beam… to reveal a rolling white bank of fog inside the inlet.
"Belay oars!" said Long John, and peered into the mist. He'd planned a dawn attack, but he'd not thought there'd be fog.
"What do we do, John?" said Israel Hands. "We can't be caught out here!"
"No," said Silver. "We goes in slow and careful, that's what we do. Give way, but handsomely now."
It was a long, slow pull, which meant that there was enough work to keep the blood pumping, but not so much as to make the men tired. It was nearly an hour before Silver could see anything more than the looming headlands, and the high, fjord-like sides of the inlet, but that was enough — by guess and by God — to keep the launch and jolly-boat in the safe channel down the middle until such time as the masts of ships could be seen, standing out of the fog.
And… Ah! That one was Walrus. There was at least one other ship moored in the inlet, but Walrus was the one they wanted. Most of them knew Walrus, and that would help.
In uttermost silence they pulled just hard enough for steerage way. Now was the most dangerous time. They were utterly vulnerable to a blast of grape, or even to shot heaved over a ship's high sides to plunge through the bottom of the boats and drown them in the cold, misty waters, or simply to bash their brains out with a torrent of plunging iron. And if even that didn't work, then twenty-six hands — including a one- legged man and Blind Pew — would have to clamber aboard a ship fully alerted, with hands standing by to repel boarders by the simple expedient of pushing pike-heads into them as they came over the rail.
Silver peered into the mist. Twenty-four fit men wasn't nowhere near enough for the job, not if there was a watch kept aboard Walrus, and not with the sun coming up and driving off the mist… which even that very instant began to clear most wonderfully in the anchorage, with the shore lines appearing, and tents and beached boats, and a man aiming his morning piss into the little waves of the shore, and idly staring… and spotting the intruders… and shouting with his dick in his hand.
"Give way, you buggers!" cried Long John. "It's hot shot and cold steel now, my boys!"
Chapter 35
Flint roused himself, sick from the rum he'd drunk last night. He hated being drunk and seldom ever was, but the Patanq had insisted, and they were in so ugly a mood that he couldn't say no. As usual, they had ended up rolling, roaring drunk and would probably be unconscious for hours yet.
He stood up, dusted and tidied himself as best he could, swilled his mouth with water from his canteen, and spat on the ground. He looked round the Indian encampment: no tents, just canvas thrown over bent saplings to make little round huts, all neat and tidy. He looked further… Ah, yes! Their sentries were out on the high ground, with their guns cuddled in their arms and their blankets over their shoulders against the cold morning. Presumably they'd been denied their go at the rum last night. Cut-Feather was sharp enough for that.
Flint's men — and he'd wisely brought plenty of them, bristling with firelocks — were asleep on the ground under their own blankets, and Flint shivered inside his long, full-skirted coat, that most times was too hot to…
"Sun-Face," said Dreamer, and again Flint jumped at the shock of being taken unawares. He spun round. Ah! There he was, the wrinkled little troll! There he was, with his blanket and his black eyes and his stone face, and his tattoos and nose ring. He was close enough to touch. Flint shook his head… how did they do it? Where had he come from? Was it the bare feet? Probably. Hmm… Dreamer was alone…
"Dreamer!" said Flint. "Where are Cut-Feather and the rest?"
"Where are your own men?" said Dreamer.
Flint's eyes darted round the camp. Other than the sentries, everyone else was asleep, tucked up tight by the rum. And just as well. It'd been close last night. Another interminable council, sat cross legged on hard ground with a ceremonial fire in the middle and the Patanq in ceremonial face-paint, and ceremonial feathers… and ceremonial farts, for all Flint cared.
Sometimes, rum caused fights, but last night it was only the rum, and the quantities sunk by the Patanq, that had prevented one.
"We must talk, you and I," said Dreamer.
"Must we?"
"The matter is not settled. This war has gone badly. Men will die today."
Flint sighed. Here it came again. The blasted savages whinging, and moaning their losses, and not getting on with the job.
"Dreamer," he said.
"No. That is not my name."
"What?"
"Listen to me, Sun-Face-Flint. You, who are the evil twin."
"What are you talking about?"
"We, the People, are not of the Iroquois, for that is a foolish and mistaken name invented by the French…"
Flint clenched his hands. He groaned. Another dose of
Patanq oratory was about to be shovelled down his throat. He would have preferred castor oil.
"We are of the Haudenosaunee," said the fierce little man, "the People of the Long House. And we are not Patanq, which is another foolish name invented by white men. We are the Pah-Tah-Tana-Quay, which means 'those who dig to live'. For we were first to grow the maize, the squashes and the beans, and which we name the Three Sisters."
Flint groaned. The Indian continued:
"Joseph Flint," he said, "a man never gives his true name."
"No?"
"No. Unless there is some great reason."
"So you say."
"But I tell you that I am not Dreamer. I am… Laoslahta."
"Are you indeed? How splendid for you!"
"Laoslahta means seer. It means teller of the future. And so…"
"Look here," said Flint, "where is this leading? What quarrel lies between us? Last night I promised you a thousand silver dollars…" Flint knew this was insulting by Indian standards. He knew he shouldn't interrupt. He knew he should let the blasted brown dwarf complete what he was saying, but he just couldn't bear to hear any more. "A thousand dollars," he insisted. "Didn't that show good faith?"
Laoslahta's face did not move. No emotion showed. Not a flicker. He continued as if Flint had never spoken.
"Sun-Face! It is my word that you shall know my name. So that you may understand."
Flint sighed.
"Understand what?"
"That I see, as I did last night." Flint sneered, Laoslahta continued: "Last night I was smitten with lights, and pain. And afterwards I saw."
"And what did you see."
"You raised ten thousand dollars, not one."
Flint frowned. He grew angry. Little swine! he thought. He's had men watching while we dug!