There can't be nothing to spoil this, he thought.
Chapter 43
It was getting cooler. The closer the launch got to the archipelago the cooler it got… cooler and safer, for as ever there was a mist over the archipelago. Once in Flint's Passage, the launch would be invisible and safe. Safe from pursuit, though not from the passage itself where the sea rolled and heaved and broke over some of the bigger rocks, leaving the rest hidden. They lay a fathom or two below the waves, waiting patiently, knowing that in time their patience would be rewarded.
In fact there was a great need for patience all around. Flint had to be patient, knowing that the only cure for his ills was a slow one; it might take months or even years to re-unite him with what was his. And the four hands whom Flint had brought along as crew must be patient too: they were anxious to get out of sight, but had to sail easy because of the rocks Flint had warned them of.
Then came the sound of gunfire from the sloops that were engaging Walrus. Poisonous rage boiled out of Flint's very liver at sight of his darling in another man's hands — and was promptly suppressed. Flint smiled to calm the hands, who were gaping at the distant ships and the rolling smoke. The Royal Navy was their bogey man, and they were unsettled.
"Never fear, lads," said Flint. "That'll be the saving of us. Let them fight. Let them smash one another. And whatever's left can beach and wreck itself trying to follow us through Flint's Passage, that only myself knows the running of!"
They nodded at that, the oafs. God's bowels, but they were stupid! To them, Flint's Passage was as insurmountable an obstacle as the walls of Troy. Well, maybe it was, to anyone without Flint's chart… or a copy of it. There was a thought! Could Van Oosterhout be aboard one of those ships? Flint thought not. He'd be no friend to the navy or to Silver. Or would he? Who could tell? Best assume that he was with them. Best make good time through the passage and get the Patanq fleet under way — after he'd attended to them, of course. That might prove difficult; he would have to be very careful how he went about it…
Thus thought Joe Flint as he ordered his men to strike the sail and take up their oars, and occupied himself with the little matter of getting through the archipelago without ripping the bottom out of the launch or running her aground. He'd done it before, of course, and had even added notes to his chart to make it easier. But still it would require all his attention, even with so small a boat as this.
Spreading the chart on a thwart, Flint took bearings of the island with quadrant and compass, noting the lie of the hills and the shape of its black profile rising out of the sea. Yes, they were on course for the archipelago and Flint's Passage.
"Give way!" said Flint, and took the tiller. He looked along the boat. He looked at the swaying oarsmen, the neat-furled sails and the masts laid along the thwarts, and he looked at the chests and the big tarpaulin.
Ahhhh, he thought, and nodded to himself.
Ten thousand dollars' worth of silver, gold and stones in the chests — enough to get him the men and ships he would need. He couldn't go back to Charlestown, but there were other ports. The colonies were full of them. He might even go to England. To Bristol perhaps, or Plymouth…?
But for now the gems and doubloons were as nothing compared with what he'd got under the tarpaulin. There, in the dark, was something even more vital to his plans. It was a pity it needed such constant attention.
"Stroke oar!" said Flint.
"Aye-aye, Cap'n."
"Heave off that tarpaulin — it's not so hot now. And change the water!"
Stroke oar leaned forward. He filled a pot with fresh water. He lifted the tarpaulin, he opened a little trapdoor he replaced an empty pot with the filled one, which had to be lashed in place to prevent spillage.
Chk-chk-chk!
A hand reached out — a furry little hand — and took the man's index finger as a child might: with perfect gentleness and innocence. Stroke oar's pock-marked cheeks crinkled in a smile, for he liked the little buggers. His mates — equally scarred — grinned too.
Nearly noon, 26th February 1753
Aboard Walrus
Two miles south of Flint's Passage
Dreamer got up. He staggered. He'd just vomited into a bowl held out for him by Dr Cowdray.
"Fetch water!" said Cowdray. "And a cloth to clean him."
Cut-Feather cradled Dreamer his arms. The other sachems were gathered round, looking anxiously into Dreamer's eyes, and the one who ran for water and a cloth thought it an honour to do so.
"He should lie in a darkened room," said Cowdray.
"Father," said Cut-Feather, "come — we will find you a bed."
"No…" said Dreamer, closing his eyes to the intolerable pain that burned in the side of his head. Usually when the lights and the pain struck, Dreamer would try to sleep. But this time he had to speak. It was difficult, for half his face was numb and tingling, and his tongue would not obey. "Bring One-Leg," he said. "One-Leg Silver." He had to say it several times before they understood.
"What is it?" said Silver, when Cut-Feather ran to the helm to fetch him.
"One-Leg!" said Cut-Feather, beckoning urgently. "Come! Come!" Silver cursed, for he had work to do. But with the ship full of armed men who thought Dreamer the next thing to God, he thought it best to obey.
"Dutchman," he said, "take the watch. See this ship into Flint's Passage."
"Yes, Captain," said Van Oosterhout. "But a boat must go ahead to sound the way."
"Well and good," said Silver, for that made sense. He looked to Israel Hands, Mr Joe and the others who'd gathered at the helm to pore over the Dutchman's chart of the archipelago, then jerked a thumb at Van Oosterhout: "This here's a good seaman," he said. "Do as he tells you!"
"Aye-aye, Cap'n!"
"One-Leg," said Cut-Feather, "now!" And he dragged Silver down into the waist, where Dreamer was surrounded by a crowd of murmuring, frightened Indians.
"What's wrong with him?" said Silver, coming close to the swaying, drooling figure hanging in the arms of his followers, eyes screwed shut, head rolling from side to side.
"He has the migraine," said Cowdray. "The worst case I've ever seen."
"He suffers," said Cut-Feather. "And he sees!"
"Sees what?" said Silver.
"He sees the future."
"Does he now?" said Silver. "And what does he see?"
"We do not know. But he calls for you!"
"Dreamer," said Silver, "it's me. What is it?"
Dreamer tried to speak. His mouth opened. Patanq words came out, slow and laboured.
"What's he saying?" said Silver, but Cut-Feather shook his head.
"He speaks bad words, One-Leg. His tongue is not his to command."
"Facial paralysis," said Cowdray. "It comes with migraine."
"Flint!" cried Dreamer, making a huge effort.
"Flint?" said Silver.
And in that instant the foremast lookout hailed.
"Boat ahead!" he cried. "Fine on the larboard beam!"
"Yes!" cried Dreamer, briefly conquering the affliction that put false words in his mouth. "Flint!" he said, pointing ahead. "There!" He opened his eyes and stared straight into Long John's face… and Silver flinched as hideous terror leapt out of Dreamer's mind and into his. It was terror of Flint and what Flint was going to do. It was occult and uncanny, and Silver staggered back, and crossed himself as he'd not done since a child.