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“Fine sight, Lieutenant!”
“Indeed, sir!”
“What a day for the Colony!”
“Aye! Damned Indians.”
“Hmm,” said Colonel Harper, and pondered, for he’d been a great man in the Charlestown fur trade, and had grown rich by it, and every fur he ever sold was trapped and brought in by the Indians. Still…he looked back at the walls of Charlestown, which weren’t there to protect against the French and Spanish only, but against Indians too. And today the Colony was taking the wonderful opportunity to rid itself of the entire Patanq nation, all fifteen hundred of them, in their moccasins and blankets. These days they weren’t the most numerous of the Indian nations, but they were Indians and times were changing, and better they should live anywhere other than South Carolina, and preferably in the moon if only they could be got there. So thought Colonel Harper.
“Pa?” said Lieutenant Harper.
“Colonel!” corrected Harper.
“Sorry, Pa…Colonel.”
“Well?”
“Why’s there so many of us? All the regiments? There’s more of us than there is of them, even counting the women and little ’uns!” Harper frowned.
“Don’t you ever listen? Haven’t I told you about them savages?” Colonel Harper was fifty-five years old and had been more things than a trader. He’d fought the Patanq in his time, and shuddered at the thought of it. Especially the recollection of going to battle against them in the woods. “Listen, boy, if there’s enough of us here today to put the idea of fighting clean out of their heathen heads, then there’s not one man too many! So shut up and face your front.”
Colonel Harper looked at the Indians, raising dust as they tramped in, bedraggled from their long march. In fact Tom was right in a way; there were not more than a few hundred warriors in all. But you never knew with the Patanq. They moved like ghosts, you wouldn’t hear them coming, and you’d only realise they’d cut your throat when your shirt front turned red.
He turned in the saddle and raised his voice:
“Three hearty rousing cheers for the Craven County men. Hip-Hip-Hip…”
Thundering cheers bellowed out as the mustered regiments raised their caps on their bayonets and gave three tremendous huzzahs. In response to the cheers, bells clanged and pealed from the town.
“Colonel?” said a voice from his left: Lieutenant David Harper, his second eldest, and by far the brightest son. “Is that the Dreamer?” He pointed to the head of the Patanq column.
“Aye,” said Colonel Harper, pleased that one son had paid attention, “that’s him, their famous medicine man. And that’s Dark Hand, the war sachem, or chief, at his side.” Harper looked at them as they came past. He knew Dreamer very well. Him and all the Patanq leaders. Now he drew steel to salute them. And the sachems raised their right hands formally to acknowledge him. For they knew him, too.
There were a dozen of them, leading their nation in procession with Dreamer and Dark Hand. Dreamer was a small, shrivelled man, marked by long illness. He looked a miserable creature beside Dark Hand, but he was the soul of the Patanq nation, and a formidable negotiator–as Harper knew all too well, having attended the lengthy council sessions that had brought the Patanq here today, granted safe passage and a fleet of six ships to carry them off, along with the gold they’d accumulated through years of fur trading and bringing in scalps for the bounty.
The thought of scalps made Harper glance nervously at the warriors, fearful creatures that they were…tall men every one: lithe and muscular, upright, hook-nosed, black-eyed and stone-faced. They wore bright-coloured trade blankets round their shoulders and carried long guns in their arms. Their heads were shaven except for dangling, befeathered queues, their cheeks were tattooed in geometric lines and they wore silver nose-rings and elaborate, beaded jewellery.
At last the Patanq came within sight of the harbour, and the ships anchored under the guns of Fort Johnson, with the launches and longboats beached and ready on the shore. And a chatter arose, first from the sachems, and then from the warriors. Harper shook his head in wonder. This was an unheard of vulgarity for the Patanq, who habitually endured the shocks of life in silence. But the chattering was nothing to the shrill cries of the women and children, to whom the ships and the boats and the endless rolling waters were magical wonders.
They surged forward, led by the matriarchs who even the warriors must treat with respect. They shouted and yelled and urged the children forward, elbowing aside the Craven County Militia, who grinned indulgently and opened ranks to let them through. After all, who were they to stand in the way of Indians about to board ship and sail away for ever? So the militiamen grinned, the young girls shrieked, the children laughed, and the watching regiments cheered in delight as the women and children of the Patanq nation ran headlong down to the shore.
The sachems and warriors maintained their dignity, keeping a steady pace and manly bearing. But Harper saw that some of them were in doubt and arguing noisily.
Oh no! he thought, and a tingle of fright shot up his spine. Don’t let them baulk at the last moment. Please no. Not after all this…
“Colonel,” said his second-eldest, “what’s going on, sir? Some of their chiefs are stopping.”
“No they’re not,” said the colonel. “They’re just puzzled. Most of these have never seen the sea before, nor ships neither. They’re surprised, that’s all.”
He wanted it to be true, but it wasn’t. As the arguments grew, the sachems came to a halt, and nervous conversations began among the colonels behind Harper, and among the troops too. Up and down the lines of infantry, men stopped cheering and began fingering their muskets and wondering if they might have to use them. Harper took a deep breath. He couldn’t let all this come to nothing.
“You two follow me,” he said to his sons, “the rest of you stand fast!” He was digging in his spurs and riding forward, wondering what he’d have to say, what he’d have to offer them, when he saw Dreamer raise his hands and lift up his voice to address the sachems in the Patanq tongue. “Whoa!” said Harper to his horse, and patted her neck. His heart thumped as Dreamer spoke, and spoke…and then the sachems were following behind the medicine man like lambs, down towards the shore and the boats and the laughing women.
The fearful moment had passed.
Dreamer turned to face Harper and lifted his hand. Harper raised his hat and bowed, and rode back to his place at the head of the colonels, heart thumping and head dizzy with relief.
At dusk there was a formal council. Dreamer and his sachems sat down with Colonel Harper, the other colonels and the leaders of the city of Charlestown. To the white men it was long, incomprehensible and tedious. But it was necessary. It was part of the passing away of the Patanq nation from its homeland.
Next day the Patanq embarked. And it took all day to get them out and aboard the six ships, for there were serious matters of precedence to be considered, and families and clans to be kept together. There were long discussions, led by Dreamer, and the sachems, while Colonel Harper and the rest of the South Carolinians did no more than stand by and watch.
But some of the white men–while they were glad the Indians were going–were puzzled as to the reason.
“Why are they doing this, Colonel?” said his second-eldest, as they sat on their horses and looked on.
“They have their reasons, Lieutenant.”
“Where are they going?”
“North! At least, that’s what they told me.”
“But why are they going? They’ve been fighting us on and off since white men came here. Why should they give up their lands and pay in gold to be taken into ships and carried away?”
Harper sighed.
“Boy, you’ve asked me that a hundred times these past months, and I just don’t know.”
“But this has been planned for over a year, and you’ve spent weeks among them. Didn’t you ever ask?”
“’Course I did, but they’d never tell me.”
“Not anything? Not at all?”
Harper paused and gazed out across the harbour, where busy boats slid across the water like insects with flashing limbs, and the decks of the six ships swarmed with excited Indians. Only a couple of dozen Patanq remained ashore, climbing into two big boats with oarsmen ready, helmsmen at the tillers…and Dreamer looking on, determined to see all his people safely away before he stepped into a boat himself.
“I don’t know the truth of it, boy,” said Harper, “but it’s all to do with him.”
Chapter 6 (#u290d5c57-2e90-510e-9dca-388a83445eee)
Dawn, 1st October 1752 The southern anchorage The island
Billy Bones was pumping ship among the trees, only his broad back visible as he turned away for privacy, fumbling with the falls of his breeches and aiming at the roots of a big palm. Grunting in relief, he let loose a stream like that of a brewer’s dray horse.
“Can you trust him, Cap’n?” said Israel Hands, a hundred yards off, preparing to help launch the jolly-boat. It was rigged for sail, with provisions for a week, two men standing by as crew, and Long John ready seated in the stern-sheets. Silver shrugged his shoulders.
“We got to trust him, shipmate. There ain’t no other way.”
“Then let me come along o’ you.”
“Can’t do that, matey. There’s too much to do and too few to do it. I want you out with your party, along o’ Sarney Sawyer and Black Dog and their crews. I want this island mapped and charted, and not an inch that we don’t know the bearings of.”
“But, John, it might be half a year or more before we sees Flint again.”
“Not him, Israel!” Silver thumped the gunwale. “Not him, my cocker! He’ll flog all hands to their duties, and whistle up the Devil if need be.” He shook his head. “No, he’ll be back before you can blink, and we has to be ready.”
“Then take the pistols off Billy-boy. At least do that,” said Israel Hands.
“No,” said Silver, “them are to show we trust him.”
“But we don’t.”
“Israel!” said Silver, taking hold of his arm. “Yes, we do, and I’ll tell you for why…” He nodded in Bones’s direction. “I saw the look on the bugger’s face when he opened his sea-chest and saw the cargo untouched. He piped his eye like a babby.”
“Looks as though he’s done,” said Israel Hands, for Bones was now busy shaking off the last drops. Heaving everything back into place, he turned towards the boat, making fast his britches as he stumped across the sand, head down, lips pursed.
In addition to restoring Bones’s pistols and cutlass, Silver had issued him with a blue coat and tricorne to signify that he was, once more, an officer and jolly companion. Now he gazed upon these icons of resurrection.
If a thing’s worth doing… he thought. But even then he knew that Billy would turn traitor the instant he caught sight of Flint.
“Come aboard, Mr Bones,” said Silver with a smile.
“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” said Billy Bones, touching his hat with utmost respect. The broad nose occupying the centre of his rough, heavy face was a constant reminder of the need to show respect to Silver, for it was Silver who’d flattened it, in past days aboard Walrus. Billy’s piggish eyes blinked nervously as–seaman born and bred–he gave a hand to shoving the jolly-boat out till she floated, before leaping aboard with the others.
The two seamen immediately took up their oars in the rocking boat, set them in the rowlocks, feathered, and looked to Silver for orders.
“Give way!” said Silver, and the boat shot forward, clear of the shore. “Take the tiller, Mr Bones, and set a course for Foremast Hill.” He looked at the oarsmen. “We’ll set sail, just so soon as she’s clear o’ the inlet. Wind’s fair from the west.”
“Aye-aye, Cap’n.”
Out they went, pulling through the land-locked waters where–surrounded by hills and jungle, and shielded by the mass of a craggy islet that was the island’s companion–the winds blew feeble and erratic. As soon as they cleared the narrows and came about, with the heights of Haulbowline Head on the starboard beam, the fifteen-foot boat began to lift and plunge, and all aboard her felt their spirits lift as the fresh salt smell, the wind and spray and the wheeling gulls blew away the foetid heat of the enclosed anchorage.
“Make sail, lads,” said Silver, and in came the oars, and up went a gaff and headsail, to fill in the steady westerly blow, driving them onward. The speed was exhilarating. Too small for deep sea work, and dangerously stretched even for a coastal cruise, the jolly-boat–chosen for the job because she was all they had–was rising to the occasion magnificently.
“Fine sport, there!” said Silver, pointing to the honking, trumpeting sealions that frolicked–fat, black and slippery–among the breakers pounding the rocks off Haulbowline Head.
“Fine for them, Cap’n,” said Billy Bones, with a broken-toothed grin, “but not for us.” It was the first time Silver had seen him smile. “And there’s the Cape of the Woods to clear, half a league ahead, so I’ll steer a point to windward, to give us sea-room.”
“Well and good, Mr Bones,” said Silver approvingly. “I see you knows your island.”
“Aye, Cap’n, ’deed I do. When I was here under…” His words died.
“Tell the truth and shame the Devil, Mr Bones!” said Silver. The two seaman were looking on with round eyes. “When you was here under Cap’n Flint…”
Billy Bones swallowed, studied the sea rather than Silver, and went on, “When I was here…before…we…that is he… charted her from north to south and east to west, and all the seas around.”
“So he knows the island well?”
“Every blessed inch.”
“And the seas to the north? Does he know what lies there?”
Bones bit his lip and mumbled. If ever a man wore his thoughts on his face it was Billy Bones, and Silver knew he’d touched on something important. But he let it pass, and waited until they’d forged further out to sea, where more of the island’s mysteries became visible over the line of cliffs.
“Mr Bones,” he said, “d’you see Spy-glass Hill, there, fair on the starboard bow?” he pointed at the great hill–more of a small mountain–that rose above all else on the island: heavily wooded at its roots, but almost naked near the peak.
“Aye, Cap’n.”
“And d’you see how it’s flattened at the top?”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
“And I s’pose you know why Flint–who gave it its name–called it Spy-glass?”
Billy Bones said nothing.
“He called it that, Mr Bones, because it’s the finest lookout point on the island, except for one thing. D’you know what that is?”
“No, Cap’n…well…yes, Cap’n.”
Ah, thought Silver, so you’re coming about, Mr Bones.
“What is it, then?” he said.
“You can’t see to the north,” said Bones. “There’s a spire of rock in the way, right at the top. The Watchtower he called it, but it was one of his jokes. It’s smooth as a church steeple, and you can’t climb it, and short of months of work by engineers with gunpowder, you can’t get rid of it, nor get round it, nor cut a way to the top.”
“Thank you, Mr Bones,” said Silver. “So the Spy-glass is blind to the north.”
“That she is, Cap’n.”
“And can’t be cured. Not without months of work, as you say.” Silver paused. “So! How long have we got, Mr Bones? You’re the navigator. You know Flint better than any man. Where’s he gone? How long till he gets there? And how long till he comes back?”
There was a lengthy silence as Billy Bones considered his loyalties. Finally–Silver had been quite right–what brought Bones round was the thought of all his precious things, given back to him, safe and sound, in his old sea trunk.
“It’d be Savannah first, Cap’n, to get money out of Charley Neal, his agent.”
“Aye,” said Silver, who knew Charley Neal as well as Flint did.
“Then maybe to Charlestown, which is only a day’s sail north, given fair winds. It’s a big enough seaport for him to get more ships and men, and take on powder and shot and so forth.”
“And then back to us here?”
“Aye.”
“So how long till we see his blessed face?”
Billy Bones closed his eyes and did heavy sums in his head. He alone, of those on the island, knew exactly where it lay. Silver, Israel Hands, and one or two others could make a rough guess, but Billy Bones knew. After much pondering, he spoke.
“Best he could do is about three months, I’d reckon. But it could be much longer if there’s hurricanes, or if he’s becalmed, or if…”
