Pieces of Eight. John Drake

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      Finally he produced a map: the map, the map of the island. The only map in existence which showed everything of the island, including its true size, the extent of its surrounding archipelago, the location of the treasure…and the latitude and longitude.

      “Ah!” said Van Oosterhout. “Was it you found the longitude?”

      “Yes,” said Flint. “An earlier map existed, but the latitude and longitude here–” he tapped a finger on his map “–were found by myself.”

      “I congratulate you, Captain,” said Van Oosterhout.

      “Thank you, Mr Mate, but I direct your attention to the archipelago, which I was the first to survey and to chart properly, and the details of which are known only to me.”

      “Wait, Captain,” said Van Oosterhout, befuddled by drink and confused by conflicting emotions. This was the same murderous pirate who’d killed his friends and burned his ship, yet now he was treating him as an equal–even a favourite–and offering a share in a fortune. “Why do you show me these things? It is great confidence in me…why do you do this?”

      Flint gazed at Van Oosterhout’s solemn, gleaming face. The temptation to laugh sprang urgently within him and was instantly suppressed. Instead of laughing, just for once, Flint told the truth…or half of it, at least.

      “The reason I confide in you, Mr Van Oosterhout, is because I stand in vital need of your skills. Thus I must have another navigating officer aboard, in case of any accident to myself.”

      Van Oosterhout nodded and Flint smiled, for he’d not mentioned the other reason for his trusting the Dutchman, which was Mr Van Oosterhout’s sure and certain fate, the moment he was no longer needed. Meanwhile…

      “Look here at the archipelago,” said Flint. “Do you see? There is something here that will be of utmost use to us…”

      Van Oosterhout looked, and listened carefully, and nodded in approval, and even made constructive suggestions of his own. In the days that followed, Flint found him to be an excellent officer, obedient, dutiful and competent. Soon all matters of navigation were delegated to the Dutchman, leaving Flint with two nasty festering splinters to trouble him.

      First, Flint’s vanity was wounded that any man should be his master as a navigator; second, he was deeply jealous when Van Oosterhout, like Cowdray, found natural companionship with Selena. This was a new emotion for Joe Flint; being incapable of physical love, he’d always been immune to jealousy. But Selena fascinated him, and was beginning to arouse the sort of passions any normal man felt for a woman. And this fierce resentment at Selena’s friendships with other men was made all the worse because Flint could not admit his feelings to himself.

      And there was more. Something heavy and dark that sat upon Flint’s soul. These three–Selena, Cowdray and Van Oosterhout–whom Flint could not harm or remove, now constituted a faction that would constrain his behaviour. It was like the days when he’d sailed with Silver and was constantly looking over his shoulder to see if he approved…tainting his enjoyment of practices such as playing with prisoners. Flint sighed. The plank would not be appearing again for a while, and just when he’d discovered its possibilities!

      By day, Flint bore these burdens manfully: there was much to do in driving the ship hard, watching constantly for another prize on the horizon–not to mention avoiding the ships of the various navies that infested these waters. These activities kept Flint merry all day, and Walrus’s people enjoyed a pleasant voyage to Savannah. But by night Flint groaned for the loss of the freedom he’d enjoyed on his island. At night, in his dreams, that part of the human mind which is animal, primeval and beyond conscious control, punished Joe Flint with memories of the most dreadful time in his entire life. The time when he had enjoyed no freedom at all, only bitter constraint…His childhood.

       Chapter 8

       8 a.m., 15th November 1732 The Chapel, Salvation House St Pancras Court, Opposite the Smallpox Hospital London

      Twelve-year-old Joseph Flint stood trembling as his father got up from his prayers. The Reverend Mordecai Flint rose like a great, black snake, turning to face the wife and son who had so inexcusably interrupted his devotions. Although no speck of dust was suffered to exist within the chapel, he brushed his knees with a clean white handkerchief, which was then painstakingly folded before being returned to his pocket. When this was done he positioned himself, back to the altar, looming over them in his pious black coat, ominously stroking the clerical bands at his neck.

      The reverend was a man of tremendous intellect; dominant, charismatic and vastly learned in Holy Scripture. Years of profound study and introspection had resulted in an unshakeable conviction that he was damned for uncleanliness of spirit, and he had therefore made it his life’s work to save those less wicked than himself–in particular, those he loved–in the hope they might yet be shriven by repentance. It was his tragedy–and still more that of those around him–that not a drop of love did they see, only an ocean of chastisement and castigation. Thus Joseph Flint flinched as his father stared at him, and clutched at his mother’s hand for comfort.

      “Wretches!” said the reverend. “‘Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.’” He cocked his head expectantly…

      “Daniel, five: twenty-seven,” said Joseph and his mother in unison. The reverend nodded and turned his eyes on his wife.

      “So,” he said, “you come again to me, even into God’s house, with the matter that I have declared closed. I see it in your eyes! ‘All is vanity and vexation of spirit!’”

      “Ecclesiastes, one: fourteen,” said Joseph’s mother. Then: “Mr Flint!” she cried, that being the constant manner of her address to him, for he was not ordained but self-appointed, and well he knew it. She took a step forward, shaking off Joseph’s hand. “Mr Flint,” she said, and the colour drained from her face and her eyes began to blink. She screamed in his face, her body shaking with rage, “You took our Joseph to the Turk!” She seized Joseph’s shoulder and thrust him forward. “See!” she cried. “Our boy stands before you even now, with the poison in his arm!”

      Joseph sobbed as the awful weight of their emotions fell upon him. He clutched his bandaged arm and bowed his head, and believed that he was to blame.

      “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry.”

      But his guilt was nothing compared with his father’s. The reverend groaned as pain wrenched the depths of his belly. For he’d broken faith, even if in a noble cause. And worse than that…far, far worse…he’d been found out!

      “Ah!” said Joseph’s mother, seeing his reaction. “You hypocrite! You swore on the Bible! You said that you would not do it…and you did!”

      And so the parents screeched, and as the child looked on the hideous quarrel grew until words became blows and finally…Joseph Flint watched as his mother drew the hidden knife. He stood, eyes wide, as she fell upon his father and cut his throat. He looked on as she sat upon the reverend’s prostrate body and plunged the knife again and again into his face, paying back thirty years of mental cruelty with thirty seconds of demented revenge.

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