John Drake - Skull and Bones

The Indians screeched and yelled and found a volunteer: one who'd managed to get some trade gin inside him, for all that Washington forbade it on the trail. This was Broken- Foot, a man in his forties, who should have known better.

He sat down, grinning stupidly. He looked at the knife. The entire camp fell silent. It would be so easy… Sun Face would have to pull out his hands, and reach over the blade to get the handle, while he – Broken Foot – had only to pick it up!

He paused.

He tensed.

He pounced…

… and howled with pain as his hand closed on sharp steel, and Flint snatched it free by the handle, and jauntily tapped the blade against his own nose, leaving a tiny smudge of blood.

Flint grinned, Flint smiled… which the Indians and Washington saw. But they didn't see what went on inside of Flint's unique and remarkable mind. They didn't see him howl with laughter and hug himself with glee, and roll over with his legs kicking the air… at least in spirit… because Flint could see that all things were becoming right again, having been dreadfully wrong for weeks.

He chuckled and cleared his throat… A-hem. Then he looked at them all: especially Washington. Flint touched his hat as if respectfully, and saw the big man nod. He'd had Flint close-guarded, so he couldn't run, then taken along on this expedition into the primeval forest: this voyage up the bum-hole of nowhere – leaving Selena behind with Silver! Flint bowed his head. He was so tormented with jealousy that he could bear it only by slamming the truth behind locked doors, in the cellars of his mind, and never, ever going there… except by chance, like now…

He groaned. He shook his head. Better to think of other things: even other pains, such as the fact that – once in the forest – they'd not even had to guard him, for it was trackless wilderness, which only the Indians knew and only they could find the way back to the coast. So Flint was as much trapped as if he'd been in prison, especially as those same Indians had the uncanny ability to track any fugitive attempting to run.

Flint smiled, because all this made the Indians so wonderfully important, and so very much worth recruiting to the true cause… the cause of Joe Flint.

And so… Broken Foot was jumping round dripping blood from his cut hand, and the Indians howling with laughter. But Washington frowned.

"Enough!" he said, and looked at Flint. "I want fit men, not cripples."

"Aye-aye, sir," said Flint. "I did but seek to make the men merry, sir."

Washington got up casually and stretched.

"A word, Mr Flint," he said, and walked off.

"Sir?" said Flint, following him into darkness.

"Mr Flint," said Washington quietly, "I would wish to think well of you."

"Oh?" said Flint, looking at the big face.

"Your subordinates stand in awe of you," said Washington, "the Indians worship you. Your conception of a fleet was inspired!" Washington paused. "And…" he said. "And… there is that… other matter… of such vital importance when war comes. Not only to Virginia, but indeed to the British interest generally!"

Looking up at him, Flint suffered pure torture as the old demon wriggled within him: the one demon he could never entirely control. For the earnest and honest Colonel Washington had dropped into a pit of his own digging, and Flint was bursting to laugh in his face.

Flint knew, now, that the tale of the island treasure followed him everywhere, and was the real reason he'd been brought on this expedition, since the earnest and honest Colonel Washington believed the universal myth that Flint alone knew the whereabouts of the treasure. And Washington wanted it! He wanted it as a war chest for his precious Virginia, even though it was the ill-got, bloodstained loot of murderous pirates. Hence the fun. For Washington couldn't bring himself to mention the subject except slantwise and tangentially, enabling Flint to pretend he didn't know what Washington was talking about.

"Thus I am confident, in the end, of your patriotism, Mr Flint," said Washington.

"Ya-rrrrrumph!" said Flint, striving heroically to hide a snigger behind a cough.

"Hmmm?" said Washington, frowning and wondering. For he was no fool.

"Your pardon, sir," said Flint in a strangled voice.

"Quite," said Washington. "But this game with the knife…"

"Oh?" said Flint. He scented chastisement. It killed his laughter stone dead.

"You must play it no more, Joseph."

Flint frowned.

"It is but a contest of skill, sir."

"No! It is contemptible cruelty, for none can match your speed."

Flint said nothing. "And so," said Washington, "I charge you by that high Craft which we both revere, that there shall be no more of this! Not it, nor anything like it, for it shames you and makes you less of a man."

Slowly Flint bowed his head and trembled. Washington kindly laid a hand on his shoulder.

"We shall speak of this no more," he said. "I am moved by your contrition." And he walked back to the firelight, more wrong than ever he'd been in his life, for Flint was blinded with anger, boiling with outrage, and his hands were trembling for the antler-hilt knife, which stayed in its sheath only because he knew that he couldn't run and find the coast. Not with Washington's Indians on his trail.

Thus the life of the camp proceeded smoothly and, before dawn, the Indians were sent scouting: looking especially for Hurons, their counterparts on the French side, while the white men stood on the edge of the forest, looking down on two great rivers which merged and flowed towards the Ohio: the route into the unknown interior, but also into French territory, now only a day's march to the north.

The weather was mild, and a camp table was set up with surveying instruments and a supply of paper. Flint and Washington stood at the table with Billy Bones and Black Dog, and behind them stood Washington's men. All but Washington, who was in uniform, wore faded, practical trail clothes, with fringed shirts, slouch hats, and strong boots, with a musket, powder horn and bullet-bag slung across their shoulder.

"Now, Mr Flint," said Washington, "it is time for you to display your skills!"

"With pleasure, Colonel," said Flint, and smiled as best he could, for his bitterly regretted joke about a fleet controlling the great rivers had been taken seriously. Hence this expedition, and the supposed reason for his being with it: to give expert guidance on building the fleet of the Ohio.

"There is the Monongahela," said Washington, pointing to the gleaming waters. "It is navigable all the way to the Ohio, and the Ohio is navigable for hundreds of miles beyond. So, Mr Flint – can a fleet be built from these timbers?" He looked into the mighty forest. "A fleet to keep out the French."

Flint thought, and found grudging interest in the matter.

"Yes," he said, "the Monongahela could float a squadron of the line…"

"Ah!" said Washington, eagerly. "That was my belief. But I am no expert!"

"I said could," cautioned Flint. "There are problems."

"Name them, sir," said Washington. "That is why you are here."

Flint nodded.

"There is a need for stores and provisions of every kind," he said.

"We shall build a road to supply them!" said Washington.

"And a fortification must be built, to protect the shipyard," said Flint, looking at Washington's excellent chart of the rivers. "Here, where there is flat ground and deep water." Washington nodded. Flint turned to Black Dog. "What is your opinion, Mr Carpenter?"

"Well, Cap'n," said Black Dog, "we could fell trees, and cut timber to suit. But properly, we should wait a year or two for the timber to season."

"No!" said Washington. "There is need for haste."

"Then, sirs," said Black Dog, "that means buildin' out of green wood, which hasn't good strength, and will warp and twist besides." He saluted, and puffed out his cheeks in relief at being done. "I take my Bible oath on it, sirs," he said.