by John Drake
"Anything?" said Flint.
"Anything from an elephant to a line-o'-battle ship! And tarts, of course."
"A ship?" said Flint, and looked at Billy Bones, who was half asleep, but stirred under his master's gaze.
"Oh, by God yes!" said Sir Frederick, waving his hand dismissively, and taking another deep glass. "Get you one o' them with no trouble."
"Then I should like to meet this gentleman," said Flint. "Tomorrow."
Chapter 15
10th June 1753
Abbey's Amphitheatre
King Street, Polmouth
A pair of white horses charged at dizzy speed around the sandy-floored circular enclosure, with a dancing girl leaping from one to another, turning cartwheels in the air, while a bizarre clown in red-and-white stripes and conical white cap chased after them on an ostrich, blowing a trumpet to the accompaniment of a full, costumed chorus singing on the stage behind. All this against a dazzling backdrop of brilliantly painted scenery panels which shifted in a rainbow of colour, while a band of two dozen musicians blared furiously in the orchestra pit between.
Selena stared in wonderment. She'd never seen any kind of theatrical performance, let alone a spectacle like this. It assaulted the senses in colour, music, voices and skills. She clapped her hands and cheered, as did Katty Cooper, for it had been a long time since even she had seen the like.
But theirs was the only applause. They were the entire audience on this Sunday rehearsal, for no plays nor entertainments might be performed on the Lord's day.
And then the scene was over, and the performers — even the horses and the ostrich — were bowing to an empty house, and the clown clapping his hands, and giving all present his review of their performance, praising some, cursing others, before sending them off to their dressing rooms and stables.
Soon, nothing was left but the hoofmarks and footsteps in the sand, and a strong smell of horseflesh and greasepaint.
"Mrs Cooper!" said the clown, stepping forward to where his audience of two were seated. "My dear, my very dear!" And he waddled forward, less than five feet tall in his blouse and pantaloons, and his white stockings and his flat-white makeup with red lips and painted black eyebrows.
He bowed and took Katty Cooper's hand, then, with astonishing grace for so grotesque a creature, he knelt to plant a gentle kiss in the centre of her pink palm.
"Oh, my dear Mr Abbey!" she said, and for once a genuine smile shone from her pretty little face, for even Katty Cooper had been a girl once, and had memories of innocence. He bowed again, this time towards Selena.
"And is this the sable nymph? La belle fille noire?"
"May I present Miss Henderson, my protegee," said Katty.
"Ah!" said Abbey. "Let us say Mrs Henderson, for this is not London."
Abbey stepped back, and gave yet another bow, this time of such extravagant and comical elaboration that it was a work of art, and Selena couldn't help but laugh. The clown clapped his hands and smiled.
"And may I present… the amphitheatre, of which I am owner and manager!" he said. "Empty today, but all the better for you to see it. Come forward! See!"
Selena stared. It was wonderful. The sandy circle in which they were standing was enclosed by a bright-painted barrier some four feet high. To one side was a pit for musicians, then a great proscenium arch and stage, and on the other side were three tiers of seats running in a semi-circle, with many more seats packed in at ground level around the circle.
"A full house holds nearly seven hundred persons," said Abbey. "It is admirably adapted for spectacles — especially equestrian — and the scenery, machinery and decorations are executed by the finest artists in the country." He pointed upwards: "Illuminated by one of the biggest glass chandeliers in England, supporting over two hundred fine wax candles!"
"One of the finest auditoriums… in the provinces," said Katty Cooper.
Abbey winced.
"You seek to wound!" he cried, raising his arms in self- protection. "We are mere peasants to the daughter of Drury Lane!" They both laughed.
"So!" said Abbey to Katty Cooper, and looked at Selena. "What can she do?"
Katty Cooper had been thinking about that all the way to England, and now they were safe arrived in Polmouth, and lodged in its best hotel, and favours had been asked of her old friend…
"Let us first see her in costume!" Katty smiled. "As requested in my letter."
"As in your letter!" said Abbey. "Will you follow me, ladies?"
He took them to a private dressing room, laid out a costume, bowed and left them to it.
Ten minutes later, Katty Cooper led Selena back, taking her to the middle of the stage and propelling her forward for Abbey to see.
"Ah!" said Abbey. One syllable, short and sharp, for the "costume" could have been stored in a thimble, being engineered from one silk handkerchief and a handful of glittering stars. "Thank you, Mrs Henderson," said Abbey. "Would you be so kind as to excuse Mrs Cooper and me while we hold a brief, professional discussion?"
They left the stage, walked to the far side of the circular enclosure and stood, looking back at Selena, left standing in mid-stage with her arms folded, tapping one foot and staring suspiciously towards them. Abbey smiled and waved. Katty smiled and waved.
"Where did you find her?" whispered Abbey. "She is quite, quite, spectacularly beautiful. I have never seen the like. She is very lovely indeed, and I am lost for words!" He looked at Katty Cooper. "Is she in your trade, dear heart?"
"Not yet. She's got to be shown off."
"On the stage?"
"Yes. Enough public performances to make her name…"
"Followed by some select private performances?"
"Then we'll be open to offers," said Katty.
Abbey sighed. "And I suppose these performances must be in London?"
"Of course!"
"And the provinces are but stepping stones?"
"Yes. An unknown girl doesn't walk straight into Drury Lane."
"Huh!" said Abbey. "So, I ask again, what can she do?"
"No," said Katty, stooping to kiss his white cheek. "You tell me…"
Back on the stage, Abbey produced a small violin, which he played with tremendous skill. The sound was so merry that it was a wonder the seats didn't get up to dance.
"Follow me, Mrs Henderson," said Abbey. "Do as I do." And he danced around the stage with Selena following and attempting to mimic his moves, which started simple and grew complex, till she strained and ached. At last Abbey put down the fiddle and clapped time, rather than playing, and danced step after step after step.
"And this! And this! And this!" he cried, and seemed never to tire.
Then he gave her a brief rest and a glass of water before taking up the violin again, this time for a simple country song.
"Follow the tune, my dear," he said. "La-la-la if you don't know the words."
Which progressed to more difficult works and finally to Selena singing a song of her own choosing. And then:
"I shall speak some lines from a play. I want you to repeat them to me, as clearly as you can, and with as much passion as you can…"
An hour later, Selena was sent back to the dressing room, where a jug, bowl and towels had been set out for her to wash the sweat off herself before she put on her own clothes again.
"Well?" said Katty Cooper.
"She'll never make an actress. She sings passing well. She dances with moderate grace… and every man in England will fall in love with her! She enchants the eye, she ravishes the senses."
"So?"
"She'll do! Songs and dances can be arranged to suit her limitations, and she should appear in melodramas and spectacles… wearing as few clothes as decency will allow!"
"Good," said Katty. "Then you'll book her?"
"Of course." He shrugged. "And I suppose you'll tour the provinces?"
"Getting letters of recommendation from such as yourself."
"And will descend upon London in tr
iumph…"
"Yes," said Katty. "It will take some months, but I'll do it."
Abbey looked miserable. "And you'll show her off on stage," he said, "then sell her to the highest bidder?"
Katty Cooper smiled with exquisite prettiness, and sighed in peaceful contentment. She nodded.
"Oh yes," she said, "as many times as I may."
Chapter 16
Three bells of the afternoon watch
11th June 1753
Aboard Walrus
The Thames, England
Captain Warrington stood proud at the helm as Walrus came up the two-mile stretch of water from Rotherhithe towards London Bridge, where the slow, brown river — swept by two tides a day — ran to mud-flats on either hand with ancient embankments shored up by massive timber piles that had been driven home when Queen Bess was a girl. To Walrus's people, the docks and the city they served seemed enormous beyond belief; veteran seamen though they were, they'd spent their lives out of England, and had never seen the like of London town. So all hands lined the rail and gaped as they passed row upon row of quays, wharves, warehouses and cranes, and ships whose number was beyond counting, and whose masts and spars arose like virgin forest.
Thus all aboard were merry except McLonarch and Norton, who were down below in irons: Norton bitterly resentful at his fall from first mate's rank, while McLonarch pretended calm understanding. And all the while, "Captain" Warrington strutted the quarterdeck, and the crew jumped to his orders and raised their hats… for Warrington had redeemed himself halfway across the Atlantic.
He did it during a heavy blow, when Norton was standing alongside Long John in the cramped master's cabin under Walrus's quarterdeck, testing Mr Joe's growing competence at navigation.
Norton had just nudged Silver and nodded at the back of Mr Joe's curly-haired head, as the lad leaned over the table, stepping his dividers across the chart and making neat pencil notes on a piece of paper, calculating his latitude and the previous day's run.
"See?" whispered Norton. "I told you!" Silver shook his head in wonderment. "He's natural born for it," breathed Norton. "Coming on at the gallop."
"Buggered if I could do it!" said Silver, and Mr Joe never even heard, so intense was his concentration.
"A-hem," said another voice, from the hatchway. Silver and Norton turned. It was Warrington, up from his sickbed at last, and washed into some semblance of cleanliness — even his fingernails were dark grey rather than black — though he bore a livid scar across his brow as a souvenir of the fracas that had landed him in trouble.
"Shhh!" said Norton, frowning and pointing at Mr Joe.
"Oh!" said Warrington, then mouthing the word "Captain?" he stabbed a grubby finger hopefully upwards a couple of times, towards the quarterdeck.
"Pah!" said Silver. He patted Norton on the shoulder and clumped out as quietly as he could. Since there was too much wet and wind above for talking, he led the way back to the stern cabin. "Well?" said Silver, getting himself into a chair and pointing at one for Warrington, who licked his lips, blushed a bit, and sat facing Silver.
"Captain," he said, "I have made a complete arse of myself."
"Aye," said Silver, "nicely put, Mr Mate, for indeed you have."
"Yes," said Warrington, "and I wish to apologise."
Silver shrugged. Warrington had the look of a man who would be apologising as long as he lived.
"Please yourself!" said Silver. "I got two men now as can do your work."
"Aye," said Warrington, and sniffed, "but I have something to say."
"Do you now?"
"Yes. That fellow who nursed me when I was… a-hem … ill."
"Jobo? Dr Cowdray's loblolly boy?"
"Yes. He said we are bound for London and told me of your plans."
"Did he!"
"He did, Captain." Warrington shook his head severely. "And it won't do!"
Silver frowned mightily and Warrington wriggled under his gaze and nervously picked his nose, and wiped his finger on a cuff that was already shiny with the fruits of previous pickings.
"And why not?" said Silver.
Warrington took a breath. "In the first place, sir, you must assume that Venture's Fortune has preceded us to England and spread word of a pirate ship led by yourself…" He paused and pointed at Cap'n Flint, perched on Silver's shoulder. "And you, sir, are a man easy to describe and to recognise!"
"Maybe," said Silver. "What if I am?"
"Then you must establish a new identity, sir, for yourself and this ship. A history, a purpose — and all of it backed with papers. You cannot sail into the greatest port in the world like bollocky-Bill the pirate and expect to be received with open arms."
"No?"
"No, sir you cannot! There must be letters, receipts, and a contract from your owner establishing your authority."
"What bloody owner?"
"There, sir! D'you not see?"
"See what?"
"See that you will have to deal with officials and persons of all kinds: Customs, Trinity House, port authorities, tradesmen, guildsmen, perhaps even officers of the law. You cannot behave as you might in Upper Barbados or Savannah."
"Can I not?" said Silver, already realising that he couldn't. He frowned and looked Warrington in the eye. "And who are you, then, what knows so much about bloody London?"
"I was born there, sir! Born and raised, and… a-hem… after other endeavours, I eventually went to sea out of the Port of London, where I am… to a degree… known and trusted."
"To a degree?" Silver laughed.
"Bah!" said Warrington. "I am no saint, sir, and I acknowledge the bottle as my invincible foe. But I know which palms to grease in London's port, and how much grease to apply … and I'll bet my soul that you don't!"
Silver fell silent. He was listening to wise counsel, and he knew it. He reached for the parrot and tickled its warm feathers. She squawked.
"Bet my soul!" she said.
Silver sighed. He took a breath and let out a great shout.
"Sammy Hayden!" he roared. "Pass the word for Sammy Hayden!"
Soon, Sammy Hayden, ship's boy, came running into the cabin, touching his brow and stamping his foot in salute.
"Sammy-my-lad," said Silver, "my compliments to Mr Hands, Mr Joe, Dr Cowdray and Black Dog, and beg them to repair aft to this cabin at their earliest convenience! At the double, now… Oh, and Blind Pew besides, for he's got a head on his shoulders."
The meeting that followed had shaped a new life for Walrus and all aboard, including John Silver.
"A cook!" he cried, aghast. "A sodding COOK?"
The rest howled with laughter.
"Aye!" said Blind Pew, whose idea this was. As he explained in his Welsh lilt: "It's na-tural in the king's service, see? The cook is always such as has lost a pre-cious limb."
"We ain't in the king's bleedin' service!"
"But it'll look right, see? For you can't be cap'n when others is aboard: pilots, revenue and such. And you'll only need to pre-tend to be a cook."
"Good! 'Cos I soddin'-well ain't soddin' cooking!"
"Not you, Cap'n!" they said. "Not 'less we needs poisoning!" And they laughed.
"But you'll be our Cap'n, as ever," said Pew, "when none's aboard than us."
Warrington proved even more useful when it came to documents. He had a fine literary style, was a fluent draughtsman, and made best possible shift with such papers as were in the ship: the original bill of sale for Walrus from her builders in Sag Harbour, the Colony of New York, joined Sir Wyndham Godfrey's letter of introduction and his Protection for Venture's Fortune — now duly altered to show Walrus's name, for Warrington was an accomplished forger. Drawing upon his imagination and knowledge of London, he made sure that all papers as might prove necessary were at their disposal.
Finally, seeing how fluently he conducted these arcane matters, it was decided by council of all hands that he should be captain for all purposes of negotiation with shore authorities. The meetin
g ended with Warrington chaired shoulder- high and blind drunk round the ship to celebrate his captaincy.
Thus Walrus sailed into the Pool of London, which enormous port only Warrington knew well — him and the Trinity House man piloting them up-river, and Captain Warrington stood tall in the clean coat, decent linen and proper hat he'd been given, and declaimed in a booming voice, pointing out the sights while the pilot conned the ship.
The hands sniggered at this, and Israel Hands, Dr Cowdray and Mr Joe smiled. But they all listened, because what he said was interesting. He spoke about trade and money and riches.
"Greatest port in all the world," he said, sweeping an arm towards the packed warehouses, "receiving some thirteen thousand ships per year, carrying a trade worth over one hundred million pounds. The revenue on the West India ships alone runs to over a million pounds, and that of the East India Fleet is…"
Long John alone was not listening. He was looking upriver, past the barrier of London Bridge through which no ship could pass for its line of close-packed piers, and the taverns, shops and businesses above: a village in itself. Beyond lay the smoke and spires of the metropolis, where lived — according to Warrington — over three-quarters of a million people, and growing day by day. He sighed in despair. Choosing between Norton and McBollock would be nothing compared with finding Selena in this monster! Where would he start? How would he start? Which question was all the worse for the ghastly answer that in all probability he should look for his beloved darling… in the brothels.
So that night, with the pilot gone, and the ship moored in mid-river, Long John took Warrington aside to test his knowledge of London, especially its tart shops. They stood by the taffrail, aft, the ship and the river silent, the night dark and only an anchor watch on deck.
"Oh," said Warrington, when clumsily, awkwardly and with great reluctance, Silver explained the nature of his quest. Despite his own failings, Warrington had suffered a rush of blood to the brain on being allowed to pose as captain, and was about to be censorious in the matter of whoring, when — "Listen!" he said, seizing Silver's arm. There was a soft rumble from the bow, then the sound of a muffled blow, and a man falling. Standing where they were, in the dark, the mainmast and foremast hid Silver and Warrington from the bow… and it from them.
