Skull and Bones js-3

by John Drake

  Flint sighed and wondered if he could manage another bout? But he'd fired three rounds already that morning. He smiled and his eyes wandered to the tousled bed, on the other side of the lavishly furnished room, for Miss Jenkins did not work cheap, and her gentlemen demanded the best.

  She smiled at Flint, curtsied delightfully, and handed him the teacup, saying:

  "Ee-yah Capting!" Flint took the cup, set it aside, and kissed her neatly on the point of each breast. "Ooo!" she said, "Wannabit more do ya?" And she folded her arms round his neck, and wriggled her behind.

  Flint smiled. The voice was wonderfully coarse. It so thoroughly completed the necessary mixture, for Flint's capabilities were limited to those who followed Miss Jenkins's profession, while to all other females he was null and void: true to the ferocious prohibition driven into him by his long- departed religious maniac of a father, who doubtless sizzled in Hell this very instant, nodding in grim satisfaction over his son's impediment.

  Why else — the Reverend Flint would ask — should the Almighty permit the existence of fallen ones, except for the detestable expression of vile and contemptible lust? It was a question impossible for a child to understand, let alone answer, but it had been screamed at little Joseph Flint so many times, and with such venom, that the sense of it had penetrated, if not the entire meaning. Thus Flint could perform only with whores.

  He was also limited to black girls. But the reason for that was painful beyond contemplation.

  Meanwhile, Flint kissed a few more choice parts of Miss Jenkins, got himself up, got fully dressed, paid a generous tip, was rewarded with a smile, and was shown out. The only thing that had marred a delightful encounter, he mused as he made his way down the stairs to the street, was the inevitable, unavoidable, un-crushable thought that Miss Jenkins — pretty as she was — could not compare with… with…

  Flint's face twisted. It contorted. He stopped in his tracks in the busy street, closed his eyes and clenched his fists, gritted his teeth and groaned, for there were a thousand ways in which Joe Flint was not as other men were.

  And then the spasm was gone. Flint opened his eyes, stared down those passers-by who were looking at him strangely, and walked briskly to Sir Frederick's house, to keep an appointment to see one of the great ones of the town, someone of whom Sir Frederick stood in awe and was delighted to have obtained an invitation to meet.

  Flint was intrigued that Sir Frederick was showing signs of interests outside his usual range, and was happy to be taken to a splendid house in Bramhall Square, where that renowned leader of fashion, Lady Faith Carlisle, kept a salon.

  Carriages lined the pavement outside the house, coachmen and footmen stood politely awaiting their masters, and a small crowd of the common herd was hanging about by the entrance, gawping at the famous and the splendid as they made their way up the flight of five broad steps to the main door.

  Flint and Sir Frederick were admitted with deep bows, and led upstairs to the salon: a splendid room on the first-floor front, complete with Chinese wallpaper, pier glasses, huge windows, and opulent soft furnishings. They were announced by a butler, received by Lady Faith, and led down the centre of the room towards a knot of gentlemen centred on an enormous man in grey, scholarly wig. He was untidy and of bizarre appearance, being afflicted with twitches and odd gestures. But nonetheless he was holding forth, to the delight, respect and admiration of all present: and these were the cream of London society.

  "Look," said Sir Frederick proudly, "it's Johnson!"

  "Who?" said Flint, and Lady Faith winced.

  "Johnson!" said Sir Frederick.

  "Who's he?" said Flint, and Lady Faith all but fainted.

  "Johnson! Dictionary Johnson. The lexicographer!"

  "Sir Frederick," said Flint, perceiving that he was the only man in the room who didn't know the name, "I've lived a strange life, mostly out of England, beyond Christian civilisation — " he smiled with gleaming teeth "- you must instruct me.

  Sir Frederick had that uneasy feeling again. The feeling that came when Flint looked him in the eyes. He didn't want to admit that the feeling was fear — stabbing, unholy fear — but it was.

  "Ah… er…" said Smith, and found words: "Johnson is the foremost man of letters in England," he said. "He has published a magnificent dictionary, which he has written alone in a matter of years. A tremendous achievement! In France, the entire Academy Française laboured for a generation to produce a lesser work."

  Sir Frederick turned to gaze at Johnson, in the midst of his admirers, bellowing loudly and slapping a huge hand on the table to emphasise his point.

  "He is a genius," gushed Lennox, "and the entire fashionable world is educated by his pronouncements."

  Flint and Sir Frederick found seats close to Johnson, and were served tea — making Flint smirk, recalling the last cup he'd drunk. But when he settled down to listen, even Flint was fascinated by the power of Johnson's conversation, his cunning wit, his vast learning, and his tremendous vigour, along with a gift for superbly crafted phrases that delighted the ear, tickled the mind, and took root in the memory.

  Thus all was smiles and respect — until a sudden disaster occurred. Coming to the end of a story, Johnson rocked on his seat, in his odd fashion, loudly cried "Huh!"… and passed a rolling thunder of wind: loud, strong and tremendous, as only a big man can who has a large dinner digesting inside of him.

  At once there was a united attempt to pretend that nothing had happened. All around, ladies and gentlemen studied the floor, the ceiling and the pictures hanging on the walls, and there was a great clearing of throats and coughing, as if these innocent sounds would embrace Johnson's as one of their own.

  But none could avoid sniffing… and knowing… and blushing.

  "Urrrrgh!" growled Johnson, and his heavy face twitched, and reddened, and the mighty brows darkened. A profound silence descended on the room. Not even the mice beneath the floorboards dared breathe. But the Devil spurred Flint to speak:

  "My poor sir!" he said, leaning forward in impertinent familiarity and daring to place a hand on one of Johnson's. "I do sympathise."

  "Uhhhhhhhhhh!" gasped the company: trembling, horrified, and fearing an explosion.

  "Sympathise?" cried the giant. "What d'ye mean, sir? Explain yourself!"

  "Sir," said Flint with eyes of utmost innocence, "I sympathise with you in your struggle to contain these formidable pressures!" "WHAT?"

  "Indeed, sir, I know from experience the burden of your struggle."

  Johnson was now on a hair trigger, and risen half out of his seat. He was a vastly big man with hands like oak roots and limbs like Corinthian columns. His face was purple, his lips were working and it was the spin of a coin whether he would anathematise Flint with soul-shrivelling castigation — to damn him as the butt of all the town — or attack him physically with the aid of the heavy walking stick that he'd seized in his right hand. The company reacted as one, forming a sea of gaping mouths, staring eyes and paralysed horror.

  "WHAT?" roared Johnson.

  Flint, adopting an air of utmost innocence, spread his hands in explanation: "My own father, sir," he said, "was a being of such exquisite sensibilities that disdaining all vulgarity in himself, he employed others to break wind on his behalf: a common fellow on weekdays and a superior person — a gentleman — to fart for him in church on Sundays."

  "Ohhhhhhh!" groaned the company. But Flint sat so solemn, and stared at Johnson with such an air of seeking to be of assistance… that Johnson perceived… and snorted… and broke into booming, convulsive laughter. He laughed over and over, for the best part of five minutes, till the tears flowed, his body shook, the rafters trembled, and the room was merriment from end to end as the courtiers followed the king's example. Folk even looked up in the street to see what the laughter was all about.

  "You rogue, sir!" cried Johnson, when he regained control. "You jolly dog! You saucy fellow!" And he beamed at Flint. "Who are you, sir? What are you?"
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br />   Flint told his story with customary skill, so nearly telling the truth that it was wonderful how innocent of all blame he turned out to be. Thus Johnson and the company nodded wisely and smiled.

  "A sailor and an adventurer!" said Johnson, as if lost in admiration. "Every man thinks the less of himself for not having been a soldier, and not having gone to sea," he said. "And I see, Mr Flint, that you are, in both senses, a paragon!"

  "Ah!" said the company.

  "You are a Ulysses, sir," said Johnson. "Such a man as makes England triumphant at sea, and the terror and despair of her enemies!"

  All present cooed their agreement, especially the Brownlough brothers, two large and lumpish sons of a London banker, who sat together in a corner. Had Flint been able to read the future, he would have fallen at their knees. But he couldn't and he didn't. Nevertheless he returned to Sir Frederick's house in the highest of good humour.

  Sir Frederick having business in his study, Flint adjourned to the library, generously allowed to himself and Billy Bones as a day room. He entered just as Billy Bones was going out. Flint was full of himself, laughing and chuckling, casually flinging hat, coat and wig aside for the servant to deal with, before he threw himself into an armchair.

  "Billy-my-chicken!" he cried.

  "What?"

  "What, sir. Will you never learn?"

  Billy Bones scowled.

  "Them ways is shipboard ways," he said.

  "Indeed?" said Flint. "Are they indeed?" And he laughed. He was too merry to take offence. "In that case, Mr Bones, would you do me the honour to bring me a bottle and a glass from the sideboard?"

  "Huh!" said Billy Bones, and did as he was bid.

  "So where are you going, Mr Bones? I see you have your hat and coat on, and your walking stick at your side. Are you off on another voyage of exploration?"

  Billy Bones blushed. He actually blushed, unwilling to reveal the nature of his mission.

  Oh? thought Flint, instantly spotting Mr Bones's mood. What's this?

  So Billy Bones was put to the question: which, with Flint probing, soon drew out the truth. It came out like a nail prised up by a crow-bar: squealing and protesting, but drawn inexorably by the leverage of Flint's intellect.

  "It's a woman, Cap'n. That's to say, she is."

  "Is she indeed?"

  "Aye. One as I knew long ago… and which was… special to me."

  "God save our precious souls! Mr Bones, are you saying you have a wife?"

  "No, Cap'n. None such as that."

  "A-hah! A mistress, then? A sweetheart?"

  Billy Bones blushed scarlet, and blushed deeper still when — stumbling and halting — the tale of Olivia Rose was dragged out into the open for Flint to mock and taunt.

  "So," said Flint, when the game was done, "you don't know where she lives, you don't know if she's dead or alive, and you don't even know if her father stayed in London! Is that the course you're steering?"

  "Aye, Cap'n. For I went to sea again soon after, and never came home for years."

  "And now you would tramp the streets of London, hoping to meet her by chance?"

  "Aye, Cap'n. That's about the length of it."

  "Billy, my Billy!" Flint shook his head. "Has it not occurred to you that her father is in trade, and that the name Burstein is uncommon, and that there are directories published in this city listing alphabetically, by name, all the tradesmen of the town and the addresses of their premises? You have only to go to the nearest bookshop — and there is one on the corner of the Piazza over there — " he pointed through the window "- where you may purchase such a directory. With God's grace and a fair wind, you will have the father's address within ten minutes, and the father will likely lead you to the daughter."

  Flint laughed, for an eloquence of amazement was displayed in the dumbstruck face of Billy Bones.

  "Bugger me!" he said, "Fuck, pluck and draw me!" And he was off through the door and thundering down the stairs with mighty boots, and Flint's laughter behind him.

  The directory cost half-a-crown, a sum that made the eyes water, but Billy Bones had most of his fisticuffs money left, and he paid up and elbowed his way through the wigs, brocades and feathered hats and out into the noisy street with its grinding, iron-tyred traffic and clumping hooves and bellowing hawkers. He opened the book, thumbed through the pages… missed his way a few times… and then… heart thumping, fingers shaking, legs trembling… THERE IT WAS! Under Mathematical Instrument Makers… Burstein, Josiah: 14 Cripple Lane, St Paul's Churchyard.

  Billy Bones stood gaping and gasping. Not only had he found the address but he'd be guided to it by the biggest landmark in the entire city! He set off at once, and as with the book, he got lost a few times, but asked the way and was soon gazing up at the soot-blacked pillars, the mighty dome, the arches, pediments and cornices of Christopher Wren's masterwork. Finding Cripple Lane was easy after that… but then… he who'd never flinched in all his life… he who'd stood shot and shell and plunged into the fight slashing left and right… he — Billy Bones, the terror of the lower deck — stood backing and filling, unable to go ahead nor astern, nor larboard nor starboard, nor yet to drop anchor and do nothing.

  Over twenty years had passed since he'd seen her, and then she'd been a child. So what would he do if he did find her? What would he say? What could he offer?

  And while he stood dithering, alone in a crowd of busy Londoners, Mr Josiah Burstein himself walked past and into Cripple Lane, and entered a large, double-fronted shop with huge glass windows and a glazed door.

  Billy drew closer. The window display featured a gleaming range of instruments for sale: brass and glass, steel and boxwood, ivory and ebony. There were quadrants, octants, dividers and compasses, and mysterious others that Billy Bones had neither seen nor heard of.

  But that was nothing compared with proof that this was indeed Josiah Burstein — Olivia Rose's father! His hair was grey, his face was lined and he walked with a limp from a damaged knee… but he was beyond a doubt the man Billy remembered from the Isabelle Bligh. Clearly he had grown tremendously prosperous during the intervening years: he was excellently dressed, and he went about with his nose in the air, for all that he dragged one foot.

  And thus doubt struck again. Billy Bones didn't dare enter the shop. He hadn't the courage. He didn't know what they'd do or what they'd say. So finally he went away. He went back to Sir Frederick's house. He bowed his head and bore the mockery and cynicism of Flint… And returned next day to Cripple Lane, and paced up and down around St Paul's, orbiting the cathedral and returning to Cripple Lane every few minutes.

  He did that all day, for four consecutive days.

  And on the fifth day he saw her! It was a hammer-blow. She was coming out of the shop. Her father was kissing her cheek. She was so lovely. So very, very lovely. The beautiful child was now a voluptuous woman… And all the tender feelings of Billy Bones's youth rose up from the deep of his soul as if no time had passed and he was a lad once more.

  But he dared not go near her, so he ran away and hid. And then he followed at a distance. He followed her the brief, five-minute walk to a smart, respectable street where he saw her go into her smart, respectable house.

  It wasn't far, and all the way he struggled to find something to say to her — but couldn't; or something to do — but couldn't. As before, in the end he gave up and returned to Sir Frederick's. This time, not even the utmost persuasion from Flint could draw the truth from Billy Bones, who growled at his master like a mad old dog that will stand the whip no more.

  He went back the next day, and watched her house. He saw a man emerge, whom she embraced, and who must be her husband. He looked a decent fellow. And he saw the children that stood beside her and held up their hands to Daddy.

  Billy Bones found that he wasn't jealous, and wondered why. He was much puzzled until, finally, it dawned on him that there was nothing here for him: only ghosts and dreams. And so he very nearly escaped unscathed.


  But he waited too long, for he was still watching the house as she came out into the street a few minutes later with two of her youngest children. Billy Bones tried to step into a doorway, but it was no good. At a range of twenty yards she saw him… their eyes met… and Billy's heart stopped to see how she would receive him: the love of his childhood and hers… a faith kept and a promise cherished for over twenty years…

  A brief second followed… then she shuddered in disgust, gathered her little ones in her arms, and walked past Billy Bones on the other side of the street.

  She didn't know him. He was just a huge, rough man with a seaman's walk, a tarred pigtail and a mahogany face. If he wasn't exactly a monster, he was something precious close.

  It pierced him to the heart and extinguished all hope of escape from Flint.

  So he wept many tears.

  He found a tavern and got drunk.

  He thought of hanging himself.

  And the only thing that stopped him was the sure and certain fear of Hell.

  But others too faced agonies…

  Chapter 20

  1 a.m., 24th June 1753

  Lavery's Wharf, Bermondsey

  London

  Even this late it wasn't quite dark. Not in late June. There was a glow in the sky, and Walrus's launch was clearly visible as she came quietly to rest among the rows of dark boats moored alongside the wooden pier. But nobody noticed her, and even if they had, they'd have not seen the two men carried as prisoners, blindfolded and bound and under orders to keep quiet else they'd be heaved over the side.

  With Allardyce recovering but still unable to stand or speak, for the moment, the Jacobite interest aboard ship had lost its leader, and much of its passion. Spotting this change in the wind, like the good seaman he was, Silver had called a council of all hands, and persuaded them that it would be best to take McLonarch and Norton ashore to set them free — so he told them — and he made sure that he chose the right men for the job: men loyal to himself.