by John Drake
"And Mr Joe, wearing himself out!" said Israel Hands.
"And you too, Israel," said Silver, and he sighed. "The thing is, I'd always imagined seizing her away: at pistol point if need be! Coming to the rescue, like."
"Aye," said Hands.
"And herself grateful, and the two of us happy together."
"Aye."
"But now… if she's rich and famous, what'd she want with a cripple like me?"
"Cripple? Not you, John! You're Long John Silver, gentleman o' fortune!"
"Aye! That's the trouble, Mr Hands."
Israel Hands shook his head.
"She's your wife, John. She knows that."
"Does she? D'you think she even thinks about me?"
"'Course she does!"
But Silver simply groaned and looked away. Searching for something to cheer up his friend, Israel Hands grinned merrily:
"Well, at least we can look forward to seeing Flint do the hornpipe! He gets his dish of hearty-choke and caper sauce one week next Monday."
"Bah!" said Silver. "Where's the fun in that? If the bastard dies, then the greatest treasure in all the world is lost. For none can find it but him!"
11 a.m., Sunday, 18th November 1753
The Chapel
Newgate Gaol
London
Flint, Flash Jack and Billy Bones sat among the public in the viewing gallery that looked down upon one of the most famous sights of London: a fenced-off enclosure some fifteen feet by twenty, containing a table and a pair of benches, where a dozen wretches — in the extreme of religious devotion — wrung their hands, beat their brows, sang hymns mightily along with the congregation, and screwed up their eyes in passionate invocation. For these were the chosen ones… who would be hanged tomorrow. And in case they'd forgotten it, a nice big coffin was laid open on the table before them as a handy reminder.
And all around, the curious, the morbid and the seekers- after-sensation who'd paid to come in for the fun, goggled and gaped, laughed and chattered, and comprehensively ignored the sermon preached by the bewigged and white-robed
Ordinary — the prison chaplain — as he discharged his impossible task of redeeming the unredeemable, while comforting himself with the thought that he was well paid and a good Sunday dinner awaited him.
Flint leaned close to Flash Jack, and pointed out the celebrities among those lost in prayer.
"From the corner, clockwise, we have: Uriah Kemp, utterer of base coin; Mrs Tetty Hammond, the Dover Square abortionist; Mrs Alice Whitebread, poisoner of three husbands; Will Stuart, the butcher who divided his wife with a cleaver; Mrs Sal Porter, who drowned unwanted infants, farmed out by the Parish of Bednal Green…" he smiled "and sundry others who are merely common thieves."
Flash Jack blinked, awestruck by the close proximity of Flint, whose shoulder was actually rubbing against his own.
"You seem…" he searched for words "… comfortable, here, Joe."
"Oh yes," said Flint, "I have a pleasant room, good food, good clothes. And as you can see," he said, smiling at the worshippers below, "the company is splendid!" Then he shrugged and looked down. "Of course, there are these — " he clanked the manacles that joined his wrists and were fastened by chain to the irons about his feet "- and them," he said, casting a glance at the pair of gaolers waiting by the door: heavy men in black hats, with keys and cudgels hanging from their belts. He nodded at them, and they touched their hats respectfully.
"Cap'n!" said their lips.
"Money," said Flint, "buys everything here… almost."
"And you have money… from Sir Frederick?"
Flint nodded. "He advanced me five hundred against my reward money."
"Is the Lennox family still behind you?"
"Only Sir Frederick. The rest were thrashed in court and went away bleeding."
Flash Jack shuddered at the recollection of Flint's trial. It had been poor, nasty, brutish and short: deeply disappointing as a spectacle. The Hastings clan had easily found others beside Mr Povey who'd seen Flint's mutiny: common seamen of no consequence, but whose sincerity was obvious, and whose testimony — beside the stellar performance of the midshipman himself — had assured Flint's doom. The only point of interest was a legal squabble over rights and place of execution, what with Flint being — all in one man — a mutineer, a pirate and a felon, falling under three jurisdictions: the sea service, the Lord High Admiral, and the civil judiciary.
The result — in the opinion of Flash Jack — was a true British Compromise, whereby the civil authorities would hang him at Tyburn, but preceded by the Silver Oar of the Lord High Admiral, and with a bosun's mate actually putting the halter round Flint's neck and making all secure: in which matter the sea service's special proficiency with knots was acknowledged by all parties — except the public executioner, who thereby lost his fee. But this was immaterial since he had no great or powerful friends, and his misery was lost in the joyful expectation of a massive turnout for one of the most notable hangings of modern times.
"Joe," said Flash Jack, "what are we going to do?" He looked at the condemned down below. "Shall you be among them… next Sunday?"
Flint laughed in contempt, and Flash Jack was overwhelmed at his masculinity and his wonderful beauty. "Never!" cried Flint. "I'll face the devil alone when my time comes!" He saw how Flash Jack looked at him. "Listen," he said in a low voice, and Flash Jack tingled, "what about my ship"
Flash Jack dithered as the worship of money fought a mighty alliance of true love allied with lust.
"Perhaps…" he said.
"I haven't the sum you need," said Flint. "Not here in England."
"I know."
"What else will you take… instead of money?"
Flash Jack fluttered his long eyelashes, bit his lip, took a firm grip of his courage, and with madly beating heart, leaned close to Flint and whispered in his ear. Flint listened. He said nothing. Finally he nodded and squeezed Flash Jack's hand, who once again nearly died of pleasure, and trembled to the roots of his toenails. "But first I must remain un-hanged," said Flint.
"I can't get you out of here," said Flash Jack, falling from Heaven to Earth in one bump. "Money won't do that."
"I know," said Flint. "So this is what you must do." He pointed at Billy Bones, gawping miserably at the condemned. "You and him — if there's enough of him left for the task! Now listen closely: you must seek out John Silver, whom I believe you already know…"
11 a.m., Sunday, 18th November 1753
12 Bramhall Square
London
"The first Whig was the Devil!" cried Johnson, massively filling a flamboyant chair by Foliot of Paris, which supported his weight only by the triumph of French genius over British beef, while the company applauded, being Tories through and through. "And it is Devil's work that has been performed upon Lieutenant Flint!" he added with a roar.
"Bravo!" they cried: the three dozen privileged favourites attending Lady Faith's salon this day, and Lady Faith and her sisters clapping white hands in a fury of agreement.
"I tell you all," said Johnson, "that this entire business is much rooted in the political hatred of the Whiggish House of Hastings for the Tory House of Lennox!" He smiled graciously at Lady Faith, who was a Lennox by marriage.
"Bravo!" they cried… except for the Brownlough brothers, Reginald and Horace, who leaned forward in their chairs, nodded grimly at one another, and waited for whatever Johnson should say next.
"But there is more!" said Johnson. "Those who know the Caribbean say that so great is the fear in which the Spanish and French hold Captain Flint that his mere presence at sea is enough to offset the rivalry to England's trade which otherwise they would inflict upon us!"
"But is he not a pirate?" protested a small voice at the back.
"Who said that?" cried Johnson, looking round.
"He did!" said the Brownlough brothers, pointing out the villain.
"Who are you, sir?" said Johnson, rising up from his ch
air like a python discovering a piglet. A mumble came in reply, as the speaker withered and wished himself safe at home in bed, and thought it wise to keep quiet about Flint's attacks on English shipping. "PAH.'" cried Johnson, sitting down. "And was not Drake a pirate? And Hawkins and Frobisher and Raleigh?"
"No!" they cried, and "Yes!" depending upon their perception of the subtleties of double negative.
"My point is this," said Johnson: "far away, across the Atlantic, lies a vast continent which I believe to be the future of all mankind! It holds fabulous wealth in its far horizons, its lofty mountains and its limitless resources of every kind: animal, vegetable and mineral!"
There was utter silence as all present contemplated the thirteen British colonies in America, which were so dreadfully threatened by the American colonies of France and Spain. Johnson nodded.
"As all the old world knows," he said, "this new world shall soon be the cause of a world-wide war, whereby the great powers will compete for control of America." He thumped his knee with a huge fist and stabbed a finger at the company. "And I tell you — I tell you all — that Flint and those like him are at worst merely premature, and at best exemplars of the manner in which a mighty empire shall be won for England! We should not be hanging the man. No! We should be sending him forth in command of a ship of war!"
The company cheered. Johnson nodded wisely, and sought another cup of tea, which Lady Faith poured, in happy satisfaction that all this would be reported in the press tomorrow — writers being present among the company for that very purpose — thereby exulting the prestige of her salon over those of her rivals.
Meanwhile the Brownlough brothers put their heads together and made plans: fierce plans, for they worshipped Johnson, they took his word as law, and they were bold, young, patriotic… and stupid.
Chapter 24
Dawn, Monday, 26th November 1753
The Press Yard
Newgate Gaol
London
The winter sun rose in splendour over the elegant squares, coppered domes, soaring spires, two great bridges, and the filthy, stinking tenements of London. The day was crisp, and all was merry brightness, showing that the Almighty smiled upon the vast crowd — the greatest in living memory — that was assembling for the hanging of Joseph Flint.
So thought Flint as he stepped out into the Press Yard surrounded by lesser beings, for Flint shimmered in the gold- laced, black velvet suit of clothes which had been purchased at vast expense for the occasion. Likewise the shining, soft- leathered boots, the black-feathered hat, and the diamond- hilted sword that hung from a golden baldric across his shoulder. They'd snapped off the sword blade, of course, but the weapon looked just as good in its scabbard and perfectly suited the dignity of the principal performer in the tremendous act of theatre that would soon take place.
Flint looked around and smiled. His had never been a normal mind, and to him it was hilarious that the Press Yard was so called because it was here that felons who refused to plead guilty or not guilty — thereby saving their loot for their families — were spread-eagled upon the ground to be pressed under weights until either they entered a plea or died. Flint laughed, for the same law that called him a villain, permitted this cruel torture.
Clang! Clang! Clang! The prison blacksmith struck off Flint's irons upon his anvil, and there was a brief, unseemly scuffle as the prison's yeoman of the halter attempted to tie Flint's hands in front of him and drape him with a noose, for this was his prerogative. But a sea-service bosun, immaculate in shore-going dress, elbowed him aside.
"Urrumph!" said the sheriff.
"A-hum!" said the prison chaplain.
"Huh!" said a sea-service captain.
And the yeoman blinked, and stood back, remembering what had been agreed for this special occasion.
"Oh," he said, "beg pardon, I'm sure."
"Cap'n!" said the bosun to Flint, producing a cord and halter of his own, all neatly worked in Turk's heads and seizings.
"Ah!" said Flint. "I can see that you have served before the mast!"
"Aye-aye, sir!" said the bosun, and sought to tie Flint's wrists.
"A moment!" said Flint, raising a hand in admonition.
"Cap'n?"
"I have a duty to perform," said Flint, and snapped his fingers towards the fellow who'd been his servant these past weeks — one Edwards, a failed writer who'd battered a publisher in despair at rejection. This sorry creature crept forward with a tray bearing a number of doe-skin purses.
"Ahhh!" said all present.
"Gentlemen," said Flint, and presented a purse to each of the big gaolers who'd followed his every step.
"Gor bless you, Cap'n!" they said, and sniffed and snivelled.
"Weren't no wish of our'n, Cap'n!" said one.
"No finer gennelman ever lived!" said the other.
"Reverend, sir," said Flint, turning to the chaplain, "for those in want…"
"Oh, sir!" said the chaplain, deeply affected, taking the purse.
"Mr Bosun!" said Flint, handing out the last purse.
"Aye-aye, sir!" said the bosun, and saluted as if to an admiral.
"Proceed, Mr Bosun!" said Flint, and he offered his hands.
So Flint was tied and the noose draped round his neck and the slack bound round his body, and he was led through doors, gates and passages, and outside the prison… where an enormous cry went up from the mob already assembled. Even so early as this, they were ready and waiting: tinkers, tailors, chair-men, lumpers, washerwomen, gentlewomen, gentlemen, and dogs, hogs, chickens and beggars. Them and all the cocky young apprentices of the town, who — by kindly tradition — had been given the day off for the hanging.
Seeing this, Flint doffed his hat, and bowed left and right, to cheers and applause, and climbed up into the big, black- bodied mourning coach — hired by himself at still further expense — with a coachman on the box, and footmen on their steps at the rear, all liveried in sombre black, and stood to utmost attention, and four splendid horses in harness, with black plumes nodding from their heads.
Even more splendid were the uniformed, mounted javelin- men, two troops of them, formed up to front and rear of the coach. They were there to keep back the mob and guard the prisoner, but with their big, ceremonial lances, tasselled below the steel points, they resembled a royal escort.
"Ahhhhhh!" gasped the crowd, pressing forward as Flint caused the folding roof to be lowered such that he could see — and be seen — all the better.
The only thing that let down the magnificent display was the clumsy, two-wheeled farm wagon rumbling along behind the rearmost javelin-men, drawn by two plodding nags. This was the vehicle upon which the common condemned rode to the gallows, sitting on the coffin in which they would later ride away from it. Today there were no common condemned for it to carry, but no amount of money could dispense with the coffin.
"Three cheers for the cap'n!" cried a voice, and the mob huzzahed to shake the windows and rattle the tiles, as the sheriff, the chaplain, and the sea-service captain crammed in beside Flint and the astonished bosun, who'd never been so close to so much rank in all his life.
"Forward!" cried the sheriff, and the procession moved off to the mournful beat of four drummers, dressed in black, who marched behind the Lord High Admiral's Silver Oar bearer, and were yet another expense down to Joe Flint. But what did that matter? He wasn't going to spend his reward money on anything else: not now.
And so, the long, slow two miles to Tyburn, which a galloping horse would cover in minutes, but which took over three hours when the Town was turned out, lining the streets in swaying, heaving, grinning multitudes that came armed with the traditional missiles: rotten fruit, turds in paper, and the ever-popular dead cats — some not entirely dead — which, when swung by the tail and thrown, were the supreme expression of the mob's displeasure.
But none of these were thrown at Joe Flint: not him! For he stood gallantly in the carriage, and blew kisses to the ladies, saluted the gentlem
en, and struck the boldest figure that London had ever seen… and so he was received with roaring acclamation… the same acclamation as proceeded from the sheriff, the chaplain, the sea-service captain and — most especially — the bosun, who grinned in red-faced merriment, for Flint had provisioned the carriage with spirits, and the bottles were soon uncorked and going down.
Custom prescribed two stops along the way, at favoured public houses, which paid vast bribes for the privilege of being chosen, since this meant being drunk dry of drink, and eaten bare of food, by the colossal and merry increase in business on a hanging day.
Thus, first to the Stump and Magpie, St Giles's, where roaring trade was capped by Joe Flint's singing of a song — new to London — which became the choice of the mob, long after.
Fifteen men on the dead man's chest…
He sang beautifully, stood up on a table with the rope round his neck and his bound hands, and soon the cram- packed sweating company learned to roar out the response, and all those in the streets outside bellowed along with them.
Yo, ho, ho — and a bottle of rum!
"Listen," said Billy Bones, "that's his song!"
"Aye, Mr Mate," said Black Dog.
Billy Bones scowled.
"Lieutenant!" he said.
"If you says so… Lieutenant," said Black Dog, grinning.
"What song?" said Mr Joe.
"Before your time, my son," said Black Dog.
"Ah!" said Billy Bones, listening to the song and cheering up for the first time in months. "That's my Cap'n!" he said, swelling with pride. "That's my boy! Hark to the manner of him. And him on his way to be hanged!"
"Aye!" they all said, all of them: twenty of Long John's men, and another twenty of King Jimmy's who were following the coach on foot, glad of the long coats they wore for the cold, and which hid what they'd got underneath.
It was the same at the Green Man in Oxford Street, except that knowledge of the song had swept ahead of the lumbering coach, and when the big vehicle pulled to a stop and the
