Skull and Bones

by John Drake

  Which gave Norton his chance. As the two men holding his arms flinched at Allardyce's charge, Norton wrenched himself free, struck left and right with his elbows, smashed a fist into the nose of one who still hung on, then sprang forward to grapple Allardyce from the side in full run, throwing him skidding over, with Norton biting flesh to the bone of the wrist that held the cutlass, and punching with a hard right hand into the soft meat between Allardyce's thighs.

  "Aaaaargh!" shrieked Allardyce, then "Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!" as Norton spat out his wrist, took his head by the ears, and slammed it three times into the deck, before leaping up, kicking away the cutlass, and slamming a boot repeatedly and with mighty force into Allardyce's kidneys until he was dragged off by his victim's mates.

  "Bastard!" they screamed.

  "Gut him!"

  "Chop him!"

  There was a rush for the quarterdeck companionways, but:

  Bang! Bang! Silver let off a pair of pistols into the air, while Israel Hands, Mr Joe and Black Dog instantly lined up alongside him and drew weapons and levelled them at the mob.

  "'Ware the buggers!" cried the crew, and two or three dozen firelocks were made ready and aimed. Anger was rampant: it scorched the decks, it addled their brains until mass, mutual slaughter was a second away.

  "Hold hard there!" cried Long John, yelling above all others. "And blind the bastard with red-hot irons who fires on his own shipmates!"

  "Arrrrrrrgh!" they growled, but they stopped.

  "Captain!" cried McLonarch, stepping forward. "May I say…"

  "NO, YOU MAY NOT!" roared Silver in uttermost rage. "By God and all his bleedin' angels you've had your whack, my son, and now it's my turn!" He appealed to the hands: "Ain't that fair, brothers?"

  "Aye!" roared Israel Hands, Mr Joe and Black Dog.

  "Aye," said others, but with bad grace.

  "So!" cried Silver, pointing to Norton. "You're set to hang him, are you?"

  "Aye!" they screamed and shook their fists in the air.

  "Shiver my timbers," said Silver, "if that don't beat all for piss-brain-pleased-with-shit-head-stupid!"

  "What?" they said.

  "D'you not see?" he cried. "Norton's the only bugger aboard what's fit to plot a course! We're all fo'c'sle hands as can steer a course, but who's to set one? Who's to labour with quadrant and dividers?"

  "Oh!" they said, even McLonarch, who'd not thought of that.

  "Ah!" cried Silver, seeing the change. "Or maybe I'm wrong? Maybe you swabs is happy with miscalculations and endin' up lost in the ocean on a spoonful of water a day?"

  They were not. The anger ran out and the guilt ran in.

  "So," said Silver, "make safe them barkers! Stick 'em where they'll do the most good… and then listen to me!"

  There followed a shame-faced clicking of guns being set to half-cock. Then all hands - and the McLonarch - looked up at Silver.

  "Here's my word in the matter," he said. "It's Dr Cowdray's plan for me! So him there -" he pointed at Norton "- is rated first mate. And him there -" he pointed at McLonarch "- is rated ship's guest, and neither to bear arms nor strike the other, nor any man to take their part… until we reach England, and there a full council of brothers will decide what we shall do with 'em!"

  There was silence. Silver looked at Israel Hands.

  "All show for Brother Silver!" cried Israel Hands, and he, Mr Joe, Black Dog, Dr Cowdray, Blind Pew and others instantly voted for Silver. Then, slowly… first one hand went up… then another… and another… until a good majority showed.

  "All against?" said Israel Hands.

  No hand was raised.

  And that was it. The ship returned to normal and arms were put away. Silver wiped the sweat from his brow, Israel Hands and Mr Joe clapped him on the back and smiled, and Cap'n Flint the parrot rubbed her head lovingly against his cheek. She was a great comfort at such times.

  "You're the boy, John!" said Israel Hands admiringly. "Ain't none like you!"

  "Aye!" said all who heard.

  But later, Silver spoke privately both with Norton, whom he liked, and the McLonarch, whom he detested. He told each that he would take his part when they reached England. For Silver was desperate to save his lady and didn't know who he might need on his side, so he played both ends against the middle. And that wasn't the old John Silver. That wasn't him any more. That was something new.

  In his cabin, alone with a bottle of rum and Cap'n Flint, he sighed and tickled the parrot's beautiful green plumes.

  "We're bound for England, my girl," he said. "And God knows what we'll find there!"

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  Dusk, 10th June 1753

  Shooter's Hill

  In the ancient borough of Greenwich

  Southeast London

  The Berlin was a magnificent example of the coach builder's art. It was light and strong, with big dished wheels, and the body hung on leather braces. It thundered onward at cracking speed, sending dust and clods flying in all directions, driven from the box by a liveried, plume-hatted coachman who thrashed mightily on the backs of the four horses, them being mere post-cattle, put on at the last change five miles back, and himself resolved to go up this famous hill in style and not like a fat-arsed yokel on a farm wagon.

  "Go on! Go on!" he yelled.

  Crack! Crack! Crack! went the whip and the wretched beasts leapt onward.

  Under its layer of road dust, the coach body gleamed splendidly: the result of many dozen coats of olive green paint, and the arms of the Second Earl of Maidstone applied to its doors. But it swayed and rocked, since, for all its sophistication of design, it was rumbling over the rutted, potholed, cart-track that these modern times called "a highroad" and which a Roman engineer would have laughed at.

  In the velvet comfort of the coach, with its luminous glass windows and rich upholstery, two gentlemen sat side by side, hanging on to hand-straps against the motion. They were Lieutenant Flint and Lieutenant Lennox, now dressed in fashionable civilian attire, complete with wigs. Flint beamed for the hundredth time upon young Lennox, who'd turned out to be most wonderfully well connected: his uncle being Admiral Sir Toby Lennox, in command of the Channel Fleet at Portsmouth, and his father Lord Anthony Lennox, Second Earl of Maidstone from whose great house the Berlin had started on its journey to London that morning.

  Flint chuckled.

  "What is it, Joseph?" said Lennox, smiling, for he idol- worshipped Flint and was delighted to see his hero happy.

  "Nothing, dear fellow," said Flint and smiled back. He was reflecting on the happy accident that the house of Hastings which stood for Mr Midshipman Povey and against Joe Flint - was Whig, while the house of Lennox… was Tory. Thus they'd gobbled up every word of young Lennox's outburst of admiration for Flint on arrival aboard his uncle's flagship at Spithead: telling how Flint had fought the pestilence, put hope into the crew, excelled in leadership, shone in seamanship, overcome perils at sea, etc, etc, etc… and brought all hands safe home!

  Likewise they'd swallowed Lennox's vehement protestation modestly supported by Flint - that Flint was not only innocent of all charges against him, but was a hero, a true-born Briton, and undoubtedly the victim of some foul and deep- laid plot!

  Meanwhile, the representatives of Clan Hastings had carried away poor Mr Povey, still swimming deep between life and death, and unable to bring his vital evidence to bear on the case… which was not surprising, considering the amount of laudanum that had been poured down him over the preceding weeks. Indeed, it was his exasperating refusal to die under the treatment which had caused amazement in some quarters.

  Since Clan Lennox's power was rooted in the navy, and it was the navy that had hold of Flint, great levers were pulled in the Admiralty such that Flint emerged a free man… pending Mr Povey's recovery, and a search for any others whose evidence Clan Lennox considered relevant. Meanwhile Flint was taken to Maidstone House in Kent to meet Lord Maidstone, and was entertained, and shown off to rural
society, until - desperate in every way to escape - he suggested a journey to the culture and sophistication of London, which he claimed never to have seen.

  Such was the Berlin's capacity for speed, and so frequent the changes of horses, a mere five hours on the road had brought them some fifty miles to Shooter's Hill, where Lennox insisted that Flint must not miss the inspirational first sight of London from this famous vantage point, and neither should the faithful Mr Billy Bones, for whom there was not room in the two-seater coach body, leaving him perched in the servants' seat behind, which at least had its own little hood in case the weather turned nasty.

  "Whooooooa!" cried the coachman as they reached the top of the hill. He hauled on his reins, stopped the coach, set the brake, then clambered down, rigged the passengers' step, and threw open the door, doffing his hat and bowing low, with his whip held respectfully across his chest.

  "Shooter's Hill, Mr Lennox!" he said, and backed away, still bowing, as the gentlemen got out, stretching their cramped limbs, and Mr Bones's heavy body swayed down from the rear seat, making the carriage rock and tremble and causing the horses to whinny.

  "Thank God!" said Lennox, and grinned. "I have to… er…" And he darted off to some trees that stood dark and shadowy in the gloom.

  Billy Bones took station beside Flint and they gazed at the view, which was indeed spectacular. They were on open ground, with a copse of thick woodland behind them, the new building of the Bull Inn to the west, near the summit of the hill, and a vast expanse of England stretched out on the plain before them, with the road winding ahead and down.

  Northward, the flat, shining curves of the River Thames could be seen, from Woolwich in the east to the pool of London in the west and beyond, where lay the vast and glooming mass of the world's biggest city, with its twinkling lights, its forest of spires, its pealing bells and the smoke of hearth fires so numerous as to be beyond counting. It was a noble and splendid sight.

  It was a sight that profoundly impressed Billy Bones, for London was so vast, so complex, and so different to anything in his life thus far, that it stirred tremendous emotions within him. He thought of Livvy Rose, for this was where he'd left her, and where she might still be living. Thus aroused, all the old passions burned as if new. And being full of love for Livvy Rose, there was - for the moment - no room in his heart for any other love. So Billy Bones glanced at Flint, then glanced again at London… and his mind trembled, and shivered, and grasped at the possibility of a life without Flint…

  But then Billy Bones sniffed the air.

  "Hoss-shite and chimbley-smoke!" he said.

  "Your sense of smell is exquisite," said Flint. "Likewise, your gift for poetry."

  They gazed a while at the view, each in his own thoughts.

  "Cap'n," said Billy Bones, "what we doin' here? In London?"

  "Trying to disappear, Mr Bones."

  "What? In a city full o' people?"

  "Oh, Billy," said Flint, "where better?" He pointed at the gleaming river. "It is also a great seaport, offering the chance of clean and entire escape."

  "But we have escaped."

  Flint sighed, despairing.

  "Imagine, Billy, a man hanged off a great tower. He falls with a long rope round his neck. While he falls, he lives… and enjoys false hope. But when he reaches the end of the rope, he dies. Yes?"

  "Yes, Cap'n."

  "I am that man. And so are you." "Oh."

  "Ah," said Lennox, coming back still buttoning the falls of his breeches, "that's better! Fine view, is it not?"

  Later, when the horses had rested and the moon was shining and night fallen, they were just about to get into the carriage again when the thudding of hoofbeats sounded and four horsemen emerged from the wood behind them, faces masked and black.

  "Oh, buggery and 'ellfire!" said the coachman. "Get aboard, gents!"

  "Damnation!" said Lennox. "Highwaymen!"

  "Pistols, Billy!" said Flint, leaping for the coach.

  But it was too late, the horsemen came in at a thundering gallop, two getting between their victims and the coach with ready firelocks, and two swinging round into the lead horses of the coach, which whinnied in fright only to drop in their tracks as -

  Bang! Bang! gunshots sounded, bright flashes seared the shining horseflesh, and the two leaders were dead in their harness, the remaining pair shrieking and kicking and the coach going nowhere.

  "Stand and deliver!" roared one of the horsemen, and his horse reared in the night as his three mates got themselves around Flint, Billy Bones, Lennox and the coachman, as smoothly and efficiently as drilled dragoons. Between them they had several brace of pistols, a double coaching carbine, and a blunderbuss.

  "On your knees, you sods! Get down, or I'll have the eyes and bollocks off you!"

  "Down!" said Flint, and dropped, and Billy Bones followed him.

  "Down, I said!" And another pistol boomed. Lennox and the coachman promptly knelt. "That's better! Now, behave your bleedin' selves and I'll leave you alive, but one cough and you're croaked! For I'm Captain Lightning, knight of the road, and I'll have your watches, your rings, your gelt, and anything else that might stop me pulling a trigger!"

  A throaty snort came from Flint, whose shoulders shook and shook, and he bent his head forward that his face might not be seen. Then he took hold. He looked up and lifted his arms in supplication.

  "Oh, sir," he begged, "take pity on a poor man afflicted with the stone such that he can barely breathe, and who suffers more than can be borne, being crouched as I am!"

  Lennox and Billy Bones gaped in astonishment at this cowardly snivelling, for they knew Flint. The coachman was merely surprised.

  "Fuck you! Fuck your fucking stone!" said Captain Lightning. "Stay on your fucking knees!" But Flint risked all and got unsteadily to his feet.

  "Oh, sir! Oh, sir!" said Flint, staggering towards the highwayman, pulling coins from his pockets and holding them out. "Take! Take all! But do not condemn me to my knees and the tortures of the damned, I beg you." The moonlight showed the tears that streamed down his face and on to his trembling lips.

  "Nyaaaah!" said Captain Lightning in contempt as Flint fell against him, clutching his knee, weeping and moaning, and wouldn't be shaken off. Clutching the reins in his left hand, Lightning swung his carbine with the right, and clouted Flint with the butt. But Flint just moaned and hung on, whining and slobbering. "Solly!" cried Lightning. "Come here and get rid o' this cove. I ain't got a free hand. Stick him if you have to, but get him off!"

  One of his men holstered his pistol, drew a long knife and rode forward. He got between Flint and the rest so they couldn't see… and then there was a scuffle and a jump, and a yell from Captain Lightning, and both horses were rearing and plunging and three men were struggling on the ground under the hooves… then the horses bolted, and Flint leapt up with a carbine - which was a double - and fired twice.

  "Uh!" said one of the surviving horsemen, and fell from the saddle, with an ounce ball gone in at his right eye and out through the back of his head.

  His companion did better, for Flint's shot whistled past his ear and he managed to let rip with his blunderbuss, drilling many holes in empty air, before going over the head of his horse, which was bucking and kicking in a frenzy. He landed heavily, face down, with Flint darting forward to sit squarely on his shoulders, where he settled himself, leaned forward, took his man by the chin, pulled upwards to expose the dirty grey throat, and slit it nice and deep with the dagger-point, razor-edge knife that lived in his left sleeve, and which had already seen off Captain Lightning and his friend Solly.

  Later that night the Berlin pulled up, behind two horses at the home of Sir Frederick Lennox.

  "God-damn-me, God-damn-me!" he cried, as servants dashed to and fro, and passers-by looked on, and luggage was whisked from the Berlin's trunk and into the house. "All four of 'em? And Captain Lightning too?"

  "Yes! Yes!" cried little brother. "By himself alone!"

 
; Thus Flint's reputation in London was assured. Flint smiled, Billy Bones put aside all earlier thoughts of desertion and swelled with pride, and Sir Frederick slapped his thigh and damned himself deeper as he shook Flint's hand. A red-faced man in his forties, running to fat and dressed in the extreme height of fashion, with magnificently embroidered clothes, a coat with elaborate skirts and multiple pleating. Sir Frederick was by far the elder brother, the son of a previous marriage and heir to the family fortune. He took to Flint something wonderful.

  "D'you know what the reward is for Captain Lightning?" he said.

  "Reward?" said Flint.

  "Yes, from the Meteoric Diligence Company - five hundred in gold!"

  "So much?"

  "Aye, m'boy. And all yours!"

  Hmm, thought Flint, for there would be a need for ready money.

  "I'll take you round the town tomorrow," said Sir Frederick, "bold dog that you are! By God, the ladies'll love you!"

  Slapping Flint on the back, he led them all into the brilliant, candle-lit interior of a house stuffed to the ceilings with objets d'art, and paintings, porcelain and gilt.

  "This way!" he cried. "To the library!"

  It was a long night and vast quantities of port were consumed as Sir Frederick explained that his house - which was on the corner of Russell Street and the Covent Garden Piazza - though not in the most fashionable part of London, was well placed to take in all the life of the city, with its theatres, print-shops, taverns and restaurants…

  "And the finest whores in town!" he cried.

  It was late in the small hours by this time; many confidences had been shared, and Frederick's secret store of erotic prints had been brought out to be ogled… at least by Sir Frederick, for little brother and Billy Bones were merely embarrassed, while Flint had special needs in this matter, though he smiled and pretended enthusiasm.

  "Look, sir!" cried Sir Frederick, and staggered up under a load of drink to wave from a window. Even at that hour two well-dressed ladies in the piazza below waved back at him.