Skull and Bones

by John Drake

  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

  javelin-men used the butt ends of their spears to force a way into the inn yard, the mob surged in behind, roaring the song out to Heaven, even as Flint, the sheriff, the chaplain, and the bosun were stood in line, relieving themselves in the privy. But not the sea-service captain. He was snoring peacefully in the coach.

  However, all good things come to an end and eventually, seated in his splendid carriage beside his foolishly grinning companions and surrounded with a Roman Triumph of screeching faces, Flint caught his first sight of the Tyburn tree where it reared up, right in the middle of a great crossroads to the west of London, in open ground where Oxford Street became Tyburn Road, before branching into the Uxbridge Road and the ancient Roman Watling Street.

  It stood like a squat timber cathedral, high over all else. Its three massive legs supported a great triangle from which as many as twenty-four sufferers could be turned off at one time with the utmost convenience. But now it was occupied only by a hangman's mate, who lazed on its topmost height with the smoke of his pipe drifting up into the cold air.

  Even Joe Flint gulped at that, and even he staggered under the enormous noise of the crowd assembled at this most favourite spot, for London's most favourite day out: an entertainment offering not only tremendous spectacle, but moral instruction besides, and therefore suitable for the entire family, from doting grandmas to precious children. Flint shook his head. He thought he'd seen a multitude in the streets… but it was nothing compared to this! The number was beyond counting.

  There were timber grandstands, built by entrepreneurs to give a fine view of the gallows at two shillings a head. There were coaches of the gentry, whipping inward for better places, their splendid occupants leaning out and yelling and quarrelling. There were men stuck in muddy potholes, struggling clear. There were pick-pockets, whores, and pox doctors.

  There were fights with cudgels, fists and clawing fingernails, while cripple-beggars worked the crowd with rattling tins, infants got dropped and trampled, little boys piddled in corners, and pie-men, gin vendors, hawkers and broadsheet sellers bellowed their trade - especially the latter:

  "Last true confession of Flint the pirate!" they cried, promising Flint's own words, giving all his crimes in blood-curdling detail.

  The Brownlough brothers stood in the middle of their own private mob, turned out for the price of a guinea a man and a bottle of gin, and wearing white bands in their hats so they shouldn't smash one another's brains in by mistake. They stood to one side of the main mob that bawled and roared around the three-legged mare.

  "So! Shall we see him hang?" cried Reginald Brownlough, the elder.

  "Noooooo!" they roared, their voices lost in the general din.

  "So who's with me, for the honour of old England?"

  "Me!" they cried, even the Scots and Irish among them.

  "Then will you follow me?"

  "Aye!"

  He'd been preaching the same sermon for days, had Reginald Brownlough, to stevedores, chair-men, and butcher's boys, down in the gin shops and ale houses of East London. He was intoxicated with it now: even more than they were on his gin. But… by virtue of much money and a certain gift for words, he'd got them worked up for a fight.

  After all, these kiddies didn't need much excuse for that; and there were nearly three hundred of them.

  The javelin-men forced a way through the mob, which genially bellowed and shrieked, and gave way, and pressed, laughing and gawping, against the coach as their stink rolled over Flint, and dirty hands pawed, and children were held up to see him, and the gallows came close, and the enormous mob roared out his own precious song, in a bad-breath, gin-sodden, mountain of sound…

  Fifteen men on the dead man's chest,

  Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum!

  And here Flint changed. As he looked around to all sides, even the tight-shut compartments of his singular mind - which had kept him jolly thus far - could not keep out the plain threat of destruction of the self. As far as he could see, all had failed and death was certain. And so, the devil-may-care actor who'd put on such a show for the crowd… became simply the devil.

  His face darkened. Expression vanished. His muscles tensed… and he began to blink furiously…

  Silver shouted in King Jimmy's ear. The mob's roar was like a storm at sea. It was deafening. King Jimmy and Flash Jack leaned closer to hear, the three of them standing up in the chaise which swayed beneath them, for it was built for speed, with two huge, light wheels and a pair of blood horses harnessed in tandem, stamping their hooves in fright, with Israel Hands holding their heads and trying to calm them, while two dozen men in long coats forced their way through the crowd, elbowing all others aside and forming up in a body around the vehicle.

  One of them looked miserably at Long John, and couldn't meet his eye, for they parted bad on Flint's island.

  "Huh!" said Silver. "Here's Billy Bones and our lads. So where's the others?"

  "They're here already," said King Jimmy. "Look!" and he pointed.

  "Ah!" said Silver. "The buggers with white in their hats?"

  "Aye!" said King Jimmy. "The Brownlough boys. We all

  know them down Wapping way! Them shit-heads ain't even made a secret of it."

  "Can we trust them?" said Flash Jack, who trusted nobody, and was unrecognisable as his exquisite self, being dressed in plain dull clothes, and no wig but a big hat pulled low over the bald head which he shaved for cleanliness. Nobody would have known him who'd seen him shimmering down the aisle at Jackson's.

  "Can we trust you?" said King Jimmy. "It's only you as says Flint knows how to find the treasure!"

  Flash Jack sneered.

  "Who else can find Flint's treasure, but Flint?" he said.

  "Aye," said Silver, and looked at Flint, waving to the mob in his carriage. "By thunder!" he said. "I know the bugger, burn and beach me if I don't." He nodded grimly. "He'll know where it lies, cunning bastard that he is, by God, for there ain't none like him! And trust me, Jimmy, no bugger could get it off him. Not if they stripped him bare-arsed. But he'll know and he'll have it secret somewhere… and there ain't no finding of it without him!"

  "An' it's eight hundred thousand?" said King Jimmy, relishing the colossal sum.

  "Aye," said Silver, "why else d'you think we're here?"

  Flint went mad as they got him out of the mourning coach and up on to the tail of the farm cart with its open coffin, where the bosun threw the slack of his noose up to the hangman's mate so it could be made fast to an overhead beam, and the chaplain produced his prayer book and began to rant.

  The javelin-men were well clear now, to give the public a good view, but there were plenty of men around Flint, nonetheless: the bosun, the public hangman - present even if he wasn't being paid - the sea-service captain, the sheriff, a couple of muscular assistant hangmen, and of course the chaplain, for all the good he could do.

  And then came an incredible, unique and totally unprecedented sight which prompted a truly stupendous roar from the
mob: the condemned man was making a last fight beneath the gallows!

  Flint, having bitten through the bonds around his wrists in manic, shrieking fury, drew his sword - that still had a three-inch stump of sharp steel and a knuckle guard and a pommel - and used it to kill the bosun and the sea-service captain, quick as thought, stabbing into their throats. He killed the terrified sheriff, smashing in the back of his head with the pommel as he turned to run. He went for the chaplain, who screamed like a girl and saved his life by taking the sword stump into the thickness of his prayer book. Frustrated, Flint kicked the chaplain's legs out from under him and was stamping a heel into his face when the hangman and his two assistants dived in with fists and boots, white- faced, wide-eyed and spitting fury.

  "Now, boys!" cried the Brownlough brothers, and a united howl arose from their three hundred.

  "Flint! Flint! Flint!" they roared and surged forward, cudgels raised, trampling all before them as they charged the gallows.

  "Forward, lads!" cried Silver. "But let them Brownloughs take the first fire!"

  "Giddyup!" cried King Jimmy, whipping the horses.

  "Aye!" cried Silver's men.

  "Aye!" cried King Billy's.

  And they threw off their coats to reveal pistols and cutlasses, and drew steel with a scrape and a ring, and the chaise drove through the crowd hedged in blades, bowling along behind the wave of the Brownlough mob, with Silver's and King Jimmy's men alongside, all cheering madly, even as the javelin- men wheeled about to face the Brownloughs.

  Beneath the gallows, Flint bit and stabbed and kicked and butted. He pummelled and spat and shrieked, he fought beyond strength, beyond reason, beyond endurance… and could even now have prevailed, even with three men hanging on to him, of which two at least were marked for life and losing strength, had not the captain of the javelin-men sent four reinforcements to help the hangman, even as he was wheeling his troop into line to face the mob. "Chaaaaaaarge!" cried the captain.

  "Arrrrrrgh!" cried his men, dipping their spears and spurring their horses.

  "Flint! Flint!" cried the Brownloughs, hurling cobbles, bricks and bottles.

  "Steady, lads," cried Silver, holding back his men. "Let the buggers fight!"

  "Grab his bastard hands!" cried the hangman, as fresh men dashed in.

  "Ahhhhhhhhhh!" shrieked Flint. He tore an ear with his teeth, gouged an eye with his thumb, sliced a scrotum with his sword… but:

  "Gotcher!" cried the hangman, and he pulled the noose tight under Flint's chin, and steadied himself on the blood- soaked planks of the farm cart, and then - with the satisfaction of a craftsman showing soddin' amateurs how a job should be done… he pushed Flint off the back of the cart, with three men still hanging on to him…

  … men who flailed and swung their arms, and two dropped swiftly to the ground, and one had to beat Flint to make him let go, and he dropped too, and the vast mob shrieked tremendously again, and all those in the grandstands leapt to their feet and roared as Flint swung… and choked… and throttled… and his hands clawed the crushing rope… and his eyes bulged… and the blood thundered in his ears… and his legs danced… and his body dangled… five feet clear of the ground.

  * * *

  Chapter 25

  Noon, Monday, 26th November 1753

  The Rotunda

  Ranelagh Gardens

  London

  Sir Matthew Blackstone was in love with Selena. She could see it in his adoring expression. And he might be over fifty and ugly, but he was one of the richest men in England.

  She knew what was coming. She'd guessed. Her entire life was hers to change with a single word. That's why she'd been brought here. But for the moment, she gasped, for the Rotunda was exotic beyond belief, even to her, though she was no longer an innocent in such matters, having grown as familiar with the gilded luxury of salons as with the spectacular cunning of theatrical effects.

  The huge dome was the pride of Ranelagh, the most civilised of the London pleasure gardens. It was all fresh painted in pale cream, with an oriental profusion of elegant pillars and relief-work in red, and two great tiers of private boxes running round the walls, where patrons could take tea while looking out on the crowd sauntering around the vastly complex and gloriously decorated central column, which was itself a feat of architecture and which supported the ceiling. Several dozen huge chandeliers hung by scarlet cords, while one of the finest orchestras in London played in a huge canopied box to one side, and the admission price was set high enough to ensure that only the most proper and fashionable persons might gain entry.

  "Well," he said, "do you like it?"

  "It's beautiful," she said. "I'm glad we came."

  "Good," he said, "'cos it ain't normally open this time o'year." He shrugged. "But a little word in the right ear…"

  "Oh!" she said. "Did you cause it to be open: for me?" She fluttered her eyelashes and laid a hand on his arm, and gazed at him with pouting lips and round eyes… and laughed. And he laughed too and shivered at the beauty of her in the yellow silk which was her favourite colour, and was thrilled at the pleasure of simply being with her, and her acting a silly part as she did on the stage, and doing it just for him!

  "Well, did you?" she said.

  "Yes. I did."

  "Then thank you!" But she frowned, puzzled. "Then who are all these people?" She looked at the ladies and gentlemen strolling around, greeting friends, nodding to acquaintances.

  "Well," he said, "if it was going to be open, I wanted it looking alive and not dead, so I put the word around… and of course that lot -" he pointed to Katty Cooper, standing twenty paces off with Mr Abbey and others of his company - "they're our chaperones, my lass, for the benefit of them as knows me and knows Lady Blackstone, too: the old trout back home in Berkshire."

  "Oh!" she said.

  "Oh, indeed!" Sir Matthew sniffed and looked round. "Most of 'em know me, here." And he caught the eye of the conductor of the orchestra, and raised his hat and gave a nod, whereupon the conductor bowed in acknowledgement… tap-tapped his baton… stopped the orchestra in full flood…

  "One, two!" he said, and the orchestra broke into "The Pollywhacket Song", to general delight and applause towards Selena, while she - now very much the artiste - made her curtsey to all points of the compass. Having sung the wretched song hundreds of times, she now detested it, but the public didn't, and Sir Matthew didn't, and he was seeking to please, for he was kind and thoughtful and generous.

  "Well," said Sir Matthew, when she turned to him with a smile that sent shivers down his backbone, "it's better than Captain Flint's hanging, which is where most of London is gone this day, and where I'd have gone myself if not for you…" But he saw her reaction and knew he'd said something wrong.

  "God love you, my little dear," he said, and put an arm around her. "What is it?" But she groaned for painful memories, and he groaned to see it. "Tell me, my lovely. Tell old Matty," he soothed, for he was a decent man and couldn't bear to see her unhappy.

  "Could we sit down?" said Selena.

  "Of course," he said, and led her to one of the private boxes and sat her down at a table, and took a seat beside her and ordered tea and hot drop-scones from one of the waiters, while - keeping their distance - Katty Cooper, Mr Abbey and the rest, looked on… Katty Cooper grinding her teeth in jealousy.

  "So what's the matter, my sweetheart?" Sir Matthew's rough, lumpish face was transported into concern, and he clasped his bear-paws round her small hands.

  "I know Flint," she said. "Or rather, I knew him…"

  "What? How could that be? He's a pirate!"

  "But I know him." Selena looked at Sir Matthew, whom she liked and trusted, and she started to explain. She spoke of things that had been confined to the back of her mind for many months. And the more she spoke, the easier it got, until it all tumbled out: head over heels, disordered, stumbling and repetitive… but all of it. Right from the start: from the Delacroix Plantation to Charley Neal's grog shop to t
he Walrus, Flint's Island, his treasure, Danny Bentham and beyond. She told him every last thing. Even about the two men she'd shot dead in Charlestown. Even about Joe Flint, who was mad and who'd said he loved her, and even about John Silver, who certainly did.

  And Sir Matthew listened, and said nothing, and held her hand, and the tea and drop-scones arrived and grew cold, and still she spoke and he listened.

  Finally she sighed and stopped and looked at him, and he was pierced to the soul at the beauty of her lovely, vulnerable face appealing to him for judgement. In that instant he'd have stood between her and the world. He'd have jumped off a cliff for her, if it would have helped! And he'd have gone down joyful and content. But there was one point to discuss: a point such as couldn't be missed by so practical a man as Matt Blackstone.

  "You're married, then? You're Mrs Silver?" he said.

  "Yes," she said.

  "But you left him?"

  "Yes."

  He stayed silent a long time. He gathered courage. He looked at her again.

  "And would you go back to him now, if you could?"

  There was an even longer silence.

  "Wait!" he said, and shook his head. "Don't answer that, 'cos here's the way of it my girl: first of all, I don't care what you've done. After all, what choice did you have? And what care I if you did? Second, here's myself married, and yourself married, and church and state between us." He spread his hands and smiled sadly. "If I'd met you as a lad, I'd have said no to my pa and never married the old trout, and asked you instead!" He laughed. "But that were twenty year before you was born!"

  She laughed too, and his heart leaped with joy to see it.

  "Matt," she said, "you're a good man…"

  "Aye, but an ugly, old one."

  "No!"