by John Drake
By nightfall, the mouth of the Savannah River was under the horizon, and Walrus was free and the whole world before her. Her people were happy, Mr Warrington was no more than decently drunk and well capable of setting course for Upper Barbados, where Captain Silver planned - so he said - to raise a new crew, new luck, and new riches.
"You're a skilful liar, John," said Selena as they stood together at the taffrail, with the ship heeling sweetly under sail. "Just don't ever lie to me again."
"I told you, my lass," he said, "once we drop anchor in Upper Barbados, then you and I can hop ship, and these lads can find themselves a new captain!"
"Why Upper Barbados?"
"Because that's where Charley Neal sent my earnings, in the old days."
"How much?" she said, and he winked and tickled her ribs so she laughed.
"Ah! You ain't so lily-white pure yourself, when it comes to money."
"But how much?"
"Enough to keep you and me cosy for life!"
"Doing what?"
"Running a business in England, the which I shall buy."
"An honest business?"
"Oh yes. No more gentleman o' fortune! Maybe a tavern? Maybe in Bristol? And how about 'The Spyglass' for a name?"
"Why that name?"
"So's we'll always be on the search… for opportunity!"
And John Silver put his arms around her, and kissed her, and for the moment was at peace, and the great green bird on his shoulder nibbled the ears of man and wife together, and chuckled in contentment.
* * *
Chapter 44
Morning, 21st July 1754
Chester's Grog Shop
Savannah
The Royal Colony of Georgia
"This is Doctor Cowdray!" cried Jimmy Chester. "He's John Silver's surgeon, and was Flint's before, and has Latin and Greek and all the tools of his trade, and is qualified at all the universities of England!"
"No," said Cowdray, protesting, "I am self-taught… Ex uno disce omnes… I learn from each case. My teacher was practice, not scholarship."
But nobody listened, for cries and groans arose from the horrors of the grog shop, which being the biggest public building in the town, and lavishly furnished with tables… was now its hospital, where five whores, three washerwomen, a man- midwife and the fort's horse-doctor were trying to attend nearly three hundred wounded men, some already dead in their bandages, others bawling loudly, still others shivering in pain, and the stink, noise and squalor beyond all contemplation.
"Did you know, Flint locked me up!" said Chester to Cowdray.
"He did!" said the clump of Savannian assemblymen at their president's heel.
Cowdray looked at them, and the way they held their noses, and tried not to see the horrors all around, but glanced constantly at the door and the sweet outside.
"And we set him free!" they said, praying to be free themselves.
"And I was summoned when your boat arrived," said Chester.
"Thank God, you are here!" said the assemblymen.
"Doctor!" said a fat, sweating washerwoman in blood- drenched clothes.
"Our men won the fight, but at huge cost!" said the assemblymen.
"We brought them all here!" said Chester, waving a hand at the rows of wounded.
"There's a boy here won't be stopped from bleeding," said the washerwoman.
"Spanish and English together!" said Chester. "For we are Christians!"
"There's another one here," said the man-midwife.
"Should we heat irons, Doctor?" said the washerwoman. "Is that the best way?"
"Can we leave you now…?" said Chester, backing towards the door.
"… to take command?" said the assemblymen, and fled.
"Doctor!" said a dozen voices, and horrific creatures advanced towards Cowdray: soiled, exhausted and slimy with blood. They looked like ghouls and monsters, but were those few noble, shining souls among thousands - and themselves some of the least in the city - who were doing their best, beyond duty, beyond praise, to save the hundreds of men slowly dying before their eyes.
But… adveho bora, advebo vir… come the hour, come the man, and Doctor Cowdray did what he'd done for twenty years. He sent for soap and hot water. He sent for braziers, charcoal and irons, which would indeed be needed. He cleared a table, laid out his instruments, went round the room… and divided the wounded into three groups: first, those who would surely die and who - in desperate extremity - must be set aside; second, those who would surely live, who were set aside for the present, and third, those whose lives could be saved only by treatment, and who were brought first to his table.
Thus it was many hours before Doctor Cowdray could rest, and he sank down trembling with exhaustion but deeply at peace within himself in the sure and certain knowledge that his skills had saved the lives of many men.
Barely had he sat down, when the fat washerwoman came up and bobbed him a curtsey, for all present now stood in awe of Doctor Cowdray.
"Doctor?" she said. "I sees you're done in, and done for… but we just found one poor sod - beggin' yer honour's pardon - what we was putting among the dead but what's still breathing."
"Oh…" sighed Cowdray, and tried to stand. He was sunk in weariness. He was so weak they had to help him to his feet.
"God bless you, Doctor!" they said, in their respect and admiration.
"Yes, yes," he said, "I'll come…"
"No need, your honour," said the washerwoman. "We brung him in a blanket."
Cowdray forced his legs to carry him to the table. He called for hot water and soap. He peered at this last patient: the one that wasn't dead after all. He couldn't see clearly. He was so tired he'd forgotten his spectacles. He found them. He put them on. But the lenses were smeared.
He rubbed them on a clean patch of shirt.
He placed aching hands on the patient's chest.
He gathered strength.
He blinked.
He looked at the face.
"Auribus lupum teneo!" he cried, and fell back in horror.
* * *
The Beginning
Morning, 11th October 1754
The Royal George Inn
Polmouth, England
The usual collection of children, old wives and beggars was waiting to see the Bristol Lightning come in. But it was late. The church clock had already struck eleven, and no coach had yet come pounding up the road, which was therefore occupied only by plodding farm wagons, a drove of geese and a good number of respectable persons who gazed into the windows of the shops along Prince Rupert Street, which pronounced itself the most genteel emporium this side of London, and far superior to anything in Bristol - Polmouth's great rival for supremacy of the West.
"Ah!" said a lively beggar, nudging his mates, hitching up his "crippled" leg, and making ready to ply his trade. "Here it comes! Watch out, you little 'uns!" And all present cleared the way as a thunder of hoofs, a roaring of wheels, and the Crack! Crack! Crack! of the whip came from round the corner where Prince Rupert Street met the Bristol Road… and every eye turned… and the sound grew louder… then all cheered as the mighty vehicle burst in splendour into four-horse, four- wheeled, galloping sight, with the driver - high on his perch - laying on furiously to make up time, and to ensure that the expensive passengers in their expensive seats got value for money by arriving - if not bang on time - at least in all the glitter and dash of a crack stage-coach only eight miles from the last change, and the beasts full of fury, and striking sparks off the cobbles with their iron shoes.
"Go-on!" cried the driver.
"Huzzah!" cried the street.
"Pity a poor soldier!" cried the beggar.
"An' his fambly!" cried the urchins.
"Ruined at Fontenoy in King-George-Gawblessim's-service!"
But all were ignored as the coach ground to a halt, its multi-layer paintwork half-covered in mud, the horses snorting and steaming in the cold air, the driver throwing off the blanket that covere
d his knees, shifting his feet in the box of straw that kept some warmth in, and turning back to the guard who sat behind him.
"Heave the mail, Jimmy, boy!"
"Right y'are, Davey!"
And the guard threw down the sealed canvas bag of letters, into the arms of Mr Kemp, proprietor of the Royal George, who'd stepped out the instant the coach arrived, backed by maids and ostlers of his staff. There was no official mail service, but the Polmouth and Western Staging Company, who owned the Lightning, carried letters to make an extra profit.
Then all parties set to. The ostlers took off the horses and put on a fresh team. The maids opened the coach doors, threw down the step, and bobbed and curtsied as five passengers got out, stumbling on cramped limbs. Most were desperate for the privy and ran straight into the house, to make haste before the coach was on the road again.
But one had arrived at his destination. He had no further to go. He stood waiting while his box was handed down. It was heavy, and he gave a hand so it didn't get dropped. It was a seaman's chest, much like any other, except that the initial "B" had been burned on the top of it with a hot iron, and the corners were somewhat smashed and broken as by long, rough usage.
"Handsomely, there!" he cried, in a voice accustomed to command. "Hand her down gentle!"
He was a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man with a tarry pigtail falling over the shoulders of his soiled blue coat. His hands were ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails; and the scar of an old sword-cut gleamed livid white on his cheek. He was a formidable man, but was melancholy and silent. He'd not spoken a word to anyone in all the ten, long hours from Bristol. He'd just dozed, and dreamed and muttered to himself, occasionally disturbing his fellow passengers by the foul oaths and dreadful things he said in his sleep. But none dared wake him or complain.
He was still standing outside the inn when the passengers scrambled aboard and the coach pulled out again. He ignored every one and every thing, except that, in an odd moment - perhaps thinking of better days - he astonished all the world as he turned to the beggar who clutched at his sleeve, whining and pleading… and gave him a silver dollar.
"Gedoutovit!" said the landlord of the Royal George, putting a swift boot up the beggar's breech. "You didn't oughter mind him, sir," he said. "Nearest he got to the Battle o' Fontenoy was a gin-shop of that name, down the road there!"
"What?" said the big man, whose mind was far away.
"Would you be lookin' for a room, sir? Clean sheets, good fire, good food?"
"D'you get much company?"
"God save you, sir, yes!" the landlord smiled. "Never been busier, sir!"
"Then it'll not do for me!"
"Oh."
"I wants somewhere quiet. Nearby and clean, but quiet.
Here -"
"Oh!" said the landlord, and gazed at the incredible sight of a golden guinea.
Some hours later, the big man got down from the two- wheeled cart behind a miserable old horse that had brought him from Polmouth on the wind-blown cliff road that looked down over red, sandy beaches. Together, he and the carter heaved the chest into a handbarrow brought on purpose, since the final hundred yards wouldn't take wheeled traffic of any size.
And so, Billy Bones came plodding up to the door of the Admiral Benbow Inn, with his sea-chest following behind, and the inn's sign creaking over his head. It was so peaceful that his sombre mood lifted, and he gazed down at Black Hill Cove, which the inn overlooked, and he whistled and sang to himself…
Fifteen men on the dead man's chest,
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
He rapped at the worn old door, with a bit of stick like a handspike, that he was carrying. He rapped to announce himself, since it was already open, and inside he could see the public room, and a bit of company: harmless local folk, and a sickly, white-haired man in a long apron, serving them, with a lad beside him holding a jug. The kinship was plain in their faces.
"Good day to you, sir," said the white-haired man, touching his brow. "May I be of assistance? I'm Hawkins, proprietor of this establishment, and this here be my boy Jim."
* * *
Afterword
LONG JOHN SILVER: THE NEED FOR CHANGE
Readers of the two previous books in this series, Flint and Silver and Pieces of Eight, will have noticed the progressive change in Long John Silver's character in these books, and especially in this one.
This is because, as I wrote the books, I increasingly felt an obligation to deliver up Long John Silver, in the end, as the character that Stevenson created - which was not my original intention.
When first I set out to write this series, I was fed up with characters in popular culture who were anti-heroes, half- heroes, and non-heroes: Batman, for instance, depicted as more sinister than the villains he conquers.
So, I decided to present John Silver as a cross between Dan Dare and Douglas Bader - and if you've never heard of them, please look them up (try Google), because they shaped my values as a child and still exemplify the virtues that I admire today.
Fair enough, then: Silver could start out like that. But I realised that he couldn't be the same truthful, decent, gentleman o' fortune by the end of Book Three. And so I contrived that he was forced into lies, betrayal and murder.
Not that there's no good left inside him! Not at all. But - to the best of my ability - as my trilogy ends, he is now the equivocal, crafty bugger that Stevenson made him. And dangerous besides.
Also, there's plenty more of him still in my imagination… such as the tale of what really happened to Jim Hawkins's expedition to Treasure Island…
LONDON UN-POLICED: CATCHING CRIMINALS
In Skull and Bones, much of the action in London depends on the fact that in the 1750s there was no police force in the modern sense, only a medieval mixture of constables, marshal's men, beadles and watchmen.
In fact, there were quite a lot of them: about 3,000 for a city of 750,000 people, which compares surprisingly well with modern figures. For instance, in June 2009, London's Metropolitan Police had c. 35,000 officers for a city of 7.5 million people. Thus, both then and now, there were about four officers per thousand of the population.
But modern officers are trained, and fit, and in constant communication by modern media, whereas the 1750s equivalents were commonly too old, too slow, and too corrupt to keep the king's peace - and each one was utterly on his own.
The Bow Street Runners, founded in 1749, were a unique exception, being remarkably efficient and honest (by eighteenth-century standards). They worked both as detectives and servers of writs, going up and down the kingdom - and even overseas - on missions such as I describe for my fictional
Philip Norton. They were the James Bonds of their time. But they were small in number (a few dozen officers), they had no uniform, and they did not patrol the streets to keep order: not them nor anybody else.
Another formidable obstacle to the apprehension of criminals was the fact that there was no way of showing a person's face to the public, other than by getting a talented artist to draw a likeness which would then be copied on to a copper plate - slowly, painfully, carefully - by equally talented engravers. Then prints could be made for wide distribution. This was a labour-intensive process, dependent on rare skills, and totally impractical for routine use, even if anybody had thought of using it to detect criminals, which they didn't! Thus recognition of criminals was strictly by eye, by people who already knew them.
Likewise there existed no means of mass communication, long-range communication, nor instant communication whereby the efforts of such officers as did exist could be united in the attempt to apprehend criminals.
Consequently, detection and apprehension of crime relied on direct, personal action, such as a householder catching a burglar, an employer detecting theft by an employee, or a traveller fighting back against a highwayman.
Thus, with Flint cut from the gallows, and the javelin-men beaten senseless, Silver and Flash Jack could spirit him
away, because there was nobody whose duty it was to chase them. And once they were out of sight of those who could recognise them, then they were safe, because nobody knew who they were. Even Silver's crutch wouldn't necessarily give him away, for cripples were far more common then, than today.
LONDON UN-POLICED: THE MOB
As with crime, so with the London mob: that primordial force, deriving its name (as Dr Cowdray would have explained) from the Latin mobile vulgus meaning the moveable, or fickle, crowd for its dangerously volatile moods.
Once the mob was roused, there was nothing to stop it, as - famously - during the Gordon Riots of June 1780, when Lord George Gordon, a Protestant fanatic, roused the mob against the government's plan to liberalise the laws proscribing Catholics from public service or commissions in the armed forces. Anti-Catholic prejudice was deep-rooted in English society and the mob turned out in vast and unknown numbers, rioting for a whole week, and doing some £30,000 pounds worth of damage (£30,000,000 in today's money), burning churches, prisons and houses, savagely beating any Catholics it could find, and lighting bonfires throughout the city.
My account of the Georgian mob at play, in Chapters 26 and 27, is an accurate and restrained - I stress, restrained - description of historic reality. Even if there had been a police force, the mob would have rolled over it, so vast and ferocious as it was. Then, as today, faced with civil disturbance on this scale, the only answer would be to call out the army. In 1780, it took a week to get the necessary numbers of troops together and order was only restored with volleys of musketry fired into the mob, leaving hundreds killed and many more wounded.
Neither did I exaggerate in describing the use of paper-wrapped excrement as a missile, beloved of the mob. The eighteenth century even had a name for this little beauty: a flying pasty.
THE MUDLARKS
As a further example of the lawlessness of eighteenth-century London, I point out that almost everything I wrote about these river pirates is historically accurate: their strange name, their ferocious violence, their bribing the law to keep its nose out of their affairs, and their audacious thieving of anchor cables while a ship's crew slept. They were diamond geezers of eighteenth- century crime. I did, however, make up the title of 'King of the River' and there was no King Jimmy, as far as I know.
