Skull and Bones

Chapter 24

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 gentlemen, 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

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.