Skull and Bones

The Beginning

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 covered 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."