Skull and Bones

Chapter 23

The applause hit Selena like the blast of a siege gun. It bellowed and echoed from the pit and the four tiers of galleries of the biggest theatre in London, which supposedly held an audience of six thousand, but on a night like this, when the bodies were crammed, jammed and rammed into the groaning boxes and on to the endless rows of benches, there were far more — dangerously more — bodies in the house.

They clapped and roared and cried encore, and the smiling company pushed Selena forward in her boots and spurs, and she strutted and slapped her thigh and stamped her feet, and the cheering rose to yet more deafening heights. Then she took up position, front and centre stage, and raised a hand for silence… which came… and she nodded to the orchestra and the conductor waved his baton… and the jolly, jaunty music started up again…

And so, for the fourth time, she sang "The Pollywhacket Song" the clever little ditty that Mr Abbey had composed for her, and which she'd taken from one end of England to the other, with its nonsensical chorus:

Pollywhacket! Pollywhacket!

Pollywhacket! Pollywhacket!

Pollywhacket diddle-diddle eye-dee-oh!

Which didn't sound half so nonsensical when thundered out by an enraptured audience of eight thousand, ranging from London's finest, in jewels and powder in their boxes, to London's lowest, in rags and lice, up near the ceiling, close to God.

Being tired, she sang just one verse and the chorus, and was grateful when the audience let her off with only two more encores. Then at last the curtain came down, and the company could sigh, and smile and hug one another at a wonderful house and a darling audience, and Mr Croxley himself — a vastly fat man whose belly protruded like the ram of an Athenian galley — came bustling forward with Mr Abbey, Katty Cooper and a tail of privileged favourites. Croxley clapped shoulders, pinched cheeks, and beamed in the sublime relief of an impresario who has backed the right horse and sees money coming in on the tide.

"Mrs Henderson!" cried Croxley, advancing through the press of gaudy, half-clad artistes, who bowed and made way and smiled, as he spread wide his arms and smiled in joy. "Mrs Henderson, my own darling girl! Come and give me a kiss!" and…

"Ahhhhhh!" they all cooed as she stepped forward, dainty and lovely, and kissed the fat cheek, and accepted the bear- hug, and the slopping return kiss, and was swept off her feet and swung around and around, and planted down again, and introduced to such a choice selection of the Town's finest gentlemen as transported Mr Croxley into further raptures at the joy of having them within his walls. Meanwhile a pair of maids pressed forward with Mrs Henderson's dressing gown, which they struggled to wrap round her, while the gentlemen bowed and ogled her luscious limbs and fine breasts, seen almost in a state of nature, and for the first time at close range.

Croxley boomed and laughed and chattered, left lesser beings in his wake, and led his little star to a private room, where a meal had been prepared for his special guests, and where later — after much drink and food had gone down, and Mr Croxley was leading the singing of the Pollywhacket song… one of the gentlemen — a lumbering, ugly fifty-year-old by the name of Blackstone — managed to take Selena aside.

He was excellently dressed. He was excellent company. He was excellently attentive, and he made no excuses for his plain, rough self. For he was Sir Matthew Blackstone the brewer: member of parliament, fellow of the Royal Society, and celebrated patron of the arts. He was highly amusing, with choice tales of the other gentlemen now sinking rum punch alongside Mr Croxley, and getting drunk.

He made Mrs Henderson laugh. He put her at ease. He was kind and patient, and only when Selena was entirely charmed did he make his gentle, civilised approach.

"I've got a stallion worth a fortune which I bought for his beauty," he said.

"Have you?" she said.

"And I've got a house in Berkshire, which is the most beautiful in the county." "Oh?"

"And paintings, and statues, and porcelain… all beautiful." "Oh?"

"All that… and an ugly wife."

Silence.

"She had land, you see. And family. And my pa insisted."

Silence.

"I love beauty, Mrs Henderson, and you are — without doubt — the most beautiful creature, the most perfect piece of loveliness, the most glorious work of God, that I have ever seen in all my life."

Warrington gasped and groaned. He'd run all the way from Drury Lane, which was a very long way indeed and he was near dead with exhaustion and sweating under his greatcoat even on this freezing night.

"Come on! Come on!" cried Sammy Hayden, well in the lead and yelling for Warrington to keep up. "Boat! Boat!" he cried, and waved a hand in the air, shoving his way down towards the river where boatmen waited for fares. But it was a busy night and plenty of others were after a ride.

"Ger-cher! You little bugger!" cried a dark figure as Sammy bumped him. "Who you bleedin' shoving?"

"Sorry-sir-indeed-I-beg-pardon!" gasped Warrington, coming along behind, biting his lip and taking care to be polite, for London was dangerous at night. A man could get knifed in a lamp-lit theatre queue, let alone in the shadowy stairs that led down to the Thames.

"Fuck off!" said the wounded party, and Warrington stepped back and was patient, and ground his teeth and Sammy Hayden danced on the spot, until at last they were clambering into the stern sheets of a boat.

"Where to, Cap'n?" said the boatman.

"There! The schooner Walrus!"

"Right y'are, Cap'n!" said the boatman and shoved off. "What name, sir?"

"Warrington, first mate."

"Aye-aye, sir!"

Five minutes later they were under Walrus's quarter, where a ladder was rigged and the boatman calling out

Warrington's name, and Warrington giving him a coin and going aboard.

"Where's the cap'n?" he said to Mr Joe, who was officer of the watch.

"Below. In his cabin… what is it?"

But Warrington and Sammy Hayden were tumbling and rumbling down companionways and dashing to the stern cabin and hammering on the door, and bursting in, and there was Silver's parrot squawking and cursing, and Long John getting up from the long padded bench under the stern lights that he used as a bed.

"Shiver me timbers!" said Silver. "What is it, you swabs, waking me up at…"

"Tell him! Tell him!" cried Warrington to Sammy.

"It's her, Cap'n! We found her! It's her!"

Silver gaped, Silver gasped, he launched himself one-legged and hopping, leaning on the cabin table, and leaping at Sammy Hayden, and hanging on to him, and looking down into the boy's delighted face.

"Where is she?" cried Silver. "How is she? Is she… is she… is she in one o' them… in a…" But words dried up in fear and shame.

"No, no, no!" said Warrington, seizing Long John's arms. "She's well, John! She's wonderful! She's on the bloody stage! She's Mrs Henderson, the famous Mrs Henderson that's appearing at Croxley's Odeon! I was there tonight. I took the lad. He wanted to see a theatre. And just as well, for I'd not have known who it was, never having set eyes on her. BUT HE DID!" He smiled joyfully. "It's her! It's her! She's not… she's not fallen, John… she's full, plump and happy. She must be making a bloody fortune!"

Long John blinked and felt dizzy. The relief rolled over him and his head swam and emotion soared, and the cabin swirled and whirled and turned.

Ten minutes later, he was laid out on the bench with Israel

Hands, Mr Joe, Black Dog and Warrington leaning over him.

"Take a pull, Cap'n," said Israel Hands, holding out a glass of rum. Silver struggled up, got his back against the cushions, his one leg on the floor and the parrot on his shoulder.

"Long John," she said, and stroked his cheek with her head.

He took the glass and gulped it down.

"All this time," he said, shaking his head, "looking in the wrong place."

Israel Hands grinned. "Never mind, Cap'n," he said, "at least she's safe!"

"Aye!" they all said.

He looked at their cheerful faces and sighed. And he had another drink for good fellowship, then sent them all away — all but Israel Hands, for he needed to think, and talk a bit in quiet.

"Why so glum, John?" said Hands.

Silver shook his head. There were things he couldn't say. Not even to Israel Hands. He closed his eyes, and there stood McLonarch, beside Ratty Richards, now and forever. It was bad enough doing a dreadful thing for a rightful reason… but what if there weren't no rightful reason? So Silver spoke of something else: something equally tormenting.

"All the tart shops we been in an' out of these past months!" he said, shaking his head. "We been wasting our time."

"And Mr Joe, wearing himself out!" said Israel Hands.

"And you too, Israel," said Silver, and he sighed. "The thing is, I'd always imagined seizing her away: at pistol point if need be! Coming to the rescue, like."

"Aye," said Hands.

"And herself grateful, and the two of us happy together."

"Aye."

"But now… if she's rich and famous, what'd she want with a cripple like me?"

"Cripple? Not you, John! You're Long John Silver, gentleman o' fortune!"

"Aye! That's the trouble, Mr Hands."

Israel Hands shook his head.

"She's your wife, John. She knows that."

"Does she? D'you think she even thinks about me?"

"'Course she does!"

But Silver simply groaned and looked away. Searching for something to cheer up his friend, Israel Hands grinned merrily:

"Well, at least we can look forward to seeing Flint do the hornpipe! He gets his dish of hearty-choke and caper sauce one week next Monday."

"Bah!" said Silver. "Where's the fun in that? If the bastard dies, then the greatest treasure in all the world is lost. For none can find it but him!"

Flint, Flash Jack and Billy Bones sat among the public in the viewing gallery that looked down upon one of the most famous sights of London: a fenced-off enclosure some fifteen feet by twenty, containing a table and a pair of benches, where a dozen wretches — in the extreme of religious devotion — wrung their hands, beat their brows, sang hymns mightily along with the congregation, and screwed up their eyes in passionate invocation. For these were the chosen ones… who would be hanged tomorrow. And in case they'd forgotten it, a nice big coffin was laid open on the table before them as a handy reminder.

And all around, the curious, the morbid and the seekers- after-sensation who'd paid to come in for the fun, goggled and gaped, laughed and chattered, and comprehensively ignored the sermon preached by the bewigged and white-robed

Ordinary — the prison chaplain — as he discharged his impossible task of redeeming the unredeemable, while comforting himself with the thought that he was well paid and a good Sunday dinner awaited him.

Flint leaned close to Flash Jack, and pointed out the celebrities among those lost in prayer.

"From the corner, clockwise, we have: Uriah Kemp, utterer of base coin; Mrs Tetty Hammond, the Dover Square abortionist; Mrs Alice Whitebread, poisoner of three husbands; Will Stuart, the butcher who divided his wife with a cleaver; Mrs Sal Porter, who drowned unwanted infants, farmed out by the Parish of Bednal Green…" he smiled "and sundry others who are merely common thieves."

Flash Jack blinked, awestruck by the close proximity of Flint, whose shoulder was actually rubbing against his own.

"You seem…" he searched for words "… comfortable, here, Joe."

"Oh yes," said Flint, "I have a pleasant room, good food, good clothes. And as you can see," he said, smiling at the worshippers below, "the company is splendid!" Then he shrugged and looked down. "Of course, there are these — " he clanked the manacles that joined his wrists and were fastened by chain to the irons about his feet "- and them," he said, casting a glance at the pair of gaolers waiting by the door: heavy men in black hats, with keys and cudgels hanging from their belts. He nodded at them, and they touched their hats respectfully.

"Cap'n!" said their lips.

"Money," said Flint, "buys everything here… almost."

"And you have money… from Sir Frederick?"

Flint nodded. "He advanced me five hundred against my reward money."

"Is the Lennox family still behind you?"

"Only Sir Frederick. The rest were thrashed in court and went away bleeding."

Flash Jack shuddered at the recollection of Flint's trial. It had been poor, nasty, brutish and short: deeply disappointing as a spectacle. The Hastings clan had easily found others beside Mr Povey who'd seen Flint's mutiny: common seamen of no consequence, but whose sincerity was obvious, and whose testimony — beside the stellar performance of the midshipman himself — had assured Flint's doom. The only point of interest was a legal squabble over rights and place of execution, what with Flint being — all in one man — a mutineer, a pirate and a felon, falling under three jurisdictions: the sea service, the Lord High Admiral, and the civil judiciary.

The result — in the opinion of Flash Jack — was a true British Compromise, whereby the civil authorities would hang him at Tyburn, but preceded by the Silver Oar of the Lord High Admiral, and with a bosun's mate actually putting the halter round Flint's neck and making all secure: in which matter the sea service's special proficiency with knots was acknowledged by all parties — except the public executioner, who thereby lost his fee. But this was immaterial since he had no great or powerful friends, and his misery was lost in the joyful expectation of a massive turnout for one of the most notable hangings of modern times.

"Joe," said Flash Jack, "what are we going to do?" He looked at the condemned down below. "Shall you be among them… next Sunday?"

Flint laughed in contempt, and Flash Jack was overwhelmed at his masculinity and his wonderful beauty. "Never!" cried Flint. "I'll face the devil alone when my time comes!" He saw how Flash Jack looked at him. "Listen," he said in a low voice, and Flash Jack tingled, "what about my ship"

Flash Jack dithered as the worship of money fought a mighty alliance of true love allied with lust.

"Perhaps…" he said.

"I haven't the sum you need," said Flint. "Not here in England."

"I know."

"What else will you take… instead of money?"

Flash Jack fluttered his long eyelashes, bit his lip, took a firm grip of his courage, and with madly beating heart, leaned close to Flint and whispered in his ear. Flint listened. He said nothing. Finally he nodded and squeezed Flash Jack's hand, who once again nearly died of pleasure, and trembled to the roots of his toenails. "But first I must remain un-hanged," said Flint.

"I can't get you out of here," said Flash Jack, falling from Heaven to Earth in one bump. "Money won't do that."

"I know," said Flint. "So this is what you must do." He pointed at Billy Bones, gawping miserably at the condemned. "You and him — if there's enough of him left for the task! Now listen closely: you must seek out John Silver, whom I believe you already know…"

"The first Whig was the Devil!" cried Johnson, massively filling a flamboyant chair by Foliot of Paris, which supported his weight only by the triumph of French genius over British beef, while the company applauded, being Tories through and through. "And it is Devil's work that has been performed upon Lieutenant Flint!" he added with a roar.

"Bravo!" they cried: the three dozen privileged favourites attending Lady Faith's salon this day, and Lady Faith and her sisters clapping white hands in a fury of agreement.

"I tell you all," said Johnson, "that this entire business is much rooted in the political hatred of the Whiggish House of Hastings for the Tory House of Lennox!" He smiled graciously at Lady Faith, who was a Lennox by marriage.

"Bravo!" they cried… except for the Brownlough brothers, Reginald and Horace, who leaned forward in their chairs, nodded grimly at one another, and waited for whatever Johnson should say next.

"But there is more!" said Johnson. "Those who know the Caribbean say that so great is the fear in which the Spanish and French hold Captain Flint that his mere presence at sea is enough to offset the rivalry to England's trade which otherwise they would inflict upon us!"

"But is he not a pirate?" protested a small voice at the back.

"Who said that?" cried Johnson, looking round.

"He did!" said the Brownlough brothers, pointing out the villain.

"Who are you, sir?" said Johnson, rising up from his chair like a python discovering a piglet. A mumble came in reply, as the speaker withered and wished himself safe at home in bed, and thought it wise to keep quiet about Flint's attacks on English shipping. "PAH.'" cried Johnson, sitting down. "And was not Drake a pirate? And Hawkins and Frobisher and Raleigh?"

"No!" they cried, and "Yes!" depending upon their perception of the subtleties of double negative.

"My point is this," said Johnson: "far away, across the Atlantic, lies a vast continent which I believe to be the future of all mankind! It holds fabulous wealth in its far horizons, its lofty mountains and its limitless resources of every kind: animal, vegetable and mineral!"

There was utter silence as all present contemplated the thirteen British colonies in America, which were so dreadfully threatened by the American colonies of France and Spain. Johnson nodded.

"As all the old world knows," he said, "this new world shall soon be the cause of a world-wide war, whereby the great powers will compete for control of America." He thumped his knee with a huge fist and stabbed a finger at the company. "And I tell you — I tell you all — that Flint and those like him are at worst merely premature, and at best exemplars of the manner in which a mighty empire shall be won for England! We should not be hanging the man. No! We should be sending him forth in command of a ship of war!"

The company cheered. Johnson nodded wisely, and sought another cup of tea, which Lady Faith poured, in happy satisfaction that all this would be reported in the press tomorrow — writers being present among the company for that very purpose — thereby exulting the prestige of her salon over those of her rivals.

Meanwhile the Brownlough brothers put their heads together and made plans: fierce plans, for they worshipped Johnson, they took his word as law, and they were bold, young, patriotic… and stupid.