by John Drake
So that night, with the pilot gone, and the ship moored in mid-river, Long John took Warrington aside to test his knowledge of London, especially its tart shops. They stood by the taffrail, aft, the ship and the river silent, the night dark and only an anchor watch on deck.
"Oh," said Warrington, when clumsily, awkwardly and with great reluctance, Silver explained the nature of his quest. Despite his own failings, Warrington had suffered a rush of blood to the brain on being allowed to pose as captain, and was about to be censorious in the matter of whoring, when - "Listen!" he said, seizing Silver's arm. There was a soft rumble from the bow, then the sound of a muffled blow, and a man falling. Standing where they were, in the dark, the mainmast and foremast hid Silver and Warrington from the bow… and it from them.
"Shh!" said Silver, moving quietly to the mainmast with Warrington in his wake. Peering round it, he could make out the anchor watch - two men, one of them Tom Allardyce, captain of the watch - lying unconscious on the deck, while six dark figures moved about running bars into the head of the capstan and muffling the pauls of its ratchet with rags. More men were appearing over the side from the fore chains, and - all in deathly silence - they began to lean on the bars and to bring the cable in.
"The sods!" said Silver. "What the buggery-an'-damnation are they doing?"
"They're mudlarks, Captain," said Warrington, softly.
"What the bastard Hell are they?"
"River pirates - and they're stealing your cable and anchor."
"What? With all hands aboard, in the bloody Thames, in bloody England?"
"Oh yes! They bribe the authorities and -"
"Shh!" said Silver. He beckoned Warrington and the pair slipped below to rouse all hands, silently and stealthily.
The men rolling out of their hammocks grinned and shook their heads at the thought of what was going on above.
"Cheeky bastards!" said Israel Hands.
"Aye!" said the rest, but in a whisper.
Above, on Walrus's quiet maindeck, an exceptionally skilful team of men continued about their work under a thin moon, a few stars, with masts and furled sails above, and the deck gently rolling beneath their feet. Walrus was moored to two anchors by two cables, one of which had been slipped that the other might be hauled in and brought aboard… except that it wasn't coming aboard, but being passed over the side from the capstan and into a big boat made fast alongside the ship.
All was well. All was peaceful. All was the contentment of a good job being well done… when:
"AAAAAARGH!" roared the men who poured out through the aft hatchways.
"AAAAAARGH!" roared the men who poured out forrard.
And there followed five or six lively minutes of another good job being well done, as half Walrus's crew leapt on the busy gang at the capstan, and the other half leapt into the boat receiving the cable, and both lots set about delivering the most comprehensive battering the mudlarks would ever receive.
By Silver's command, it was all done with pistol-butts. But it was thoroughly done and lovingly done by men enjoying the finest sport they'd had since leaving the Caribbean.
Afterwards, those of the intruders who could stand were lined up in the waist, with Walrus's men grinning and laughing all around them, for it was indeed comical. There were ten of them, well caught and well battered.
"Who are you then, you swabs?" said Silver, stamping up and down the line.
The mudlarks stayed silent: snivelling, spitting teeth and dripping blood.
"Right!" said Silver, and grabbed one by the collar and dragged him to the side, yelling to his crew over one shoulder, "Fetch me a rope, and a dozen of roundshot in a sack!"
"Wassat for?" cried the mudlark.
"For you, my cocker. You're going for a swim!"
"You can't do that. We're King Jimmy's men! He'll have you, you -"
Smack! Silver let fly with a heavy fist.
"Ow!"
"Shut up! And who's King Jimmy?"
"King o' the fuckin' river, that's who, and he'll be asking after us, you wait!"
"A-hem, Captain…?" Warrington stepped forward.
"What?"
"These people have a certain influence…"
"See?" said the mudlark.
"Shut up!" Silver cuffed him backhanded and looked at Warrington. "Well?"
'"King of the river' is a sort of honorific for the biggest rogue among these people." He gestured at the men huddled on the shadowy maindeck.
"Is it now?" said Silver.
"They make so much money as to be able to bribe any officers of police as are sent after them, thus the forces of law pay no heed to their depredations in the night. Not even to the clash of arms! Not even to gunfire!"
"See? 'S'what I told yer!" said the mudlark.
"Aye!" said his mates.
"So you bleedin' let us go or it'll be the worse for you!"
"Aye!" said his mates, and Silver shook his head in amazement. Far from acting guilty or ashamed - or even fearful - the mudlarks were angry and resentful, as if some foul trick had been played upon them, and rules broken that decent men respected. Now they growled and muttered and glared at their captors.
"Shiver my timbers!" said Silver. "Well, I never did have hopes of putting the law on you, but here's two of my men beat unconscious, and you swabs trying to steal our cable. So I'll have a word with these good brothers, here -" he pointed to his crew "- to decide what's to be done with you."
After a swift debate, a motion proposed by Brother Pew was adopted, and soon after the mudlarks were sitting miserably in their boat: stark naked, shaven bald, with ship's tar coating their marriage tackle, while all aboard Walrus who could muster the necessary stood on the bulwarks pissing on their shiny white heads, and laughing fit to bust. All being finished, and shaken free of last drops, the mudlarks were allowed to cast off and pull away into the night.
It was a huge joke, enjoyed by all hands. But a few hours later, it didn't seem so funny.
* * *
Chapter 17
Early afternoon, 11th June 1753
Jackson's Coffee House
Off the Covent Garden Piazza
London
Mr Peter Jackson dazzled the eye and assaulted the senses. He was not merely dressed in the height of fashion: he defined it - or so he thought. His long, collarless coat was gold-laced blue silk, pierced with three dozen buttonholes; the yellow waistcoat beneath came down to the knees and was unbuttoned at the top to reveal the exquisite lace of his shirt-front, below the white stock around his neck.
An exotic waft of perfume complemented the ensemble, together with a white-powdered wig worked into elaborate side-curls and caught in a blue silk bow at the back. Combined with an elegance of speech and manners, the result was something so close to a gentleman that many onlookers couldn't tell the difference.
But it was there, if a man looked hard enough. It was written on Mr Jackson's face - fair and pleasing though it was, with long-lashed eyes, smooth chin, and easy smile - because any real man had only to look into Mr Jackson's eyes to see him for the sly, cunning, treacherous viper that he really was. It was for this reason he had become known far and wide as Flash Jack the Fly Cove: Flash Jack for short, or simply Jack to his friends, of whom there seemed to be a great number, given that he was proprietor of the renowned Jackson's Coffee House - renowned less for its coffee than the various other goods and services on offer. So when Flash Jack walked down the aisle between the tables at Jackson's, smiling to all sides, he could expect to be cheerfully acknowledged.
Jackson's occupied the finest site in London: hemmed in by the main theatres and the bustling Covent Garden Piazza, it catered to a clientele of actors, musicians, artists, writers, publishers, and all those gentlemen who wished to be thought civilised. It opened early, closed late and was always busy.
Being on a corner, Jackson's had the advantage of two rows of windows, and the big main room was immaculately clean, its two long lines of tables equipped w
ith high-backed benches that formed dozens of private booths for convivial talk, while still affording a good view of the life and fashion of the house and the city outside. Like most coffee houses, it was as much a club as anything else, and the wrong sort of persons were told - to their faces, by the waiters - that there was "No room! No room!" when plainly there was. And while ladies were charmingly received into a side room, the girls of Covent Garden were absolutely prohibited: even those who charged a guinea.
Today, Flash Jack was in excellent spirits. There were no less than four noblemen in the house, and the sun was shining brightly through his sparkling clean windows. All the world looked good; the table talk was of sport and racing, and not sombre fears of the great war that all the newspapers said was imminent. But as he was chatting deferentially to a clod- faced baronet and his party - fresh up from Devon with dung on their boots - lightning struck.
"Jack!" cried a voice. Flash Jack bowed to the baronet, making careful note of the dullard's name so that he should be greeted by it ever after, and looked down the aisle towards the door. He looked… and he looked… and his jaw went towards his boots.
Sir Frederick Lennox was advancing with a friend at his side. Sir Frederick was familiar, having a house not five minutes away. But his friend was something marvellously, wonderfully new. With the sun shining into the dark interior, the new gentleman was bathed in golden light; indeed, he appeared golden in every way. He was the most beautiful creature that Flash Jack had ever seen. A perfect Mediterranean man, such as the sculptors of the Greeks had recorded in marble: handsome, athletic, graceful… and dangerous.
Flash Jack shuddered in delight, for his taste was very, very much for dangerous young men, and he carried the scars beneath his clothes to prove it. But now he saw that all previous incarnations had been mere bruisers. The man walking towards him was seriously, deadly dangerous. Flash Jack blinked, and gulped and gasped.
"Jack!" said Sir Frederick, coming alongside. "I should like you to meet Lieutenant Flint."
"Flint?" said Flash Jack, who kept abreast of all the news. "Flint the mutineer?"
The choice of word was unfortunate. Flint turned his gaze upon Flash Jack, and poor Jacky nearly died with pleasure at the cobra's stare that pierced normal men with fright.
"Mutineer be damned!" Sir Frederick frowned. "All that is lies put out by the Hastings clique."
"Indeed, sir," said Flint, taking Flash Jack's hand, "there has been a foul conspiracy."
Flash Jack never entirely remembered the next few minutes, except in a rapture of wonder, but eventually his sharply focused mind took hold of itself and he came to seated at one of his tables together with Lieutenant Flint, who sat opposite, talking to him, with Sir Frederick got rid of, seated at a table with other friends at the far end of the room.
"… or so I am told," said Flint with a smile.
"Beg pardon, my dear sir?" said Flash Jack.
"I am told that you can supply anything. Absolutely anything."
"Ah!" Jack smiled, for he was on sure ground. "That would depend upon price."
Flint paused. A distant expression came into his eyes and Flash Jack could see that he was thinking furiously. Then Flint fixed him with his hypnotic gaze.
"How much money can you imagine? How much can you desire?"
"What do you mean?" Flash Jack frowned slightly. He was no fool.
"Have you heard of Captain Lightning, the highwayman?"
"Who hasn't?"
"I killed him last night. Him and his crew."
"Killed him?" Flash Jack shuddered in ecstasy.
"Yes. And I'm due five hundred as reward."
"Five hundred?"
"And that's only the beginning."
There was a pause like that of swordsmen who have clashed blades, exchanged strokes, and leapt back to recover.
"So what is it you want?" said Flash Jack.
"I want a ship, with a crew and provisions for the West Indies."
"Then go down to the Pool of London and hire one."
"Ahhhh… there are circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
"I am freed by the navy under restrictions. I may not leave England."
"No?"
"Nor would it be advisable for me to seek a ship."
"Yet you come to me?"
Flint smiled and leaned close, and every hair on Flash Jack's body tingled in delight.
"I do so because I trust you," said Flint.
"Flint! Flint!" cried Sir Frederick, stumping up the aisle waving a booklet.
"Later," said Flint to Flash Jack.
"Look -" said Sir Frederick "- I've got a copy of this rogue's book!"
Lennox leered at Flash Jack, and Flint tapped his foot under the table.
"What book?" he said.
"The one I told you about: Jackson's List. His guide to the whores of London!"
"Oh," said Flint, who was tired of Sir Frederick constantly turning every conversation to the subject of whores. Flint was a singular man in this regard. It wasn't that he was incapable with women: those shameful days were gone. But he could play the man's role only in highly restrictive circumstances, and it galled him that a creature like Sir Frederick could so easily manage what he could scarce achieve.
"Look!" said Sir Frederick, laughing, and he squeezed himself in beside Flint and opened the book he'd just bought. He pointed a pudgy finger at Flash Jack: "He writes this, you know. Jackson's his real name!" Flash Jack smiled modestly. "It's the most capital book: a guide to all the tarts of the town - their looks, prices, services offered. And damned funny, too, because he knows who's poking whom, and he puts it all in - in code - and you have to work it out! Fellows go through it pissing themselves laughing when a new edition comes out at Christmas, which it does every year. Now let me see…" He looked down and flicked through the book, searching for something.
"Ah! Here it is! Here you are, Flint," said Sir Frederick merrily, nudging Flint. "I saw your face last night when
I mentioned black girls. Here's just the little beauty for you…"
Early afternoon, 11th June 1753
Covent Garden Piazza
London
Billy Bones stood and looked at London's great arena of pleasures, amazed that so vast an open space could exist within the dense mass of churches, domes and chimneys that was the capital.
He'd been sent away on his own by Flint, who was off to a coffee house with Sir Frederick for a private talk. Billy Bones didn't mind that, because if he'd had to spend a moment longer in Sir Frederick's company it would have ended in trouble. The pompous ass had made a big show, in front of everyone, giving Billy a handful of coins to spend, as if he was rewarding some bloody servant! He'd been all set to teach the bugger a lesson when a glance from Flint warned him off, so instead he mumbled, "Aye-aye, Sir Frederick!" and pocketed the money with a touch of his hat in salute.
He'd left the house fuming about it, but the moment he entered Covent Garden Piazza all thoughts of Sir Frederick vanished as he stood and marvelled at the great canyons of brick. He was surrounded on all sides by rows of buildings running to four and five stories high, with windows ranked like guardsmen on parade, and some with stone colonnades and shops within, and some with carriages pulling up outside, and the grey mass of St Paul's church to one side, with its four columns and its pediment above, and the golden-capped Sundial Column rearing up over all, and what seemed like thousands upon thousands of people, rich and poor, young and old, tradesmen and beggars, soldiers and cripples milling about the place.
He started by walking along the line of fruit and vegetable stalls running the length of one side of the square, and he treated himself to some splendid oranges - for Billy Bones loved oranges - and one by one he peeled them with his clasp knife and ate them, then sat down on the steps of St Paul's to lick the juice from his fingers. Afterwards he wandered into the square, past the heavy white-timbered fence that marked out the inner heart of the Piazza. There was such n
oise and bustle as could hardly be believed, with street musicians, tumblers, hawkers, jugglers, fire-breathers and men on stilts. Billy Bones looked on, amazed, and some of the misery of his recent life lifted off his shoulders.
More than that, there were tides flowing within Billy Bones's mind. He knew he'd done bad things. He'd done very bad things… atrocious things. And he knew who'd led him to it! He sighed. He groaned. And yet, aboard Bounder - for a precious while - he'd been a king's officer again. He'd worn uniform. He'd wallowed gloriously in all the practices and traditions of the sea service: the service that he'd joined as a lad and grown to love. He looked around the seething, heaving Piazza and again felt the urge that, in this different place, he could be a different man, and a better one. But first he had to find…
"'Ere!" said a lively girl in a bright-coloured costume: all lozenges and stars and a big red hat. She nudged Billy Bones with an elbow, breaking his thoughts. "Yore a likely wunan- mall, aintchernow?" She poked him in the ribs, and laughed, causing her tits to wobble in her low-cut dress. Billy Bones grinned. He could hardly understand these Londoners with their nasal, ugly speech, but he liked the look of the girl. He was just wondering what she was at when a drum rolled and a trumpet blew… and two more girls appeared, dressed identically: one a drummer, one a trumpeter. When he turned back to the first girl, she was gone - off to find more men, from the look of it.
Then a large, fat man in good clothes mounted wooden steps to a platform that raised him up above the mob.