John Drake - Skull and Bones

There was silence. Silver looked at Israel Hands.

"All show for Brother Silver!" cried Israel Hands, and he, Mr Joe, Black Dog, Dr Cowdray, Blind Pew and others instantly voted for Silver. Then, slowly… first one hand went up… then another… and another… until a good majority showed.

"All against?" said Israel Hands.

No hand was raised.

And that was it. The ship returned to normal and arms were put away. Silver wiped the sweat from his brow, Israel Hands and Mr Joe clapped him on the back and smiled, and Cap'n Flint the parrot rubbed her head lovingly against his cheek. She was a great comfort at such times.

"You're the boy, John!" said Israel Hands admiringly. "Ain't none like you!"

"Aye!" said all who heard.

But later, Silver spoke privately both with Norton, whom he liked, and the McLonarch, whom he detested. He told each that he would take his part when they reached England. For Silver was desperate to save his lady and didn't know who he might need on his side, so he played both ends against the middle. And that wasn't the old John Silver. That wasn't him any more. That was something new.

In his cabin, alone with a bottle of rum and Cap'n Flint, he sighed and tickled the parrot's beautiful green plumes.

"We're bound for England, my girl," he said. "And God knows what we'll find there!"

Dusk, 10th June 1753 Shooter's Hill In the ancient borough of Greenwich Southeast London

The Berlin was a magnificent example of the coach builder's art. It was light and strong, with big dished wheels, and the body hung on leather braces. It thundered onward at cracking speed, sending dust and clods flying in all directions, driven from the box by a liveried, plume-hatted coachman who thrashed mightily on the backs of the four horses, them being mere post-cattle, put on at the last change five miles back, and himself resolved to go up this famous hill in style and not like a fat-arsed yokel on a farm wagon.

"Go on! Go on!" he yelled.

Crack! Crack! Crack! went the whip and the wretched beasts leapt onward.

Under its layer of road dust, the coach body gleamed splendidly: the result of many dozen coats of olive green paint, and the arms of the Second Earl of Maidstone applied to its doors. But it swayed and rocked, since, for all its sophistication of design, it was rumbling over the rutted, potholed, cart-track that these modern times called "a highroad" and which a Roman engineer would have laughed at.

In the velvet comfort of the coach, with its luminous glass windows and rich upholstery, two gentlemen sat side by side, hanging on to hand-straps against the motion. They were Lieutenant Flint and Lieutenant Lennox, now dressed in fashionable civilian attire, complete with wigs. Flint beamed for the hundredth time upon young Lennox, who'd turned out to be most wonderfully well connected: his uncle being Admiral Sir Toby Lennox, in command of the Channel Fleet at Portsmouth, and his father Lord Anthony Lennox, Second Earl of Maidstone from whose great house the Berlin had started on its journey to London that morning.

Flint chuckled.

"What is it, Joseph?" said Lennox, smiling, for he idol- worshipped Flint and was delighted to see his hero happy.

"Nothing, dear fellow," said Flint and smiled back. He was reflecting on the happy accident that the house of Hastings which stood for Mr Midshipman Povey and against Joe Flint – was Whig, while the house of Lennox… was Tory. Thus they'd gobbled up every word of young Lennox's outburst of admiration for Flint on arrival aboard his uncle's flagship at Spithead: telling how Flint had fought the pestilence, put hope into the crew, excelled in leadership, shone in seamanship, overcome perils at sea, etc, etc, etc… and brought all hands safe home!

Likewise they'd swallowed Lennox's vehement protestation modestly supported by Flint – that Flint was not only innocent of all charges against him, but was a hero, a true-born Briton, and undoubtedly the victim of some foul and deep- laid plot!

Meanwhile, the representatives of Clan Hastings had carried away poor Mr Povey, still swimming deep between life and death, and unable to bring his vital evidence to bear on the case… which was not surprising, considering the amount of laudanum that had been poured down him over the preceding weeks. Indeed, it was his exasperating refusal to die under the treatment which had caused amazement in some quarters.

Since Clan Lennox's power was rooted in the navy, and it was the navy that had hold of Flint, great levers were pulled in the Admiralty such that Flint emerged a free man… pending Mr Povey's recovery, and a search for any others whose evidence Clan Lennox considered relevant. Meanwhile Flint was taken to Maidstone House in Kent to meet Lord Maidstone, and was entertained, and shown off to rural society, until – desperate in every way to escape – he suggested a journey to the culture and sophistication of London, which he claimed never to have seen.

Such was the Berlin's capacity for speed, and so frequent the changes of horses, a mere five hours on the road had brought them some fifty miles to Shooter's Hill, where Lennox insisted that Flint must not miss the inspirational first sight of London from this famous vantage point, and neither should the faithful Mr Billy Bones, for whom there was not room in the two-seater coach body, leaving him perched in the servants' seat behind, which at least had its own little hood in case the weather turned nasty.

"Whooooooa!" cried the coachman as they reached the top of the hill. He hauled on his reins, stopped the coach, set the brake, then clambered down, rigged the passengers' step, and threw open the door, doffing his hat and bowing low, with his whip held respectfully across his chest.

"Shooter's Hill, Mr Lennox!" he said, and backed away, still bowing, as the gentlemen got out, stretching their cramped limbs, and Mr Bones's heavy body swayed down from the rear seat, making the carriage rock and tremble and causing the horses to whinny.

"Thank God!" said Lennox, and grinned. "I have to… er…" And he darted off to some trees that stood dark and shadowy in the gloom.

Billy Bones took station beside Flint and they gazed at the view, which was indeed spectacular. They were on open ground, with a copse of thick woodland behind them, the new building of the Bull Inn to the west, near the summit of the hill, and a vast expanse of England stretched out on the plain before them, with the road winding ahead and down.

Northward, the flat, shining curves of the River Thames could be seen, from Woolwich in the east to the pool of London in the west and beyond, where lay the vast and glooming mass of the world's biggest city, with its twinkling lights, its forest of spires, its pealing bells and the smoke of hearth fires so numerous as to be beyond counting. It was a noble and splendid sight.

It was a sight that profoundly impressed Billy Bones, for London was so vast, so complex, and so different to anything in his life thus far, that it stirred tremendous emotions within him. He thought of Livvy Rose, for this was where he'd left her, and where she might still be living. Thus aroused, all the old passions burned as if new. And being full of love for Livvy Rose, there was – for the moment – no room in his heart for any other love. So Billy Bones glanced at Flint, then glanced again at London… and his mind trembled, and shivered, and grasped at the possibility of a life without Flint…

But then Billy Bones sniffed the air.

"Hoss-shite and chimbley-smoke!" he said.

"Your sense of smell is exquisite," said Flint. "Likewise, your gift for poetry."

They gazed a while at the view, each in his own thoughts.

"Cap'n," said Billy Bones, "what we doin' here? In London?"