John Drake - Skull and Bones

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.

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 with 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.