John Drake - Skull and Bones

"WHAT?" roared Johnson.

Flint, adopting an air of utmost innocence, spread his hands in explanation: "My own father, sir," he said, "was a being of such exquisite sensibilities that disdaining all vulgarity in himself, he employed others to break wind on his behalf: a common fellow on weekdays and a superior person – a gentleman – to fart for him in church on Sundays."

"Ohhhhhhh!" groaned the company. But Flint sat so solemn, and stared at Johnson with such an air of seeking to be of assistance… that Johnson perceived… and snorted… and broke into booming, convulsive laughter. He laughed over and over, for the best part of five minutes, till the tears flowed, his body shook, the rafters trembled, and the room was merriment from end to end as the courtiers followed the king's example. Folk even looked up in the street to see what the laughter was all about.

"You rogue, sir!" cried Johnson, when he regained control. "You jolly dog! You saucy fellow!" And he beamed at Flint. "Who are you, sir? What are you?"

Flint told his story with customary skill, so nearly telling the truth that it was wonderful how innocent of all blame he turned out to be. Thus Johnson and the company nodded wisely and smiled.

"A sailor and an adventurer!" said Johnson, as if lost in admiration. "Every man thinks the less of himself for not having been a soldier, and not having gone to sea," he said. "And I see, Mr Flint, that you are, in both senses, a paragon!"

"Ah!" said the company.

"You are a Ulysses, sir," said Johnson. "Such a man as makes England triumphant at sea, and the terror and despair of her enemies!"

All present cooed their agreement, especially the Brownlough brothers, two large and lumpish sons of a London banker, who sat together in a corner. Had Flint been able to read the future, he would have fallen at their knees. But he couldn't and he didn't. Nevertheless he returned to Sir Frederick's house in the highest of good humour.

Sir Frederick having business in his study, Flint adjourned to the library, generously allowed to himself and Billy Bones as a day room. He entered just as Billy Bones was going out. Flint was full of himself, laughing and chuckling, casually flinging hat, coat and wig aside for the servant to deal with, before he threw himself into an armchair.

"Billy-my-chicken!" he cried.

"What?"

"What, sir. Will you never learn?"

Billy Bones scowled.

"Them ways is shipboard ways," he said.

"Indeed?" said Flint. "Are they indeed?" And he laughed. He was too merry to take offence. "In that case, Mr Bones, would you do me the honour to bring me a bottle and a glass from the sideboard?"

"Huh!" said Billy Bones, and did as he was bid.

"So where are you going, Mr Bones? I see you have your hat and coat on, and your walking stick at your side. Are you off on another voyage of exploration?"

Billy Bones blushed. He actually blushed, unwilling to reveal the nature of his mission.

Oh? thought Flint, instantly spotting Mr Bones's mood. What's this?

So Billy Bones was put to the question: which, with Flint probing, soon drew out the truth. It came out like a nail prised up by a crow-bar: squealing and protesting, but drawn inexorably by the leverage of Flint's intellect.

"It's a woman, Cap'n. That's to say, she is."

"Is she indeed?"

"Aye. One as I knew long ago… and which was… special to me."

"God save our precious souls! Mr Bones, are you saying you have a wife?"

"No, Cap'n. None such as that."

"A-hah! A mistress, then? A sweetheart?"

Billy Bones blushed scarlet, and blushed deeper still when – stumbling and halting – the tale of Olivia Rose was dragged out into the open for Flint to mock and taunt.

"So," said Flint, when the game was done, "you don't know where she lives, you don't know if she's dead or alive, and you don't even know if her father stayed in London! Is that the course you're steering?"

"Aye, Cap'n. For I went to sea again soon after, and never came home for years."

"And now you would tramp the streets of London, hoping to meet her by chance?"

"Aye, Cap'n. That's about the length of it."

"Billy, my Billy!" Flint shook his head. "Has it not occurred to you that her father is in trade, and that the name Burstein is uncommon, and that there are directories published in this city listing alphabetically, by name, all the tradesmen of the town and the addresses of their premises? You have only to go to the nearest bookshop – and there is one on the corner of the Piazza over there -" he pointed through the window "- where you may purchase such a directory. With God's grace and a fair wind, you will have the father's address within ten minutes, and the father will likely lead you to the daughter."

Flint laughed, for an eloquence of amazement was displayed in the dumbstruck face of Billy Bones.

"Bugger me!" he said, "Fuck, pluck and draw me!" And he was off through the door and thundering down the stairs with mighty boots, and Flint's laughter behind him.

The directory cost half-a-crown, a sum that made the eyes water, but Billy Bones had most of his fisticuffs money left, and he paid up and elbowed his way through the wigs, brocades and feathered hats and out into the noisy street with its grinding, iron-tyred traffic and clumping hooves and bellowing hawkers. He opened the book, thumbed through the pages… missed his way a few times… and then… heart thumping, fingers shaking, legs trembling… THERE IT WAS! Under Mathematical Instrument Makers… Burstein, Josiah: 14 Cripple Lane, St Paul's Churchyard.

Billy Bones stood gaping and gasping. Not only had he found the address but he'd be guided to it by the biggest landmark in the entire city! He set off at once, and as with the book, he got lost a few times, but asked the way and was soon gazing up at the soot-blacked pillars, the mighty dome, the arches, pediments and cornices of Christopher Wren's masterwork. Finding Cripple Lane was easy after that… but then… he who'd never flinched in all his life… he who'd stood shot and shell and plunged into the fight slashing left and right… he – Billy Bones, the terror of the lower deck – stood backing and filling, unable to go ahead nor astern, nor larboard nor starboard, nor yet to drop anchor and do nothing.

Over twenty years had passed since he'd seen her, and then she'd been a child. So what would he do if he did find her? What would he say? What could he offer?

And while he stood dithering, alone in a crowd of busy Londoners, Mr Josiah Burstein himself walked past and into Cripple Lane, and entered a large, double-fronted shop with huge glass windows and a glazed door.

Billy drew closer. The window display featured a gleaming range of instruments for sale: brass and glass, steel and boxwood, ivory and ebony. There were quadrants, octants, dividers and compasses, and mysterious others that Billy Bones had neither seen nor heard of.

But that was nothing compared with proof that this was indeed Josiah Burstein – Olivia Rose's father! His hair was grey, his face was lined and he walked with a limp from a damaged knee… but he was beyond a doubt the man Billy remembered from the Isabelle Bligh. Clearly he had grown tremendously prosperous during the intervening years: he was excellently dressed, and he went about with his nose in the air, for all that he dragged one foot.

And thus doubt struck again. Billy Bones didn't dare enter the shop. He hadn't the courage. He didn't know what they'd do or what they'd say. So finally he went away. He went back to Sir Frederick's house. He bowed his head and bore the mockery and cynicism of Flint… And returned next day to Cripple Lane, and paced up and down around St Paul's, orbiting the cathedral and returning to Cripple Lane every few minutes.