John Drake - Skull and Bones

"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.

Dawn, Monday, 26th November 1753 The Press Yard Newgate Gaol London

The winter sun rose in splendour over the elegant squares, coppered domes, soaring spires, two great bridges, and the filthy, stinking tenements of London. The day was crisp, and all was merry brightness, showing that the Almighty smiled upon the vast crowd – the greatest in living memory – that was assembling for the hanging of Joseph Flint.

So thought Flint as he stepped out into the Press Yard surrounded by lesser beings, for Flint shimmered in the gold- laced, black velvet suit of clothes which had been purchased at vast expense for the occasion. Likewise the shining, soft- leathered boots, the black-feathered hat, and the diamond- hilted sword that hung from a golden baldric across his shoulder. They'd snapped off the sword blade, of course, but the weapon looked just as good in its scabbard and perfectly suited the dignity of the principal performer in the tremendous act of theatre that would soon take place.

Flint looked around and smiled. His had never been a normal mind, and to him it was hilarious that the Press Yard was so called because it was here that felons who refused to plead guilty or not guilty – thereby saving their loot for their families – were spread-eagled upon the ground to be pressed under weights until either they entered a plea or died. Flint laughed, for the same law that called him a villain, permitted this cruel torture.

Clang! Clang! Clang! The prison blacksmith struck off Flint's irons upon his anvil, and there was a brief, unseemly scuffle as the prison's yeoman of the halter attempted to tie Flint's hands in front of him and drape him with a noose, for this was his prerogative. But a sea-service bosun, immaculate in shore-going dress, elbowed him aside.

"Urrumph!" said the sheriff.

"A-hum!" said the prison chaplain.

"Huh!" said a sea-service captain.

And the yeoman blinked, and stood back, remembering what had been agreed for this special occasion.

"Oh," he said, "beg pardon, I'm sure."

"Cap'n!" said the bosun to Flint, producing a cord and halter of his own, all neatly worked in Turk's heads and seizings.

"Ah!" said Flint. "I can see that you have served before the mast!"

"Aye-aye, sir!" said the bosun, and sought to tie Flint's wrists.

"A moment!" said Flint, raising a hand in admonition.

"Cap'n?"

"I have a duty to perform," said Flint, and snapped his fingers towards the fellow who'd been his servant these past weeks – one Edwards, a failed writer who'd battered a publisher in despair at rejection. This sorry creature crept forward with a tray bearing a number of doe-skin purses.

"Ahhh!" said all present.

"Gentlemen," said Flint, and presented a purse to each of the big gaolers who'd followed his every step.

"Gor bless you, Cap'n!" they said, and sniffed and snivelled.

"Weren't no wish of our'n, Cap'n!" said one.

"No finer gennelman ever lived!" said the other.

"Reverend, sir," said Flint, turning to the chaplain, "for those in want…"

"Oh, sir!" said the chaplain, deeply affected, taking the purse.

"Mr Bosun!" said Flint, handing out the last purse.

"Aye-aye, sir!" said the bosun, and saluted as if to an admiral.

"Proceed, Mr Bosun!" said Flint, and he offered his hands.

So Flint was tied and the noose draped round his neck and the slack bound round his body, and he was led through doors, gates and passages, and outside the prison… where an enormous cry went up from the mob already assembled. Even so early as this, they were ready and waiting: tinkers, tailors, chair-men, lumpers, washerwomen, gentlewomen, gentlemen, and dogs, hogs, chickens and beggars. Them and all the cocky young apprentices of the town, who – by kindly tradition – had been given the day off for the hanging.

Seeing this, Flint doffed his hat, and bowed left and right, to cheers and applause, and climbed up into the big, black- bodied mourning coach – hired by himself at still further expense – with a coachman on the box, and footmen on their steps at the rear, all liveried in sombre black, and stood to utmost attention, and four splendid horses in harness, with black plumes nodding from their heads.

Even more splendid were the uniformed, mounted javelin- men, two troops of them, formed up to front and rear of the coach. They were there to keep back the mob and guard the prisoner, but with their big, ceremonial lances, tasselled below the steel points, they resembled a royal escort.

"Ahhhhhh!" gasped the crowd, pressing forward as Flint caused the folding roof to be lowered such that he could see – and be seen – all the better.

The only thing that let down the magnificent display was the clumsy, two-wheeled farm wagon rumbling along behind the rearmost javelin-men, drawn by two plodding nags. This was the vehicle upon which the common condemned rode to the gallows, sitting on the coffin in which they would later ride away from it. Today there were no common condemned for it to carry, but no amount of money could dispense with the coffin.

"Three cheers for the cap'n!" cried a voice, and the mob huzzahed to shake the windows and rattle the tiles, as the sheriff, the chaplain, and the sea-service captain crammed in beside Flint and the astonished bosun, who'd never been so close to so much rank in all his life.

"Forward!" cried the sheriff, and the procession moved off to the mournful beat of four drummers, dressed in black, who marched behind the Lord High Admiral's Silver Oar bearer, and were yet another expense down to Joe Flint. But what did that matter? He wasn't going to spend his reward money on anything else: not now.