John Drake - Skull and Bones

And so, the long, slow two miles to Tyburn, which a galloping horse would cover in minutes, but which took over three hours when the Town was turned out, lining the streets in swaying, heaving, grinning multitudes that came armed with the traditional missiles: rotten fruit, turds in paper, and the ever-popular dead cats – some not entirely dead – which, when swung by the tail and thrown, were the supreme expression of the mob's displeasure.

But none of these were thrown at Joe Flint: not him! For he stood gallantly in the carriage, and blew kisses to the ladies, saluted the gentlemen, and struck the boldest figure that London had ever seen… and so he was received with roaring acclamation… the same acclamation as proceeded from the sheriff, the chaplain, the sea-service captain and – most especially – the bosun, who grinned in red-faced merriment, for Flint had provisioned the carriage with spirits, and the bottles were soon uncorked and going down.

Custom prescribed two stops along the way, at favoured public houses, which paid vast bribes for the privilege of being chosen, since this meant being drunk dry of drink, and eaten bare of food, by the colossal and merry increase in business on a hanging day.

Thus, first to the Stump and Magpie, St Giles's, where roaring trade was capped by Joe Flint's singing of a song – new to London – which became the choice of the mob, long after.

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest…

He sang beautifully, stood up on a table with the rope round his neck and his bound hands, and soon the cram- packed sweating company learned to roar out the response, and all those in the streets outside bellowed along with them.

Yo, ho, ho – and a bottle of rum!

"Listen," said Billy Bones, "that's his song!"

"Aye, Mr Mate," said Black Dog.

Billy Bones scowled.

"Lieutenant!" he said.

"If you says so… Lieutenant," said Black Dog, grinning.

"What song?" said Mr Joe.

"Before your time, my son," said Black Dog.

"Ah!" said Billy Bones, listening to the song and cheering up for the first time in months. "That's my Cap'n!" he said, swelling with pride. "That's my boy! Hark to the manner of him. And him on his way to be hanged!"

"Aye!" they all said, all of them: twenty of Long John's men, and another twenty of King Jimmy's who were following the coach on foot, glad of the long coats they wore for the cold, and which hid what they'd got underneath.

It was the same at the Green Man in Oxford Street, except that knowledge of the song had swept ahead of the lumbering coach, and when the big vehicle pulled to a stop and the javelin-men used the butt ends of their spears to force a way into the inn yard, the mob surged in behind, roaring the song out to Heaven, even as Flint, the sheriff, the chaplain, and the bosun were stood in line, relieving themselves in the privy. But not the sea-service captain. He was snoring peacefully in the coach.

However, all good things come to an end and eventually, seated in his splendid carriage beside his foolishly grinning companions and surrounded with a Roman Triumph of screeching faces, Flint caught his first sight of the Tyburn tree where it reared up, right in the middle of a great crossroads to the west of London, in open ground where Oxford Street became Tyburn Road, before branching into the Uxbridge Road and the ancient Roman Watling Street.

It stood like a squat timber cathedral, high over all else. Its three massive legs supported a great triangle from which as many as twenty-four sufferers could be turned off at one time with the utmost convenience. But now it was occupied only by a hangman's mate, who lazed on its topmost height with the smoke of his pipe drifting up into the cold air.

Even Joe Flint gulped at that, and even he staggered under the enormous noise of the crowd assembled at this most favourite spot, for London's most favourite day out: an entertainment offering not only tremendous spectacle, but moral instruction besides, and therefore suitable for the entire family, from doting grandmas to precious children. Flint shook his head. He thought he'd seen a multitude in the streets… but it was nothing compared to this! The number was beyond counting.

There were timber grandstands, built by entrepreneurs to give a fine view of the gallows at two shillings a head. There were coaches of the gentry, whipping inward for better places, their splendid occupants leaning out and yelling and quarrelling. There were men stuck in muddy potholes, struggling clear. There were pick-pockets, whores, and pox doctors.

There were fights with cudgels, fists and clawing fingernails, while cripple-beggars worked the crowd with rattling tins, infants got dropped and trampled, little boys piddled in corners, and pie-men, gin vendors, hawkers and broadsheet sellers bellowed their trade – especially the latter:

"Last true confession of Flint the pirate!" they cried, promising Flint's own words, giving all his crimes in blood-curdling detail.

The Brownlough brothers stood in the middle of their own private mob, turned out for the price of a guinea a man and a bottle of gin, and wearing white bands in their hats so they shouldn't smash one another's brains in by mistake. They stood to one side of the main mob that bawled and roared around the three-legged mare.

"So! Shall we see him hang?" cried Reginald Brownlough, the elder.

"Noooooo!" they roared, their voices lost in the general din.

"So who's with me, for the honour of old England?"

"Me!" they cried, even the Scots and Irish among them.

"Then will you follow me?"

"Aye!"

He'd been preaching the same sermon for days, had Reginald Brownlough, to stevedores, chair-men, and butcher's boys, down in the gin shops and ale houses of East London. He was intoxicated with it now: even more than they were on his gin. But… by virtue of much money and a certain gift for words, he'd got them worked up for a fight.

After all, these kiddies didn't need much excuse for that; and there were nearly three hundred of them.

The javelin-men forced a way through the mob, which genially bellowed and shrieked, and gave way, and pressed, laughing and gawping, against the coach as their stink rolled over Flint, and dirty hands pawed, and children were held up to see him, and the gallows came close, and the enormous mob roared out his own precious song, in a bad-breath, gin-sodden, mountain of sound…

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest,

Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum!

And here Flint changed. As he looked around to all sides, even the tight-shut compartments of his singular mind – which had kept him jolly thus far – could not keep out the plain threat of destruction of the self. As far as he could see, all had failed and death was certain. And so, the devil-may-care actor who'd put on such a show for the crowd… became simply the devil.

His face darkened. Expression vanished. His muscles tensed… and he began to blink furiously…

Silver shouted in King Jimmy's ear. The mob's roar was like a storm at sea. It was deafening. King Jimmy and Flash Jack leaned closer to hear, the three of them standing up in the chaise which swayed beneath them, for it was built for speed, with two huge, light wheels and a pair of blood horses harnessed in tandem, stamping their hooves in fright, with Israel Hands holding their heads and trying to calm them, while two dozen men in long coats forced their way through the crowd, elbowing all others aside and forming up in a body around the vehicle.

One of them looked miserably at Long John, and couldn't meet his eye, for they parted bad on Flint's island.

"Huh!" said Silver. "Here's Billy Bones and our lads. So where's the others?"

"They're here already," said King Jimmy. "Look!" and he pointed.

"Ah!" said Silver. "The buggers with white in their hats?"