John Drake - Skull and Bones

"Aye!" said King Jimmy. "The Brownlough boys. We all know them down Wapping way! Them shit-heads ain't even made a secret of it."

"Can we trust them?" said Flash Jack, who trusted nobody, and was unrecognisable as his exquisite self, being dressed in plain dull clothes, and no wig but a big hat pulled low over the bald head which he shaved for cleanliness. Nobody would have known him who'd seen him shimmering down the aisle at Jackson's.

"Can we trust you?" said King Jimmy. "It's only you as says Flint knows how to find the treasure!"

Flash Jack sneered.

"Who else can find Flint's treasure, but Flint?" he said.

"Aye," said Silver, and looked at Flint, waving to the mob in his carriage. "By thunder!" he said. "I know the bugger, burn and beach me if I don't." He nodded grimly. "He'll know where it lies, cunning bastard that he is, by God, for there ain't none like him! And trust me, Jimmy, no bugger could get it off him. Not if they stripped him bare-arsed. But he'll know and he'll have it secret somewhere… and there ain't no finding of it without him!"

"An' it's eight hundred thousand?" said King Jimmy, relishing the colossal sum.

"Aye," said Silver, "why else d'you think we're here?"

Flint went mad as they got him out of the mourning coach and up on to the tail of the farm cart with its open coffin, where the bosun threw the slack of his noose up to the hangman's mate so it could be made fast to an overhead beam, and the chaplain produced his prayer book and began to rant.

The javelin-men were well clear now, to give the public a good view, but there were plenty of men around Flint, nonetheless: the bosun, the public hangman – present even if he wasn't being paid – the sea-service captain, the sheriff, a couple of muscular assistant hangmen, and of course the chaplain, for all the good he could do.

And then came an incredible, unique and totally unprecedented sight which prompted a truly stupendous roar from the mob: the condemned man was making a last fight beneath the gallows!

Flint, having bitten through the bonds around his wrists in manic, shrieking fury, drew his sword – that still had a three-inch stump of sharp steel and a knuckle guard and a pommel – and used it to kill the bosun and the sea-service captain, quick as thought, stabbing into their throats. He killed the terrified sheriff, smashing in the back of his head with the pommel as he turned to run. He went for the chaplain, who screamed like a girl and saved his life by taking the sword stump into the thickness of his prayer book. Frustrated, Flint kicked the chaplain's legs out from under him and was stamping a heel into his face when the hangman and his two assistants dived in with fists and boots, white- faced, wide-eyed and spitting fury.

"Now, boys!" cried the Brownlough brothers, and a united howl arose from their three hundred.

"Flint! Flint! Flint!" they roared and surged forward, cudgels raised, trampling all before them as they charged the gallows.

"Forward, lads!" cried Silver. "But let them Brownloughs take the first fire!"

"Giddyup!" cried King Jimmy, whipping the horses.

"Aye!" cried Silver's men.

"Aye!" cried King Billy's.

And they threw off their coats to reveal pistols and cutlasses, and drew steel with a scrape and a ring, and the chaise drove through the crowd hedged in blades, bowling along behind the wave of the Brownlough mob, with Silver's and King Jimmy's men alongside, all cheering madly, even as the javelin- men wheeled about to face the Brownloughs.

Beneath the gallows, Flint bit and stabbed and kicked and butted. He pummelled and spat and shrieked, he fought beyond strength, beyond reason, beyond endurance… and could even now have prevailed, even with three men hanging on to him, of which two at least were marked for life and losing strength, had not the captain of the javelin-men sent four reinforcements to help the hangman, even as he was wheeling his troop into line to face the mob. "Chaaaaaaarge!" cried the captain.

"Arrrrrrgh!" cried his men, dipping their spears and spurring their horses.

"Flint! Flint!" cried the Brownloughs, hurling cobbles, bricks and bottles.

"Steady, lads," cried Silver, holding back his men. "Let the buggers fight!"

"Grab his bastard hands!" cried the hangman, as fresh men dashed in.

"Ahhhhhhhhhh!" shrieked Flint. He tore an ear with his teeth, gouged an eye with his thumb, sliced a scrotum with his sword… but:

"Gotcher!" cried the hangman, and he pulled the noose tight under Flint's chin, and steadied himself on the blood- soaked planks of the farm cart, and then – with the satisfaction of a craftsman showing soddin' amateurs how a job should be done… he pushed Flint off the back of the cart, with three men still hanging on to him…

… men who flailed and swung their arms, and two dropped swiftly to the ground, and one had to beat Flint to make him let go, and he dropped too, and the vast mob shrieked tremendously again, and all those in the grandstands leapt to their feet and roared as Flint swung… and choked… and throttled… and his hands clawed the crushing rope… and his eyes bulged… and the blood thundered in his ears… and his legs danced… and his body dangled… five feet clear of the ground.

Noon, Monday, 26th November 1753 The Rotunda Ranelagh Gardens London

Sir Matthew Blackstone was in love with Selena. She could see it in his adoring expression. And he might be over fifty and ugly, but he was one of the richest men in England.

She knew what was coming. She'd guessed. Her entire life was hers to change with a single word. That's why she'd been brought here. But for the moment, she gasped, for the Rotunda was exotic beyond belief, even to her, though she was no longer an innocent in such matters, having grown as familiar with the gilded luxury of salons as with the spectacular cunning of theatrical effects.

The huge dome was the pride of Ranelagh, the most civilised of the London pleasure gardens. It was all fresh painted in pale cream, with an oriental profusion of elegant pillars and relief-work in red, and two great tiers of private boxes running round the walls, where patrons could take tea while looking out on the crowd sauntering around the vastly complex and gloriously decorated central column, which was itself a feat of architecture and which supported the ceiling. Several dozen huge chandeliers hung by scarlet cords, while one of the finest orchestras in London played in a huge canopied box to one side, and the admission price was set high enough to ensure that only the most proper and fashionable persons might gain entry.

"Well," he said, "do you like it?"

"It's beautiful," she said. "I'm glad we came."

"Good," he said, "'cos it ain't normally open this time o'year." He shrugged. "But a little word in the right ear…"

"Oh!" she said. "Did you cause it to be open: for me?" She fluttered her eyelashes and laid a hand on his arm, and gazed at him with pouting lips and round eyes… and laughed. And he laughed too and shivered at the beauty of her in the yellow silk which was her favourite colour, and was thrilled at the pleasure of simply being with her, and her acting a silly part as she did on the stage, and doing it just for him!

"Well, did you?" she said.

"Yes. I did."

"Then thank you!" But she frowned, puzzled. "Then who are all these people?" She looked at the ladies and gentlemen strolling around, greeting friends, nodding to acquaintances.

"Well," he said, "if it was going to be open, I wanted it looking alive and not dead, so I put the word around… and of course that lot -" he pointed to Katty Cooper, standing twenty paces off with Mr Abbey and others of his company – "they're our chaperones, my lass, for the benefit of them as knows me and knows Lady Blackstone, too: the old trout back home in Berkshire."