John Drake - Skull and Bones

Flint's hands fell to his sides.

"Wait! Wait!" cried Silver. "No bugger goes without the word!"

"Arrrrrrgh!" they cried.

"Come on, John!" said King Jimmy, shaking with fighting fury.

"No! No! No!" said Flash Jack, and hopelessly sought a way out.

"NOW!" cried Silver, for he'd spotted a way through to the gallows. "Pistols now, boys! Mark your targets!"

"Go-on! Go-on!" cried King Jimmy, and thrashed the two horses; they leapt forward, taking the chaise and its bodyguard of armed men darting into the gap Silver had spotted in the vast wall of flesh and blood that stood between them and the gallows.

Flint hung unmoving. He turned slowly on the rope.

There was a roaring, rolling volley of gunfire as the chaise met the mob, with Silver's and King Jimmy's men hanging on and shooting down any creature – man or beast – that stood in the way as the chaise drove through the hideous revenge being inflicted upon the wretched javelin- men.

Crack! Crack! Crack! went King Jimmy's whip and the chaise shot ahead at such a pace as to leave its bodyguard falling and dragging behind, and then they were up to the foot of the gallows and alongside of Flint's body with the executioner and his mates wide-eyed in terror, and in anger, too. And as King Jimmy pulled open a clasp knife, grabbed the hanging-rope from the height of the chaise, and commenced hacking and slashing… the hangman leapt up into the cart and struck an enormous blow with the lead- loaded club that he kept for moments like this, and caught King Jimmy on the brow with a crunch that stove in the bone and mashed the brains beneath.

"Bastard!" cried John Silver, and pulled out a pistol, jamming it into shirt and ribs, then a yellow flash and a roar of powder blew half a pound of catsmeat out of the hangman's body, and Flash Jack seized his beloved Flint by the waist, and strained to lift him to take the pressure off the rope, and Silver dropped the pistol, and drew a cutlass and sawed the rope…

And London trembled from east to west and north to south as such a cheer arose from Tyburn as had never been heard in all its five hundred years as a place of execution…

… as Flint dropped free of the gallows and fell into the chaise!

Silver heaved mightily to get the rope from his throat, and rubbed his chest and chafed his limbs and prayed for the life of the man he detested above all others, while Flash Jack kicked the dead from the chaise and whipped up the horses and drove speeding through the mob, which opened like the

Red Sea before Moses, except that Moses wasn't cheered, idolised, adored and urged onward as he passed.

Thus the chaise rocked and galloped away down Oxford Street, heading for London at dizzy speed, while Silver's and King Jimmy's men merged into the wildly milling crowd, and the newspaper writers ruptured themselves in the speed of their pencilling and loosing pigeons, and the few remaining javelin-men were beaten senseless, and the lightly wounded lay groaning, the heavily wounded lay dying, and the already dead lay stiffening, with the pickpockets feeling for their goods.

But the mob wasn't done. Not it! Not yet! It was more worked up than it had been for years. It had smelled blood. It had killed and had men killed. It boiled and seethed, and – fired up with wicked glee – it sought further entertainment.

First it robbed the pie-men and gin-sellers, then it wrecked and burned down the grandstands where the wealthy – now wisely departed – had sat. Next it conducted a diligent search of itself for Catholics, Jews, dissenters, foreigners and others whom it did not like, and sent them on their way with bloody noses and a boot up the arse. Then, swaggering, roaring and vastly steaming in the cold November air, it rolled down Oxford Street in the very tracks of the chaise that had rescued its hero, where it got to down to some serious work by overturning carriages, smashing windows, looting shops and setting fire to any houses thought to be owned by persons hostile to the bold Captain Flint.

Meanwhile Flash Jack shook in horror in the galloping chaise, for the things he'd seen and the things he'd done, which were such as he'd never experienced in all his comfortable life. Then a voice yelled in his ear:

"Avast!" said Silver. "Back your topsail. Heave-to you swab!"

"Oh…" said Flash Jack, and hauled on the reins and brought the horses to a trembling walk, and they gasped and panted, as he did himself.

"Where are we?" said Silver, looking round the empty streets.

"Near Tottenham Court Road," said Flash Jack, born and bred in London.

"Poor bloody Jimmy!" said Silver. "Was he dead?"

"Yes… I think so."

"But you heaved him over anyway, poor bugger!" Silver shook his head. He pointed to the roadside. "Drop anchor over there."

With the chaise stopped, Silver knelt beside Flint, who was laid under the seat, unmoving. He put his head to Flint's chest. He took a silver dollar from his pocket, rubbed it on his sleeve and held it to Flint's lips.

"Pah!" he said in disgust.

"God, let him live!" said Flash Jack.

"Devil, more like!" said Silver… as Flint opened his eyes and looked at Silver, for he was indeed alive. He was alive but sunk in dread. He'd known what it was to die. He had died as far as he knew, and even the most tremendous of minds doesn't come clean away from that: not clean nor quick nor unharmed, and Flint shuddered and shook, as once again – in burning memory – he suffered the agonies of death by strangulation.

"John…" he said to the familiar face, and groaned and raised a hand to clutch for light and life, and escape from torment.

"Joe," said Silver, "you stay there. We can talk later." Then he threw a blanket over Flint so he'd not be seen, and sat up on the seat beside Flash Jack. "You're the fly cove! You're the bounding boy! So where are we going? We planned for Jimmy's warehouse, but all my dealings was with him. I can't trust his people without him."

"I've got a house," said Flash Jack, "off Cable Street."

"I knows of none better," said Silver. "Whip 'em up. But slow an' easy." He looked at the near-deserted streets. "There's no bugger, hardly, here to see us, what with 'em all gone to the hanging. But make it slow and easy."

Later, the chaise drove into Well Close Square, by the Danish church, and into a yard behind the house, where there was a small stable for the horses, and they got Flint to his feet and led him staggering inside, leaning on the two of them.

"Nice!" said Silver, when the door was shut and locked and Flint had been settled in a big Windsor chair in the parlour.

Nice was hardly the word. The room was exquisite: burnished, cleaned, polished, and neat beyond all reason. The whole house was the same, and fitted out with the most beautiful of furniture, ornaments and pictures: all in harmony, all elegant, all beautifully chosen.

Flash Jack smiled.

"It is my little quiet place," he said. "Where I bring friends."

"Do you now?" said Silver.

"Yes," said Flash Jack, for it was true, though the friends were always paid.

"Drink," said Flint, swaying and hanging on to the arms of the chair. "Drink, for the love of God." He was pawing at his throat, where a red weal had been burned into his skin by the rope. He was shuddering and shivering.

Flash Jack took over. He was an excellent host, an excellent cook, and kept a fine cellar. Soon he emerged from his kitchen with a couple of bottles of claret and a dish of buttered bread slices, cut into triangles, with sliced beef and pickles between.

"Very tasty," said Silver, munching one of the triangles.

"Johnny Montagu's own recipe," said Flash Jack, an incurable name-dropper. "He tells me they're to be named after himself: sandwiches – for he's the Earl of Sandwich, as you know."