Authors: John Drake
Soon, Sammy Hayden, ship's boy, came running into the cabin, touching his brow and stamping his foot in salute.
"Sammy-my-lad," said Silver, "my compliments to Mr Hands, Mr Joe, Dr Cowdray and Black Dog, and beg them to repair aft to this cabin at their earliest convenience! At the double, now… Oh, and Blind Pew besides, for he's got a head on his shoulders."
The meeting that followed had shaped a new life for
Walrus
and all aboard, including John Silver.
"A cook!" he cried, aghast. "A sodding
COOK?"
The rest howled with laughter.
"Aye!" said Blind Pew, whose idea this was. As he explained in his Welsh lilt: "It's na-tural in the king's service, see? The cook is always such as has lost a pre-cious limb."
"We ain't
in
the king's bleedin' service!"
"But it'll
look
right, see? For you can't be cap'n when others is aboard: pilots, revenue and such. And you'll only need to pre-tend to be a cook."
"Good! 'Cos I soddin'-well ain't soddin' cooking!"
"Not you, Cap'n!" they said. "Not 'less we needs poisoning!" And they laughed.
"But you'll be our Cap'n, as ever," said Pew, "when none's aboard than us."
Warrington proved even more useful when it came to documents. He had a fine literary style, was a fluent draughtsman, and made best possible shift with such papers as were in the ship: the original bill of sale for
Walrus
from her builders in Sag Harbour, the Colony of New York, joined Sir Wyndham Godfrey's letter of introduction and his Protection for
Venture's Fortune
- now duly altered to show
Walrus's
name, for Warrington was an accomplished forger. Drawing upon his imagination and knowledge of London, he made sure that all papers as might prove necessary were at their disposal.
Finally, seeing how fluently he conducted these arcane matters, it was decided by council of all hands that he should be captain for all purposes of negotiation with shore authorities. The meeting ended with Warrington chaired shoulder- high and blind drunk round the ship to celebrate his captaincy.
Thus
Walrus
sailed into the Pool of London, which enormous port only Warrington knew well - him and the Trinity House man piloting them up-river, and Captain Warrington stood tall in the clean coat, decent linen and proper hat he'd been given, and declaimed in a booming voice, pointing out the sights while the pilot conned the ship.
The hands sniggered at this, and Israel Hands, Dr Cowdray and Mr Joe smiled. But they all listened, because what he said was interesting. He spoke about trade and money and riches.
"Greatest port in all the world," he said, sweeping an arm towards the packed warehouses, "receiving some thirteen thousand ships per year, carrying a trade worth over one hundred million pounds. The revenue on the West India ships alone runs to over a million pounds, and that of the East India Fleet is…"
. Long John alone was not listening. He was looking upriver, past the barrier of London Bridge through which no ship could pass for its line of close-packed piers, and the taverns, shops and businesses above: a village in itself. Beyond lay the smoke and spires of the metropolis, where lived - according to Warrington - over three-quarters of a million people, and growing day by day. He sighed in despair. Choosing between Norton and McBollock would be nothing compared with finding Selena in this monster! Where would he start? How would he start? Which question was all the worse for the ghastly answer that in all probability he should look for his beloved darling… in the brothels.
So that night, with the pilot gone, and the ship moored in mid-river, Long John took Warrington aside to test his knowledge of London, especially its tart shops. They stood by the taffrail, aft, the ship and the river silent, the night dark and only an anchor watch on deck.
"Oh," said Warrington, when clumsily, awkwardly and with great reluctance, Silver explained the nature of his quest. Despite his own failings, Warrington had suffered a rush of blood to the brain on being allowed to pose as captain, and was about to be censorious in the matter of whoring, when - "Listen!" he said, seizing Silver's arm. There was a soft rumble from the bow, then the sound of a muffled blow, and a man falling. Standing where they were, in the dark, the mainmast and foremast hid Silver and Warrington from the bow… and
it
from them.
"Shh!" said Silver, moving quietly to the mainmast with Warrington in his wake. Peering round it, he could make out the anchor watch - two men, one of them Tom Allardyce, captain of the watch - lying unconscious on the deck, while six dark figures moved about running bars into the head of the capstan and muffling the pauls of its ratchet with rags. More men were appearing over the side from the fore chains, and - all in deathly silence - they began to lean on the bars and to bring the cable in.
"The sods!" said Silver. "What the buggery-an'-damnation are they doing?"
"They're
mudlarks,
Captain," said Warrington, softly.
"What the bastard Hell are they?"
"River pirates - and they're stealing your cable and anchor."
"What?
With all hands aboard, in the bloody Thames, in bloody England?"
"Oh yes! They bribe the authorities and -"
"Shh!" said Silver. He beckoned Warrington and the pair slipped below to rouse all hands, silently and stealthily.
The men rolling out of their hammocks grinned and shook their heads at the thought of what was going on above.
"Cheeky bastards!" said Israel Hands.
"Aye!" said the rest, but in a whisper.
Above, on
Walrus'
s quiet maindeck, an exceptionally skilful team of men continued about their work under a thin moon, a few stars, with masts and furled sails above, and the deck gently rolling beneath their feet.
Walrus
was moored to two anchors by two cables, one of which had been slipped that the other might be hauled in and brought aboard… except that it wasn't coming aboard, but being passed over the side from the capstan and into a big boat made fast alongside the ship.
All was well. All was peaceful. All was the contentment of a good job being well done… when:
"AAAAAARGH!" roared the men who poured out through the aft hatchways.
"AAAAAARGH!" roared the men who poured out forrard.
And there followed five or six lively minutes of another good job being well done, as half
Walrus'
s crew leapt on the busy gang at the capstan, and the other half leapt into the boat receiving the cable, and both lots set about delivering the most comprehensive battering the mudlarks would ever receive.
By Silver's command, it was all done with pistol-butts. But it was thoroughly done and lovingly done by men enjoying the finest sport they'd had since leaving the Caribbean.
Afterwards, those of the intruders who could stand were lined up in the waist, with
Walrus's
men grinning and laughing all around them, for it was indeed comical. There were ten of them, well caught and well battered.
"Who are you then, you swabs?" said Silver, stamping up and down the line.
The mudlarks stayed silent: snivelling, spitting teeth and dripping blood.
"Right!" said Silver, and grabbed one by the collar and dragged him to the side, yelling to his crew over one shoulder, "Fetch me a rope, and a dozen of roundshot in a sack!"
"Wassat for?" cried the mudlark.
"For you, my cocker. You're going for a swim!"
"You can't do that. We're King Jimmy's men! He'll have you, you -"
Smack!
Silver let fly with a heavy fist.
"Ow!"
"Shut up! And who's King Jimmy?"
"King o' the fuckin' river, that's who, and he'll be asking after us, you wait!"
"A-hem, Captain…?" Warrington stepped forward.
"What?"
"These people have a certain influence…"
"See?" said the mudlark.
"Shut up!" Silver cuffed him backhanded and looked at Warrington. "Well?"
'"King of the river' is a sort of honorific for the biggest rogue among these people." He gestured at the men huddled on the shadowy maindeck.
"Is it now?" said Silver.
"They make so much money as to be able to bribe any officers of police as are sent after them, thus the forces of law pay no heed to their depredations in the night. Not even to the clash of arms! Not even to gunfire!"
"See? 'S'what I told yer!" said the mudlark.
"Aye!" said his mates.
"So you bleedin' let us go or it'll be the worse for you!"
"Aye!" said his mates, and Silver shook his head in amazement. Far from acting guilty or ashamed - or even fearful - the mudlarks were angry and resentful, as if some foul trick had been played upon them, and rules broken that decent men respected. Now they growled and muttered and glared at their captors.
"Shiver my timbers!" said Silver. "Well, I never did have hopes of putting the law on you, but here's two of my men beat unconscious, and you swabs trying to steal our cable. So I'll have a word with these good brothers, here -" he pointed to his crew "- to decide what's to be done with you."
After a swift debate, a motion proposed by Brother Pew was adopted, and soon after the mudlarks were sitting miserably in their boat: stark naked, shaven bald, with ship's tar coating their marriage tackle, while all aboard
Walrus
who could muster the necessary stood on the bulwarks pissing on their shiny white heads, and laughing fit to bust. All being finished, and shaken free of last drops, the mudlarks were allowed to cast off and pull away into the night.
It was a huge joke, enjoyed by all hands. But a few hours later, it didn't seem so funny.
Chapter 17
Early afternoon, 11th June 1753
Jackson's Coffee House
Off the Covent Garden Piazza
London
Mr Peter Jackson dazzled the eye and assaulted the senses. He was not merely dressed in the height of fashion: he defined it - or so he thought. His long, collarless coat was gold-laced blue silk, pierced with three dozen buttonholes; the yellow waistcoat beneath came down to the knees and was unbuttoned at the top to reveal the exquisite lace of his shirt-front, below the white stock around his neck.
An exotic waft of perfume complemented the ensemble, together with a white-powdered wig worked into elaborate side-curls and caught in a blue silk bow at the back. Combined with an elegance of speech and manners, the result was something so close to a gentleman that many onlookers couldn't tell the difference.
But it was there, if a man looked hard enough. It was written on Mr Jackson's face - fair and pleasing though it was, with long-lashed eyes, smooth chin, and easy smile - because any real man had only to look into Mr Jackson's eyes to see him for the sly, cunning, treacherous viper that he really was. It was for this reason he had become known far and wide as Flash Jack the Fly Cove: Flash Jack for short, or simply Jack to his friends, of whom there seemed to be a great number, given that he was proprietor of the renowned Jackson's Coffee House - renowned less for its coffee than the various other goods and services on offer. So when Flash Jack walked down the aisle between the tables at Jackson's, smiling to all sides, he could expect to be cheerfully acknowledged.
Jackson's occupied the finest site in London: hemmed in by the main theatres and the bustling Covent Garden Piazza, it catered to a clientele of actors, musicians, artists, writers, publishers, and all those gentlemen who wished to be thought civilised. It opened early, closed late and was always busy.
Being on a corner, Jackson's had the advantage of two rows of windows, and the big main room was immaculately clean, its two long lines of tables equipped with high-backed benches that formed dozens of private booths for convivial talk, while still affording a good view of the life and fashion of the house and the city outside. Like most coffee houses, it was as much a club as anything else, and the
wrong
sort of persons were told - to their faces, by the waiters - that there was "No room! No room!" when plainly there was. And while
ladies
were charmingly received into a side room, the girls of Covent Garden were absolutely prohibited: even those who charged a guinea.
Today, Flash Jack was in excellent spirits. There were no less than four noblemen in the house, and the sun was shining brightly through his sparkling clean windows. All the world looked good; the table talk was of sport and racing, and not sombre fears of the great war that all the newspapers said was imminent. But as he was chatting deferentially to a clod- faced baronet and his party - fresh up from Devon with dung on their boots - lightning struck.