Authors: John Drake
"Jack!" cried a voice. Flash Jack bowed to the baronet, making careful note of the dullard's name so that he should be greeted by it ever after, and looked down the aisle towards the door. He looked… and he looked… and his jaw went towards his boots.
Sir Frederick Lennox was advancing with a friend at his side. Sir Frederick was familiar, having a house not five minutes away. But his friend was something marvellously, wonderfully new. With the sun shining into the dark interior, the new gentleman was bathed in golden light; indeed, he appeared golden in every way. He was the most beautiful creature that Flash Jack had ever seen. A perfect Mediterranean man, such as the sculptors of the Greeks had recorded in marble: handsome, athletic, graceful… and dangerous.
Flash Jack shuddered in delight, for his taste was very,
very
much for dangerous young men, and he carried the scars beneath his clothes to prove it. But now he saw that all previous incarnations had been mere bruisers. The man walking towards him was seriously, deadly dangerous. Flash Jack blinked, and gulped and gasped.
"Jack!" said Sir Frederick, coming alongside. "I should like you to meet Lieutenant Flint."
"Flint?" said Flash Jack, who kept abreast of all the news. "Flint the mutineer?"
The choice of word was unfortunate. Flint turned his gaze upon Flash Jack, and poor Jacky nearly died with pleasure at the cobra's stare that pierced normal men with fright.
"Mutineer be damned!" Sir Frederick frowned. "All that is lies put out by the Hastings clique."
"Indeed, sir," said Flint, taking Flash Jack's hand, "there has been a foul conspiracy."
Flash Jack never entirely remembered the next few minutes, except in a rapture of wonder, but eventually his sharply focused mind took hold of itself and he came to seated at one of his tables together with Lieutenant Flint, who sat opposite, talking to him, with Sir Frederick got rid of, seated at a table with other friends at the far end of the room.
"… or so I am told," said Flint with a smile.
"Beg pardon, my dear sir?" said Flash Jack.
"I am told that you can supply anything. Absolutely anything."
"Ah!" Jack smiled, for he was on sure ground. "That would depend upon price."
Flint paused. A distant expression came into his eyes and Flash Jack could see that he was thinking furiously. Then Flint fixed him with his hypnotic gaze.
"How much money can you imagine? How much can you desire?"
"What do you mean?" Flash Jack frowned slightly. He was no fool.
"Have you heard of Captain Lightning, the highwayman?"
"Who hasn't?"
"I killed him last night. Him and his crew."
"Killed him
?" Flash Jack shuddered in ecstasy.
"Yes. And I'm due five hundred as reward."
"Five hundred?"
"And that's only the beginning."
There was a pause like that of swordsmen who have clashed blades, exchanged strokes, and leapt back to recover.
"So what is it you want?" said Flash Jack.
"I want a ship, with a crew and provisions for the West Indies."
"Then go down to the Pool of London and hire one."
"Ahhhh… there are circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
"I am freed by the navy under restrictions. I may not leave England."
"No?"
"Nor would it be advisable for me to seek a ship."
"Yet you come to me?"
Flint smiled and leaned close, and every hair on Flash Jack's body tingled in delight.
"I do so because I trust you," said Flint.
"Flint! Flint!" cried Sir Frederick, stumping up the aisle waving a booklet.
"Later," said Flint to Flash Jack.
"Look -" said Sir Frederick "- I've got a copy of this rogue's book!"
Lennox leered at Flash Jack, and Flint tapped his foot under the table.
"What book?" he said.
"The one I told you about:
Jackson's List.
His guide to the whores of London!"
"Oh," said Flint, who was tired of Sir Frederick constantly turning every conversation to the subject of whores. Flint was a singular man in this regard. It wasn't that he was incapable with women: those shameful days were gone. But he could play the man's role only in highly restrictive circumstances, and it galled him that a creature like Sir Frederick could so easily manage what he could scarce achieve.
"Look!" said Sir Frederick, laughing, and he squeezed himself in beside Flint and opened the book he'd just bought. He pointed a pudgy finger at Flash Jack: "He writes this, you know. Jackson's his real name!" Flash Jack smiled modestly. "It's the most capital book: a guide to all the tarts of the town - their looks, prices, services offered. And damned funny, too, because he knows who's poking whom, and he puts it all in - in code - and you have to work it out! Fellows go through it pissing themselves laughing when a new edition comes out at Christmas, which it does every year. Now let me see…" He looked down and flicked through the book, searching for something.
"Ah! Here it is! Here you are, Flint," said Sir Frederick merrily, nudging Flint. "I saw your face last night when
I mentioned black girls. Here's just the little beauty for you…"
Early afternoon, 11th June 1753
Covent Garden Piazza
London
Billy Bones stood and looked at London's great arena of pleasures, amazed that so vast an open space could exist within the dense mass of churches, domes and chimneys that was the capital.
He'd been sent away on his own by Flint, who was off to a coffee house with Sir Frederick for a private talk. Billy Bones didn't mind that, because if he'd had to spend a moment longer in Sir Frederick's company it would have ended in trouble. The pompous ass had made a big show, in front of everyone, giving Billy a handful of coins to spend, as if he was rewarding some bloody servant! He'd been all set to teach the bugger a lesson when a glance from Flint warned him off, so instead he mumbled, "Aye-aye, Sir Frederick!" and pocketed the money with a touch of his hat in salute.
He'd left the house fuming about it, but the moment he entered Covent Garden Piazza all thoughts of Sir Frederick vanished as he stood and marvelled at the great canyons of brick. He was surrounded on all sides by rows of buildings running to four and five stories high, with windows ranked like guardsmen on parade, and some with stone colonnades and shops within, and some with carriages pulling up outside, and the grey mass of St Paul's church to one side, with its four columns and its pediment above, and the golden-capped Sundial Column rearing up over all, and what seemed like thousands upon thousands of people, rich and poor, young and old, tradesmen and beggars, soldiers and cripples milling about the place.
He started by walking along the line of fruit and vegetable stalls running the length of one side of the square, and he treated himself to some splendid oranges - for Billy Bones loved oranges - and one by one he peeled them with his clasp knife and ate them, then sat down on the steps of St Paul's to lick the juice from his fingers. Afterwards he wandered into the square, past the heavy white-timbered fence that marked out the inner heart of the Piazza. There was such noise and bustle as could hardly be believed, with street musicians, tumblers, hawkers, jugglers, fire-breathers and men on stilts. Billy Bones looked on, amazed, and some of the misery of his recent life lifted off his shoulders.
More than that, there were tides flowing within Billy Bones's mind. He knew he'd done bad things. He'd done
very
bad things…
atrocious
things. And he knew who'd led him to it! He sighed. He groaned. And yet, aboard
Bounder
- for a precious while - he'd been a king's officer again. He'd worn uniform. He'd wallowed gloriously in all the practices and traditions of the sea service: the service that he'd joined as a lad and grown to love. He looked around the seething, heaving Piazza and again felt the urge that, in this different place, he could be a different man, and a better one. But first he had to find…
"'Ere!" said a lively girl in a bright-coloured costume: all lozenges and stars and a big red hat. She nudged Billy Bones with an elbow, breaking his thoughts. "Yore a likely wunan- mall, aintchernow?" She poked him in the ribs, and laughed, causing her tits to wobble in her low-cut dress. Billy Bones grinned. He could hardly understand these Londoners with their nasal, ugly speech, but he liked the look of the girl. He was just wondering what she was at when a drum rolled and a trumpet blew… and two more girls appeared, dressed identically: one a drummer, one a trumpeter. When he turned back to the first girl, she was gone - off to find more men, from the look of it.
Then a large, fat man in good clothes mounted wooden steps to a platform that raised him up above the mob.
"Gentlemen of England," he roared, "and all those beef- and-beer-men who relish the noble art of fisticuffs!" He paused to draw breath and the drum and trumpet sounded again. "Stand forward now to show the ladies the strength of your arm -" he raised a hand and spoke to one side of it, as if in confidence "-
if
you has the pluck!"
Hmmm,
thought Billy Bones as the fat man blathered on. So, the fellow was a prizefighter's barker. Beside the little platform on which he stood, Billy now saw a ring marked out with rope and stakes, and a tent behind, and a number of big, broken-nosed men, stripped to the waist, pumps on their feet, all waiting in a row with their arms folded over their chests, and the public gathering thick around them, already taking bets.
"Thass Pat Cobbler, that is!" said a Londoner beside Billy Bones.
"I'll avva dollar onnim!" said another, as Billy Bones strained to understand.
"Yeah! Eezevvywate chaampyun, ee is. Anniss ten-pun to the cove wot noksim dahn."
Ahhh!
thought Billy, and he pushed his way through the growing crowd.
He stood and watched the first couple of fights, which - astonishingly - were carried out strictly according to rules, with no biting of ears or gouging of eyes, and rounds timed by the sand-glass, and bully boys standing by to beat intruders out of the ring with cudgels. They even matched the fighters by weight, which was a great novelty to Billy Bones, as was the amazing fact that when one man was thrown down by a cross-buttock, and his opponent - to Billy Bones's loud approval - began to kick him about the head, the beaters dashed in and drove off the standing man… until the other got up!
Billy Bones shook his head at this namby-pamby business and wondered what England was coming to. But when the fight was over, and Pat Cobbler the heavyweight was standing in the ring with no takers stepping forward and all eyes searching for one, the same girl Billy Bones had seen earlier appeared at his side and linked her arm in his.
"'Ere-za-bulldog-boy!" she cried, winking at Billy. "'Ere-za-cockerthewalk!" And she pulled him towards the ring. "Cummon tiger!" she cried, and a great cheer went up from the crowd as they caught sight of Billy Bones and measured him up against the champion.
Well,
thought Billy Bones,
why not?
He hoisted the girl clear off her feet, planted a smacking kiss on her lips, put her down, and threw his hat into the ring.
And when they took off his shirt, and the crowd saw the breadth of Billy Bones's chest and arms, and the way he took up his stance and milled the air with heavy fists - why, the cheers shook the windows of the Piazza, and a great rush from all sides swelled the crowd… to the delight of the fat barker, for it was sixpence each into his bully boys' collecting boxes from those who wanted to stand and watch, and sixpences were falling like rain!
It was a hard fight for Billy Bones, for they insisted on stopping him from doing perfectly reasonable things: stamping Cobbler's feet, hacking his shins and slamming him round the ear with the side of the head. Moreover, Pat Cobbler hadn't come by his reputation for nothing. He was a fighting Irishman and a crafty boxer who used his fists with skill and economy of effort. And this told against Billy Bones, whose method of fighting was neither artful nor clever nor skilful.
But Pat Cobbler hadn't lived Billy Bones's life. He'd never fought to kill. He'd always fought by rules, and was used to fighting clumsy, drunken yokels, or other professionals like himself, who likewise fought by rules, and only for money. Certainly he used dirty tricks, as they all did, but he'd never seen decks slopping in blood, and men's limbs torn off, or heard the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying.
And he didn't fight like Billy Bones: head down, shoulders forward, never retreating, and hammer hammer hammer with both fists, up to and beyond exhaustion, and ignoring the pain, and never,
ever
, admitting defeat. This ferocious, simple- minded discipline, born of a ferocious, simple-minded life, and matched with the powerful body God had given Billy Bones, put Pat Cobbler over on his back after five long, punishing rounds, such that not even repeated buckets of cold water could get him up.