Читать книгу Pirates on Dinosaur Island - Mark Edwards - Страница 9

4

A few observations on the nature of rough humor and the compromises we make to survive.

Having spent my share of time among some of the worst of humankind, I must insist that there is no greater evil in the world than a humorist who engages in practical jokes. Noseless Bill, formerly known as Patchwork Bill, was one of these creatures, who thought it witty to slice through the cord of sleeping seaman's hammock or piss in someone's grog or fire an empty pistol at a victim who believed it was loaded.

When Captain Baltizar pulled that trigger and I discovered that the gun had powder but no shot, I felt foolish for a moment, and then I felt rage. If Patchwork Bill thought there was humor in threatening a man, then the loss of a nose was the least he deserved.

The crew seemed to think so as well. Patchwork Bill had been popular among the rougher crew, who admired his pranks to avoid being victims of them, but all on deck found his maiming a cause for hilarity. Surrounded by laughing pirates, my spirit finally gave out and I sank to the deck. The last I heard before fainting were Bill's cries that I sew his nose back on.

I awoke in a hammock in what had been Capt. Hakes's cabin, and my first sight was of Baltizar devouring a ham and ship's biscuits at table. I must have made a noise, for he looked up, poured a cup of grog to which he added water, and brought it to me. He held the cup until I drank it down in short gulps. He then helped me to a bench at the tableside.

“You need to drink more, and eat, even if it's just a biscuit or two.” He slid one towards me. “I've already tapped the weevils out of that one, can't be more than one or two in it.”

I poured myself more rum. “How long was I unconscious?”

“Most of yesterday and last night. It's coming on dawn now.”

The captain was somewhere between forty and fifty and of dark complexion. His beard was braided, he was broad shouldered, and his voice had the rough deepness of a smoker of tobacco. He had a chronic limp in his right leg which did little to impede his dexterity. I never discovered his real name, nor the origin of “Baltizar.” Some said it was because he was of Moorish descent. Some said he was once as rich as a Biblical king. I found the first explanation to be pure guesswork. I detected a Scotch burr to the captain's accent, when in his cups, that suggested the highlands more than Arabia. He was, I would learn, an expert navigator (a rarity among buccaneers), a lethal hand with a sword, and in most ways less bloodthirsty than Captain Hakes.

“I owe ye some thanks, Dr. Lemuel. There's a dozen of my men who would be at the bottom without you,” Baltizar said.

“I do what I can to ease suffering, and saved your men so I could save my own.” I attempted to sound haughty, but the cup in my hand shook.

“A good turn is a good turn, despite the cause,” he said. “I've asked your crewmen about you. You killed a man in England, and are probably an outlaw. No family, no prospects, as you're a bastard—but you have talent.”

The only person to whom I had told my story had been Captain Hakes, but it was impossible to have a private conversation on a brig thirty yards long.

“You seem an ideal candidate to join my crew,” he continued. “Nine of your men already have. There's little difference in being a surgeon for a privateer and being a surgeon among buccaneers. Except for more silver.”

I protested, and he parried each argument. In the end we agreed that I would continue my duties as surgeon until we reached a neutral port, to earn my keep and the safety of the remaining crew who hadn't joined. But I knew that we would have this argument again.

The captain allowed me to keep my hammock in his cabin for the remainder of our time together. At first I thought it was because he wished to convince me by proximity to join him. But it didn't take me long to realize that he was protecting me from Noseless Bill.