Читать книгу Greenbeard - Richard James Bentley - Страница 8

CHAPTER THE SECOND,

or the Captain’s Great Good Fortune.

Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges ambled along the quay of Port de Recailles, flanked by two bully-boys armed with oaken cudgels who glared aggressively at anybody within range. The Captain was not unduly worried about being robbed, but the two ugly thugs enhanced his stature in the eyes of the townspeople. Being a pirate captain was about three-quarters public relations, he estimated. That show-off Eddie Teach and his ridiculous trick of tying sputtering fuses in his beard! The Captain shook his head in wonderment; he had once been obliged to hurl a bucket of water over the fellow, before Teach had learned to soak his beard in alum to fireproof it. There was no doubt that the trick had worked, however, and now treasure-laden prizes would heave-to the instant that Teach’s Jolly Roger rose above the horizon rather than risk his wrath by running or giving fight. What a saving in powder, shot and wear-and-tear on the ship and crew that would give. And now the fellow was calling himself Blackbeard! He was fond of Eddie Teach and enjoyed his subtle sense of humour – that night when Eddie had blown his first mate’s kneecap off with a blunderbuss concealed under the table! How they’d laughed! – but he wondered if he might not go too far one day. Teach did not have the benefit of a university education, ruminated the Captain, whereas he himself had taken the Cambridge course-option Ye Art Of Showinge A Fine And Charitable Face To Ye Worlde, One Hundredd And One and so knew the advantages of restraint in self-publicity; nobody would find Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges calling himself Yellow Whiskers!

The Captain turned up a narrow alleyway and came to a small dingy shop so decrepit, its wooden beams so crooked and its stucco so cracked that it might have levered out of a previous and wider location with pry-bars and pounded into its present space with mauls. The Captain gestured to the bully-boys to stay by the door and entered. A bell jangled as he opened and closed the door. The interior of the shop was dark and crammed with junk. Broken furniture, cracked dishes in stacks, piles of malodorous old clothes, unrecognisable things in tangled heaps. A path between the rubbish led into the interior of the shop, where an ancient pantalooned man in a filthy peruke sat smoking a churchwarden clay pipe. He might have been a corpse except for the occasional wisp of smoke from the pipe.

“Do you have a waste bin?” asked the Captain. The ancient indicated with a glance of his rheumy eyes to a dark corner. Behind a statue of a blackamoor there was a wooden box with a slot in its lid. It was marked with the symbol of the muted post-horn and the letters W.A.S.T.E in paint so faded that it was barely legible. Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges took the vellum packets from his pocket and slid them into the box. He hadn’t spotted the box at first because the blackamoor in front of it was a new addition to the shop’s contents. He examined it idly. A life-size statue of a Negro holding a tray on an outstretched hand; wealthy people kept them in the foyers of their mansions for visitors to leave their cards on, should the master be absent. With a start the Captain realised that it wasn’t a statue but a real black man, dead, but stuffed and mounted like a hunter’s trophy. He made an involuntary snort of disgust and the ancient man smiled a slow evil smile. Captain Greybagges made to leave. The ancient man reached into the breast of his greasy coat and handed Captain Greybagges a bundle of packets tied together with string. He put them in his pocket and threw the ancient a coin. After he had turned his back on the ancient man the Captain made the horns sign with his fingers to ward off evil.

In the alleyway outside Captain Greybagges strode quickly away, taking deep breaths to clear the musty air of the shop from his lungs as though it were a poisonous miasma. Tristero’s secret mail was very useful, but its postmasters could be very creepy. The two bully-boys trotted after him.

Captain Greybagges spent the remainder of the afternoon strolling from tavern to low dive to shebeen in Port de Recailles, meeting friends, acquaintances and informants and drinking coffee and the occasional glass of beer. No useful information had come to him, but he hadn’t entirely wasted his time. When he entered a drinking-house his bully-boys would hold back and follow him only after several seconds, and meanwhile he would surreptitiously watch the other drinkers. Although all his clothes were black and the dives were dimly-lit it was still apparent that he was a wealthy man, so he would watch for men who looked as though they were thinking of jumping him, but who appeared to lose interest when his bullyboys followed, and he would memorise their faces. A pirate captain was always on the lookout for crew, and a fellow who would think immediately of robbing him despite his muscular build was the kind of man he needed. Quick-thinking, not shy and definitely thievish. If they didn’t give up the idea when the bully-boys followed they were too stupid. If they didn’t think of robbing him at all they would never be pirates. Of course, there were some who would conceal their interest, hoping to follow him and ambush him outside later, but he didn’t want fellows who were too wily, either; they could be trouble. Several possible candidates had been noted by him, and he would recruit them as and when it was convenient. He would, of course, point out to them that they’d thought of mugging him, so giving the impression that he could read their thoughts, which would establish him as their superior in quickness of mind and thus their natural leader. A simple trick, but effective. Doctor Quaestifuncula, the Captain’s tutor at Cambridge for Law, had called such things nousology; the science of being clever.

As Captain Greybagges ambled back along the quay to the Ark de Triomphe he remembered Doctor Quaestifuncula with affection. Law was, of course, absolutely the best training for a pirate, and the good Doctor had been a master of it. Few who had not been up to university were aware of the sheer viciousness of the infighting amongst academics. Those old fellows in their black gowns and tatty wigs would go at it hammer-and-tongs at High Table, yet to the casual observer they would appear the best of friends as they stuffed themselves with roast baron-of-beef and passed the port around. Battles of intelligence, memory and wit, and Doctor Quaestifuncula was the master. An old bent-backed beanpole with a long nose, thick spectacles and a kindly smile, yet he would have made a fine captain of pirates. He would still plead the occasional case, despite his age, and the Silks and Stuffs would quake as he shuffled into the court with his clerk stumbling along behind him carrying a vast stack of law-books and briefs tied with pink ribbon. The Captain remembered once climbing out of a racing-shell, he and his team glowing with exertion and eager to raise hell in the taverns of the town, when he had overheard Doctor Quaestifuncula as he passed by remark to a colleague “there’s the rowing-eights, getting out of their sculls again.” What a wit the man had! The Captain had been a rowing Blue, and he wondered if that hadn’t been his first step on the way to piracy. From little boats to bigger boats, maybe.

Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges strode up the gangplank onto the deck of the Ark de Triomphe, his bully-boys huffing after him. He stopped and looked up into the rigging at the crew about their work and for an instant nearly said “Good work! Good work! Keep it up, lads!” but that would never do, so he roared “Ye scurvy knaves! I catches a man slacking and I’ll see the colour of his liver and lights! An’ yez may lay to that, wi’ a wannion!” and was gratified to see them all try to look busy. One day he would find out what a wannion was, he promised himself.

The thoughts of rowing on the Cam had made him nostalgic, so he threw his coat and hat to Mumblin’ Jake and clambered down the ship’s side into the skiff. With powerful strokes he pulled the light craft across the harbour of Port de Recailles, around the end of the stone-built mole and across Rum Bay to Sruudta Point. There he hove-to, enjoying the sun on his bald head, the skiff bobbing in the slight swell. He reached under his yellow beard and removed his black silk cravat, unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up the sleeves. He folded the cravat carefully, for it was from Saville Row, London, and had cost as much as a case of decent claret. Nobody could see it under his beard, of course, but he knew it was there. He sniffed the air and looked at the little puffy clouds on the horizon. The dead calm would end soon, he was sure.

He spun the skiff with a single pull of an oar and rowed back to the harbour, slower now, with easy strokes of the oars. He’d seen Calico Jack Rackham in Ye Petty Mountmartree Froggie Wyneshoppe And Grille earlier, and clanked tankards with him. He’d always been plain Jack Rackham before. Was every freebooter adopting a nom de guerre? Perhaps nom de pillage would be more accurate. Jack Rackham had got his nickname from the haberdashery stall he’d used to run in Petticoat Lane market, Captain Greybagges recalled, but he supposed that made it easier to remember, and not many would recall him from those days. It would be a shame if one forgot one’s pseudonym: “Har! Shit yer britches ye weevils, for I am … oh! A pox on’t! What was it now? … Ah! That be it! … For I be Cutthroat Cecil Cholmondleigh!” Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges shook his head and grinned. That ass Billy Bones had tried to call himself The Pirate With No Name, but, never the brightest of buccaneers, he had spoiled it by roaring “Hear my name and shiver, ye swabs! For I be Billy Bones, The Pirate With No Name!” just as he was boarding a prize. The defending crew had been sore a-feared, but when they heard that they’d all howled with laughter and Bones’s boarding-party had retreated in confusion, followed by jeers and hoots. The silly sod had been forced to skewer his quartermaster and two foremast jacks to restore discipline, and by then the prize had made sail and cleared off, of course.

Mind you, thought the Captain, this fashion for bloodthirsty nicknames might not go away. If it did not he’d have a problem, for one could never buck a well-established trend. He couldn’t call himself Yellowbeard, for that would seem like he was aping Eddie Teach, and he was damned if he’d call himself Yellow Whiskers, as that just sounded silly. And yet his trademark was his long yellow beard, and all the more apparent in contrast to his all-black apparel. He would have to think about this some more, maybe.

He tied up the skiff and clambered up the tumblehome onto the deck. While rowing back he’d noticed that the ebb and flood of the tide had left the harbour with clean clear blue water, and that the bottom was visible. He was also sweaty from rowing.

“See yez any sharks?” he shouted to the look-out up in the cross-trees.

“Nary a one, Cap’n!” The look-out waved his hand from side to side and shook his head to emphasise the absence of sharks. Pirates feared sharks, for they believed that sharks could be spookily possessed by the souls of those they had eaten. Given the number of people who had been fed to sharks by pirates there was a worrying possibility that a possessed shark might well recognise a jolly buccaneer as the one who had encouraged his human incarnation to step out along the plank by jabbing a rapier in his bottom, should they happen to meet whilst swimming in the sea. It was also said by some that sharks would never attack lawyers out of professional courtesy, but Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges had no notion to put that to a practical test. The harbour was clear, though, so the Captain stripped off, clambered onto the rail and dived into the blue water. He swam along the length of the frigate and back, the great tattoo on his back visible to the crew in the rigging; a depiction of Old Nick sitting upon his dark throne, shaded by his black bat’s wings, staring down upon the Earth with a look of resigned distaste on his long face. There was a boom as Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo bombed into the water beside him. “Ye swab!” roared the Captain and splashed him. There was a smaller plosh and Israel Feet slithered underneath them through the clear water trailing bubbles, as agile as an eel. The three freebooters larked about in the salty seawater until Captain Greybagges shouted “Race yez to the harbourmouth!” Although Captain Greybagges was a strong swimmer the small sinewy First Mate had an easy fast crawl and overtook him. They trod water until Blue Peter arrived, swimming a sedate breaststroke. “Arr! Blue Peter shall buy the drinks tonight!” roared Captain Greybagges.

The three pirates stood upon the deck of the frigate Ark de Triomphe laughing and pouring buckets of cold fresh water over their heads, as naked as jaybirds. There was a murmur of amusement from the crew in the rigging. Captain Greybagges looked up, a scowl on his face.

“Was I not speakin’ aforetimes about the livers and lights of them as might be slacking!” he roared. There was a sudden stillness among the crew. The Captain grinned. “Har! Har! Har! I caught you out there! Har! Har! Har! I do loves my little jest! Har! Har! Har!” The crew in the rigging and on the decks looked uneasily abashed. “No, me hearties! Yez bin working like riggers, ye has, toiling ‘andsomely like, but too much graft and not enough roistering makes for a mumpish band o’ buccaneers. You may finish up and knock off for the day.” There was a pleased mutter from the crew. “Finish what yez is doing with a will, mind yez all! I will tell quartermaster to broach a cask o’ rum and a couple barrels o’ beer and ye may have yeselves a jolly evening. Let yez hair down. Grow yez beards a bit.” The crew cheered. “BUT!” and the Captain spoke this in a voice of brass, “BUT, I will obliged if yez shall drink matey-like.” He paused and let his grey eyes rove over them. “For there are fresh breezes a-coming as the season o’ storms approaches, and them winds has been known to blow good fortune to gentlemen of fortune such as we. T’would be a great shame and a pity iffen we should miss a handsome bounty because some knavish swab had a sore head and did not attend to his duties in a proper and seamanlike fashion. So ye’ll drink easy-like, and play a hand o’ cards, mebbe, and roll the bones for Crown and Anchor, and play upon the squeeze-box and fiddle, and yez may even sleep late o’ the morning, but I’ll not stand for fighting amongst yeselves, nor drinking yeselves into a stupor! No, I will not! When them winds freshens up we shall go for a little sail, we shall, an’ we may find what we may find. Now finishes up yer duties, me hearties, with a will.”

The crew carried on, with a cheerful mutter of voices from the rigging and the deck.

“T’were a fine piece o’ speechifyin’, Cap’n, damn me, but it was!” said Israel Feet in a low voice. “T’will set the lads up ’andsome-like. That an a few jars o’ ale.”

“Why thankee, Izzie! That be praise indeed,” said the Captain, wringing water out of his beard.

Mumblin’ Jake brought the Captain and his two lieutenants towels and stood by holding their clothes. As he stepped into his breeches Captain Greybagges told Mumblin’ Jake to fetch the boatswain and crew of his longboat, who were the largest men in the crew. When the seven hulking sailors came they formed a line on the deck, slid their right feet forward and knuckled their brows respectfully.

“Bosun, I wishes you and your lads to stay sober tonight.” The bully-boys looked aggrieved. “Here is something to ease yez disappointment.” whispered the captain, winking, and dropped a thick silver coin into each of their hands. “Ye shall roister tomorrow. I needs yez sharp to make sure no silly sod gets hisself fighting-drunk, that no clown lights his pipe in the powder-magazine and that no sly strangers slips onto the ship to do mischief while the jacks are a-quaffing. Ye may let some trollops come aboard, no more than three at a time, mark yez. Nobody else at all. Do yez ken?” The bullyboys nodded, “Aye-aye, Cap’n!” said Loomin’ Len Lummocks the boatswain.

“How now, me buckos,” said the Captain as the bully boys lumbered away, slipping the Joachimsthal thalers into their pockets. “Is Bulbous Bill come back yet?” His lieutenants shook their heads. “Well then, Izzie, yez takes a wander around the messes and makes sure they all got my meaning. Peter, you do the same with yer lads on the gun-decks. Make sure no sod ‘as skimped his duties to get a-quaffin’ quicker, too.” He buckled on his belt over his black coat. “I shall joins yer in a while. Take a mug o’ grog with ‘em and show me face, like. Then I may grow me beard for a bit up at the Halfe Cannonballe, and you may accompany me and welcome. We’ll leave word for Bill to catch us up.”

Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges, Israel Feet and Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo walked down the gangplank and onto the quay, dressed for a night out. The Captain was in his customary black attire. Blue Peter sported a coat of deep-pink silk with gleaming gold buttons, yellow knee-breeches, white hose and gold-buckled shoes the size of small boats on his huge feet, gemstone rings twinkling multicoloured on his fingers. Israel Feet was dressed in the traditional pirate rig of calico shirt, fustian waistcoat and knee-breeches with no hose and black leather pumps on his feet, a bright-coloured knotted kerchief covered his hair and a gold hoop dangled from his ear-lobe, an English Tower-of-London flintlock pistol and a Venetian poniard in his belt.

“Look you, boyos!” came a voice with a strong Welsh lilt. “It is Captain Yellowbeard the Pirate with his pets, the rat and the raven!”

Captain Greybagges spun round. “Why! Iffen it ain’t my ole shipmate Bloody Morgan – or shouldn’t that be bloody Bloody Morgan, har-har!” He grinned at Henry Morgan with every appearance of amiability. “Yez is surely looking wealthy these days! ‘Tis small reason to insult my friends, mind yez, especially when ye have dressed yer own fellows like they be performin’ monkeys o’ the sort that the Eyetalian hurdy-gurdy men has by them to caper and pass the hat round.” Morgan’s four bully-boys were dressed in short red bumfreezer jackets, and looked put-out at the Captain’s comment.

“You are surely jealous of my finery, Greybagges” sniffed Morgan, twirling around to show off his plum-coloured coat and its gold buttons, epaulettes and braid. “If you had possessed the good sense to accompany me to Panama you would be as grand as myself, surely you would.”

“I be merely a humble gentleman of fortune, Morgan, and I seeks not glory at the cost of the lives of my jolly buccaneers. I am not a captain in the Navy, that has Admirals to please and pressed men to fritter away to get a mention in the London Times.” Captain Greybagges shrugged eloquently.

“If you don’t please anyone but yourself, boyo, then nobody will want to please you. Why, King Charles himself has asked me to come to London. I hear he wants to dub me Sir Henry Morgan and make me Governor of Jamaica, on account of how my little expedition to Panama has discountenanced the Spaniards so.”

Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges eyebrows went up. “Well, and there is a wonder!” he said. “A gentleman of fortune to be Governor of Jamaikey!” The Captain looked thoughtful. “It may be that the king wants a poacher for a gamekeeper, rather than to reward you for upsetting the Dons, belike. You will not be Sir Henry Bloody Morgan Governor of Jamaikey and yet still be in good standing in the Free Brotherhood of the Coasts.” He indicated Morgan’s bullyboys with a wave of his hand. “And yer jolly boys will be dancing a hornpipe for yez one day, and dancing a different hornpipe for yez the very next day. At the end of a rope, methinks. Such is the price of a knighthood, given to yez by King Charles himself with a dab of his little sword on yer shoulder-boards.”

Morgan’s face flushed red with rage. “You always were a churlish cully, Greybagges! A mere scribbler for the scandal-sheets! I bid you good-day!” He and his bully-boys swept past them. Israel Feet had to jump back so as not to be jostled.

The three buccaneers watched them as they went. The small Welsh pirate captain strode confidently, his nose in the air. One of his bully-boys looked back at them uncertainly before the crowd closed behind them.

“Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn the jumped-up Welsh fool!” muttered Captain Greybagges, making no attempt to speak like a pirate. “And damn me for not being able to keep my mouth shut.”

“I thought you spoke well and to the point, Captain,” said Blue Peter. “I believe that you planted a seed of concern in the minds of his men, too.”

“I did, but that means he will be able to deal with it, as I have tipped him off in time to what people will say, and that in turn means that he will go to London and see the king.” Captain Greybagges sighed. “There was a small chance that I could have talked him out of it. He did trust my judgement in times gone by, when we were shipmates under Captain Flint. If I could have kept my own counsel and then seen him later alone I might have swayed him, but now it’s as though I’ve challenged him publicly, so he will go to the king, damn him. And the king will dub him Sir Henry Bloody Morgan. And the king will make him Governor of Jamaica. And the king will have hired himself a fine poacher as a gamekeeper, a very fine poacher indeed. And the Free Brotherhood of the Coasts will be broken. And England will be united with France and Spain to rid the oceans of the scourge of piracy, which is us.”

“England, France and Spain united?” said Blue Peter. “I thought they all hated each other.”

“They do.” Captain Greybagges sighed again. “Bloody, Bloody, Morgan sacked Panama, though, and thus the Spaniards are so weakened on their own Spanish Main that they must make peace with the cursed ungodly English. King Charles, meanwhile, has inherited a bankrupt nation from Noll Cromwell and so must make peace with Louis le Roi Soleil, who knows it well, but who cannot take advantage of Charles’s penury because he has his own troubles at home in la belle France. Thus they can all make common cause against the wicked pirates for a while, and feel a great warm glow of righteousness, the hypocritical sods. They will fall out again soon, of course, but that will be too late for some. We need a treasure now more than ever, my lads. We will need to either retire or keep our heads down for a while, and that will need gold.”

They came to Ye Halfe Cannonballe and entered into its dim cool interior.

Bulbous Bill Bucephalus was already seated on a settle at their usual table in the back room, his posterior being too wide for a chair. He was sipping Madeira and chewing on pieces of smoked dried squid from a dish of assorted snacks. The three buccaneers joined their colleague with gloomy expressions on their faces.

“What cheer d’yez bring us, Bill?” said Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges. “We are in need of some good news to hearten us. And some Madeiry to wet our whistles, too.” He poured himself a glass of the rich brown sweet wine.

“I seen the man Denzil,” said Bulbous Bill, “and got some o’ them peppers. Some very special peppers. Very hot, they be.” He sipped the Madeira thoughtfully. “Very hot indeed.” He lowered his voice and tapped the side of his nose. “An’ we spoke of the other thing, too.”

Blue Peter got up and walked casually to the taproom door and peered in, then to the door to the front bar. He sat down again and nodded.

“Denzil is agreeable to our suggestion. Grateful for them gold coins, too,” continued Bulbous Bill in a low voice. “He says that he has become pally with a fellow down in them Spanish Americas. The kind o’ cully they calls a brujo, which is to say a sorcerer or medicine-man. He says them fellows claims to be able to fly like witches and to talk to gods an’ devils an’ spirits an’ the like. He thinks it’s all my eye and soft soap, but that all them brujos sticks together so they knows a lot of what’s a-goin’ on, even if it be miles away, d’ye see?” He sipped the Madeira. “Anyways, he says he’s a-goin’ down there this next week and if anybody knows anything to our advantage it would be them sorcerer fellows, and no mistake. We’ll know in a week, mind yez.”

Captain Greybagges looked thoughtful. “Well, messmates, we be hopin’ that he comes up trumps, but still keep yez ears open. I reckons we’ll take the Ark de Triomphe out tomorrow, wind and tides permitting, and sees that everything is shipshape and Bristol-fashion. Something will come along, you marks my words. We must be ready when it does.”

The lieutenants of Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges nodded in agreement, then all four buccaneers sipped their glasses of Madeira in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges stood on the quarterdeck of the Ark de Triomphe as it slipped into the harbour of Port de Recailles, conned with great skill between the stone pillars that flanked the harbourmouth by Bulbous Bill Bucephalus, the sailing-master. The morning light gave a blue tint to the scene, and the air had a slight chill remaining from the cold of the cloudless night.

“Away the sheets!” cried Bulbous Bill, and the sails flapped loose and the frigate slowed. There was a splash as the longboat was launched over the side, and soon the frigate was towed to the quay and secured with singled and doubled mooring-cables to the squat stone bollards. There was a purposeful scurrying in the rigging as the crew lashed the furled sails and loosened the stays to put the masts and yards in a shipshape fashion for port.

Captain Greybagges was pleased. The ship and crew had performed well during the six days that they’d been at sea. They had not encountered a fat merchantman to board and plunder, alas. Only a fishing boat, from whom the Captain had purchased a couple of tunny and a swordfish (only a foolish pirate would rob a fisherman; they were the great gossips of the seas and it was best to have them on your side) and very good eating the fish had been, too. The Captain was satisfied, though. The Ark de Triomphe and its crew of jolly buccaneers were fit and eager for piracy upon the high seas. If information was received, if a tip-off came their way about treasure suitable for the plundering, they would be ready to act upon it, he was sure.

The Captain retired to the Great Cabin to write the ship’s log, after leaving word that the crew could go ashore in parties of six when their duties had been completed. He was writing an article for the newspapers about Morgan’s forthcoming knighthood and governorship when Bulbous Bill tapped on the cabin door.

“I shall go and see if the man Denzil is back from them Spanish Americas,” said Bill. “He said he’d be gone a week or so.”

“Aye, Bill, you be about that. Any information about some fat galleons a-waitin’ to be plucked would be right welcome. The crew be eager and the barky be shipshape, so the sooner we be sailin’ off to meet with fortune the better.”

Bulbous Bill nodded and left, and Captain Greybagges continued with the article, scritch-scratch. He needed to pitch it just right; he must not sound carping or jealous of the bloody jumped-up Welshman’s success - in fact he must wish him well - but he did need to point out the possible danger to the sea-rovers of the Free Brotherhood of the Coasts, and yet the writing must be humourous and light. It really ought to be in the post today, too, lest some other scribe scoop him. Scritch-scratch.

That evening Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges sat in the back room of Ye Halfe Cannonballe tavern sharing a jug of ale with Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo. He reached into the pocket of his black coat and pulled out a pistol.

“Here,” he said, pushing the gun across the table to Blue Peter. “Clap yer eyes on this, shipmate.”

Blue Peter examined the pistol. It was a flintlock, but quite lightly built with a smallish bore and a longish barrel. Blue Peter’s thick index finder would barely fit through the trigger guard.

“Hmm, is it a woman’s gun?” asked Blue Peter. “It is a very light weapon. Very finely made, though. Beautiful chasing, and very elegant, I do declare.”

“It is called a Kentucky pistol,” said Captain Greybagges, “and it is not built for a woman, although a woman could surely fire it. The gunsmiths of Kentuck have their own ideas about guns. They believe that a light gun with a longish barrel is more accurate than a great cannon with a shorter barrel and a great charge o’ powder, and so more likely to kill at the first shot. They makes a fine lightweight rifled musket, too. Some calls ‘em squirrel guns because the Kentucks loves squirrel pies like we loves rabbit pies, d’ye see? I came across it today in the market when I was out posting a packet to the Tortugas Times.”

“I think I see, Cap’n,” said Blue Peter slowly. “You are informing me that the British North American Colonies not only make good firearms, but are so confident of their craft that they will make innovations to suit themselves and their particular circumstances. Furthermore, one might deduce from that that they are dangerous opponents and not to be trifled with in a blithesome or nonchalant fashion.”

“You hits upon my meaning straight off, Peter,” said Captain Greybagges. “Keep yez the pistol to think upon it. If we raids the Colonial fellows we must be well prepared, and will need inside information and a good plan to succeed. I’m sure the ship’s smith can braze a bit into the trigger-guard so’s you can get yer finger through it.”

The Captain and Blue Peter talked idly about firearms - the difficulty of obtaining pyrites chips for wheel-locks these days, the poor quality of Spanish musket balls, the dubious superiority of Damascus-twist jezail barrels - until Israel Feet and Bulbous Bill Bucephalus arrived. The First Mate was bright red in the face and apparently incapable of speech.

“I gave him one of Denzil’s peppers. The new ones what looks like a little Scotsman’s hat. Them peppers is awful hot,” said Bulbous Bill. “I warned him, but he just said ‘Har! Har!’ an’ et it whole.”

Israel Feet filled a mug with ale and drank it all, then drank another. His face became less red and his eyes less bugged. “Arrrrgh!” he said in a hoarse voice. Tears streamed down his face. Captain Greybagges called to the serving-maid to bring another jug of ale. The buccaneers watched Israel Feet as he slowly downed yet another pint of ale, wiped his eyes and blew his nose on a cotton handkerchief and said “Arrrrgh!” several times more.

“Izzie, me ole fighting-cock, we all knows that ye be a hairy-arsed matelot and as hard as a Chinese riddle,” said Captain Greybagges kindly, “so yez don’t need to prove it, especially by fighting with vegetables.” Blue Peter and Bulbous Bill chuckled and Israel Feet looked daggers at them through still-teary eyes.

“Well, Izzie cannot speak yet, but he can listen,” said Bulbous Bill, “so perhaps I might tell yez what the man Denzil had to say, though it be not great good news.”

Blue Peter got up and checked the taproom and front bar for potential eavesdroppers and sat back down, nodding for Bulbous Bill to continue.

“The man Denzil has spoke with his brujo pal,” Bulbous Bill said in a low voice, his fellow-buccaneers leaning forward to listen. “It would seem that them sorcerers are just as fond o’ a golden coin as anybody else, so he was willin’ to pass along anything he might hear. Trouble is, he’s only heard of a fleet carryin’ crockery. Seems to me that crockery is hardly worth our effort to plunder, but yez may think otherwise.”

“Hmm, crockery,” mused Blue Peter. “It has a ready market, that cannot be denied. It is not of great intrinsic value, though, even if it is fine porcelain from far Cathay, embellished with blue-painted scenes of that mysterious land. Bulky and breakable, too. Not the easiest of loot to plunder and transport.”

“Tell me, Bill,” said Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges slowly, “did your friend Denzil actually say ‘crockery’? Did he use that precise word?”

“Why, no, Cap’n,” said Bulbous Bill. “He said it were plates.”

Captain Greybagges looked at Bulbous Bill for several seconds, then he began to laugh. He laughed until his face turned red, he laughed until he had a coughing fit and Blue Peter had to pound him on the back. His three lieutenants stared at him in amazement. At last he gained control of himself, blowing his nose on a black silk handkerchief pulled from his sleeve. He shook his head, still grinning, and put a finger to his lips.

“Oh, Bill! But you are a caution, and no mistake!” He gestured for them to lean closer to him and whispered “It is surely the Spanish Plate Fleet. Plate meaning silver, from the Spanish plata. Oh, my! This is a great good fortune indeed!”

The Captain’s three lieutenants stared at him open-mouthed, then, as the meaning of his words came clear to them, their open mouths curved into great smiles. Great wolfish piratical smiles.

“Oh deary me!” whispered Blue Peter, “I am ashamed that I did not spot that. Plate, of course, from the Spanish plata, meaning silver, from the Greek plato, meaning wide. Obvious when one sees it.”

“How come wide gets to mean silver? Look’ee.” said Israel Feet in a hoarse voice, his throat still burning from the pepper.

“It is because the minting of coins involves taking little lumps of silver and bashing them flat with a hammer. Thus they are made wide, and the word has come to mean all silver in Spanish when once it meant just coinage.” said Blue Peter. “The silver of the Plate Fleet will be mainly in ingots, though, each one weighing sixteen and one-half pounds. I’ve seen them before, and they are a very cheery sight to a gentleman of fortune, a very cheery sight indeed. The Spanish Plate Fleet sails once a year and takes the whole year’s production of silver from the Spanish Americas to King Carlos’s treasurehouse in Bilbao. That is a large quantity of silver by any standards.”

The four freebooters considered this in silence for several minutes, occasionally sipping their mugs of ale and staring into space.

“Tell me, Bill,” said Captain Greybagges at last, “did your pal tell you the times of the sailin’ and the routes that the fleet may take?”

“Nope, but he did say that the fleet will be anchorin’ overnight in Nombre Dios Bay on the third of next month.”

The Captain favoured Bulbous Bill with a smile and a nod. He reached inside his black coat and brought out a small book. A Jolly Roger and the words Ye Lett’s Pirate’s Diary were tooled in gold on its black leather binding. Captain Greybagges thumbed through the diary.

“Well, shiver me timbers, here is luck!” he exclaimed. “That night is a night of no moon. It’s just before the autumn storms, too, so there’s a good chance there will be an overcast sky. A moonless clouded night, and the silver fleet will be anchored over the bones of Sir Francis Drake, who was buried at sea in Nombre Dios Bay, stitched into his hammock betwixt two cannonballs, it is said. These are indeed good omens, me hearties!”

The buccaneers sat back and grinned at each other, the prospect of plundering a vast pile of silver bars warming their piratical hearts like pints of hot rum-toddy.

“Let us enjoy this moment,” said Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges, “but let us not become complaisant. The treasure is vast, but it is not yet in our hands, shipmates. There is much plotting and planning to do if we are to take possession of this great fortune. To be sure, the King of Spain does not really need it, he has much wealth already, and he would only waste that fine silver paying Irish mercenary soldiers to keep Flanders in the Catholic faith. The quickest way of turning the Dutch Protestant is to tell them they must be Catholic, of course, but I wander from my point. The Plate Fleet will be at anchor in a secluded bay on the darkest of nights, thinking themselves safe because nobody knows that they are there. By careful planning we can take each ship in turn by stealth alone, and thus we need involve nobody else. We shall need no partners to ensure the success of this venture. No partners to share the booty. No partners to gossip and yakkity-yak, either, and that is important. The only ones who knows about this are us four - Bill’s mate Denzil and his witch-doctor both thinks the fleet carries crockery - so let us keep it strictly to ourselves until we are at sea. Look miserable, too. No grinning, no laughing, no dancing of jigs. Keep our good fortune hidden to yourselves alone until we are at sea again. If we does this venture right then we are in clover. Blue Peter will be able to raid the slave-masters of Virginny and Kentuck until he is satisfied that they are contrite, and pay for the expeditions out of his small change without thought of profit.”

“You jest, Captain, because you have never endured the pain and humiliation of slavery. I may very well do just what you suggest solely for the sheer vengeful joy of it,” said Blue Peter, a wicked smile revealing his pointed teeth.

“As I say, Peter, we must first take possession of this great bounty. That must be foremost in our minds from now on. If we thinks too much of the spendin’ of the loot we will not be thinking enough about the plunderin’ of it. I meself could easily waste hours thinkin’ about how a certain jumped-up Welshman’s nose will be put properly out of joint, but I will forego that pleasure until the silver bars are safe in my hands. Well, then, let us drink a draught o’ rum to toast this venture,” said Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges, “then return to the barky and gets ourselves an early night, shipmates, for it is now my intention to sail on the mornin’ tide.”