Читать книгу Greenbeard - Richard James Bentley - Страница 9

CHAPTER THE THIRD,

or a Foregathering in Nombre Dios Bay.

The frigate Ark de Triomphe slowed as the foremast jacks cast off the sheets and the wind spilled from the sails. The night was as black as Indian ink. No moon. No stars. Two dim glimmers of red light showed from the loom of the land to the west, where the pirates had mounted lanterns in the jungle two days earlier as navigation beacons. The lanterns had four-gallon oil reservoirs to burn for a week, and were shielded with black-painted canvas so that they were only visible from a particular bearing. When both lanterns were to be seen the Ark de Triomphe was in position for the raid on the fleet, with Nombre Dios Bay to the north just around a concealing point of land.

“Let go the anchor!” hissed Bulbous Bill Bucephalus, and the anchor was slid into the water slowly and carefully, without making a noise.

Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges was clad entirely in black, even more black than was his normal custom. His beard was wrapped in black cloth, his head was covered with a black knitted cap and his face was blackened with soot. In the dim light from the dark lantern by the wheel only his pale grey eyes were easily seen. There was a low mutter of voices and a soft splash as the skiff was lowered over the side by black-clad pirates.

“Less of the chatter, ye swabs!” hissed Captain Greybagges. He turned to Bulbous Bill Bucephalus and spoke softly. “I shall make me reconnaissance quick as I can, but I cannot hurry. Maybe half an hour. Maybe an hour. Keep the men at readiness until I return, then we’ll go quickly. Try and keep the swabs from talking or making a row. If I am gone more than three hours, or iffen you hears a shot, then I will have been taken. In that event make sail at once, Bill, and no argument, for this venture requires complete surprise and without it you too will be taken.”

Bulbous Bill nodded, and Captain Greybagges climbed over the side. The skiff was difficult to find in the dark by the side of the frigate, for it had been painted black. The Captain found it with his foot and climbed in. The oars were also painted black and muffled with black rags tied around the blades. Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo and Israel Feet looked down from the ship’s rail, but the Captain was almost invisible in the moonless starless night. They heard a soft splashing and sensed rather than saw him row away towards the headland.

The night was black as pitch and silent, occasionally a bird’s call could be clearly heard from the jungle by the shore. A seaman by the compass-binnacle coughed. Bulbous Bill reached across and grabbed him by the ear.

“Iffen yez coughs again, cully, I shall quiet yez by a-squeezin’ yer throat,” he whispered.

Time passed slowly. After a seeming infinity had passed there was a soft thud as the seaman at the binnacle turned the hour-glass. One hour. Bulbous Bill, Blue Peter and Israel Feet said nothing, waiting by the rail in the silent darkness.

Another infinity of time passed. Another soft thud. Two hours. Blue Peter shifted himself uneasily. The three buccaneers glanced at each other, but still said nothing.

Blue Peter walked to the binnacle and looked at the hour-glass; the third hour was nearly passed. Suddenly Israel Feet hissed and pointed. Neither Blue Peter or Bulbous Bill could see anything at first, but they began to hear a rhythmic splashing, then a faint white blur became visible in the darkness. As the blur came nearer it resolved into a naked man rowing. A little nearer and they could see it was the Captain, the great tattoo of bat-winged Satan upon his back. He was pulling on the oars of the skiff like a man possessed, the little craft almost leaping out of the water with each heave of his broad shoulders. When the skiff came to the ship Captain Greybagges dropped the oars, stood up, turned and hurled himself onto the side. He scrambled up the tumblehome of the wooden planks like a great white spider, his eyes and mouth like three black holes in his face in the dim light of the dark lantern. He stood on the deck completely naked, shivering as though with the ague, and his three lieutenants stared at him in shock. The Captain took a step forward and seized Bulbous Bill by the arm.

“Make all sail now. Waste no time. Cut the anchor loose and go. Now!” he hissed. His pale grey eyes bulged from his head and his face was etched with dark lines from some awful horror. Slowly his eyes rolled up under his eyelids and his knees buckled. He would have collapsed onto the deck but Blue Peter slid a mighty arm around his shoulders to support him, then the other arm under his legs as he fell backwards and lifted the Captain and carried him like a baby down to the Great Cabin.

Blue Peter carefully laid the Captain into his hanging bunk and wrapped blankets around his shivering body. The Captain’s eyes were open again but they seemed sightless, as though he stared into a different world. By the dim light of the single candle Blue Peter could see the Captain’s lips moving soundlessly as though in prayer. Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges looked older, as though he had been gone several years and not three hours. From overhead came the tramping of feet on the deck as the frigate made sail, then the ship heeled as it caught the wind to flee from Nombre Dios Bay.

Blue Peter sat by the Captain all through that long night. Several times he tried to give the Captain water to drink, but it just dribbled out of his lips. The Captain said not a word, and his eyes still seemed to stare into some other place. As he watched the Captain’s face Blue Peter became convinced, to his great unease, that the Captain had aged several years. His face was more lined, different somehow.

The worst horror, though, waited for dawn, for as the sun rose and clear light streamed through the tall stern windows into the Great Cabin he saw that the Captain’s long beard was no longer the bright yellow of Spanish gold but had become green. As green as spring grass.

Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo nursed Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges with great tenderness as the Ark de Triomphe sailed dolorously back to Porte de Recailles, unburdened by silver ingots, its commander shocked into catatonia. On the second day he managed to get the Captain to eat. Bulbous Bill Bucephalus made a special burgoo, seething milk with a strip of cinnamon bark before pouring it onto the oatmeal, sweetening the burgoo with honey and a mashed roasted banana as it simmered. Blue Peter held the Captain with an arm round his shoulders and spooned the burgoo into his mouth as though he were a child. Bulbous Bill then made a medicinal grog. He put a double handful of camomile flowers, a handful of African rooibosch leaves and two teaspoons of poppyseed into a pot with water and set it to simmer. He melted a large lump of butter in another pot, waited for it to foam and added a cup of brown Demerara sugar, stirring it rapidly with a wooden spoon. He added the herb infusion to the caramelised sugar and butter a little at a time, straining it through a cloth and stirring continuously. Then he added rum, a very special dark rum that he had been keeping in his seaman’s chest, a black syrupy rum of great strength that has only ever been drunk by pirates, and which has not been made since the time of Captain Flint. Blue Peter lifted the Captain and held a mug of the grog to his lips. The Captain drank the mugfull. Then another. Then a third, and then his tormented grey eyes closed at last and he slept.

Blue Peter sat by him through the night as he slept and dreamed. The Captain’s slumbers were riven by nightmares and he ground his teeth and cried out. Once the Captain spoke in his sleep as though revisiting some scene from the past:

“Welcome, sir! Welcome to the Mansion of the Glaroon! The boy will park your skimmer, sir. Let me take your helmet and cape, sir. Follow the footman, sir, and he will lead you to the festivities. Welcome, sir! Welcome to the Mansion of the Glaroon! Why, Great Cthulu, sir! How pleasant to see you here again! And Mrs Cthulu, too! Why, you are looking in the pink, my lady! Or should I say green, har-har! And your daughter, too! Why, Miss Lulu Cthulu, you look lovelier each passing week, I do declare! Har-har! The Glaroon is in the Games Room, Mr Cthulu, sir, I am sure he will be delighted if you join him there. Welcome, sir! Welcome to the Mansion of the Glaroon! The boy will park your skimmer, sir ....” The Captain’s voice trailed off into unintelligible mumbling.

How can this be? thought Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo. He has been away three hours and yet he has been away years. And he has known the pain and humiliation of slavery, too, which I would not have wished on his noble freedom-loving pirate’s soul for all the silver in Spanish America. And his beard is turned green. Not dyed green, but turned green, for it is growing green out of his skin. How can these things be?

The pirate frigate Ark de Triomphe was safe at last, moored to the quay of Porte de Recailles. Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo joined Bulbous Bill Bucephalus and Israel Feet in the officers’ wardroom, where they were gloomily drinking rum.

“I believe he is on the mend,” said Blue Peter. “He has slept now for three days, and the colour has come back to his face. He is no longer dreaming nightmares, but sleeps easily and restfully. I think we should leave him until he awakes of his own accord. Loomin’ Len is sitting by him, and one of the bully-boys guards the door. It is best that the crew do not know that his beard has turned green just yet. They are naturally restive that a great fortune in silver has disappeared from before their eyes. Anything strange may cause mutiny. A Captain with a long yellow beard is one thing, a Captain with a long green beard is entirely another thing.”

“Iffen it ain’t the damnedest thing I ever did see,” said Israel Feet, “an’ iffen it ain’t you may boil my arse in oil, you may. An’ I will lay to that, else, messmates!” He took a drink of rum.

“Indeed, there is much about this whole affair that I find strange and unnatural,” said Blue Peter. “I should have been wary when a medicine-man was involved. We have those fellows back in Africa, you know, and I wouldn’t trust a one of them as far as I could throw him uphill. They are always talking to spirits and devils and suchlike, and that cannot be right, no matter which church you worship in.”

“I don’t think it were the brujo’s fault,” said Bulbous Bill Bucephalus slowly. “I was asking some questions of the man Denzil, to try and get this straight.” He sipped his rum. “I think it were more a problem of translation, like.”

“How do you mean?” said Blue Peter, pursing his lips.

“Well, Denzil he reckoned he translated that indian lingo as best he could, and it were a crockery fleet, just like I said at first. T’weren’t Spanish, either. Some other bunch I’ve never heard of. It wasn’t the Spanish Plate Fleet,” he sipped his rum again, “it was the Martian Saucer Fleet.”