Greenbeard (9781935259220) (10 page)

The old horse, sensing Blue Peter's unease, skittered sideways a trifle. Blue Peter muttered soothingly and patted its neck.

His account squares with the things he muttered whilst comatose during the flight of the
Ark de Triomphe
from Nombre Dios Bay, thought Blue Peter, but that is no confirmation. If his wits were addled from his experience, as they undoubtedly were, then he may have entered a state of delusion, or fugue, and his memories would be false, experienced as in a dream yet recalled as though real ... I am a pirate, thought Blue Peter, yet I cannot find a curse-word strong enough to express my frustration and dismay with this. My instincts are at odds with my reason. Still worse, my reason is at odds with my reason, and my instincts at war with my instincts. He rode on up the hill in the darkness, towards his cottage, deep in thought, the bright stars twinkling above him.

 

Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges sat at his desk in the Great Cabin, an oil lamp spilling yellow light onto his ledgers and account-books. The abacus went
click-clack
and his goose-quill pen went
scritch-scratch
as he worked, a tankard of hot punch and a dish of sweet biscuits at his elbow. When he had finished the accounting and the letter-writing that he had interrupted earlier that day he closed the books and locked them away, rubbed his face with his hands, drained the tankard, changed into a black nightshirt and nightcap and went to bed in the
hanging bunk, falling instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

Blue Peter's slumbers were racked by nightmares. A six-legged reptile with chameleon eyes cheated him at cards. A daemon with the head of a squid danced a quadrille with the Medusa. Saucers, cups, teapots, plates, chafing-dishes, tureens and porringers whizzed around his head, trailing sparks like thrown grenadoes. In the quiet of the small cottage he twisted and turned, sweating and moaning, the woven ropes of his charpoy-bed creaking.

He awoke late the following morning, the sun already high, feeling surprisingly clear-headed. He put sticks on the banked-in fire in the kitchen stove, blew on it carefully, and added charcoal when it sputtered back into flame. He filled a copper kettle from the well in the yard, set it upon the stove, then drew another bucket of cold water and washed, shaving with a Spanish blued-steel razor, a small mirror of polished silver placed upon the well-hoist. The kettle whistled in the cottage kitchen and he made coffee, setting the pot on the side of the stove to brew as he dressed. To his very slight surprise, he found that he had dressed himself for battle; loose red cotton shirt, brown moleskin breeches, a green coat with japanned buttons, a sash of multicoloured silk, grey hose and comfortable well-worn buckled shoes with hob-nailed soles. He found that his decision was made; whatever scheme Captain Greybagges was planning he must support it. If the Captain was right, then he would need all the help he could get, but if the Captain was deluded then only as a confederate, as a close confidante and as a friend would he be able to prevent disaster for the Captain, for himself and for the ship and crew. His way lay clear before him, if not exactly obstacle-free. He drank a mug of coffee, then slid the cutlass with the knuckle-duster grip into his sash, and then the cannon-barrelled horse-pistol and the elegant Kentucky pistol. He packed his things into a rectangular wooden sea-chest and a canvas sack, tied them together with rope and slung them over the horse's hind-quarters. He shuttered and locked the cottage and hid the key in the outhouse, clapped a brown tricorne hat on his head and mounted the old Percheron mare, using the stone horse-trough as a step, and rode away from his cottage without a backward glance.

At a neighbour's farm he stopped and, after a little negotiation and the passing of a silver thaler, obtained an agreement that a weather-eye would be kept upon his cottage and that the Percheron mare would be collected from the yard of
Ye Halfe-Cannonballe
tavern and looked after until his return. Blue Peter considered his neighbour a shifty fellow, but reckoned that the generous payment, his size, his profession and a second or so of eye-contact accompanied by a grin of his filed teeth would be sufficient to prevent curiosity about the contents of his dwelling-place or mistreatment of his horse, unless it became apparent that he would not be returning.

 

 

“Ay-oop! The Blue Boy cometh!” said Jemmy Ducks, “and he has girded himself for war!” He swung himself from the mainmast top onto the rat-lines by the futtock-shrouds. His friend Jack Nastyface followed through the lubber-hole.

“War? What?” he said, as they clambered down.

“He be wearing the old green coat,” said Jemmy Ducks.

“Now you are an authority on gentlemen's attire,” said Jack Nastyface. “Why are you yourself such a ragamuffin, then?”

“Green coat he wears so's he don't get powder-burns on his finery,” explained Jemmy Ducks, patiently, “thou mutt. ‘Tis on the cards that we be sailin' on t'afternoon ebb.”

They reached the deck and went below as Blue Peter strode up the gangplank.

“Now, listen, shipmates!” said Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges in a strong clear voice.

The pirate crew of the
Ark de Triomphe
were assembled in the waist of the frigate, or seated on the convenient lower yard of the mainmast. Captain Greybagges paced the quarterdeck, dressed in his full pirate-captain's rig; black tricorne hat upon a black scarf, black
justaucorps
coat with jet buttons and turned-back cuffs, black breeches, black sea-boots and a thick black leather belt with an assortment of weapons thrust into it. His long grass-green beard was resplendent in the rays of the low sun.

“You may be a-wonderin' why I have dropped anchor here, we havin' only just sailed from port two hours since,” the Captain said, “but this anchorage do seem to me to be a fine spot, har-har! It be sheltered. It be quiet. It be a fine spot for a share-out meeting, be it not, shipmates?”

A ripple of interest stirred the buccaneers. Conversations stopped. Jack Nastyface desisted from poking Jemmy Ducks in the ribs. Jemmy Ducks ceased kicking Jack Nastyface in the shins. The cook's head emerged from the starboard companionway, where he could hear and yet watch his pots.

“The rules for a share-out according to the Free Brotherhood of the Coasts sez that it must be in gold, silver, coinage or articles o' rare worth, an' nought else besides,” bellowed the Captain, “an' also that oppurtoonity -
reasonable
oppurtoonity - be allowed for the crew to bury their shares on a island or upon a remote shore. I am not going to abide by them rules, curse ‘em!”

A rumble of discontent came from the crew. Oaths were muttered.

“You old robber! Trying to do us up very brown!” came a voice from the back of the crew.

“'Pon my soul, Jack Nastyface, I shall do
thyself
up browner than a Manx kipper iffen thou wilst not shut up! Now listen to me, shipmates!” The Captain pounded on the quarterdeck rail with his fist. “This will not be a share-out under the damn' rules, but a share-out it still will be! Listen to me, and you may find yourselves damn' pleased with your portions! Firstly, damn' yez, you must
listen
to how I have arranged things. Iffen it
bain't
be to your likings, then you may scrag me and feed me to the sharks, an' damn' yez all to hell! Wi' a wannion! But firstly yez-all must
listen
!”

He is mad, thought Blue Peter, standing behind Captain Greybagges on the quarterdeck. The crew had not actually been grumbling, as they had already gotten some of the treasure, at least. Now he offers them more, and then takes it away again. Is he stark mad? He stole a glance at Bulbous Bill Bucephalus, who looked impassive. The crew of angry pirates were talking, shouting, jostling. Blue Peter noticed his own gun-crews looking at him, not at the Captain. I must look fully confident, he thought, they must not think that I am not with him in this. He squared his massive shoulders, smiled a small confident smile and fixed his gaze on the Captain's lips. He found that he could not understand what the Captain was saying. The effort of seeming serene set off his own doubts about the Captain, and
his inner conflict prevented him from following a single word. You chose your path this morning, he thought, and now your resolution is tested. The hubbub amongst the crew lessened slightly, and Blue Peter caught a snatch of the Captain's speech:

“... the Stock Market bain't be any wise differing from a fish market, which you all do know of. Shut up and
listen
, you cursed lubbers! The one be sellin' shares in ventures an' the other be sellin' fish, but they be the same in their
principles
, look'ee! The price o' fish depends upon the supply an' the supply o' fish depends upon the price, d'yez see? Not many fish, up goes the cost o' a fish supper, har-har! Iffen the price o' fish is high, then more cobles, smacks and busses goes to sea and more fish be caught, an' the price do come down. Shut
up
, yez scurvy dogs! Fish be a commodity, d'yez see? ‘Tis the same with shares in ventures, ‘cept yez cannot see, smell or touch what yez be buying or selling. O' course, that may seem addled ‘til I tells yez that ... “

The crew of furacious matelots were becoming less restive, and hanging onto the Captain's words. Blue Peter felt a slight sense of reprieve. The pirates were no longer jostling and calling out. They were listening, some with expressions of knot-browed concentration and open mouths, it was true, but listening nevertheless. The Captain was still talking:

“... coz I was buying into cargoes-in-transit, d'yez see, I was bettin' on a race that was already run! I am a captain o' buccaneers, so's I knows which cargoes were most likely to get safe to port! So's I was gamblin' the loot, surely enough, but gamblin' with loaded dice! Any of yez think perhaps that I should not have done such a terrible
wicked
thing? Har-har! I did not think yez would! And that's not all, shipmates ...”

The crew were paying attention now, and Captain Greybagges shouted down the companionway:

“Bring it up, Chips!”

The ship's carpenter, Jesus-is-my-saviour Chippendale, and the First Mate, Israel Feet, carried an easel and a chalkboard up onto the quarterdeck and set it by the Captain.

“I must be yez schoolmaster! A
pedagogue
! Har-har! My old black hat shall be my mortar-board, ‘pon my soul! Now listen yez to where I hid the treasure, har-har! Yez'll have heard o' banks, shipmates, but here's a few notions about banks that may not have struck yez, look'ee ...”

The Captain spoke on, scrawling diagrams on the chalkboard, tapping them with the chalk to emphasize this or that. The crew were now looking slightly stunned. He is talking for his life, Blue Peter thought, if they think he is doing them down they
will
feed him to the sharks. Why is he risking that? He could have kept them quiet with an occasional handful of
moidores
or
columnarios
, and a few vague promises. That is what Morgan or Teach would have done. Indeed, it is accepted that captains of buccaneers are venal and slippery, that's why they have the crew's respect ... The Captain was scribbling on the chalkboard again:

“Har!
Fungible
! I do loves that word, shipmates!” he tapped the chalk on the board, “for, d'yez sees,
fungible
means
transferrable
, and that do mean that it can go anywhere, like the angel of the Lord that girdled the Earth, hah-har! Consider the fish-market. Iffen yez has a ton o' fish here, then it be the same as a ton o' fish there, providin' all else be equal, so yez don't needs to send a ton of fish if yer can transfer ownership, and then it be
fungible
, d'ye see? Iffen the one ton of fish
there
were old and stinky, then it would not be
fungible
, would it? Not being the same for purposes o' trade, d'yez sees? That be the problem with fish, o' course, it do stink arter a few short days, then it be not
fungible
, it be
olfactible
, har-har-har! But there be things that do not stink arter a few short days. ‘Like what?' sez ye. I could say iron, but then iron do rust, not in days, mebbe, but surely with years. Copper? Copper do not rust, so it do stay
fungible
, but it ain't worth a vast amount. Now yez sees where I be headed! Gold! Gold be the most
fungible
of all things. Iffen yer takes an ounce o' gold and puts it in a bank, then yez goes back later an' takes it out again it do not matter if it is not the same ounce of gold, only if it be the same weight and the same fineness, and yez can test gold easily with yer teeth, as yez all knows, or on a touchstone. Ah! Gold! Yez all loves gold, but yez forgets that it is
fungible
, so yez do! A chest o' gold buried on a distant isle has not lost its
value
, but it has lost its
fungibility
as ye cannot spend it. The only way to return the fungibility is to have a
treasure map
- har-har-har, that perked summa yez up! - but that be just a piece o' paper, an' who knows iffen it tells the truth? A note upon a bank, d'yez see, to be
paid
in gold, is better than a treasure map. It still be a piece o' paper, but the gold is more likely to be real. And the chest is not buried on an island, no, shipmates, it is as though that chest o' gold was buried right under yer feet and followed yez around, always right under yer feet,
fungible
d'ye see? Nice and handy when yer needs it, but nicely out of sight when yez do not.”