Greenbeard (9781935259220) (14 page)

“Should we raise anchor and leave, then?”

The Captain was again lost in thought for a while.

“No. They will not try again. The Barbery corsairs are not a navy, they are pirates alike to us. Admiral of the fleet or not,
myneer
Veenboer cannot antagonise his captains willy-nilly, and Muhammed has had me as a guest in his home - an invited guest, too - so he will lose face by this. If it had succeeded it would be a
fait accompli
, and Muhammed would have been obliged to keep still about it, but it did not succeed, so Veenboer will pretend he knew nothing of it, and will ransom Mr Benjamin tomorrow - sorry, today - as agreed. Poor Mr Benjamin will be roughed-up, I am sure, to find out if he knows why I want him, but he does not know why, so he cannot tell them. The ransom is substantial, though, so they will not do Mr Benjamin any permanent harm, I hope.”

“Why
do
you want Mr Benjamin, Captain?” said Blue Peter.

Captain Greybagges winked and tapped his nose with a forefinger.

“I can only answer such questions when I have myself a banyan day, and I shall need one soon enough, I feel. Double the watches until we leave this place. I'm going to try and get another couple of hours of shut-eye. Tomorrow may be a trying day.”

 

 

Blue Peter slept no more that night, and frankly admired the Captain's ability to do so. Israel Feet was still unconscious, a wound to the back of his head where he had been clubbed, but Bill said he could feel no bones moving in the skull and that both the pupils of his eyes were the same size.

“Where did you learn the surgeon's arts?” Blue Peter asked him.

“Boxing ring,” said Bill. “The other three are not so bad. Lumps on their heads like goose-eggs, mind yer. The main-top look-out had come down from the mast, the stupid bugger, to wait for the end o' his watch, so they were all four on deck, and they came over the side real quiet and quick, all dressed in black wif they faces a-blacked-up, and a-clobbered ‘em. Lucky the Captain heard something. They musta been wearing black breastplates, too, coz I heard the musket-balls bounce offen ‘em, but I didn't see no glim.”

“Old Spanish trick,” said Blue Peter. “The breastplate is warmed over coals
and pitch melted and smeared on to it. It can be done quickly, if a night attack is needed. Unless they were lacquered, of course, but that would make them hot in the sun of the broad day.”

 

 

The sun of the broad day rose, and Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges awoke. Mumblin' Jake shaved his head, mumbling that maybe he should use that big razor, har-har! Then made coffee as the Captain dressed in black and armed himself.

“How is Izzie?” he asked, when Bulbous Bill and Blue Peter joined him for breakfast.

“Still out cold, but he be a-mutterin' and a-movin' a little. Others just have headaches and lumps, like.” Bill attended to his bacon and eggs.

Captain Greybagges finished his plate, spread butter and marmalade on toast and poured himself another mug of coffee.

“Bill, I wishes you to bring the barky closer inshore, now it is daylight, so that Blue Peter's guns can cover the piece of flat ground next to the harbour wall. I will make the exchange there, not bringing the ransom on-shore until they produce Mr Benjamin in reasonable condition. Peter, load grape, chain and musket-balls. If there is any funny business and I am killed - for I have no mind to pull a galley-oar - then you must sweep the ground clear and make your escape as best you can. I hope the threat will be enough, though. When Mr Benjamin will be brought I do not know, but the later the better, as I intend to sail immediately he is aboard, and the closer to dusk that is, the happier I will be. A pursuit, even with galleys, is more trying in the dark, and the wind then will be strong from the shore. When I am ashore you must keep a watch on me with spy-glasses, at least two at all times, but do not neglect to keep a sharp look-out to seaward. Perhaps last night's caper will keep the crew a little more on their toes today. Who came down from the mast early from look-out?”

“Jemmy Ducks, Cap'n,” sighed Bill.

“I will have to punish him, you know,” said the Captain, “but do not scare him to death before I do that. A lump on the head and the ill-will of the rest of the crew are nearly punishment enough, perhaps, and he is young, so I will not be unduly harsh.”

Blue Peter and Bulbous Bill watched the longboat as it went to the harbour wall, Blue Peter peering through a long Dolland spy-glass. Captain Greybagges clambered up onto the quay followed by Loomin' Len and four of the bully-boys. Two stayed in the longboat, cutlasses across their knees and pistols in their hands and their belts. Through the spy-glass Blue Peter could see the Captain clearly, but the field of view was narrow.

“Here comes Muhammed,” said Bill.

Blue Peter shifted the spy-glass a trifle.

“
Caramba!
What a beautiful horse!”

Blue Peter watched as Muhammed al-Berberi rode to the Captain on a magnificent black horse. Four mounted corsairs in bright breastplates and white turbans followed him, but he waved them away, swung down from the horse before it had stopped, and strode to the Captain his arms held wide to show he was unarmed. The bully-boys were not impressed and moved to cover Captain Greybagges, but the Captain gestured to them and stepped forward to meet the corsair captain.

“Damn! Here's trouble!” squeaked Bill.

Blue Peter scanned with the spy-glass; a group of corsairs coming onto the open ground. He moved his view back to Muhammed; the corsair captain was shouting and pointing. He looked at the corsair party again; they were spreading out to occupy the ground, some with long matchlock
jezails
, some with scimitars, a squad with pikes were poking them into the scrubby bushes, the mounted corsairs were scouting the edges of the ground.

“I think it is alright, Bill. I think Muhammed is protecting our Captain.” Blue Peter felt a sharp sense of relief, but he continued scanning with the spy-glass. He risks his life and pays much gold, thought Blue Peter, to get this fellow, and I do not know why. I have more confidence in him now, but I am still perturbed by his tale of monsters. The Captain slapped Muhammed on the back and clambered back into the longboat, leaving two bully-boys on the quay. The longboat came back to the ship. Captain Greybagges climbed aboard.

“Well!” he said, “I was right. Muhammed was affronted, and intends to prevent further capers. He says that Suleyman Reis smoothly denies all knowledge,
and that Mr Benjamin will be brought along presently. He exacted a price, though, for his friendship. He wishes to play a game of cricket, corsairs against pirates, for a wager.”

“What is the wager?” asked Blue Peter.

“A ha'penny. One half of an English penny. Peter, would you like to be captain? I feel it would be bad form for me to do it.”

“Well, yes, I suppose I could...”

“Excellent! Go and pick another nine men. Volunteers, but I will give each man a sovereign if we win.”

A bewildered Blue Peter went below, to find a cricket team.

“Bill, I will have to leave you in charge,” said the Captain.

“S'alright Cap'n. I be more of a boxin', wrestlin' and racin' man, meself, like. I do like a bet, yer sees, but cricket be too long to wait for a result.”

“The situation seems to have eased somewhat, and Muhammed seems to be my ally, but do still keep a very sharp look-out.”

Captain Greybagges went below and came up with his cricket-bag, wearing his old straw hat. The longboat ferried the cricket team ashore in two journeys. Bulbous Bill Bucephalus watched, occasionally peering through the spy-glass, the pirate crew watched from the cross-yards.

What a tedious game cricket is, thought Bulbous Bill, but the lads do look fine in their grey trousers, red shirts and straw hats, and here is Muhammed al-Berberi's team, all in blue with orange turbans, they must be picked from his thirty-nine thieves. He peered through the spy-glass; yes, they are clean-shaven, but some with stubble today. But what is this? Jan Janszoom is with them, the dog! I am surprised he has showed his face. Why! He must be the captain of the corsair team; he and Blue Peter are tossing a coin.

The pirates went to bat, the corsairs spreading out as fielders. The
clack
of bat hitting ball was muted by distance, but still audible. Bill noticed that the noise came almost a second after the impact, and, brows furrowed, calculated an approximation of the velocity of sound; a little over six hundred knots, a prodigious and unimaginable speed. The morning passed. There was one alarm from the maintop when sails were seen on the horizon, but it was just a felucca. In the late morning Bill passed the spy-glass to one of the steersmen and went on a tour of the ship. All was in order, the gun-deck temporarily under the eye of
Torvald Coalbiter, the cannon loaded, primed and laid to cover the ground. Bill returned to the quarterdeck.

On shore the game was at half-time. Muhammed al-Berberi's men had erected a marquee, and the teams were having refreshments. I should have liked to taste them sherbets, thought Bill, they say they are very tasty, especially with the sun high and hot, as it is. He peered through the spy-glass; the Captain and Muhammed were conversing, Captain Greybagges miming a stroke with a cricket-bat.

Play resumed with the corsairs in to bat. The afternoon wore on. Bill did not pay much attention to the game, except when Captain Greybagges was bowling to Muhammed al-Berberi. He ain't a-givin' him no mercy, thought Bill, that ‘un were a scorcher, if I ain't mistook. Another sail on the horizon; another felucca with a lateen rig.

There was an outburst of ill-tempered chatter and a few groans from the crew, some sitting on cross-yards, some leaning on the shore-side rails.

“Whassup?” Bill asked a steersman. The pirate gave him a sideways look.

“The corsairs have won, curse ‘em!”

Bill continued his watch on the shore. Well, I'll be damned! thought Bill, the dog Janszoon has gone to shake Blue Peter's hand, the tom-fool! Grinning like an ape, he is. Har-har! Blue Peter has crushed his hand! There he goes holding it, Muhammed laughing alike to a drain, the corsairs grinning. Har-har! Who is this arriving? It must be Suleyman Reis. Yes, that would be him, in the big turban. There is a man who drinks far more than is good for him, a nose as red as a beetroot. That must be this Mr Benjamin fellow. He has a black eye, but he still has his scrub-wig and his eye-glasses; they must have taken them off him before they clobbered him. The Captain is coming to the longboat with some of the cricket team.

The longboat came to the ship. The Captain went below with two bully-boys and returned on deck with a small wooden chest. The bully-boys lowered it into the longboat.

“Bill, I shall send back Mr Benjamin and the rest of the team,” said the Captain, “and then return myself. Start raising the anchor when I'm on my way back, and we will set to sea straight away.”

The longboat splashed away. Captain Greybagges and Muhammed al-Berberi stood on the quay.

“I am grateful for your help and support, Muhammed. I hope this will not bring you trouble from your admiral.”

“Maybe, but I do not think it matters. Suleyman Reis or Salomo de Veenboer, he cannot decide which he wants to be, and it weakens him. He also lets his greed outgrow his wits. The treacherous assault on your ship was a mistake; what use is it to have persons to ransom if you cannot be trusted to make the exchange? Pah! You and I are pirates, Sylvestre, so we do bad things sometimes, but we are not bad men, not at heart. Suleyman Reis pretends to be a muslim. His mouth repeats words but he does not listen to what they are saying. He hears ‘
lâ hawla wa lâ quwwata illâ billâh
' - ‘there is no transformation or power except through Allah' - every day, but he still believes that who he is, Dutchman or Barbary corsair, is within his power to choose, and that he has power enough to order the world the way he would like it to be, but he cannot, so his time as admiral may be short.”

“What will you do with Ali the Barber?”

“The crew still need a mullah, but first Ali Nasruddin will learn some humility at the oar.”

“Will you grow your beard now?”

“Beard, no beard, I don't know. Maybe I shall shave my beard to the bottom of my ears ... so ... and grow a big moustache.”

“That might suit you. Perhaps you will start a fashion throughout the whole Ottoman empire! The longboat comes, Muhammed. I must go. Thank you again for your help and your friendship. Oh! I nearly forgot. Here are your winnings.”

The Captain solemnly gave Muhammed al-Berberi a ha'penny coin, shook him by the hand and climbed down into the longboat. As the rowers pulled towards the ship Muhammed al-Berberi called after him:

“
Lâ hawla wa lâ quwwata illâ billâh!
Remember that, Sylvestre! There is no transformation or power except through Allah!”

“
H
e is suffering from
commotio cerebri
, I should think,” said Mr Frank Benjamin, a tall portly man with a gloomy face, made more gloomy by a black eye, and
pince-nez
spectacles upon the end of his large nose.

“That would be the Latin,” said Bulbous Bill Bucephalus.

“Yes, it is Latin for ‘he has been hit on the head', you see.”

“Stop talkin' like I'm not here, ye scurvy hounds!” whispered Israel Feet, his head swathed in a bandage.

“That be the way doctors talk, Izzie,” said Bill.

“You bain't be a doctor.”

“Yes, but me an' Mr Benjamin are trying to be doctors, so it follers that we must act like doctors, if we are to make you well.”