Greenbeard (9781935259220) (20 page)

“Mr Docklefar has a prodigious knowledge of ships, and that small facsimile is cunningly wrought so that it cannot be easily categorised or given a name. An amusing enigma for sailors to ponder and dispute over. Why! One could claim the lower gun-ports were really unused oar-holes and it thus could be a dromond or even a galleass!”

“How it is put inside is no mystery,” said Mr Benjamin. “One's first thought is that the bottle has been cracked open and then re-joined with a transparent spiritous glue, but even the finest shellac has a slight yellow tinge and there is no sign of that. The ship must necessarily have entered through the neck of the bottle, therefore. I think I can see how that could be done, but I shall forbear to say more. Is Alf Dockelfar the only manufacturer of such trifles?”

“Alf claims to be the originator of the art, but others have followed his example,” said the Captain. “A tar can work on such a thing in a berth below decks and keep it in his seamen's chest between-times, alike to scrimshaw work on bones and on walrus-ivory. Many of the bottled argosies in his emporium were made by sailormen. He acts as a sort of pawnbroker for them, gives loans on ‘em and buys and sells ‘em. There is a demand for them in London, as it sees itself as the great mercantile port of the world. I do not doubt that soon there will be a ship in a bottle in every ale-house, every broker's office and on the mantelpiece of every shipping-clerk. He does make models of ships that ain't in bottles. Shipwrights use miniature representations to show to customers what they will be getting for their money. Toys for the children of the wealthy, too, little toy yachts and jolly-boats to sail on duck-ponds. He sells bits and pieces to the other fellows that make little ships. Little anchors of cast printers-lead, little cannon barrels of brass lathed on a watchmaker's turn, that sort of thing, in all sizes.”

“How is it done, then?” said Israel Feet, contemplating the ship in the bottle. “If you knows, Frank, speak plain!”

Frank Benjamin opened his mouth, but Captain Greybagges put up his hand.

“Frank is right to keep his council. Alf Docklefar's art is entertaining for as
long as it mystifies, and what is life without a few mysteries? Thus you have a congenial puzzle to charm you as you slip into the arms of Morpheus, Izzy, for now we must all retire. There will be much to do tomorrow.” The Captain drained his tankard. “The mystery I shall take with me to my bunk is how the devil Alf Dockelfar knew I had two pistols and a knife concealed about me! Good night to you, gentlemen!”

The next morning Captain Sylvestre de Greybags paced the quarterdeck of the pirate frigate
Ark de Triomphe
, dressed once again as a
kapitein van schip
, his head freshly shaven and his beard freshly boot-polished. The last few deliveries of stores were awaited, and the crew were preparing to set sail. He paced the deck impatiently, accompanied by Mr Benjamin.

“Take my advice, Frank. Wait for your sea-water bath until we are actually at sea. Excuse me – belay that there! Yer damn-yer-eyes lubber! Let me sees yuz usin' a grandma's knot like that again an I'll sees the colour of yer liver, yer swab! 'Pon my oath I will! – Sorry, Frank, these young fellows are eager, but sadly ignorant yet. Where was I? Yes, take your bath when we are in the German Ocean, where the water is contaminated only by the sweat of fish. A bath in Thames river-water could easily be fatal to somebody who is not a cockaignie.”

“I've seen the seen the boys swimming off the wharf,” said Mr Benjamin, “but I've also seen what floats by at times. You are right, of course. Why are they called cockaignies?”

“London fellows of the lower orders of society who find themselves in Paris - as some must inevitably do - are observed by the Frenchies to be forever complaining about the food. Why, in Lunnon-town there is roast beef! And roast mutton! And roast capons! And beer! The French populace, much oppressed by their evil king and his greedy aristocrats and so existing upon thin gruel and bread made of sawdust, mock such fellows and say that they must come from
cockagne
, the fabled land of the fairies where there are fountains of sparkling wine and where meat-pies grow on trees. The lowlifes of London have adopted this cognomen with pride, and so refer to themselves thus.”

“Would your ships-in-bottles fellow describe himself as a cockaignie?”

“I should not think so. He craves a degree of respectability, and to call oneself a cockaignie is rather to proudly deny that one has any repectability at all, or indeed any desire for it. It is mostly the young fellows.”

“He cannot be too respectable, not if he can tell that you are carrying concealed weapons.”

“Respectability is something to be attained, surely, even when starting from a state of brutish and light-fingered poverty. Since Alf Docklefar's respectability started when he purchased a pardon from the gallows for piracy he may be assumed to have a keen sense of its monetary value. He has a sharp eye, though, and I dare say his past experience has made him alert to possible trouble. The outline of a pistol against the cloth of a waistcoat is easy to spot if you are looking, I suppose, and very difficult if you do not look, as most people do not look at most things.”

The Captain and Mr Benjamin talked on about the oddities of perception; examples of legerdemain, the obvious frauds which could ensnare even clever people at times, why mirrors turn one side-to-side but not top-to-bottom. Captain Greybagges would occasionally roar curses and instructions at one of the new crewmen.

 

Down below in the dark of the gun-deck Blue Peter and Torvald Coalbiter were patiently explaining the loading, aiming and firing of a cannon to a group of apprentice pirates.

“Safety must be your watchword!” said Blue Peter in his deep rumbling voice. The young pirates nodded cautious agreement; his size, his scarred blue-black face and his filed teeth did not seem to invite discussion. “The idea is, you see, to blow the other ship to pieces, not this one. The gun-deck is prepared for action by wetting the planking, by hanging wet sacks over doors, by dowsing all lights that are not behind glass and so on, to prevent any spark from entering the powder-magazine. But you yourselves must be prepared for action, too, so that nothing can go amiss with you. You must learn to do your tasks in the right way, tedious though such rote-learning may seem right now. Any questions?”

“Um, cannot we speak more like pirates, if we want to?” said one of the braver apprentices.

“Indeed you can, and Mr Feet the First Mate will be giving you lessons in
the language of the freebooter,” said Blue Peter, improvising, “but he is presently slightly indisposed from a blow on the head. In the meantime it's best not to stand upon ceremony, and to speak as we are able, to avoid confusion.”

Blue Peter was soon sidetracked into an explanation of the First Mate's wound, an account of the night attack and thereby on to an account of the Captain's defeat of Ali the Barber by the cunning twisting of words. Torvald Coalbiter fetched the giant razor and showed it to the apprentice pirates as proof of the tale. They were duly impressed.

“There is much for you to learn about the profession of buccaneering,” said Blue Peter. “It's not all rum and cutlasses and ‘Arr! Me hearties!' There's some of that, of course, but this is a modern pirate-ship, run on progressive principles, so we operate in a more disciplined way than some others, like Captain Blackbeard, for example.” And I hope that accords with what the Captain is planning, thought Peter, whatever it is.

Torvald Coalbiter took up the lesson in Blue Peter's silence, and repeated his tale about his name, and the virtues of avoiding trouble if there was no profit in it. Some of the apprentice pirates disagreed mildly on philosophical grounds, pointing out that if piracy were too well-organised it would be the same as serving before the mast on a merchant-vessel.

“Why, not at all!” said Coalbiter. “it is the spirit of the thing that counts! And all enterprises require a degree of efficiency or they will not work at all! For example, the modern pirate has to be alert to the possibilities arising from the fast transport of information. He must be, or be beached or hanged, else! Even the beserkers, who I have just disparaged for their stupidity, knew full-well the value of an efficient postal system. My uncle Erik Bloodsausage used to recite a poem to us when we were little, just to remind us of this inescapable fact.”

 

Torvald Coalbiter drew himself up, and declaimed:

His words being being proven true at that very moment, as a last packet of post was passed to Captain Greybagges even as the mooring-cables were slipped from the bollards. A small group of apprentice-boys went ashore and disappeared into the crowds on the wharf, and the gangplank was drawn up. Hired boats slowly pulled the
Ark de Triomphe
out into the stream, turning her to go south-southeast with the current and tide. Captain Sylvestre de Greybags paid them with coins thrown from the quarterdeck rail and an exchange of friendly insults. Bulbous Bill Bucephalus howled at the men in the rigging and the topsails dropped and unfurled to catch the slight breeze, the convenient easterly breeze. Within ten minutes the
Ark de Triomphe
turned the bend of the river looping back around the Isle of Dogs and was lost from sight.

A horse rode to the edge of the wharf, and its rider dismounted and looked at the empty quay where the
Ark de Triomphe
had been. A tall angular man in a long black cloak and a battered black slouch hat, his lower face hidden by a scarf to ward off the dust of the road, his eyes in the shadow of the hat-brim. He asked a nearby idler to confirm the name of the ship so recently set sail, his voice deep and harsh. The idler acknowledged that the ship had indeed been the
Groot Ombeschaamheid
, a Dutch merchantman out of Rotterdam, then moved away from the stranger as quickly as he could without seeming to hurry, unsettled by the man's abrupt question and angry manner. The man remounted his horse in one agile movement like an experienced cavalry-trooper, swinging a heavy boot over the horse's rump, his black cloak flapping. The horse whickered and pranced sideways a few steps, but the black-clad figure mastered it instantly and swung it round so he could stare once more down the river before he turned the horse and rode away. The idler looked back over his shoulder, and as he did a chance ray of the early sun slid under the brim of the black slouch hat and lit the face of the man.

The idler went into one of the taverns facing onto the wharf and bought a large measure of gin. It must just have been a trick of the light, he told himself as he gulped the gin. Nobody has green eyebrows.

“
I
do not like these birds,” said Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo. “They resemble the misbegotten offspring of a vulture and a pelican, and they have a malevolent stare. They look like they ought to have teeth in their beaks.” He aimed a kick at one of the birds, which avoided the blow easily with a sideways hop, stared at him malevolently with a yellow eye, croaked ‘awk!' then flapped away through the cold drizzling rain towards the river, its orange webbed feet dangling.

“The locals say they are called ‘snappers', but they are properly called Liver birds,” said Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges. “They are only found around the Liver Pool and nowhere else, so it is a reasonable sort of name. Not a name like ‘warriangle' or ‘merganser', which are meaningless. A merganser does not ‘merganse', does it?”

“The warriangle is the red shrike, also called the butcher-bird, or the worrier, or the throttler,” said Frank Benjamin, trudging behind them, trying to keep his cloak wrapped around himself against the wind and rain. “Warriangle is but a corruption of
wurgengel
, which is German for ‘destroying angel'. I do not know why they have such a reputation, for they are an attractive bird. Unlike these ugly things.” He waved a walking-stick at another Liver bird as it skimmed past on the wind, squawking.

“They sound the same as the damned inhabitants of this God-forsaken place,” said Blue Peter, “as though they have a head-cold, like the Londoners but worse. I had thought London to be a cold and miserable place, but I see it now as fairly tropical. I am surprised palm trees do not grow on Tilbury Dock.”