Greenbeard (9781935259220) (3 page)

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 Y
e 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.