Greenbeard (9781935259220) (4 page)

“You are surely jealous of my finery, Greybagges” sniffed Morgan, twirling around to show off his plum-coloured coat and its gold buttons, epaulettes and braid. “If you had possessed the good sense to accompany me to Panama you would be as grand as myself, surely you would.”

“I be merely a humble gentleman of fortune, Morgan, and I seeks not glory at the cost of the lives of my jolly buccaneers. I am not a captain in the Navy, that has Admirals to please and pressed men to fritter away to get a mention in the London
Times
.” Captain Greybagges shrugged eloquently.

“If you don't please anyone but yourself, boyo, then nobody will want to please you. Why, King Charles himself has asked me to come to London. I hear he wants to dub me Sir Henry Morgan and make me Governor of Jamaica, on account of how my little expedition to Panama has discountenanced the Spaniards so.”

Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges eyebrows went up. “Well, and there is a wonder!” he said. “A gentleman of fortune to be Governor of Jamaikey!” The Captain looked thoughtful. “It may be that the king wants a poacher for a gamekeeper, rather than to reward you for upsetting the Dons, belike. You will not be Sir Henry Bloody Morgan Governor of Jamaikey and yet still be in good standing in the Free Brotherhood of the Coasts.” He indicated Morgan's bullyboys with a wave of his hand. “And yer jolly boys will be dancing a hornpipe for yez one day, and dancing a different hornpipe for yez the very next day. At the end of a rope, methinks. Such is the price of a knighthood, given to yez by King Charles himself with a dab of his little sword on yer shoulder-boards.”

Morgan's face flushed red with rage. “You always were a churlish cully, Greybagges! A mere scribbler for the scandal-sheets! I bid you good-day!” He and his bully-boys swept past them. Israel Feet had to jump back so as not to be jostled.

The three buccaneers watched them as they went. The small Welsh pirate captain strode confidently, his nose in the air. One of his bully-boys looked back at them uncertainly before the crowd closed behind them.

“Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn the jumped-up Welsh fool!” muttered Captain Greybagges, making no attempt to speak like a pirate. “And damn me for not being able to keep my mouth shut.”

“I thought you spoke well and to the point, Captain,” said Blue Peter. “I believe that you planted a seed of concern in the minds of his men, too.”

“I did, but that means he will be able to deal with it, as I have tipped him off in time to what people will say, and that in turn means that he will go to
London
and see the king.” Captain Greybagges sighed. “There was a small chance that I could have talked him out of it. He did trust my judgement in times gone by, when we were shipmates under Captain Flint. If I could have kept my own counsel and then seen him later alone I might have swayed him, but now it's as though I've challenged him publicly, so he will go to the king, damn him. And the king will dub him Sir Henry Bloody Morgan. And the king will make him Governor of Jamaica. And the king will have hired himself a fine poacher as a gamekeeper, a very fine poacher indeed. And the Free Brotherhood of the Coasts will be broken. And England will be united with France and Spain to rid the oceans of the scourge of piracy, which is us.”

“England, France and Spain united?” said Blue Peter. “I thought they all hated each other.”

“They do.” Captain Greybagges sighed again. “Bloody,
Bloody
, Morgan sacked Panama, though, and thus the Spaniards are so weakened on their own Spanish Main that they must make peace with the cursed ungodly English. King Charles, meanwhile, has inherited a bankrupt nation from Noll Cromwell and so must make peace with Louis
le Roi Soleil
, who knows it well, but who cannot take advantage of Charles's penury because he has his own troubles at home in
la belle France
. Thus they can all make common cause against the wicked pirates for a while, and feel a great warm glow of righteousness, the hypocritical sods. They will fall out again soon, of course, but that will be too late for some. We need a treasure now more than ever, my lads. We will need to either retire or keep our heads down for a while, and that will need gold.”

They came to Ye
Halfe Cannonballe
and entered into its dim cool interior.

Bulbous Bill Bucephalus was already seated on a settle at their usual table in the back room, his posterior being too wide for a chair. He was sipping Madeira and chewing on pieces of smoked dried squid from a dish of assorted snacks. The
three buccaneers joined their colleague with gloomy expressions on their faces.

“What cheer d'yez bring us, Bill?” said Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges. “We are in need of some good news to hearten us. And some Madeiry to wet our whistles, too.” He poured himself a glass of the rich brown sweet wine.

“I seen the man Denzil,” said Bulbous Bill, “and got some o' them peppers. Some very special peppers. Very hot, they be.” He sipped the Madeira thoughtfully. “Very hot indeed.” He lowered his voice and tapped the side of his nose. “An' we spoke of the other thing, too.”

Blue Peter got up and walked casually to the taproom door and peered in, then to the door to the front bar. He sat down again and nodded.

“Denzil is agreeable to our suggestion. Grateful for them gold coins, too,” continued Bulbous Bill in a low voice. “He says that he has become pally with a fellow down in them Spanish Americas. The kind o' cully they calls a
brujo
, which is to say a sorcerer or medicine-man. He says them fellows claims to be able to fly like witches and to talk to gods an' devils an' spirits an' the like. He thinks it's all my eye and soft soap, but that all them
brujos
sticks together so they knows a lot of what's a-goin' on, even if it be miles away, d'ye see?” He sipped the Madeira. “Anyways, he says he's a-goin' down there this next week and if anybody knows anything to our advantage it would be them sorcerer fellows, and no mistake. We'll know in a week, mind yez.”

Captain Greybagges looked thoughtful. “Well, messmates, we be hopin' that he comes up trumps, but still keep yez ears open. I reckons we'll take the
Ark de Triomphe
out tomorrow, wind and tides permitting, and sees that everything is shipshape and Bristol-fashion. Something will come along, you marks my words. We must be ready when it does.”

The lieutenants of Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges nodded in agreement, then all four buccaneers sipped their glasses of Madeira in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges stood on the quarterdeck of the
Ark de
Triomphe
as it slipped into the harbour of Port de Recailles, conned with great skill between the stone pillars that flanked the harbourmouth by Bulbous Bill Bucephalus, the sailing-master. The morning light gave a blue tint to the scene, and the air had a slight chill remaining from the cold of the cloudless night.

“Away the sheets!” cried Bulbous Bill, and the sails flapped loose and the frigate slowed. There was a
splash
as the longboat was launched over the side, and soon the frigate was towed to the quay and secured with singled and doubled mooring-cables to the squat stone bollards. There was a purposeful scurrying in the rigging as the crew lashed the furled sails and loosened the stays to put the masts and yards in a shipshape fashion for port.

Captain Greybagges was pleased. The ship and crew had performed well during the six days that they'd been at sea. They had not encountered a fat merchantman to board and plunder, alas. Only a fishing boat, from whom the Captain had purchased a couple of tunny and a swordfish (only a foolish pirate would rob a fisherman; they were the great gossips of the seas and it was best to have them on your side) and very good eating the fish had been, too. The Captain was satisfied, though. The
Ark de Triomphe
and its crew of jolly buccaneers were fit and eager for piracy upon the high seas. If information was received, if a tip-off came their way about treasure suitable for the plundering, they would be ready to act upon it, he was sure.

The Captain retired to the Great Cabin to write the ship's log, after leaving word that the crew could go ashore in parties of six when their duties had been completed. He was writing an article for the newspapers about Morgan's forthcoming knighthood and governorship when Bulbous Bill tapped on the cabin door.

“I shall go and see if the man Denzil is back from them Spanish Americas,” said Bill. “He said he'd be gone a week or so.”

“Aye, Bill, you be about that. Any information about some fat galleons a-waitin' to be plucked would be right welcome. The crew be eager and the barky be shipshape, so the sooner we be sailin' off to meet with fortune the better.”

Bulbous Bill nodded and left, and Captain Greybagges continued with the article,
scritch-scratch
. He needed to pitch it just right; he must not sound carping or jealous of the bloody jumped-up Welshman's success - in fact he must wish him well - but he did need to point out the possible danger to the sea-rovers of
the Free Brotherhood of the Coasts, and yet the writing must be humourous and light. It really ought to be in the post today, too, lest some other scribe scoop him.
Scritch-scratch
.

That evening Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges sat in the back room of Ye
Halfe Cannonballe
tavern sharing a jug of ale with Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo. He reached into the pocket of his black coat and pulled out a pistol.

“Here,” he said, pushing the gun across the table to Blue Peter. “Clap yer eyes on this, shipmate.”

Blue Peter examined the pistol. It was a flintlock, but quite lightly built with a smallish bore and a longish barrel. Blue Peter's thick index finder would barely fit through the trigger guard.

“Hmm, is it a woman's gun?” asked Blue Peter. “It is a very light weapon. Very finely made, though. Beautiful chasing, and very elegant, I do declare.”

“It is called a Kentucky pistol,” said Captain Greybagges, “and it is not built for a woman, although a woman could surely fire it. The gunsmiths of Kentuck have their own ideas about guns. They believe that a light gun with a longish barrel is more accurate than a great cannon with a shorter barrel and a great charge o' powder, and so more likely to kill at the first shot. They makes a fine lightweight rifled musket, too. Some calls ‘em
squirrel guns
because the Kentucks loves squirrel pies like we loves rabbit pies, d'ye see? I came across it today in the market when I was out posting a packet to the
Tortugas Times
.”

“I think I see, Cap'n,” said Blue Peter slowly. “You are informing me that the British North American Colonies not only make good firearms, but are so confident of their craft that they will make innovations to suit themselves and their particular circumstances. Furthermore, one might deduce from that that they are dangerous opponents and not to be trifled with in a blithesome or nonchalant fashion.”

“You hits upon my meaning straight off, Peter,” said Captain Greybagges. “Keep yez the pistol to think upon it. If we raids the Colonial fellows we must be well prepared, and will need inside information and a good plan to succeed. I'm sure the ship's smith can braze a bit into the trigger-guard so's you can get yer finger through it.”

The Captain and Blue Peter talked idly about firearms - the difficulty of obtaining pyrites chips for wheel-locks these days, the poor quality of Spanish
musket balls, the dubious superiority of Damascus-twist jezail barrels - until Israel Feet and Bulbous Bill Bucephalus arrived. The First Mate was bright red in the face and apparently incapable of speech.

“I gave him one of Denzil's peppers. The new ones what looks like a little Scotsman's hat. Them peppers is awful hot,” said Bulbous Bill. “I warned him, but he just said ‘Har! Har!' an' et it whole.”

Israel Feet filled a mug with ale and drank it all, then drank another. His face became less red and his eyes less bugged. “Arrrrgh!” he said in a hoarse voice. Tears streamed down his face. Captain Greybagges called to the serving-maid to bring another jug of ale. The buccaneers watched Israel Feet as he slowly downed yet another pint of ale, wiped his eyes and blew his nose on a cotton handkerchief and said “Arrrrgh!” several times more.

“Izzie, me ole fighting-cock, we all knows that ye be a hairy-arsed matelot and as hard as a Chinese riddle,” said Captain Greybagges kindly, “so yez don't need to prove it, especially by fighting with vegetables.” Blue Peter and Bulbous Bill chuckled and Israel Feet looked daggers at them through still-teary eyes.

“Well, Izzie cannot speak yet, but he can listen,” said Bulbous Bill, “so perhaps I might tell yez what the man Denzil had to say, though it be not great good news.”