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.
“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 t
he 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.”
Blue Peter got up and checked the taproom and front bar for potential eavesdroppers and sat back down, nodding for Bulbous Bill to continue.
“The man Denzil has spoke with his brujo pal,” Bulbous Bill said in a low voice, his fellow-buccaneers leaning forward to listen. “It would seem that them sorcerers are just as fond o’ a golden coin as anybody else, so he was willin’ to pass along anything he might hear. Trouble is, he’s only heard of a fleet carryin’ crockery. Seems to me that crockery is hardly worth our effort to plunder, but yez may think otherwise.”
“Hmm, crockery,” mused Blue Peter. “It has a ready market, that cannot be denied. It is not of great intrinsic value, though, even if it is fine porcelain from far Cathay, embellished with blue-painted scenes of that mysterious land. Bulky and breakable, too. Not the easiest of loot to plunder and transport.”
“Tell me, Bill,” said Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges slowly, “did your friend Denzil actually say ‘crockery’? Did he use that precise word?”
“Why, no, Cap’n,” said Bulbous Bill. “He said it were plates.”
Captain Greybagges looked at Bulbous Bill for several seconds, then he began to laugh. He laughed until his face turned red, he laughed until he had a coughing fit and Blue Peter had to pound him on the back. His three lieutenants stared at him in amazement. At last he gained control of himself, blowing his nose on a black silk handkerchief pulled from his sleeve. He shook his head, still grinning, and put a finger to his lips.
“Oh, Bill! But you are a caution, and no mistake!” He gestured for them to lean closer to him and whispered “It is surely the Spanish Plate Fleet. Plate meaning silver, from the Spanish plata. Oh, my! This is a great good fortune indeed!”
The Captain’s three lieutenants stared at him open-mouthed, then, as the meaning of his words came clear to them, their open mouths curved into great smiles. Great wolfish piratical smiles.
“Oh deary me!” whispered Blue Peter, “I am ashamed that I did not spot that. Plate, of course, from the Spanish plata, meaning silver, from the Greek plato, meaning wide. Obvious when one sees it.”
“How come wide gets to mean silver? Look’ee.” said Israel Feet in a hoarse voice, his throat still burning from the pepper.
“It is because the minting of coins involves taking little lumps of silver and b
ashing them flat with a hammer. Thus they are made wide, and the word has come to mean all silver in Spanish when once it meant just coinage.” said Blue Peter. “The silver of the Plate Fleet will be mainly in ingots, though, each one weighing sixteen and one-half pounds. I’ve seen them before, and they are a very cheery sight to a gentleman of fortune, a very cheery sight indeed. The Spanish Plate Fleet sails once a year and takes the whole year’s production of silver from the Spanish Americas to King Carlos’s treasurehouse in Bilbao. That is a large quantity of silver by any standards.”
The four freebooters considered this in silence for several minutes, occasionally sipping their mugs of ale and staring into space.
“Tell me, Bill,” said Captain Greybagges at last, “did your pal tell you the times of the sailin’ and the routes that the fleet may take?”
“Nope, but he did say that the fleet will be anchorin’ overnight in Nombre Dios Bay on the third of next month.”
The Captain favoured Bulbous Bill with a smile and a nod. He reached inside his black coat and brought out a small book. A Jolly Roger and the words Ye Lett’s Pirate’s Diary were tooled in gold on its black leather binding. Captain Greybagges thumbed through the diary.
“Well, shiver me timbers, here is luck!” he exclaimed. “That night is a night of no moon. It’s just before the autumn storms, too, so there’s a good chance there will be an overcast sky. A moonless clouded night, and the silver fleet will be anchored over the bones of Sir Francis Drake, who was buried at sea in Nombre Dios Bay, stitched into his hammock betwixt two cannonballs, it is said. These are indeed good omens, me hearties!”
The buccaneers sat back and grinned at each other, the prospect of plundering a vast pile of silver bars warming their piratical hearts like pints of hot rum-toddy.
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