Greenbeard (9781935259220)

by Bentley, Richard James

  Blue Peter emptied his glass in a single gulp, and refilled it from the rum-bottle.

  “Now please explain about your beard, Captain,” he said, “and how it was made green.”

  “It isn’t my beard, is how,” said the Captain. “Each filament of it is an extramundane creature, especially bred to replace the hairs of my beard. They draw sustenance from my body, and I can feel them as though they are strange nerves. The Glaroon had them put on me, as I was his butler. They are sensitive to certain emanations, and so could be used to call me, or to tell me things over a distance.”

  “I find that very disturbing. Does it hurt?”

  “No. It was agony when they were growing into my face, replacing the hairs at their roots, but they don’t hurt now. In fact, I am rather fond of them ... or It. I could not have escaped without the Beard. It talked to the library of the Glaroon’s mansion on Mars, so to speak, and I was able to learn enough about saucers to navigate my way back through space and time to Nombre Dios Bay. The sun is setting. We must go back to the barky soon enough. Ask the question which is on your lips.”

  “The question on the lips of every crewman aboard the Ark de Triomphe,” said Blue Peter, “and the one asked in the awful poem; ‘whether anybody knew where he had buried his pelf ’.”

  “Nowhere,” said the Captain, “and yet everywhere. As the treasure came in I converted it to financial instruments - banker’s draughts, letters of credit, stocks and shares - as fast as I ever could. You may remember that many of the prize cargoes were goods anyway - flour, wine, whale oil, saltpetre, mercury in greased goatskin bags, even a cargo of porcelain plates! - Eddie Teach would have insisted on payment in gold, if he could even be bothered to take and sell such merchandise, and would have taken a discount for so doing. I traded them instead for shares in cargoes-in-transit and the like until I could get the money safely berthed in a bank, or rather in several banks in several countries. I don’t like the idea of burying a chest of gold on an island. It seems a little foolish, especially when one can get two-and-a-half percent at Coutts and the stock-market is booming. Don’t tell the Free Brotherhood of the Coasts that I said that, mind you!”

  “What are you going to do with the money?” Blue Peter said, pouring the last of the rum into his glass.

  “The influential extramundanes are a mixed bunch, much like your Colonials, I suppose, Peter. There was one, Great Cthulhu, who is the ugliest bugger I ever did see. Alike to a big scaly daemon with the head of a squid, he is. Tentacles waving about like the Medusa’s snakey hair. He was a half-decent old cove in some ways, though. Lent me a book by some mad old Arab, Abdul al something-or-other. I have a great dislike of the Glaroon, though, and a grudge, too. I was the Glaroon’s butler, which was bearable for the most part, but slave-owners are all alike, d’you see? whether they be Colonials or extramundanes. When the Glaroon had parties, he’d put me out the front to greet the guests - ‘Hello, sir! and welcome to the mansion of the Glaroon!’ - dressed in a little blue sailor suit, and I intend to have my revenge for upon him that!

  “I have spent much of the treasure on my plan to avenge myself, but there is plenty left. I have set up a pension fund for the crew, but don’t tell anybody yet.”

  Captain Greybagges stood up, stretched, and started packing the picnic things.

  “It is in my mind to tell the crew about the money soon, at a share-out meeting. I think they will be pleased with the arrangements that I have made - if I can get the wooden-headed sods to understand what I have done for them - and will consequently be easily enthused by my plan to punish the Glaroon, about which they need to know nothing just yet, not even that there is a plan. If my plan succeeds there will be more loot, more pelf, more boodle, more treasure than even Croesus himself ever dreamed of. Enough to make Morgan’s raid on Panama seem mere apple-scrumping. I’ll have to tell Izzie and Bill something of this business, too, but I think that must be slowly, as we go, lest they become ... unsettled. I welcome your advice on that; on what, how and how much to tell them and when, but sleep on it first, it’s a lot for you to comprehend. Come on, let’s go!”

  Blue Peter was silent as they loaded the skiff and pushed it into the sea, small waves lapping around their bare feet.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been obliged to tell you all this, Peter - ignorance is bliss, indeed! - but I need your help with this, your involved help. And who else could I tell first? I nearly told Bill once or twice, for the navigating has given him a fine head for the arithmetic and the geometry, so the time-and-space stuff might be easier for him. Izzie? He is my oldest shipmate, and before that my articled clerk when I was in chambers, but any notion of six-legged reptiles would drive him straight to the bottom of the nearest rum-bottle. You are the cleverest of us four, Peter, so it had to be you.”

  The Captain pulled the oars. Blue Peter remained silent for a while. The sun was setting against a mauve sky, its orange light dappling the ocean like a fiery path to the horizon.

  “Captain,” he said at last, “what are these lizard-creatures called?”

  “Why, we called them ‘lizards’, or ‘the lizard people’, Peter.”

  “Do they have a name for themselves?”

  “I’m sure they do, but I don’t know it. Anyway, I can’t do bird impressions.”

  They clambered up the side of the Ark de Triomphe in the quick-growing dark. The pirate crew had lit lanterns, casting yellow pools of light in the purple twilight. Some of the pirates were sprawled on the deck, or sitting on bollards or guns, eating their supper. They muttered ‘good evenings’ to the Captain and Blue Peter, intent on their beef-stew, bread and beer.

  “Arr! Bon appetit, shipmates, wi’ a curse!” answered the Captain.

  The rest of the crew would be below, eating their meals between the cannons in the gundeck messes, on boards hung from the deckheads on ropes. When the wooden bowls were scraped clean with hunks of bread and cleared away greasy packs of cards would appear, and draughts-boards made of canvas squares, and sly rum-flasks would pass from hand to hand. Captain Greybagges could smell the aroma of the stew, the smoke from the cook’s charcoal oven, tar, sweat, sawn timber; the frigate’s reassuring fragrance. He turned to Blue Peter.

  “A toddy, Master Gunner?”

  “No, Captain. I find that I am weary, and you’ve given me much to think about. I shall go to my cottage.”

  “I shall set sail tomorrow, on the afternoon tide. We shall be away from Recailles for some months, so make arrangements for your horse. Good night, Peter.” The Captain went down below to the Great Cabin in the stern.

  Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo rode the old Percheron mare up the winding road away from Porte de Recailles, the sky now inky-blue above him, the moon yet to rise. The horse seemed to know its way in the dark, so Blue Peter let it plod, and mused as he rocked gently on its back, looking up at the bright stars. There is Venus, he thought. Are there strange creatures dwelling upon it? Or upon Orion’s belt? All this is madness! Yet there is the indisputable fact of the Captain’s green beard. His account is not without points of reference, either. There are tales of fellows spirited away to the Land of Faerie, returning years later, no older. There are tales of men and women aging overnight; one day young and hale, the next morning ancient, sere and white-haired, and sometimes babbling. The myths of the Greeks, also, full of monsters, ‘tentacles waving about like the Medusa’s snakes’, as the Captain himself had said. Legends of flying chariots, too, and all kinds of supposedly-mythical beasts; daemons, hobgoblins, ogres, kobolds, fetches, lemures, dragons, wyverns, basilisks, yales, golems, bunyips and bugaboos ... The Captain’s teratological narrative provided a possible basis for these fables, an exegesis of their provenance, at least...

  The old horse, sensing Blue Peter’s unease, skittered sideways a trifle. Blue Peter muttered soothingly and patted its neck.

  His account squares with the things he muttered whilst comatose during the flight of the Ark de Triomphe from Nombre Dios Bay, though
t Blue Peter, but that is no confirmation. If his wits were addled from his experience, as they undoubtedly were, then he may have entered a state of delusion, or fugue, and his memories would be false, experienced as in a dream yet recalled as though real ... I am a pirate, thought Blue Peter, yet I cannot find a curse-word strong enough to express my frustration and dismay with this. My instincts are at odds with my reason. Still worse, my reason is at odds with my reason, and my instincts at war with my instincts. He rode on up the hill in the darkness, towards his cottage, deep in thought, the bright stars twinkling above him.

  Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges sat at his desk in the Great Cabin, an oil lamp spilling yellow light onto his ledgers and account-books. The abacus went click-clack and his goose-quill pen went scritch-scratch as he worked, a tankard of hot punch and a dish of sweet biscuits at his elbow. When he had finished the accounting and the letter-writing that he had interrupted earlier that day he closed the books and locked them away, rubbed his face with his hands, drained the tankard, changed into a black nightshirt and nightcap and went to bed in the hanging bunk, falling instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Blue Peter’s slumbers were racked by nightmares. A six-legged reptile with chameleon eyes cheated him at cards. A daemon with the head of a squid danced a quadrille with the Medusa. Saucers, cups, teapots, plates, chafing-dishes, tureens and porringers whizzed around his head, trailing sparks like thrown grenadoes. In the quiet of the small cottage he twisted and turned, sweating and moaning, the woven ropes of his charpoy-bed creaking.

  He awoke late the following morning, the sun already high, feeling surprisingly clear-headed. He put sticks on the banked-in fire in the kitchen stove, blew on it carefully, and added charcoal when it sputtered back into flame. He filled a copper kettle from the well in the yard, set it upon the stove, then drew another bucket of cold water and washed, shaving with a Spanish blued-steel razor, a small mirror of polished silver placed upon the well-hoist. The kettle whistled in the cottage kitchen and he made coffee, setting the pot on the side of the stove to brew as he dressed. To his very slight surprise, he found that he had dressed himself for battle; loose red cotton shirt, brown moleskin breeches, a green coat with japanned buttons, a sash of multicoloured silk, grey hose and comfortable well-worn buckled shoes with hob-nailed soles. He found that his decision was made; whatever scheme Captain Greybagges was planning he must support it. If the Captain was right, then he would need all the help he could get, but if the Captain was deluded then only as a confederate, as a close confidante and as a friend would he be able to prevent disaster for the Captain, for himself and for the ship and crew. His way lay clear before him, if not exactly obstacle-free. He drank a mug of coffee, then slid the cutlass with the knuckle-duster grip into his sash, and then the cannon-barrelled horse-pistol and the elegant Kentucky pistol. He packed his things into a rectangular wooden sea-chest and a canvas sack, tied them together with rope and slung them over the horse’s hind-quarters. He shuttered and locked the cottage and hid the key in the outhouse, clapped a brown tricorne hat on his head and mounted the old Percheron mare, using the stone horse-trough as a step, and rode away from his cottage without a backward glance.

  At a neighbour’s farm he stopped and, after a little negotiation and the passing of a silver thaler, obtained an agreement that a weather-eye would be kept upon his cottage and that the Percheron mare would be collected from the yard of Ye Halfe-Cannonballe tavern and looked after until his return. Blue Peter considered his neighbour a shifty fellow, but reckoned that the generous payment, his size, his profession and a second or so of eye-contact accompanied by a grin of his filed teeth would be sufficient to prevent curiosity about the contents of his dwelling-place or mistreatment of his horse, unless it became apparent that he would not be returning.

  “Ay-oop! The Blue Boy cometh!” said Jemmy Ducks, “and he has girded himself for war!” He swung himself from the mainmast top onto the rat-lines by the futtock-shrouds. His friend Jack Nastyface followed through the lubber-hole.

  “War? What?” he said, as they clambered down.

  “He be wearing the old green coat,” said Jemmy Ducks.

  “Now you are an authority on gentlemen’s attire,” said Jack Nastyface. “Why are you yourself such a ragamuffin, then?”

  “Green coat he wears so’s he don’t get powder-burns on his finery,” explained Jemmy Ducks, patiently, “thou mutt. ‘Tis on the cards that we be sailin’ on t’afternoon ebb.”

  They reached the deck and went below as Blue Peter strode up the gangplank.

  “Now, listen, shipmates!” said Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges in a strong clear voice.

  The pirate crew of the Ark de Triomphe were assembled in the waist of the frigate, or seated on the convenient lower yard of the mainmast. Captain Greybagges paced the quarterdeck, dressed in his full pirate-captain’s rig; black tricorne hat upon a black scarf, black justaucorps coat with jet buttons and turned-back cuffs, black breeches, black sea-boots and a thick black leather belt with an assortment of weapons thrust into it. His long grass-green beard was resplendent in the rays of the low sun.

  “You may be a-wonderin’ why I have dropped anchor here, we havin’ only just sailed from port two hours since,” the Captain said, “but this anchorage do seem to me to be a fine spot, har-har! It be sheltered. It be quiet. It be a fine spot for a share-out meeting, be it not, shipmates?”

  A ripple of interest stirred the buccaneers. Conversations stopped. Jack Nastyface desisted from poking Jemmy Ducks in the ribs. Jemmy Ducks ceased kicking Jack Nastyface in the shins. The cook’s head emerged from the starboard companionway, where he could hear and yet watch his pots.

  “The rules for a share-out according to the Free Brotherhood of the Coasts sez that it must be in gold, silver, coinage or articles o’ rare worth, an’ nought else besides,” bellowed the Captain, “an’ also that oppurtoonity - reasonable oppurtoonity - be allowed for the crew to bury their shares on a island or upon a remote shore. I am not going to abide by them rules, curse ‘em!”

  A rumble of discontent came from the crew. Oaths were muttered.

  “You old robber! Trying to do us up very brown!” came a voice from the back of the crew.

  “’Pon my soul, Jack Nastyface, I shall do thyself up browner than a Manx kipper iffen thou wilst not shut up! Now listen to me, shipmates!” The Captain pounded on the quarterdeck rail with his fist. “This will not be a share-out under the damn’ rules, but a share-out it still will be! Listen to me, and you may find yourselves damn’ pleased with your portions! Firstly, damn’ yez, you must listen to how I have arranged things. Iffen it bain’t be to your likings, then you may scrag me and feed me to the sharks, an’ damn’ yez all to hell! Wi’ a wannion! But firstly yez-all must listen!”

  He is mad, thought Blue Peter, standing behind Captain Greybagges on the quarterdeck. The crew had not actually been grumbling, as they had already gotten some of the treasure, at least. Now he offers them more, and then takes it away again. Is he stark mad? He stole a glance at Bulbous Bill Bucephalus, who looked impassive. The crew of angry pirates were talking, shouting, jostling. Blue Peter noticed his own gun-crews looking at him, not at the Captain. I must look fully confident, he thought, they must not think that I am not with him in this. He squared his massive shoulders, smiled a small confident smile and fixed his gaze on the Captain’s lips. He found that he could not understand what the Captain was saying. The effort of seeming serene set off his own doubts about the Captain, and his inner conflict prevented him from following a single word. You chose your path this morning, he thought, and now your resolution is tested. The hubbub amongst the crew lessened slightly, and Blue Peter caught a snatch of the Captain’s speech:

  “... the Stock Market bain’t be any wise differing from a fish market, which you all do know of. Shut up and listen, you cursed lubbers! The one be sellin’ shares in ventures an’ the other be sellin’ fish, but they be the same in their principles, loo
k’ee! The price o’ fish depends upon the supply an’ the supply o’ fish depends upon the price, d’yez see? Not many fish, up goes the cost o’ a fish supper, har-har! Iffen the price o’ fish is high, then more cobles, smacks and busses goes to sea and more fish be caught, an’ the price do come down. Shut up, yez scurvy dogs! Fish be a commodity, d’yez see? ‘Tis the same with shares in ventures, ‘cept yez cannot see, smell or touch what yez be buying or selling. O’ course, that may seem addled ‘til I tells yez that ... “

  The crew of furacious matelots were becoming less restive, and hanging onto the Captain’s words. Blue Peter felt a slight sense of reprieve. The pirates were no longer jostling and calling out. They were listening, some with expressions of knot-browed concentration and open mouths, it was true, but listening nevertheless. The Captain was still talking:

  “... coz I was buying into cargoes-in-transit, d’yez see, I was bettin’ on a race that was already run! I am a captain o’ buccaneers, so’s I knows which cargoes were most likely to get safe to port! So’s I was gamblin’ the loot, surely enough, but gamblin’ with loaded dice! Any of yez think perhaps that I should not have done such a terrible wicked thing? Har-har! I did not think yez would! And that’s not all, shipmates ...”