Greenbeard (9781935259220)

by Bentley, Richard James

  Blue Peter continued his walk around the boatyard, checking that the pickets were alert. The locals were very thievish and there had been numerous attempts to steal, some of them worryingly ingenious. The Captain was paying regular bribes to the Lennons and the McCartneys, the main criminal gangs of Liver Pool, to prevent or at least limit pilfering, but the lesser affiliated clans, the Starkeys and the Harrisons, were probably not receiving their fair share of the protection-money and so felt less constrained. The Best gang, having been completely expelled from the Liver Pool underworld to the wilderness of the Wirral, felt no constraint at all, of course, but were relatively powerless to operate on the other gangs’ turf. Blue Peter was determined to prevent a violent incident causing trouble, so vigilance was important, and he was thankful for the tolerant attitude of the pirates to the locals; they were only thieves, after all, and so regarded as a nuisance and not a threat, to be given a clout round the ear when apprehended, not shot, disembowelled with a cutlass or crippled in such a way as might lead to ill-will. There must be some contacts with the locals, of course. These were mostly of a carnal nature, whether procured by payment or by simple affection, and remained a potential source of incidents.

  Jack Nastyface joined Blue Peter on his tour of the perimeter, falling silently into step with him, cloaked in a cape of tarpaulin against the foul weather. The young man had become quieter, more introspective, since his friend Jemmy Ducks had left the pirate crew, no longer the giddy youth who had skylarked in the rigging with whoops and catcalls. Blue Peter was sure that if he had not checked the sentries then Jack would have done so unprompted even though he had just finished helping the cook prepare the supper.

  “Have you heard from Jemmy at all?” he asked as they approached the house.

  “He sent a letter by the tubs,” replied Jack. “He is investing his loot in a brewery in Southall, he says, and in horses and drays for the deliveries. He thinks that the London taverns will gladly forego brewing beer on their own premises as there is then more space for drinkers and more profit to be made. He always did have a clear head for business. He has bought himself a blue broadcloth coat with gold buttons so that he looks more the man of affairs, and he is courting a dressmaker called Edith. He says that she is ‘not entirely pretty, but very jolly’, in his own words.”

  The ‘tubs’ were cargo vessels purchased by the Captain and crewed by retired pirates. They had delivered the sawn timber and other materials for the repairs to the house and to build the huts for the crew, the warehouses for the Ark de Triomphe’s guns and other contents, the workshops and the walls of the pit where the frigate now sat on its timber cradle. They had delivered other, more mysterious, cargoes, too, and carried letters for the pirates.

  “Jemmy will need a hard head for drink as well as a clear head for business if he wants to be a brewer,” said Blue Peter, laughing.

  “He has hired a brewer to make the beer,” said Jack. “I think he got the notion of a brewery from wanting to have a stable and to work with heavy horses. With a brewery he always has plenty for his horses to deliver, and no need to deal with lordly merchants and gentlemen of business, who are known to be tight-fisted and slow to pay. A tavern landlord always pays for the beer and for the delivery on the nail. Jemmy likes his ale, it is true, but I don’t think he will ever be a sot.”

  They stood in the rain for a moment, the raindrops of the downpour glinting golden from the light from the windows of the house. Faint snatches of song and concertina came from the crew-huts, and occasional noises of hammering from the workshops, audible above the hissing of the rain. The boatyard was functioning well to achieve the Captain’s plan. But what is that plan? thought Blue Peter. The crew do not ask, they have complete confidence in him. I wish I could feel the same; did he really tell me tales of extramundane creatures on his banyan day, or was that a crazy dream?

  Jack Nastyface bid him farewell with a slightly-sad smile and headed around the back of the house to the kitchen, where there would be pots to wash before Jack’s own supper. Blue Peter entered the yellow front door of the house, flapping water from his thick woollen boat-cloak.

  In the parlour Captain Greybagges and Mr Benjamin were eating beef stew, washing it down with ale from tarred leather drinking-jacks. Blue Peter called for some to be brought for him, too, and warmed his behind at the fire, holding the tails of his coat aloft and to the sides so they would not be singed by the crackling blaze of logs.

  “As you know,” he said, “I have always wished for the life of an English country squire, and I have imagined myself warming my arse like this before a fire, and thought it would be a fine thing, but now I have to do it from mere necessity I find that dream strangely sad and misinformed.”

  Captain Greybagges laughed, Mr Benjamin grinned. A ‘new pirate’ came in with a bowl of stew and a jack of ale. Blue Peter sat down at the table, tearing a hunk from a loaf, polishing his silver spoon on a napkin, preparing to savour his supper.

  “It is unfortunate that your first experience of England should be in winter, Peter,” said the Captain, “especially as you have seen only London and this godforsaken place. There are more congenial spots. The climate on the south coast is very pleasant in the summer. Why the port of Southampton even has black Englishmen!”

  “Is that indeed true?” exclaimed Mr Benjamin. “Are they escaped slaves? Begging your pardon, Peter! I speak from vulgar curiosity alone.” Blue Peter waved his spoon dismissively, his mouth full of the rich stew.

  “No, Frank, they are not,” said the Captain. “They are Englishmen born and bred. Many of them are fine seamen, and can boast that their grandsires fought with Drake and Hawkins against the great Spanish armada back in the time of Queen Bess. That gives them a better right to be called English than many of the fine lords and ladies, I think. The people of Southampton agree, for they are an easy-going folk and the sea is in their blood. If you doubt me, merely consider that not only blacks but also Jews and even Dutchmen make their homes in Southampton in perfect tranquillity and prosperity.”

  “The Dutch!” exclaimed Mr Benjamin. “Is not England presently at war with the Dutch? The burghers of Southampton must be tolerant indeed!”

  “Do you know, I am not sure if England is at war with the Dutch!” said the Captain, grinning. “There have been so many wars with them, and so many peace-treaties, I lose count! The citizens of Southampton are united in their appetite for trade and commerce, and so regard sailors and merchants with great esteem, no matter what their provenance. A war is unfortunate, it’s true, but no reason to scupper a fine deal with Myneer van den Plonk, especially as his warehouse is next to the wharf and the Lord Chancellor is far away in the Palace of Westminster. It is an attitude similar to that of pirates in many ways, and laudable to us, if not to the fellows in Parliament. No, I remember now! England is not at war with the Dutch at this time. Perhaps next week, eh?”

  “I have much to learn about being a pirate,” Mr Benjamin said. “My mind still tries to apply the laws of logic to the affairs of politics, and to the laws of men, too, which is even more foolish. A pirate has a more pragmatic view, and will not label a man a traitor unless he shall betray his own shipmates or friends. It is perhaps a more human reaction, in the long term. There is a wise fellow, John Locke, who philosophises upon these things, and he suggests that the legal constitution of a nation should be based upon the desires and aspirations of its humblest citizens, for there are many of them, and not upon the prerogatives of its most wealthy and powerful, for they are few.”

  “Um, it is a wonderful notion,” said Captain Greybagges, “but I cannot see the wealthy and powerful being at all enthusiastic for it. They are afraid of the many precisely because they themselves are few.”

  “The rich will not take easily to the idea, of course,” said Mr Benjamin, “but the needs of the many are surprisingly modest. Locke says that every man, no matter how humble, should be guaranteed ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’. If
these simple rights were adopted as the basis for a nation’s laws then the rich could keep their money, which is the only real basis of power, but only for as long as they infringed nobody else’s rights. They might also lose their money if they were improvident, but the laws based on universal rights would prevent them from stooping to desperate measures to retain their fortunes. Such a nation might be very vigorous, being based on fairness, and the wealthy might even benefit disproportionately from its prosperity, rather than be murdered in their beds by a howling mob of starving peasants. It is an idea quite close to the democratical nature of a pirate ship, where everyone has their job, knows their worth and is renumerated accordingly, with debate open to everybody.”

  “If Mr Locke’s philosophising ever gets translated into French then le Roi Soleil might find himself punctured by a pitchfork,” said Captain Greybagges, “which would not lead to a vigorous nation but to civil war, and I would not wish that upon even the French, much as I despise King Louis.”

  “Ah! but France is an old nation, so that the King would be killed by a settling of ancient accounts, not by the mere desire for new philosophy of governance. A new nation, with no old scores or grudges, might prove a more fertile garden in which such an idea might grow, might it not?”

  “You argue your case very well, Frank,” said the Captain, “and I say that as a lawyer. I may also hazard a guess that your ‘new nation’ is the north American colonies. Am I right?”

  “You are, but not at the present moment or under the present circumstances. I don’t think I shall live to see it, but the spread of an idea is unstoppable, if it is a good idea, so I suspect that it will be adopted when the right moment comes, when it is a useful idea and not a destructive one.” Mr Benjamin drained his ale. “I must bid you adieu. We cast a copper test-piece this afternoon in a mould of sand and china clay, and I wish to observe its rate of cooling, and also to prevent any rogue of an empirical nature from breaking open the mould prematurely through mere impatience or idle curiosity.”

  Captain Greybagges watched Mr Benjamin leave. Blue Peter finished his stew, cleaning the bowl with a piece of bread, topped up his ale from the jug and selected an apple from the basket in the middle of the table.

  “He is a clever fellow, is Frank,” said Captain Greybagges, “and he may well be right about Locke’s ideas. Mind you, Peter, the Dutch do away with their kings, and yet they seem always to get them back again, but under a different name. The present fellow is called the stadthouder, meaning ‘place-keeper’ or steward, but they are a republic so they cannot decide how much notice to take of him. A democratic utopia such as Frank envisages may be hard to build. I like his notion that such a place would resemble piracy, though! An entire nation of buccaneering entrepreneurs giving not a hoot for anything except freedom and happiness, their eyes always on the far horizon, always on the next gamble! What a thing that would be!”

  “I am still cold,” said Blue Peter. “I stand by the fire, then eat a tureen of hot stew and drink a stoop or two of strong ale, and yet I am still cold.” Blue Peter crunched the apple. The Captain’s beard glowed green in the light from the oil lamps. It’s funny, thought Blue Peter, but I hardly notice it now. He coloured it brown to go into Liver Pool, but now he has washed it off – the boot-polish makes it itch, he says – and I didn’t really notice until the lamp-light caught it. How easily we become accustomed to the bizarre if we see it every day.

  “Do you feel the time is right to reveal more of your plans?” said Blue Peter softly, almost without thinking. Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges looked at him with raised eyebrows, then nodded.

  “You are cold, Peter,” he said. “There are too many freezing draughts in here!” He stood up and kicked the thick rug against the gap at the bottom of the door, and stuffed a napkin into the keyhole. “There, the parlour will warm up a little now,” he said loudly, and in a lower voice; “If we talk quietly we cannot be understood from outside the door. I got Izzie to test it by standing outside while I sang ‘Spanish Ladies’. We both pretended to be drunk. Well, drunker than we were, anyway. Sailors, pirates or not, are always nosey blighters, I have found.” He rummaged in a desk, sat down and beckoned to Blue Peter to draw his chair closer.

  “So, Sylvestre, you will enlighten me further? I am agog!” Blue Peter murmurred, screeching his chair on the stone-flagged floor as he shuffled it next to the Captain. The Captain opened a bottle of Madeira and poured two glasses.

  “Indeed yes, Peter. Perhaps it is overdue. I have discussed some of what I am going to tell you with Bill, but only the algebraical and geometrical aspects, which he will need to understand for navigation. Oh, I am not making much sense! It’s difficult to know where to begin. Anyway, the point with Bill is that he knows nothing of the extramundane creatures, but he does have some knowledge of their natural philosophy, which I will now explain to you. Don’t mention the extramundanes at all to anybody just yet, is what I mean to say.”

  Captain Greybagges stared blankly for a moment, composing his thoughts. Blue Peter stayed silent, sipping the sweet wine.

  “Time is an awkward thing.” The Captain took a sheet of paper from the sheaf he had taken from the desk and dipped a quill. “Imagine a tree. Here is the ground” He drew a line across the paper. “Here is the trunk of the tree.” A line up from the first line. “Branches, the trunk divides in two, thus, and again, and again, so. But below ground there are roots.” A line drawn down from the groundline. “Roots that also branch, and again, and again, so. Imagine that the air, light and free, is the future, and that the ground, solid and permanent, is the past. The present is the surface of the ground. The tree represents something with a future and a past - you, me, a ship, a rat, a rock - so that the branching represents the choices that are taken in the future, you see? This choice leads to that, that one to this, and so on. In a similar way for the past; these roots represent the narrowing pattern of choices that lead to the present.”

  “I see what you mean, I think,” said Blue Peter slowly. “They are lines in time, leading from the past into the future through the nexus of the present.”

  “Well put! The Arab scholars wrote of an aleph, where all time and space are coincident, and some necromancers claim that there is one in the pillar of a temple in Jerusalem, and that you can hear it buzzing if you put your ear to the rock. I think that is all hogwash, though, and that the Arab savants really meant the aleph to represent the constriction of choices as the future turns into the past, alike to several streams joining to rush through a culvert.”

  “It is indeed a compelling picture,” said Blue Peter thoughtfully.

  “However, it is more complicated.” The Captain drew another tree next to the first. “It is a forest, not a single tree. If that tree is you, and this tree is me, then if our futures are entwined so are the branches of the trees, and if our pasts are entwined then so are the roots, and so for a hundred, a thousand other trees.”

  “Ah, yes, that begins to be complicated.”

  “Not only that, but although you are one man you are made of parts, so the tree could represent only one of your arms, or a finger, or a fingernail, and so on down to the atomies that compose your corporeality. Each atomie with its own tree, its branches and roots entwined with a million others.”

  “Hmm, that is complicated. A dance of atomies weaving the present like a tapestry.”

  “Precisely! The next part you will have to take more on trust.” Captain Greybagges refilled their glasses.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t really understand it myself. The whole notion of atomies was thought up by the old Greek cove Democritus. He thought it unreasonable that something could be divided up infinitely. Cut a piece of string in half, cut the half in half, and so on. He deduced that sooner or later one would encounter an indivisible particle, or atomon, and be able to cut no more.”

  “That does indeed sound reasonable,” said Blue Peter, sipping the Madeira wine.

  “A
hh! But that implies a general principle!” said Captain Greybagges. “If matter is granular, then maybe everything else is, too. Time. Distance. Heat. Nothing continuous, but everything doled out as in coinage, with no change from a groat. A groat, or no groat. No half-groats.”

  “These small increments of time, distance or heat,” said Blue Peter, “must be very tiny, or we would notice them. The tick of a clock seems to chop up time, but that is an illusion, time itself seems continuous.”

  “They are very small, but they have an effect nevertheless.” The Captain held up his hand. “No, let me finish. I said I did not understand it fully myself. The granular or grainy nature of everything on a small scale has the effect of making the present a little elastic, or deformable. Since there are no half-groats, then at the moment of reckoning - the present - things must be rounded up or rounded down, and that is a roll of the dice, not a calculation. Imagine the atomies as soldiers running out to the parade-square to form up in ranks; they shuffle into lines, they stand to attention, then break up again and run off for their breakfast. Just before they form up, though, there is a period of pushing and shoving - ‘this is my position’, ‘no, it’s mine’, ‘budge up a bit’ and so on - then every soldier finds a place and the parade is perfect. That instant of perfect order is the present, but either side of it there is chaos, and the precise position of each soldier depends partly on chance.”

  “But that is only one instant in time, surely?”

  “Yes, but time itself is grainy, so the flow of time is an endless succession of such moments. There are more atomies than are apparent, too. As in a play on a stage, for example, you see the play, but you don’t see the actors waiting in the wings, or the stagehands, yet they are there. If you took a bottle and pumped the air out - like that fellow did in Magbeburg, Otto von Guericke - then inside the bottle is nothing, yet little miniscule atomies pop up in there all the time from out of nowhere just in case they are needed. Pop up, say ‘anyone need an atomie? No? Oh, well, I’ll be off then,’ and disappear again back to the dressing-room, or wherever it is that atomies go when they’re not here, or there. The constant but fleeting presence of atomies means there is empty space in the bottle’s vacuum, but not nothing. Think of it as alike to moonlight on a dark and choppy ocean; one sees the white foam, but not the vast dark ocean upon which the foam floats. There is no foam in the empty bottle, but the dark ocean is still there.”