Greenbeard (9781935259220)

by Bentley, Richard James

  “How is she?” asked Captain Greybagges earnestly.

  “She is well, but she urges you not to delay any more than you must.”

  “Why does my beard not detect your eyebrows? I would have thought that it would.”

  “She has somehow arranged that such things are muffled, confused. The little grey men are afraid to tell him about that, and hope to find out what is wrong before they have to admit their failure, for then his wrath may be awesome. There is still some contact, as you will know, but it is sporadic. They will not notice the demise of their creature, my twin, as I am here in his place and, with luck and the muffling, they will not detect the difference. But tell me, why are you here in Salem?”

  Captain Greybagges explained about Blue Peter, concluding; “I was surprised to see Master Chumbley. I would have expected to find him, his house and his whole household as smoking ashes. I fear for my friend, and wonder what has befallen him since he has not been seen here, but now I must press on without him. Need we anticipate any repercussions from Master Chumbley?”

  “I think not. He is cowed and uncertain now, and I have warned him not to meddle, so he will do nothing tonight. Tomorrow is another matter. He may recover his courage with the morning’s light, and seek to do you harm for his humiliation at my hands. His is stupid, and vindictive in the way of stupid men when thwarted, so we must leave early tomorrow, before dawn. I have had your horse brought here to the stables. I will wake you. Sleep now for a while and refresh your spirits. I will keep a watch at the window this night, with my pistol ready to my hand. Keep your own pistols and cutlass by your cot, just in case.”

  As the sky lightened with the first flush of dawn Captain Greybagges and tall man came to the signpost at the cross roads. The Captain had pointed out the forest clearing where the witches’ sabbath had occurred as they passed it, causing the tall man much amusement.

  “It has been a great pleasure to meet you again, Sol,” said the Captain. “You have saved me from the odious Chumbley and from an extramundane copy of yourself, too. I’m glad that I kept you out of the chokey that time, and I forgive you for not paying me my fees for that service.” The tall man laughed. “It’s also been pleasant to talk to someone who has shared my experiences of the extramundanes,” continued the Captain. “It is a burden not to be able to talk about it, for fear of being thought stark-mad … but I must not tell you any more, especially of my plans.”

  “Because of my green eyebrows?”

  “Yes. You say that I am still not missed by him, or by the little grey buggers, and that you will be mistaken for your manufactured twin in their present confusion, but if they should manage to break through the muffling of their communications they may be able to hear some of your thoughts, so I must tell you nothing, and so we must part company. I would gladly invite you to come along with me, Sol, but I cannot. What will you do now?”

  “I will continue with the witch-finding. I find that I have discovered my true vocation, and somebody must prevent Master Chumbley and his ilk from murdering all the harmless old women in these colonies in the name of their malevolent and un-Christian conception of God. I used to swindle people and laugh at their pain and loss, but in many ways that was worse than being a highwayman or a footpad. A man looks so wretched after he has been rooked, for then he must blame his own stupidity and greed, and cannot see himself merely as a victim of bad luck. I may tell a few tall tales these days, it’s true, but there are monsters and ghouls loose in the land. So many in the pine-barrens, in fact, that they must be up to something wicked there, and who will stop them if not I? People respect me, too, and I must say I like that! Why, some scribbler even penned a ghastly piece of doggerel in my honour!” The tall man struck a pose and declaimed as follows:

  “Solomon Pole’s Homecoming!The ravens croaked on London’s Tower , soot stained the cold wind black,

  The bitter rain fell in slanting sheets when Solomon Pole came back,

  An ancient lurking street-hawker sold him an ancient mutton pie,

  And when he bit into its rancid meat a tear came to his eye.

  Street-urchins followed him, wagering whether he would finish that meal,

  When he swallowed it to the very last crumb they knew he was a man of steel,

  He trod a tavern’s sawdusted floor and bought a pint of bitter ale,

  And drank it down to the very last drop, even though it was flat and stale.

  ‘There once sat Spring-heeled Jack, on that very tavern stool,

  ‘He had an idiot’s leer and cross-ed eyes, but he was nobody’s fool,

  ‘The Bow-Street Runners came for him, well I remember that day,

  ‘He spotted them despite his squint, and so he bravely ran away.’

  ‘Where is Bess?’ said Solomon Pole, ‘she still owes me thirty bob.’

  ‘The landlord barred her years ago, for she would never shut her gob.’

  The soot-black wind battered at the panes and Solomon shook his head,

  ‘She always had that mouth on her,’ Solomon sadly said.

  ‘I once knew a Pearly Queen in the street that is called Lime,

  ‘She had a face just like a leather bag and eyes as old as time,

  ‘She was only twenty years old, but she’d drunk a lot of gin,

  ‘She used to beg just around the corner, rattling a rusty tin.’

  ‘And I have seen a vampire mouse in a city made of cheese…..”

  “Stop! Stop!” cried the Captain, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “That was a poem in your honour, you say?”

  “Well, Sylvestre,” said Solomon Pole, “the scribbler’s ode contained a number of egregious errors of fact! He said my birthplace was some horrid little fishing-village in the West Country, and that I had sailed with Hawkins and Grenville, which would make me the oldest man alive and not the clean-limbed laughing lad whom you see before you. It was a humourless glum piece of work, too. He even got my name wrong, the hound! So I composed my own version. Ain’t it grand?”

  “It is, Sol, it is! I must go now, friend, for time presses greatly upon me!”

  “Go! I will delay and misdirect any pursuit by Chumbley’s men. May your path be always downhill, and may the good Lord crown your endeavours with success! Adieu, Sylvestre de Greybagges!”

  They shook hands, the Captain’s large hand almost lost in the grasp of the tall man’s huge knobbly fingers, and they parted there at the crossroads.

  Captain Greybagges spurred his horse along the dusty road back to Jamestown, trying to make as much speed as possible without tiring his mount. His horse was eager, the air was crisp on his face, the day bright with a few clouds in a blue sky, but he felt no joy and his worries oppressed him terribly. Extramundane creatures ‘up to something’ in the nearby wilderness, Solomon Pole had said, but he could not spare the time to ponder upon that. He had lost his master gunner, and perhaps his sailing-master and First Mate as well, for he had not seen Bulbous Bill Bucephalus or Israel Feet since the night of the witches. That was a catastrophe, and he cursed himself for going ashore and drinking in the tavern called Wahunsunacock’s Mantle. When he had learned that the Dutchman whom he sought was not yet there he should have gone back out to sea, or he should have anchored in a quiet cove away from the temptations of civilisation, even such poor temptations as Jamestown had to offer. Frank Benjamin would not then have thought of taking shore-leave, and Blue Peter would have seen no opportunity to vent his long-nursed rage upon his erstwhile owner. Captain Greybagges cursed himself again. I relaxed my vigilance, he thought, and firstly I relaxed my vigilance upon myself, and all else that followed grew from that base dereliction. I shall probably find the remainder of my crew laid ashore as drunk as Davy’s sow, and my ship boarded and stolen away by sneering French privateers.

  Beset by these dismal speculations he galloped around a bend in the road and let the horse have its head as the road straightened. Ahead in the distance he could see another traveller on a horse. As he
came closer he could see the hunched rider was enveloped in a loose brown cloak and a big wide-brimmed floppy hat, so he resembled a large sack of turnips. He pulled his horse to the right to gallop past the slow-moving traveller on the narrow lane, as he did so he caught a glimpse of a dark eye peering at him from under the brim of the hat, and felt an immediate surge of recognition.

  “Peter!” he roared in delight, pulling on the reins hard so that his horse whinnied and bucked. The face of Blue Peter peered at him from under the hat, with an oddly rueful grin. Captain Greybagges trotted back and turned his horse to ride alongside, feeling a contradictory whirl of emotions; joy, irritation, relief, anger.

  “Peter, you bloody … you! … you! … vexacious nincompoop! You great insufferable jackanapes! How immensely pleased I am to see you! Why! I wish to embrace you and punch you on the nose at one and the same time! I am near lost for words! … ‘Pon my life, I cannot … Good Lord! Do you have someone else with you inside that great tent of a cloak?”

  The folds of the cloak parted, and a face peered out. A very pretty face, pink and heart-shaped, with large wide-set blue eyes and full red lips. There was a look of slight apprehension on the delicate features, but the blue eyes regarded him with an intelligent directness, and the coral-lipped mouth had a determined set to it.

  “Captain, allow me to introduce Miss Miriam Andromeda Chumbley. My dear, this is Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges, commander of the ship, and my friend.”

  Captain Greybagges swept off his black tricorne hat and bowed his head; “Miss Chumbley, your servant!” He was then too taken aback to say more. Miss Chumbley pushed aside the folds and emerged from under the cloak, revealing a mass of blonde hair in sausage-curls, tied with blue ribbons of silk.

  “Captain Greybagges, I am so pleased to meet you! My Peter speaks of you with such great regard, and with such fond affection!”

  Miss Chumbley smiled at him, revealing small white teeth, perfect and even. The smile held genuine warmth, her eyes crinkled with pleasure, but deep in those blue depths there was a palpable sense of dispassionate assessment, as though she was measuring him and recording everything for later analysis. This made the Captain uncharacteristically diffident, and he glanced at Blue Peter, whose face had the stunned expression of a man who has just been struck smartly on the head with a belaying-pin, and whose knees are on the point of buckling under him. There was a shout from back down the lane, which saved the Captain from giggling impolitely.

  “Why, look! It is Izzy!” the Captain cried. “Excuse me, dear lady, I must take his report! Peter, pray continue! We will catch up with you presently.”

  Captain Greybagges galloped back, the First Mate galloping towards him on his skeletal steed, waving his arm.

  “Arrr! There you be, Cap’n! I bin keepin’ watch on that Salem place from them woods, but I didn’t see yuz leave there. Saw the tall bugger arguing with the fat bugger an’ his mates at the crossroads, an’ I guessed yer musta scarpered, belike. Bill, he went orf back to ship to get a shore-party to come for yez. We should meet him on his way a-comin’ ‘ere, I do reckon. Skin me wi’ a soupspoon, else!”

  “What happened to you on that morning, Izzy?”

  “The women cleared orf in the night sometime. Did’n sees ‘em go. Me and Bill wuz having a dump in the woods that mornin’, wi’ our britches round our ankles and thick heads, too. Heard a commotion, belike, then saw ‘em takin’ yuz away. There wuz too many of ‘em for us to stop ‘em, and we figured yer weren’t doing nuffin wrong, cept sleeping in the woods, so yer’d be back soon enough. When yer wasn’t back by midday we crep around a bit, sees what’s up. Well, I did, ‘cos Bill ain’t zackly built for creepin’, so he watched the road. Didn’t see anyfing until that tall feller took yer t’the tavern, then I saw yer did’n have no shirt on and yer looked a bit banged about, like. So Bill went orf ta get help. I stayed ta keep a watch. Have yer seen hide nor hair o’ Peter?”

  “That’s him up ahead on the horse, Izzy.”

  “Nah! Reely? Woz he bin up ta?” The First Mate went to spur his horse to catch up with Blue Peter, but the Captain put a hand on his arm.

  “Hold up a minute, Izzy, me old cock! He has a young lady with him.”

  “Naah! Yer jests, yer does! The sly old dog! Scuttle me bathtub with a pickaxe if that ain’t rare!”

  “Ah, Izzy! Before you go a-haring off I must caution you to be discreet, to be careful what you say.”

  “Discreet? What about?”

  “Well, Izzy,” said Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges, with abroad grin forming on his face, “the, ah, large lady that you were pleasuring in the woods the night before last, if you recall?”

  “I does, Cap’n, I does! Hur-hur-hur!”

  “I do believe that she is the young lady’s mother.”

  CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH,

  or The Return To Nombre Dios Bay.

  Captain Greybagges stood on the stony beach of the Elizabeth River. The Ark de Triomphe rode in the sluggish flow anchored bow-and-stern, with steadying kedges port-and-starboard the bows in a seamanlike fashion. The longboat which had brought him ashore was tying up by its side, the oarsmen climbing the cleat-ladder to the gangway hatch. Captain Greybagges shook the drips from his manhood, stowed it back in his breeches and buttoned up. A distant muted cheer came from the pirate frigate.

  “Arr! Damn yer eyes, yer lubbers! Yer cap’n must piddle, same as all o’ yuz, curse yuz! Get on wi’ yer work, yer slackers! I sees a man neglectful o’ his duties, I’ll have his backbone for a walking-stick! Wi’ a wannion, by my green beard, I will!” Captain Greybagges roared, scowling. The pirates returned to their tasks with a good-humoured mutter. In truth, he was not displeased with them. During the two days he had been absent in Salem the crew had not given in to the temptations of the flesh and had remained sober. Not entirely sober, he was sure, as a wealth of circumstantial evidence suggested that the crew had entered into commercial dealings with the good citizens of Jamestown; empty bottles incompetently concealed from sight, the cook simmering a vast cauldron of beef stew, fresh beef and not salt-horse. Nevertheless, at no time had the ship been left unguarded it seemed, nor had any inebriated foolishness drawn attention to the ship

  “I do believe that you did that a-purpose!” said Mr Benjamin. “Widdle in the river to attract their attention, then shout at them, to remind them that you are the captain and that you are back.”

  “And to keep them hard at it,” said the Captain. “Time presses upon me now. I like your choice of name, by the way.”

  The crew were once again disguising the pirate frigate as a Dutch trader. Canvas strips taut above the ship’s rails raised the height of her hull in profile, so that her silhouette against the sea or sky would be plump and complacent, not rakishly low and lean. Painted canvas tacked over the carved and gold-leafed ‘Ark de Triomphe’ on her prow and transom now gave a name more appropriate to a ship of the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie, sailing out of Amsterdam. The crew were once again wearing the red-and-grey matrozenpak jacket and wide trousers of the VOC. The people of Jamestown courteously gave them little heed, except for a handful of idlers, who were easily frightened away from the beach by the stratagem of offering them paid work.

  “A pirate captain must not have too much dignity, Frank,” said the Captain, “although he does have need of much authority.”

  They walked up the beach, gravel crunching under their boots.

  “There are many tricks and dodges to the management of men,” said Mr Benjamin, “and many tricks and dodges to most things, I find. I have a mind to publish a sort of a journal, where such wrinkles may be presented in a humorous way.”

  “Do you yet have a name in mind for this journal, Frank?”

  “Well, maybe something like ‘Humble Harry’s Handbook’. That might serve, giving the impression of a farmer’s almanac for those who lack a farm.”

  “Um, how about ‘Mean Michael’s Manual?”

  “Or ‘Grudgin
g George’s Guidebook’?”

  “Hah! How about ‘Earnest Edward’s Ephemeris’?”

  “Damn you! … Ah! … ‘Vulgar Vincent’s Vade Mecum’, top that, if you can!”

  “I confess myself bested, Frank.”

  “Well, perhaps alliteration is not a good thing for the title of such a tract, smacking as it does of excessive cleverness. My intention is to attract readers among the common people, not repel them by exercising my wit in an ostentatious and pompous fashion.”

  The two arrived at the Wahunsunacock’s Mantle tavern. They sat a a table in the window, drinking strong coffee and eating flat cakes made with cracked oats, pork-dripping and molasses.

  “These are surprisingly good,” said Mr Benjamin, taking another. “I suspect that they contain too much sustenance for a mere snack. They are to keep body and soul together when travelling the woods, or voyaging the rivers, as in Richard Bonhomme’s tales.”