Greenbeard (9781935259220)

by Bentley, Richard James

  “You may be right, Frank. The cook here says they should not be eaten when freshly baked, for they improve by being kept for a day or so. The bacon-fat may then soak into the hard oats, you see, making the cakes softer in texture and less oleaginous.”

  “When will your Dutchman come?”

  “Before noon, I hope. I have had word from him. A game of cards while we wait, perhaps?”

  “As long as we shall not play that accursed Puff-and-Honours, Sylvestre, for it is an uncouth game suitable only for low types in thieves’ rookeries.”

  “I see that Izzy and Bill have lightened your purse, Frank. Shall we play whist, then, like civilised old gentlemen?”

  The Captain dealt the cards, and took another oatcake.

  The Dutchman departed, his purse made heavier by a number of clinking gold reales d’or, and Captain Greybagges surveyed his purchase; four women from an island far away in the Pacific. They had black hair tied tightly back, slanted black eyes and jolly round faces, and were dressed in the jacket and trousers of common sailors. Their clothes were far cleaner than a common sailor’s, however, the canvas scrubbed to an almost bleached whiteness. Their small feet wore sandals of leather and woven hemp.

  The eldest woman was seemingly in her thirties, although it was difficult to guess their precise ages as the pale-brown skin of their faces was unmarked by wrinkles or laugh-lines. She spoke passable Dutch, despite pronouncing ‘r’ as ‘l’, and the Captain conversed with her easily as they walked to the riverside. Mr Benjamin said little, although he appeared fascinated by them. The Captain reassured the eldest woman that he undertook to return them to their homeland when they had finished their work for him, and that they would be well rewarded in either gold or silver, as they wished. The eldest woman regarded him with shrewd eyes, then nodded her agreement and turned and spoke to her companions in an incomprehensible jabber. They replied in high fluting voices. The elder woman informed the Captain that the Dutchman was a vile grease-rag and a clot-bag and that they were all glad to be rid of him at last. He had attempted several times to have his way with the youngest of them when he was drunk, but that she had dissuaded him from such impertinence by kicking him in the balls, which had made his blue eyes, his most unnatural and devilish blue eyes, bulge out of his head in an agreeably comical fashion. The Captain replied graciously that although he had grey eyes and that many of his crew had blue eyes they were not devils and that he would see that the women were treated with respect at all times. Furthermore, he said the women were now temporary members of the crew, but part of the crew nonetheless, and that any such disrespect would be against the laws of his ship and swiftly punished by common agreement. The eldest woman conveyed this to the others in a rattling burst of their language, and they all nodded solemnly in unison.

  The longboat ran aground on the beach. Captain Greybagges stepped forward to assist the four women into the boat, but they smilingly dodged him and hopped over the gunwales with the spryness of seasoned sailors, only the eldest accepting a helping hand from Loomin’ Len in the bows, solely from queenly courtesy, apparently, as she was as nimble as the others. The Captain and Mr Benjamin followed, Mr Benjamin requiring a discreet heft from the huge hand of Loomin’ Len on his coat-collar, the river sloshing around his boots as the longboat slid backwards into the stream.

  As the longboat pulled towards the Ark de Triomphe Captain Greybagges heard a female voice shouting, its tone jagged with anger. The Captain glanced at the oarsmen; they looked stolidly to their front and gave no sign they heard anything. He turned to Mr Benjamin and raised an eyebrow.

  “Um, it sounds like Miss Chumbley, perhaps?” said Mr Benjamin. “Oh, but she has a fine grasp of the vernacular! Who would have thought a young lady would know such words? … Good Lord! Now she curses in Dutch, too! What does ‘zwakzinnige’ mean?”

  “A mentally-deficient person, or moron,” said the Captain. The longboat bumped against the side of the frigate. The eldest of the island women seemed to be suppressing a smile, but it was difficult to tell as her unlined brown face was impassive. Captain Greybagges stepped from the longboat and hauled himself up the tumblehome of the frigate’s side by the cleat-ladder.

  Miss Chumbley stood upon the quarterdeck, a small plump package of fury shaking her fist at the sky, her face as red as fire and her blonde sausage-curls quivering like brass springs. Captain Greybagges looked up and saw Blue Peter high up the mizzenmast, squatting on the topsail yard crosstrees, looking glum and agitated. Miss Chumbley took in a deep breath to continue shouting, but the Captain cleared his throat noisily.

  “Ahem! Good morning, Miss Chumbley! I am happy to see you in such fine spirits …”

  Miss Chumbley turned to him, and for an instant he thought that she would abuse him, too, as her blue eyes glowed with sparkling blue anger, but the eyes crossed slightly as caution took hold, and she breathed out slowly, lowering her fists.

  “Captain Greybagges, I must apologise. I am behaving improperly.”

  She said the words easily, but the Captain still faintly heard her teeth gritting. She does not like to apologise, he thought, but is practised in doing so.

  “No matter, Miss Chumbley. You are not yet used to our ways by ship and by sea, and did not know that the quarterdeck is out-of-bounds even when the captain is not aboard. Also, I must have my Master Gunner back on deck, as there is but little for him to do up there in the rigging. I trust that your … ah … disagreement may be discontinued until a more appropriate time?”

  “Yes, Captain,” said Miss Chumbley, with surprising meekness but with her winsome smile holding a hint of clenched teeth. A happy thought came to the Captain.

  “Miss Chumbley. You speak Dutch well.”

  “Ik praat en beetje, Kapitan.”

  “As you are now a member of the crew I may perhaps presume to give you some work to do, may I not?”

  Miss Chumbley nodded warily. The Captain turned around to find the four island women standing behind him.

  “These ladies are now also part of the crew, yet they speak no English. However, the chief of them speaks Dutch. Will you minister to their needs for me? See the First Mate, Mr Feet, and the ship’s carpenter, Mr Chippendale, and get them to rig a private cabin where five hammocks may be slung, and see them settled comfortably there. That will create a women’s quarters. You may bunk there if you wish, and shall report to me upon any impudence or attempted lewdnesses by the crew, such as may be occasioned by conceitedness, the boldness of drink or linguistic misapprehensions.”

  “Yes, I will do that, Captain,” said Miss Chumbley, after a moment’s consideration. Captain Greybagges smiled and gestured for her to lead the island women from the quarterdeck. They filed down the companionway to the waist. Once they were clear Mr Benjamin came up the companionway steps, still red in the face from clambering up from the longboat.

  “I am impressed, Captain,” said Mr Benjamin. “You turn an advantage from the most unpromising circumstances.”

  “Thank’ee, Frank, but I can claim no cunning plan. One thing does puzzle me, though …” Mr Benjamin raised an eyebrow. “… and that is why the crew did not behave as though they were at a boxing-booth and encourage Miss Chumbley with catcalling and applause. They were silent”

  “Perhaps they were afraid to attract her attention and so attract the lash of her tongue to themselves,” said Mr Benjamin.

  “Perhaps we wuz listening too appreciatively, like, bein’ attentive to hear if she would not repeat herself, har-har!” said Bulbous Bill, who had come up the companionway ladder as they talked.

  Blue Peter swung himself down onto the quarterdeck from the mizzen ratlines, a sheepish look upon his face.

  “Well, gentlemen, now we are all present. Let us then prepare for sea, for the tide goes on the ebb in two hours, and I wish to be at the mouth of the Elizabeth River by then, setting a course out of Chesapeake Bay.”

  The sun shone down on Nombre Dios Bay, a brassy glare that glinted ho
tly from the small ripples of the water, the fading remains of the waves of the Caribbean Sea which entered the north-facing mouth of the nearly-circular bay. The frigate Ark de Triomphe lay at anchor off the beach on the western side of the bay. The beach itself was a-bustle with determined activity, groups of pirates labouring in the hot sun, the lighter-skinned members of the crew wearing straw hats and shirts to ward off its harsh rays, the darker-skinned stripped to the waist and gleaming with sweat. The thunk of axes could be heard from the jungle inland. A party of at least a score of pirates emerged onto the beach carrying an entire tree-trunk on their shoulders, their slow synchronised shuffling steps resembling the movements of a centipede’s legs.

  “The raft will be finished by this time tomorrow, Captain, no later,” said Mr Benjamin, wiping sweat from his face with a large linen handkerchief. Captain Greybagges nodded. “We shall need kedges placed further out in the bay,” continued Mr Benjamin, “for the raft is heavy and the frigate may drag her anchors when we use the capstan to haul it off the beach.”

  “Yes, that would be wise,” said the Captain. He walked to the seaward side of the quarterdeck. The longboat was in the centre of the bay, and the island women were diving from it, almost naked except for a skimpy breechclout. They stayed underwater for a surprising length of time, but seemed perfectly happy when they re-surfaced, laughing and chattering and not at all short of breath. The Captain watched them through a telescope; the bully-boys manning the longboat’s oars had prim expressions upon their faces, and averted their gaze from the women’s breasts, which made the Captain smile briefly.

  “They resemble seals, do they not?” said Mr Benjamin, his eyes glittering lecherously behind his pince-nez spectacles.

  “A little,” conceded Captain Greybagges, snapping the telescope shut.

  “It is their muscularity, and the sleek covering of fat which softens the female outline, whether they be divers or not.”

  “Do not lust, Frank!” laughed the Captain, “or you may get a knee in your cobblers, as their Dutchman did, who was also surprised by their muscularity.”

  “Cobblers?” said Mr Benjamin.

  “No, it is perfectly true,” said the Captain. After a pause he took pity on Mr Benjamin. “The word ‘cobblers’ means ‘testicles’ in the rhyming language of the London Cockaignies. ‘Cobbler’s awls’ rhyming with ‘balls’, and also meaning ‘nonsense’, in some contexts.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Mr Benjamin, looking hot and irritated.

  “Frank, it is very hot. Will you not shed that thick broadcloth coat and your wig? Your face is as red as a beetroot.”

  “I feel it would be undignified,” said Mr Benjamin.

  “Undignified is better than an apoplexy, Frank, and you were taking your air-bath this morning wearing not much more than the island ladies. Anyway, I must ask you to oversee the unshipping of the tub, and that may require you to be energetic. A cotton shirt and a straw hat to keep off the sun would be appropriate dress, and not in the least undignified in this terrible heat.”

  The Captain’s words were spoken kindly, but did not admit argument. Mr Benjamin removed his heavy buff coat with little grace, and went to direct the pirates working around the huge upturned wooden bucket stowed upon the deck.

  The Captain stayed on the quarterdeck, dressed himself only in a black shirt, black knee-britches with no hose or shoes and his frayed cricketer’s straw hat. His green beard seemed to glow luminously when the bright sun caught it. He felt happy, despite Mr Benjamin’s mumpishness, which he forgave, as heat often makes lighter-skinned people ill-humoured. The work was going well here in the bay, proceeding entirely to plan. To his surprise, the presence of women on the frigate had caused no trouble on the voyage here from Jamestown. The island women had been accepted by the crew even before they had demonstrated their special talents for swimming and diving. The oldest of the island women was particularly respected as she was a forthright and cheerful soul, and fierce in her care of the younger women. Miss Chumbley was well-regarded, too, for her fearlessness and for her awesomely foul language when badly irked. She took her job as chaperone, translator and fixer for the island women very seriously, too, and was at present, sitting cross-legged on the foredeck in sailor’s canvas jacket and pants, gutting, filletting and scaling fish, for when they took their noonday break. The island women’s love of raw fish was a source of amusement to the crew, but Bulbous Bill Bucephalus had tried it and declared it excellent, especially soused in vinegar with a little cold boiled rice as the island women preferred it. But then, thought Captain Greybagges, is there any foodstuff that Bill did not like? Probably not.

  The Ark de Triomphe had mysteriously acquired a cat during its stay in Jamestown, a lean black creature with yellow eyes, and it now stalked across the deck planking. Captain Greybagges squatted down and stroked it.

  “You have my permission to be on the quarterdeck, pussycat, even though you have not asked politely, as is required by maritime custom even aboard pirate ships,” he said. The cat rolled onto its back and playfully batted at his hand. This cat, thought Captain Greybagges, is the only member of the crew who does not know the cause of the friction between Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo and his ladylove Miss Miriam Andromeda Chumbley, there being few secrets aboard a frigate, even though no one speaks of it.

  “She will not allow him his full rights as her man,” he murmurred to the cat, “even though she yearns for him too, as she fears to bear a bastard into this world of tears. There, pussycat, now you know.”

  The cat seemed offended that it hadn’t been told before, and stalked away to the shoreside rail where it curled up in the shadow by a cannon. Captain Greybagges stood up, a thoughtful expression on his face. Perhaps there is a solution, he thought, I shall go to the town of Nombre de Dios this evening.

  There was a shout from the bay, a roar of ‘halloo!” from the mighty lungs of Loomin’ Len Lummocks. Captain Greybagges hurried to the rail. Loomin’ Len was waving frantically, standing up in the longboat, a broad grin upon his normally-impassive features. When he saw the Captain at the quarterdeck rail he cupped his hands to his mouth and roared:

  “They have found it, Cap’n! They have found it!” Captain Greybagges felt such a wave of relief flood through him that his knees weakened slightly and he gripped the rail to steady himself. The eldest island woman pulled herself into the longboat with a single smooth movement, stood next to Loomin’ Len and waved to the Captain, grinning.

  “Ha! Fine work, me hearties! Magnificent work, ladies!” roared the Captain across the water. “Get a marker-buoy tied to it quick as can be. Ha! Grand work!”

  “They be putting the marker-line upon it now, Cap’n! It is found, and shall not be lost!” roared back Loomin’ Len.

  Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges could not help himself in his joy, and danced a hornpipe on the quarterdeck, his bare feet slapping on the planks. He became aware of a murmur and noticed the pirates in the rigging and upon the sheerlegs above the huge upturned wooden bucket looking down at him in surprise.

  “Har-har!” he roared up at them, “no treasure this, my lads, no treasure in our hands yet, but now we has the keys to unlock a great fortune, har-har! A very great fortune indeed, har-har! We shall have ourselves a few drinks tonight to celebrate, I does assure you all! But time still presses upon us, so back to your work with a will, you lazy swabs. Back to yer work now, me lads, but yer has my permission to dream o’ gold, to dream o’ gold just a little whilst yez labours! Har-har!”

  And Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges continued dancing upon his quarterdeck, emitting an occasional ‘whoop!’ or “har-har!” or “whee!” of pure joy, his long green beard waving as he pranced.

  Captain Greybagges sat at his desk in the Great cabin of the Ark de Triomphe. The tall stern windows were wide open to catch any breeze, and the cheerful babble of the crew on the deck above enjoying the celebration was audible above the gurgling of the small wavelets on the hull. The purple twilight was d
eepening to black night outside, and the yellow light of an oil-lamp spilled onto the desk, illuminating the papers of the Captain’s correspondence shuffled into a pile on the leather desktop, and gleaming on the glossy calfskin covers of his account-ledgers. He poured a glass of rum for Blue Peter.

  “Oh, good Lord, Captain! It is far too blasted hot for rum. Is there no beer?”

  “I would send Jake for some, but the dreadful old wretch has already drunk his fill and passed out in the pantry. Bear with me Peter, for I must broach a delicate subject with you before the others join us.”

  Blue Peter raised his eyebrows.

  “Um, Peter, are you intending to marry Miss Chumbley? Make an honest woman of her, ho-ho!”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Sylvestre, but there is not a parson within three hundred miles of here.”

  “Aah! but there is a priest in Nombre de Dios town! I sounded him out earlier this evening. At first he stoutly refused even to countenance marrying non-Catholics, but after I presented him with a bottle of rum, a box of treacle biscuits and a couple of silver dollars he conceded that it might be morally preferable to prevent the sin of fornication than to be stiff-necked about Popish rules. In fact, after a glass or two of rum he swore that his conscience would be deeply troubled if he did not perform the marriage service. He is willing not only to officiate at the wedding but also to sign a marriage certificate and enter the wedding into his books. I, as Captain, would also put it into the ship’s log, of course. I am certain that such a wedding would be legal and binding – and here I speak as a lawyer, of course - although the authorities in England or the Colonies may require it to be officially recorded in their records at the earliest opportunity for the purposes of inheritance and taxation, it being regarded as an anomalous procedure under common law.”

  “Pirates do not pay taxes, Captain,” said Blue Peter, scowling.

  “Come now, Peter, I am trying to help, and actually we do pay taxes. The Bank of International Export – your bank, my bank, our bank – is punctilious in that regard, both for itself as an incorporation and for all its stock-holders. I make sure of that, since it is but a small amount to pay for the gloss of respectability, and to avoid unnecessary and bothersome inquiries from the powers-that-be.”