“Mr Benjamin called it a dodecahedron! No, I don’t know what that is!” – “It is stuck in the starboard companionway!” – “Mr Chippendale has been called! He has cut away the bulkheads, and now it moves again!” – “Mr B says there must be no more squashed fingers, so Chips is cutting a hole in the ‘tween-deck planking!” – “Bulbous Bill and Izzy are rigging a hoist, with a tackle suspended from the main-deck hanging knees!” – “It sits on the large plate in the middle of the keel, upon the centreline!” – “They are clamping it with bolts!” – “The copper bars are being attached to it! Mr B calls for tallow mixed with powdered copper! No, I don’t know why!” – “It is in place! Mr B praises Len’s boys for their muscles and Chips, Bill and Izzy for the ingenious tackle-work!” – “Now Mr B calls a break for food and water!”
Mr Benjamin and his team ate beef stew, tearing off hunks of bread to sop up the juices, drinking draughts of iced water, sitting on tool-chests and kegs in the waist of the frigate. The cook collected the plates, and Jake Thackeray brought them coffee and cakes on a tray. They lit pipes and sat at ease. Mr Benjamin took paper diagrams from a battered leather case and passed them around, listening to comments and questions. The members of the crew who contrived to walk nonchalantly past reported that the papers were as incomprehensible as Chinese - lines and squares, symbols, squiggles, hieroglyphs and runes – but that they were discussing them earnestly, and that the talk that was overheard made no more sense than the papers.
Captain Greybagges came up from the Great Cabin and joined them, accepting a cup of coffee and a slice of honey-glazed lardy-cake.
“Fine work, Mr Benjamin, and you fellows, too!” said the Captain. “I assume that there is only the one more thing to be retrieved?”
“Well, that and a few little odds and ends,” said Mr Benjamin thoughtfully, lifting his wig to scratch the top of his head.
“It is already getting a little late in the day, and you have worked as hard as Trojans. Do it tomorrow, for it may be delicate work, and you will need to be rested. There is the fitting of the new instruments to the binnacle to be done, which is not such heavy labour, as Mr Chippendale will do the necessary carpentry. Under your supervision, of course.”
“Aye-aye, Cap’n!” said Mr Benjamin with a nod and a smile. “That is a sensible plan. The connexions to the demiheptaxial mechanism are mostly already in place, thanks to Sid here,” he indicated the watchmaker with a nod, “so the work on the binnacle will go quickly.”
“And how is your hand today, Sid?” enquired the Captain.
“Painful, but bearable, begging your pardon, Cap’n. Luckily it is the left hand.” He raised the hand in question, the bandage now stained with black grease and smears of the tallow and copper-dust mixture, which was as bright as sign-writers’ gold paint in the low sun.
“Make sure you get that bandage changed and the wound cleaned by Miss Chumbley when you finish your work this evening, Sid. You are a pirate - a stout-hearted buccaneer, indeed! - but you are too young yet for a hook!” said the Captain.
The next morning Jack Nastyface and Jake Thackeray, on their accustomed perch on the mizzenmast mainsail cross-trees, noted that Mr Benjamin once again missed his air-bath, merely sousing his head under the seawater pump before climbing down to the raft and wriggling into the ‘scallop-shell’, followed by his men. Just after the ship’s bell rang the end of the forenoon watch, as pirates started to line up to have wooden kids filled with stew from the galley for the gun-deck messes, Loomin’ Len’s bully-boys carried a new object from the interior of the extramundane craft. A golden sphere, roughly the same diameter as a rum-keg. It gleamed a molten yellow in the bright sun, and the waiting mess-chiefs gasped in wonder.
The auriferous globe, tied with padded ropes onto a wooden dolly cushioned with rags, was block-and-tackled up to the deck with exquisite care, Mr Benjamin clucking protectively around it like a mother hen. It was then hoisted, again with the most diligent attention, to its platform, the platform on a diagonal strut between the foremast and the mainmast that had been fixed in Liver Pool. Mr Benjamin ascended the mainmast to the platform, moving slowly, assisted with great solicitude by the First Mate and two of his ‘foremast jacks, who placed Mr Benjamin’s feet on the ratlines and yards for him as he climbed, despite his growled protests.
The queue for lunch slowed as the pirates observed the performance above them, their faces tilted to the sky, and the cook roared at them to hurry up, you dogs, until he gave up and came out from his galley to join them watching silently, as no whispered reports were needed this time.
Mr Benjamin and his team attached the golden sphere to the platform with bolts, and joined the thin copper bars to it with clamps smeared with the tallow-and-copper-dust mixture. It took them the first quarter of the afternoon watch, and was performed without mishap, except that Sid the watchmaker, rendered clumsy by his gashed and broken finger, dropped a wrench, which hit the deck with a solid bang, gouging the planks but hitting no one. Mr Benjamin opened his mouth to rebuke him, but stopped himself and gave him a small smile instead. The golden sphere was then shrouded in a tarred-canvas cover, and Mr Benjamin and his men climbed carefully down. The pirates gave them an appreciative cheer as they stepped onto to the deck. The queue for lunch re-formed and Jake Thackeray filled their kids with salt-horse-and-pease stew, informing them cheerfully that he had kept it warm, but that he had some cold stew if there were any old women who might prefer it that way.
Mr Benjamin went to the Great Cabin to report to the Captain. Blue Peter was already there, examining the small model of the Ark de Triomphe in its spherical glass bottle on its shelf.
“Ah, Frank!” said Captain Greybagges cheerfully. “Excellent work! We must not tempt the fates by any display of egregious hubris, but I do not think they will begrudge us a well-earned glass of brandy and a sense of smug satisfaction! Here, let me help you to a glass…”
Mr Benjamin took his brandy, a generous slug in a crystal tumbler, and raised it:
“Aye-aye, Cap’n! To success in your endeavours!” he cried, adding to himself in an undertone, “whatever they may be…”
“Indeed, yes,” said Blue Peter. “I will drink to that!” He caught Mr Benjamin’s eye and nodded towards the ship-in-a-bottle. Mr Benjamin stood beside him and regarded the model of the Ark de Triomphe.
“Oh, my!” he said after a pause. “You have laid your plans deeply, Cap’n. Very deeply indeed. I had not noticed that little gold bead on the model before. The close fit of the dodecahedron and the grey-cylinder things to their positions on the iron keel-pieces greatly impressed me, but it seems that you have anticipated this in much greater detail than I could have imagined.”
“I hope it gives you confidence, Frank,” said Captain Greybagges carefully. “I have demanded a lot of trust from everybody, and everybody has generously granted me that trust, for which you and the entire crew have my deepest gratitude. You have questions, though, they clamour in your thoughts, I can see it upon your face. All I can still say is that …”
“… everything will become clear in time!” said Blue Peter and Mr Benjamin, almost in complete unison. Captain Greybagges barked with laughter.
“Never has a captain of pirates had a better crew!” grinned the Captain. “I raise my glass to you!” He took a swallow of brandy. “We are not yet finished, though, the game is not yet won. I honour and value your patience with me and my annoying secretiveness, but you will understand my reasons before all is done. Come, sit down, the pair of you, and tell me how things progress. You first, Frank.”
“The components from the discus – or the scallop-shell, as the crew are calling it – have been transferred to this frigate. Some small things are yet to be removed, but Sid and the other fellows are doing that as we speak. The fitting of the instruments and the little brass thingummijigs to the extended binnacle is now done, and they are connected to the demiheptaxial mechanism, except for a final look to see that all is well. A f
ew bolts to tighten, a few joints and bearings to be greased, that sort of thing. All complete before lunchtime tomorrow, at the latest.”
“Peter?”
“The cannon have been modified as you required, their flintlocks replaced by the new firing devices. Torvald Coalbiter is not entirely happy, of course, as he does not really understand the electrical fluid or how it can ignite gunpowder, even though he saw the barrel exploded by lightning that time, but he is doing what he is told. He, too, has faith in your schemes, Captain. He is in awe of your green beard. He believes it to be magical, you see, like his grandmother, who was a witch, he says.”
“I am a man of reason, a lover of natural philosophy,” said Mr Benjamin slowly, “but I am beginning to think something like that myself…” He raised a hand to forestall an answer. “But I certainly agree with your pirate crew, They are curious, of course, but they are intrigued. They will go with you to the ends of the Earth, and not ask questions now, I think, because they don’t wish to spoil the surprise. Let’s be about our work.”
Mr Benjamin left the Great Cabin. Blue Peter murmured “to the ends of the earth, Captain?” with a wry grin, revealing his pointed filed teeth, and left too, shutting the door gently behind him.
Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges stood upon his quarterdeck, dressed in his full pirate-captain’s rig of black pants tucked into black spit-shined sea-boots, black shirt, black justaucorps coat and a black tricorne hat. In his belt was a cutlass and two pistols, and his green beard seemed almost to glow emerald when it caught the midday sun. He felt a mixture of satisfaction, hope and pride as he surveyed his ship, the frigate Ark de Triomphe. All the necessary work had now been done, even to small details. The canvas screens that had disguised the frigate’s low predatory silhouette had not been re-mounted, but a broad band of a yellowish buff had been painted along the hull at the level of the gun-ports to make her more resemble a merchant ship to the casual eye. The canvas name-plates covering the frigate’s real name on the stern and on sides of the bow had been replaced with better ones of thin wood, the false identity lettered bravely in characters of shining copper, for one of the young pirates, once the apprentice of a paint-maker, had compounded a metallic lacquer from a little of the copper dust, perhaps inspired by the shining smears on Mr Benjamin’s waistcoat and Sid’s bandage.
Blue Peter came onto the quarterdeck, attired in a sky-blue coat with gold buttons, a white silk shirt, pale-grey breeches, white hose and shoes with gold buckles. A multi-coloured silk sash around his waist held a short cutlass with a brass knuckle-duster hilt and the long-barrelled Kentucky pistol. His huge hands glittered and flashed with gemstone rings.
“Peter, do you not find the nom-de-guerre of this frigate oddly apposite?” said the Captain. “Mr Benjamin thought of it.”
Blue Peter leaned over the stern-rail to read the inscription upside-down.
“I am not sure, but I am glad it amuses you, Captain. They will not let me see Miriam. Those island women barred the way to her cabin, and would not move an inch, even though I showed my teeth and growled.”
“It is the custom. You would have brought bad luck upon yourself, Peter,” laughed the Captain, “and the island women know that you are not a brute, even if you look like one, har-har!”
Captain Greybagges leaned over the stern-rail to admire the new name-board once more. The former paint-maker’s apprentice was using up the last of the copper paint to add highlights to the carved curlicues around the stern windows.
“Good work, Albert!” said the Captain. “Very tasteful, I find it!”
“Why, thank’ee Cap’n! Us slab-boys do know a thing or two, har-har!”
Blue Peter and the Captain walked to the ship’s wheel, the binnacle in front of it now much enlarged to hold panels of levers and a number of dials with engraved brass faces and blued-steel hands. A complicated device of brass and steel was mounted in the centre of the new binnacle, protected by a glass bell-jar.
“What is that, Captain?” Blue Peter pointed to the device. “It resembles the bastard love-child of an armilliary sphere, an orrery and an astrolabe.”
“Ah-ha! You are not so very far from the truth, Peter. It is called a torquetum, although it is more complex than the instrument from which it gets its name.”
Blue Peter nodded, but asked no further questions. I am committed to this venture, he thought, for good or ill, and there are no answers that will change that. During the night he had dreamt a confused dream, in which the leopardess with cutlass-teeth and cannon-claws had visited him again. He remembered an amicable and rambling discussion, but could recall no details of what was said. They had walked together in the African bush, then rested together in the shade of a baobab tree. As part of a friendly tussle, as one may have with a playful feline, the leopardess had climbed on top of him and sat on his chest. He had awoken at that moment, feeling short of breath, to find two yellow eyes staring down at him in the dark. He had twitched with shock, for dreams should not become real, and then the ship’s cat had jumped from his chest with a hiss. Blue Peter had shook his head to banish the shards of dream. The black cat, on the floor of his cabin, had looked him in the eyes, made a rrowwll! noise, then slid through the ajar door. He had left his bunk and followed it, feeling foolish. The black cat paced slowly, its tail twitching from side to side, not looking back, then darted up the companionway. Blue Peter had followed it up the steps, and stopped with just his head above the level of the planking. Captain Greybagges stood on the quarterdeck, wearing his black nightshirt, his bare feet a couple of paces from Blue Peter’s face. The Captain stood quite still, staring up at the night sky, a velvet blue-black sky full of bright stars. Blue Peter noticed, with an eerie feeling, that the green beard was moving as though in a slight breeze. There was no wind that Blue Peter could detect, but the green beard waved nonetheless, small ripples rolling from the Captain’s chin down to the ends of the whiskers. Of the ship’s black cat there was no sign. Blue Peter stepped backwards down the companionway ladder, carefully and soundlessly, and returned to his bunk, where he fell immediately into a deep and dreamless slumber.
In the light of the day Blue Peter was not sure whether he really had been led by a pussycat to observe the Captain communing with the stars, or whether it was a mere continuation of the dream of the African savanna. He felt that it was a good omen either way, although he was not sure why.
He was brought from his reverie by Mr Benjamin, Bulbous Bill Bucephalus and Israel Feet clumping up the steps to the quarterdeck, talking loudly and cheerfully. They were all dressed in their best clothes: Mr Benjamin looking a little hot in a fine buff coat, waistcoat and breeches and a new wig, with a sword with a fine maroon-leather scabbard and baldric, his eyes sparkling merrily behind his pince-nez spectacles; the First Mate and the sailing-master in the traditional pirate uniform of dark fustian knee-britches and weskit, colourful kerchiefs on their heads, knotted at the back with the corners hanging down, bright sashes around their waists with a tasteful collection of weapons tucked into them, only so much hardware as was appropriate for a party among friends.
Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges rubbed his hands together, grinning gleefully.
“Har-har! Me hearties! Bill, Izzy, are the look-outs and their reliefs assigned and instructed? Are they content with the recompense for their forbearance and for missing a little of the grog and the dancing?”
“Aye-aye, Cap’n! They are, and they are!” they cried back, touching their forelocks.
“Then let us take ourselves ashore and get this boucan started, for I has a powerful desire to grow my beard just a little!”
The old priest’s hair was grey, his chin whiskery, his eyes red and his cassock worn and patched, but he asked Blue Peter the question in a firm and resonant voice:
“Pee-tar, vis accípere Miri-aam, hic praeséntem in tuam legítiman uxórem juxta ritum sanctae matris Ecclésiae?”
Blue Peter answered “Volo!”
The old pri
est turned to Miss Miriam Andromeda Chumbley, and asked:
“Miri-aam, vis accípere Pee-tar., hic praeséntem in tuum legítimun maritum juxta ritum sanctae matris Ecclésiae?”
In a loud voice, trembling a little from nerves, Miss Chumbley answered “Volo!”
The priest then blessed them with the sign of the cross, as he said:
“Ego conjúngo vos in matrimónium. In nominee Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti. Amen!”
“He says that you are now man and wife!” whispered Captain Greybagges, who was giving away the bride, at her request. “Pass him the ring, Izzy!”
“Bill’s got it, ain’t he?” replied the First Mate, and there was a brief sotto-voce argument between the two before the ring – a gold band with a rose-pink diamond – was found in the First Mate’s waistcoat pocket and placed on the bride’s finger. Captain Greybagges was ready to say “you may now kiss the bride!” but Blue Peter forestalled him by lifting the new Mrs Ceteshwayoo off her feet and kissing her lovingly, passionately and lingeringly. The pirates roared their approval, cheering repeatedly, cheering so deafeningly that the monkey-birds flapped from their perches in the surrounding jungle and circled overhead, squawking loudly as though adding their approval, too.
Blue Peter thanked the priest in bad Spanish, and slipped a reale d’or into his hand as he shook it.
The bride threw her bouquet over her shoulder. The eldest of the island women caught it, and looked at it in surprise.
“Oh, dear!” said Bulbous Bill, wiping away a tear. “Do they not look lovely together, Cap’n!”
It is true, thought Captain Greybagges, they look wonderful. The bride’s wedding-dress is not white, but the island women and the old tars have done a magnificent job. You would not guess it was made from cut-up signal flags. It looks very colourful and flattering. A white gown would have looked a little pale and anaemic next to Blue Peter in his finery, but instead she out-shines him like a firework display. A prancing Froggie dressmaker from Paris itself could not have stitched her a better one from the silks of Cathay. And the island women have done her proud, too! They look just right as bridesmaids, all in those nice boxy dresses with the wide sleeves – kimonos, did they call ‘em? – even with those sticks in their piled-up hair, alike to knitting-needles in balls of wool.
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