He’s going to sell ’em wonders an’ stuff their guilders in his socks!
Then he’ll drink himself shit-faced an’ go off and catch the pox!
Because a sailor ain’t a-sleepin’ when opportunity knocks!
In Africkee the parrots flap around in squawking flocks!
An’ he’d catch ’em with his net an’ keep ’em in a box!
Because a sailor ain’t a-sleepin’ when opportunity knocks!
He’s going to sell ’em parrots, an’ stuff their guilders in his socks!
Then he’ll drink himself shit-faced and go off an’ catch the pox!
Because a sailor ain’t a-sleepin’ when opportunity knocks!
He’d knock the apes out of the trees by throwing little rocks!
Then to the beach he’d drag them by their little monkey cocks!
Because a sailor ain’t a-sleepin’ when opportunity knocks!
He’s going to sell ’em monkeys, an’ stuff their guilders in his socks!
Then he’ll drink himself shit-faced and go off and catch the pox!
Because a sailor ain’t a-sleepin’ when opportunity knocks!
With a cargo of apes and parrots he’s got his trading stocks!
And he’ll fill in the nooks with leopards an’ springboks!
Because a sailor ain’t a-sleepin’ when opportunity knocks!
He’s going to sail back to Holland and stuff guilders in his socks!
Then he’ll drink himself shit-faced and go off and catch the pox!
Because a sailor ain’t a-sleepin’ when opportunity knocks!
So now he’s a-flogging parrots and apes on Rotterdam docks!
To bewigg-ed burghers and bishops in their frocks!
Because a sailor ain’t a-sleepin’ when opportunity knocks!
He’s going to sell ’em apes and parrots an’ stuff their guilders in his socks!
Then he’ll drink himself shit-faced and go off and catch the pox!
Because a sailor ain’t a-sleepin’ when opportunity knocks!”
The pirate crew sang lustily, and with good heart, as planet Earth receded behind the frigate Ark de Triomphe until it was no more than a star among the other stars in the velvet black of the sky.
“Well, that went as well as it could have done, I suppose,” said Captain Greybagges, then took a large swallow of rum.
“It is not every day that a fellow may see his home world disappearing behind him into the night sky, so I would have to say it went very well. Very well, indeed. It was a sight that both afrighted the wits out of me and enthralled me at the same time, and I am not sure that I will ever feel quite the same when I gaze at a sky full of stars,” said Mr Benjamin. Then he too took a large gulp of rum. The door of the Great Cabin creaked open and Blue Peter and Bulbous Bill came in.
“As you can hear, the crew are still a-roistering,” said Blue Peter. The crew could be heard singing, accompanied by a wheezy concertina, a badly-tuned fiddle and some sort of squeaky flute. “I told Izzy to let ’em have rum and beer with their supper, and I set the bully-boys to watch ‘em, so that they don’t drink too much.” He and Bill sat down at the table and helped themselves to rum.
“How long will it be before we … drop anchor again?” asked Blue Peter.
“The journey will take about three weeks,” said Captain Greybagges, “but it will seem to us to take only ten days or so.”
Blue Peter raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“The flow of time is apparently reduced by travel at high velocities,” said Mr Benjamin. Bulbous Bill nodded sagely, and said, “To a cully a-watchin’ us through a strong spy-glass it would take three weeks by his timepiece, but by our timepieces it will be less. An’ both of us will be right, which is a thing I find most wondrous, ’pon my soul I do! The Captain showed me an’ Frank how the figuring of it be done, but I be none the wiser for the figuring of it, I will lay to that!”
“I had the way of it explained to me,” said Captain Greybagges, “but it is mysterious to me also, for I am no great natural philosopher. I doubt if even Doctor Newton himself could make sense of it, but it is so.”
“The numbers astound me!” said Mr Benjamin. “The planet Mars is presently a little more than thirty-two million sea miles from our Earth, or about twelve and one-half million leagues. That is, I am told, the closest that the two bodies do ever approach each other in their endless circumgyrations around the sun, which is convenient for us. Such distances are meaningless to my poor mind, though, so I am trying not to think of them. Best if they remain merely figures to be writ on a piece of paper, or clicked into the dials of the demiheptaxial mechanism, which seems to understand them far better than I!” Mr Benjamin took another gulp of rum, his pince-nez spectacles gleaming in the lamp-light.
Blue Peter made as if to speak, then thought better of it and stayed silent. The four of them all stayed silent, sipping their rum, each lost in their own thoughts.
Although the frigate Ark de Triomphe was travelling at a great speed, and indeed accelerating at a great rate, it seemed to be hanging in the empty void of space in its enclosing ‘bubble o’ protection’. This gave the days that followed a dreamlike quality, the passing of time only measured out by the bell that rang to change the watches. The pirate crew ate well, imbibed rum and beer (under the watchful eyes of the bully-boys), gambled at card-games or crown-and-anchor, sang and danced (to an impromptu band, under the direction of Jake Thackeray, when he wasn’t baking pastries and cakes in the galley’s electrical oven) and took their ease. Jack Nastyface and Jake Thackeray still met at the mainmast cross-trees to smoke their pipes, but confined their conversation to mere commonplaces, for, like the rest of the crew, they found it easier to ignore the circumstances of the voyage than to acknowledge them by discussion. At regular intervals Mr Benjamin and his assistants would open a cylinder of compressed air (with a loud “bang!” and a penetrating “hissssss’), then bring a keg of slaked-lime up from the hold and empty it over the side into the pool of sea water in which the Ark de Triomphe was apparently floating. Despite this, the air inside the bubble became quite bad-smelling, but this was the only real hardship, and easily borne by the crew, most of whom had, after all, been born and raised in the filth and stink of London.
If Miriam was not sharing Blue Peter’s narrow bunk the ship’s cat would often climb in, burrowing under his arm or laying at his feet, but its purring warmth was companionable in the dark of his cabin. Sometimes he would have half-remembered dreams, dreams in which the leopardess with cutlass-teeth and cannon-claws appeared to him again, with the wings of an eagle rising from her shoulders.
Every six hours Bulbous Bill Bucephalus took sightings of the stars with the telescope and alidade, comparing his readings and calculations with the dials of the demiheptaxial mechanism. On the second watch of the fifth day of their voyage he informed the Captain that the frigate had reached the mid-point of their course, and would now be reducing its speed to approach to the planet Mars. Captain Greybagges called the crew together and spoke to them in a somber and serious manner, with his blackboard once again set up on the quarterdeck. He announced that after that evening there would be no more drinking, except for a mug of ale with their supper (“boo!” muttered the crew, but with good humour) and he began to instruct them in the duties that they must perform when they arrived at their destination. The rifled muskets were brought out, cleaned, oiled and checked. Cutlasses and boarding-axes were sharpened. Squads of pirates were drilled over and over in their appointed tasks, with charts to study and written lists to memorise, so that every man should know his part in the coming action. The red disc of the planet Mars was now apparent ahead of them, and it was growing in size in the black sky.
Mars now loomed large in front of the frigate Ark de Triomphe. The red planet was no longer a blurred circle, it was now a rust-coloured sphere showing surface features; smudgy dark patches, meandering valleys, the pock-marks of craters and white frost at its polar regions. The crew kept
glancing incredulously at it while they went about their tasks. There was a growing air of tension on the frigate as Mars grew larger in front of the bowsprit.
“Soon the inhabitants of Mars will realise we are here,” said Captain Greybagges. “Then things will become interesting quite quickly.”
“The guns and crews are ready,” said Blue Peter. “The guns are loaded single-shotted and primed, but the main switch for the electrical fluid is not closed, to avoid mishaps. I have set Torvald Coalbiter to stand by it, as a precaution.”
“The squad of marksmen are ready, too” said Israel Feet. “The rifled muskets loaded and half-cocked, two to each shooter, with two assistants to load for each. They are well-drilled and know what they are to do. I have set Jack Nastyface over them. He is much changed from the giddy fool that he once was, and will not let us down, I lay to that … ‘wi a wannion! ” The last words added as the first mate recalled his piratical nature.
“There be no signs of anything yet, Cap’n,” said a pirate - formerly a Lincolnshire poacher, chosen for his sharp eyes – who squinted through the large tripod-mounted telescope at Mars, moving it slightly this-way-and-that as he scanned the surface of the planet. Another hawk-eyed pirate grunted agreement from the for’ard quarterdeck rail, upon which he had rested the Captain’s Dolland spyglass.
Bulbous Bill Bucephalus said nothing, concentrating on manipulating the levers on the binnacle. Mr Benjamin and his assistants leant or squatted against the stern rail, leather bags of tools in front of them, in case any last-minute adjustments or repairs were necessary.
Time passed. Nobody said anything, the only noises were the “pop-hiss” of a cylinder of air being opened and the creak of the deck-planking and hanging-knees as each slight change of course put a stress on the hull.
“Aye-oop, Cap’n!” the Lincolnshire poacher called, his eye fixed to the large telescope. “Somethin’s a-moving! Two things a-moving! By the small mountain, going down and to starboard!”
“Got ’em!” confirmed the pirate with the Dolland spyglass. “Two dark things! Glinting now with the sun. Picking up speed to the starboard and down!”
“Good work! Keep your eyes on ’em! Don’t lose the buggers!” roared Captain Greybagges, and, even louder to the whole crew, “The buggers be a-coming now! Remember your orders an’ we shall have ’em presently! Steady, lads, steady!” and in a lower voice to Blue Peter, “Do you go below now and take command of your guns, Peter, and be ready upon my mark!” And, under his breath, “By all that be holy, grant me good fortune this day …”
Time passed. The only voices were the two pirates watching through telescopes, reporting the movements of the two ‘things’ as they approached, until they went out of sight under the hull.
“Peter! Hold yourself ready! You too, Bill! On my mark!” ordered Captain Greybagges in a firm voice.
The two ‘things’ slid up from below into view, one on either side of the frigate, and revealed themselves to be long sausage-shaped objects of a dull metallic green, with irregular patches here and there of shining gold and silver. They were perhaps twice the length of the frigate. They had odd lumps and sharp projections on their surfaces, and dark circles which appeared to be port-holes. They slowly moved closer to the sides of the Ark de Triomphe, as though to bracket her between them.
“Bill, reduce the bubble’s strength … NOW! … Peter! Both broadsides … NOW!”
There was a stunning concussion as the frigate unleashed full broadsides from both port and starboard, and the ‘bubble o’ protection’ was instantly filled with sulphurous smoke.
“Bill! Bring the bubble back up to full strength! Peter! Reload! Quick as you can, but wait upon my order! You, down there in the waist! Spray with the fire-hoses! Pump now! Pump NOW! Pump, you swabs, har-har-har!”
The spray of seawater from the fire-hoses slowly doused and cleared the eye-stinging brimstone-stinking smoke from inside the bubble. Outside the bubble the two alien craft were rolling away and falling down towards Mars, great rents and holes in their metallic-green hulls, shedding fragments and spinning shards of wreckage, spewing out streamers of gas and gouts of liquid which bloomed eerily into glittering clouds of crystals in the vacuum of space.
“Har-har! Take that you little grey buggers!” roared Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges. “Not so bloody clever now, are yuz, ye swabs! Har-har-har!”
“Good lord!” said Mr Benjamin, his ears ringing from the cannon-blast in the confining bubble. “How did the cannon-balls go through the bubble?”
“Har-har!” chortled the Captain. “They just pop through, iffen the bubble be at its weakest! Har-har-har! Those war-vessels o’ the little grey buggers be impervious to death-rays, heat-beams, quantum disruptors and all that sort o’ clever stuff, but they cannot withstand a good honest broadside o’ iron cannonballs! Har-har-har-har!” Captain Greybagges tried to compose himself, but he was dancing a jig of joy, a hornpipe of happiness. “T’were a calculated risk, but I have pulled it off! Har-har-har! I knew they would a-come alongside us like that, for ‘tis their standard operating procedure. They would have seized us with tractor-fields, which be akin to grapplin’-irons, d’ye see? But I got me blow in first! Har-har-har! Arrogant an’ proud they be, them little grey buggers, an’ just as well for us, or they might a-been a trifle more circumspect. Har-har-har!”
“Shall I takes us down, Cap’n?” asked Bulbous Bill, interrupting the Captain’s victory dance.
“Why, yes, Bill! With all despatch, now! There was just the two war-vessels here at the moment – I had intelligence o’ that! Har-har! – but it be best not to let ‘em have time to compose theyselves! Let us go down and finish this off as quick as we may!”
Bulbous Bill worked the levers on the binnacle and the frigate Ark de Triomphe corkscrewed abruptly and accelerated at a shocking rate towards the rusty-red surface of Mars. Nothing was felt inside the bubble, and the crew did not appear to notice the violence of the manoeuvre. They were assembling in the waist of the ship and on the foredeck, arming themselves with cutlasses, boarding axes, muskets and pistols. The marksmen were taking their positions along the rails, cradling their long-barrelled rifled muskets, their loaders standing by them with powder horns and pouches of bullets.
“Er, Bill?” said the Captain carefully.
“I be getting the knack o’ this, I reckons, Cap’n!” said Bill, his jowly face creased with concentration and his lips drawn back in a snarl. He brought the frigate near to the surface without slowing down at all, and changed direction sharply so it was following the ground very fast at a very low altitude. The frigate whizzed over the red sands, the shock-wave of its passing kicking up a swirling rooster-tail of red dust behind it, despite the thin atmosphere.
“I reckons it be best if we a-come at ‘em low, so we just pops up from over the horizon, belike,” said Bulbous Bill. “This way they be confused, mebbe. Thinks we crashed or summat.”
“That is a good idea! A very fine idea, indeed!” said the Captain. The red land of Mars unrolled under the frigate in a crazy blur. “But slow down before we hit their bubble, as we must slip ourselves through it quite slowly, d’ye see?” The Captain’s voice was a little quavery, as he watched Bill’s hands precisely moving the levers, and as saw how close they were to the ground, and how immensely fast they were moving.
“Aye-aye, Cap’n!” said Bill, through a gritted-teeth grin, and, under his breath, “Wheee-ooo! Har-har-har!”
“Arrh-har!” said Captain Greybagges, pointing ahead. A complex of buildings rose swiftly over the horizon. The huge bubble-field which covered the town was made mistily visible by the pink dust-haze of Mars. As Bulbous Bill slowed the frigate from its scorching velocity the buildings came closer, and were seen more clearly. Golden domes and palaces of brass, gleaming in the reddish sunlight. Spires, steeples, columns, needles, towers and minarets sticking up like stalagmites. Ziggurats and pyramids (quite small ones, but nicely made). Bartizans, bulwarks, bastions and
barbicans, crenellated, with grey stone walls and ravelins. Nondescript multi-storied edifices of red-brown and orange stone. Flat-roofed metal warehouses, sheds and workshops. Ornamental parks and gardens, with fountains and statuary. The small town under the bubble formed a crescent around a large open red-dirt plaza, pock-marked with meteorite craters,
“Just kiss our bubble against their bubble, then just push on it,” said Captain Greybagges. “It’s the same sort of bubble, so it will squidge through.”
“Aye-aye, Cap’n!” said Bill, and did just that.
“Put her down in that crater there, Bill! Near the edge o’ the plaza, by that copper dome. It looks to be about the right size,” said the Captain, pointing.
“Aye-aye, Cap’n!”
Bill wiggled the levers and the frigate Ark de Triomphe swooped down and settled into the crater, the ‘bubble o’ protection’ fitting as neatly into the crater as an egg into an egg-cup.
“Switch off the bubble!”
Bill moved a lever and the bubble vanished with a ‘tzzzzzing-pop!’ noise. The Ark de Triomphe dropped slightly, and wallowed and swashed in the slopping pool of sea-water, until Bill steadied it with a few deft twitches of the levers on the binnacle.
“Ready, marksmen!” roared Captain Greybagges from the front of the quarterdeck. “The toad-men will be first to attack. Don’t shoot ‘til yuz sees the yellows o’ their eyes! They do have big yellow peepers, so that’ll be about two hundred paces. Aim between them peepers, remember, for they will be wearing breast-plates and helmets! Try not to shoot any o’ them lizard-people. They are smaller, and do have four arms.”
“Aye-aye, Cap’n!” shouted the marksmen. Some of them knelt, or had kegs or chairs to sit on, so they could steady their guns on the rail. Some lay on the deck with their forearms pressed against sandbags, firing through the scuppers. Some stood and rested their guns on ratlines. A few were in the cross-trees. Jack Nastyface stood on the foredeck, where he could see all the marksmen and direct fire, if need be. He raised his left hand in a loose salute to the Captain; his right hand held a cutlass.
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