Steve and the Singing Pirates

by Dan Anthony

  ‘Earl Mostyn has challenged Liam to a duel,’ said Steve. ‘He says he’d rather blow out his brains in the park with a gun than do the same thing with a trombone on the riverfront.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said The Captain. ‘I likes the cut of this Earl Mostyn’s jib.’

  ‘He’s not on our side,’ said Steve. ‘Earl Mostyn is a big-headed bully. I’ve come across him before.’

  The Captain apologised for getting mixed up.

  ‘Liam,’ asked Steve, ‘are you any good at duels?’

  ‘Never been in one in my life. I’m a lover not a fighter,’ said Liam sadly.

  ‘Then we shall have to step into your back garden and practise,’ said the Captain, producing two large pistols from inside his jacket. Steve was amazed at the amount of weaponry the Captain managed to conceal in his clothing.

  In the garden they placed a flowerpot on top of Liam’s sundial. As they walked away from the pot the Captain loaded the pistols.

  ‘The rules are simple,’ said the Captain. ‘You each take a walk for twenty paces and then when the referee drops a handkerchief to the floor, you shoot one another. The winner is the one who doesn’t die.’

  They stopped and the Captain handed Liam a loaded pistol. Liam looked at the flowerpot.

  ‘Keep your hand steady,’ said Steve. ‘You need to squeeze the trigger gently.’

  Liam fired. Steve grabbed his ears. The pistol sounded like a hundred fireworks going off at the same time. White smoke filled the garden. But when it cleared the flowerpot stood, undamaged, on the sundial.

  Steve handed Liam another gun.

  ‘Have another go,’ he urged, as the Captain began reloading.

  BANG. Liam fired again. This time the bullet flew upwards and smashed into an upstairs window, shattering the glass.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Steve. ‘But we’ve got to get closer.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Liam. ‘I’ll get the hang of it.’

  Liam tried again but Steve could see the barrel of the gun moving around in little circles. He watched as Liam closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

  When the smoke cleared, the flowerpot on the sundial was still in one piece.

  ‘Perhaps it would be a good idea if you kept your eyes open,’ said Steve. ‘When you do the shooting part.’

  ‘He’s a dead man,’ the Captain muttered, adjusting his wig. ‘Couldn’t hit a whale from three feet.’

  Steve kept handing reloaded pistols to Liam, and Liam kept missing the target. Steve realised that Liam would be shot if he fought the duel against Earl Mostyn.

  9

  Duel In The Park

  It was him. Just like he looked in the photograph, but bigger, more supercilious, and with a slimier smile.

  Earl Mostyn wasn’t like Liam. He sat astride his huge black stallion, twiddling the curls of his enormous shiny black wig beneath a vast oak tree – waiting. A footman positioned a few yards away held a blood-red cushion carrying two shiny new silver pistols.

  ‘Be sure, Footman,’ he was saying, ‘when the duel commences you hand the gun on the right to Liam and the gun on the left to yours truly.’

  When he saw Liam, the Captain and Steve approaching, Earl Mostyn leapt off his horse and swaggered towards them.

  ‘I thought you weren’t going to turn up,’ he said, pulling off one of his black gloves. ‘At least you’re not a coward, you’re merely a fool.’

  ‘I’ve been practising like mad,’ said Liam. ‘You’re the one who’s going to look silly.’

  ‘If silly is riding off into the sunset with the most beautiful girl in the world, whilst you lie dead in the park for crows to feed off – then silly it is,’ said Earl Mostyn. ‘Chose your weapons.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Liam. ‘I won’t be fighting this duel today.’

  A fiery look crossed Earl Mostyn’s face. He stepped up to Liam and slapped him across the face with his glove.

  ‘What do you mean? Are you a coward, Sir? Have you come all this way to tell me that you are about to run away, squire? Are you even sillier than I first thought?’ said Earl Mostyn.

  ‘Not so fast,’ interrupted the Captain. ‘According to the rules of duelling, Liam is entitled to appoint a second to do his shooting for him.’

  The Earl looked down at the Captain. In comparison with the fine clothes and muscular physique of the Earl, the Captain looked old and short. His ragged ginger wig made him look a bit like a shaggy dog, or perhaps a small bear.

  ‘Are you seriously telling me that this ridiculous old man is your second? I doubt if he could see far enough to hit a target. He is a perambulating wig.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Steve calmly. ‘It’s me. I’m the second. And by the way, since you challenged Liam to the duel we get to the chose the weapons. I’ll be using the Captain’s pistols.’

  Earl Mostyn turned his attention to Steve.

  ‘A boy?’ he said incredulously. ‘You’d let an idiotic boy like this take a bullet for you? The Countess of Shropshire would never marry a man like you. You’re an absolute coward, Sir.’

  ‘We’ve thought about it long and hard. It turns out that I’m a very bad shot,’ said Liam. ‘Steve, on the other hand, can hit a flowerpot on a sundial from a hundred yards.’

  Rage flooded Earl Mostyn’s veins. He was a good shot, but the guns he’d prepared had been loaded in his favour. His contained a lead bullet. The one he was going to give to Liam contained nothing but powder. He took a step back as the Captain held out his two pistols.

  ‘Chose your weapon,’ hissed the Captain.

  ‘Wait,’ said Earl Mostyn, ‘if you are going to fight with a second, then, surely, according to the rules of duelling, I should also be afforded the same luxury. Footman!’

  The footman put down his cushion and stepped forward.

  ‘Kill this boy,’ said Earl Mostyn, pointing at Steve.

  Steve smiled. He felt confident he could beat anybody in a duel.

  ‘But…’ stammered the footman.

  ‘Go to it, man,’ shouted Earl Mostyn.

  ‘I will stand on the side and drop a handkerchief. First you must take a weapon. Then each of you must walk twenty paces apart. If Steve kills my footman, then we shall see who wins the heart of The Countess of Shropshire at the competition tonight. If, on the other hand, my footman kills Steve, then you forfeit your right to play any tunes to anybody.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Liam.

  The Captain handed out the weapons.

  The duellists stood back to back.

  ‘One,’ shouted the Captain.

  They each took a pace away from one another.

  ‘Two,’ shouted the Captain.

  Steve wasn’t nervous at all. Duelling was fun.

  ‘Three,’ shouted the Captain.

  ‘Go on, Steve,’ urged Liam.

  ‘Four,’ said the Captain.

  Steve and the footman took another step apart.

  ‘Five.’

  …and another.

  As Steve and the footman stepped further apart, Earl Mostyn and Liam glared at one another.

  Finally the Captain reached the end of the countdown.

  ‘Twenty,’ he cried as Earl Mostyn dropped a silk handkerchief. ‘Duellists, you may turn and fire at will!’

  Steve spun round. He was surprised to see the footman had already turned and was aiming the barrel of his gun directly at him. He saw a plume of smoke, he heard the loud bang of the powder and then he felt something whistle past his head.

  Instinctively, Steve grabbed at his head. Then he looked at his hands. He expected to see blood pouring from a terrible head wound. But there was none. Then his wig landed on the grass near his feet. The footman had shot his wig off.

  Liam and the Captain cheered.

  ‘You missed!’ they yelled.

  ‘Now you have a free shot,’ explained the Captain. ‘The footman must stand still until you have blasted him to smithereens.’

  Steve stared at the foo
tman. A dreadful look of fear swept across the poor man’s face.

  ‘Go on Steve,’ yelled The Captain, waving his crutch in the air. ‘Blow his brains out.’

  Steve stayed calm. He lined the barrel of his pistol up with the footman. He knew he had all the time in the world. Then he raised his gun high towards the sky and pulled the trigger. The bullet flew harmlessly upwards, narrowly missing a passing seagull.

  The footman ran towards Steve, hugging him and thanking him for sparing his life. The Captain cursed old sailor’s curses.

  Earl Mostyn turned to Liam.

  ‘Your fellow Steve is a man of honour,’ he said.

  Earl Mostyn jumped onto his black stallion.

  ‘Honour has cost you The Countess of Shropshire,’ he snarled. ‘You have no music, no musicians and no chance of bringing an orchestra to the riverfront. This evening you’ll watch the Countess choose me.’

  As Earl Mostyn thundered off on his horse, Steve took the Captain to one side.

  ‘We need to move quickly,’ said Steve. ‘You must know some musicians. Pirates are famous for their singing: hornpipes and reels, sea shanties and jigs.’

  A smile flashed across the Captain’s face.

  ‘You mean like Cannonball Eric? Used to play his trumpet whenever we boarded a stricken vessel.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Steve. ‘We need every musician you can think of.’

  ‘Jerry and the Sailmakers? The Hornpipe Hoochy Coochy Band? Bob Marley and the Whalers?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Steve, ‘we’ll beat their orchestra with musicians who’ve sailed the seven seas.’

  The Captain told Steve where to find his old musicians and he gave him the names of the best ones. Then Liam and the Captain hurried away to set up the stage.

  ‘I’ll meet you at the riverfront at 7pm sharp,’ yelled Steve.

  10

  Big Wigs

  Steve burst into the Captain’s cabin. There, exactly where Steve had left him, sat Wolfie, playing a wonderful tune on the keyboard. Steve gasped, almost in horror. Something was wrong. Wolfie was so engaged in the music he didn’t hear Steve open the door. When Steve drew in his breath in shock Wolfie span round, reaching for his wig. He tried to hide his long, flowing red hair.

  Steve stared at Wolfie.

  ‘Errr,’ he said.

  Wolfie found the wig, tucked his hair under it and put it on his head.

  ‘Hi, Steve,’ said Wolfie, trying to pretend that everything was the same.

  ‘You’re a girl,’ said Steve.

  Wolfie smiled nervously.

  ‘So?’ she said.

  Wolfie took the wig off.

  Steve looked at Wolfie. Without the wig on, Steve could see that Wolfie was definitely a girl. She was older than him, maybe a bit older than Miffany. In fact, without the wig on, Wolfie looked very similar to Steve’s sister Miffany.

  Wolfie sighed and rested her elbows on the keyboard. A discordant sound roared from the harpsichord.

  ‘That’s it,’ sighed Wolfie, ‘we’re done for. You’d better hand me over now.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Impersonating a boy is a punishable offence,’ said Wolfie, ‘I could be put in prison.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Steve.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Wolfie. ‘Why could I be sent to prison, or why am I impersonating a boy?’

  ‘Both,’ said Steve.

  ‘Because I want to be a composer,’ said Wolfie, ‘and all the best composers are men. In fact, they don’t allow women to be composers. They say that music has a strange effect on women and it turns them crazy.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Steve.

  Then he remembered Mrs Gestetner his piano teacher. He thought about her death-ray eyes.

  ‘Well,’ he added, ‘it’s ridiculous in most cases. Girls are just as good at being composers as boys.’

  Steve thought about his sisters. He remembered how they’d won the Pendown’s Got Talent competition.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘in my experience, they’re better.’

  ‘Well, that makes you a very unusual boy,’ said Wolfie. ‘There’s no way Liam’s going to win the competition if they find out the music was written by a girl. And anyway, it’s hopeless. We’re going to need an orchestra — a string quartet at the very least.’

  Steve tapped the top of the harpsichord with his conductor’s baton.

  ‘Play it, Wolfie,’ said Steve. ‘Let me hear the tune.’

  Wolfie rested her fingers on the harpsichord, then began to play. Now that she had an instrument that was in tune the music sounded wonderful.

  When she finished Steve knew what to do.

  ‘Put your wig back on,’ said Steve. ‘We’re going to find ourselves an orchestra.’

  Wolfie shoved her hair back under her wig. She put her old black coat on.

  ‘And another thing,’ said Steve. ‘If we’re going to win this competition we need to look the part. Look in the corner.’

  Steve pointed at a coat stand. On it hung the Captain’s most piratical jackets: a red one with sequins, a blue one with gold embroidery.

  Steve took the red one. Wolfie put the blue one on.

  ‘Now,’ said Steve, ‘can you take me to a tavern called The Cutlass and Snarl. The Captain says it’s the place to go to find his old crew and our musicians.’

  A look of fear crossed Wolfie’s face – her lip twitched.

  ‘The Cutlass and Snarl?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ said Steve. ‘Is it far? We haven’t got much time.’

  ‘The problem with the Cutlass and Snarl,’ said Wolfie, ‘is this. It’s full of murderers, pirates and thieves.’

  ‘Good,’ said Steve.

  11

  The Killer Singers

  Steve followed Wolfie as she hurried along the thin cobbled streets. A distant clock chimed the hour.

  ‘Come on, Steve,’ shouted Wolfie. ‘That’s four bongs – you know what that means.’

  ‘It’s four o’clock?’ suggested Steve, with just a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He stopped and lent on a door, getting his breath back.

  ‘How much further?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Look above your head,’ said Wolfie.

  There was a sign above him. A man’s head, bisected by a long scar that ran up his chin, along his nose and over his bald head, snarled out at them. Above him was a drawing of a sword.

  ‘This is it,’ said Wolfie. ‘One cutlass, one snarl. That’s the landlord: Twoface.’

  They pushed the door open and stepped into a room crammed with people. Woodsmoke and chatter filled the air. In the background someone was scratching out a tune on an old violin. Steve and Wolfie began searching the room for musicians, but whenever they asked anyone if they knew the Captain, they were given the same answer.

  ‘Never heard of ’im.’

  After half an hour, Steve and Wolfie met at the fireplace.

  ‘They’ve clammed up,’ said Wolfie. ‘They don’t like strangers.’

  Steve knew that they were running out of time. He put his hand inside his bright blue jacket. He felt the conductor’s baton which the librarian had given him. He couldn’t see how that would help. Then he felt the pistol the Captain had given him at the duel. He took a deep breath, then he pulled out the pistol, holding it straight out in front of him, pointing it at the people in the tavern.

  Suddenly the babble of talking, singing and screeching stopped. It was as if a cold wind had blown down the chimney into the room, snuffing out the sound in everyone’s mouths.

  Wolfie gasped.

  ‘This is a blades pub,’ she hissed. ‘They don’t like shooters.’

  Steve gulped.

  ‘OK everyone,’ he said. ‘Stick ’em up.’

  Steve had never seen such an ugly-looking crew. Hard-bitten faces frowned down at him. Slowly the people in the tavern raised their arms high.

  ‘What do you want?’ a bald man behind the bar wit
h a scar running straight down through the middle of his face, spoke for everyone. ‘We got no money, we lost our treasure and you ain’t no highwaymen.’

  Steve didn’t speak for moment.

  ‘I want musicians,’ he said, his voice faltering slightly.

  Wolfie interrupted.

  ‘A famous pirate, a friend of mine, well, not exactly a friend, more like a one-legged wig with a sword, known only as the Captain, has identified you as the top musical performers in the pirating business. If you can play a musical instrument the Captain needs help.’

  Steve continued: ‘He’s given me some names. Could One Eyed Sally step forward? Is Fizal The Udeman here? Can I see Ossa N’Tini with her Djembe drums…’

  One by one the musicians came forward. A tall woman with long blonde hair and purple eyepatch spoke for them all.

  ‘If the Captain’s in trouble, we can help, but there’s one thing — we don’t allow pistols in this tavern. Put the gun down, boy.’

  Steve gazed out at the sea of angry faces. He’d found his musicians. Now, it was up to them. If they wanted to kill him for breaking the rules of the Cutlass and Snarl, this was the moment.

  Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the pistol. Then he dropped it on the floor. Cold beads of sweat stood out on his brow, his heart thumped like a drum.

  ‘Are you with us?’ he asked, pushing his hand into his jacket.

  Everyone watched Steve as he produced another weapon from his jacket pocket. He held it high.

  ‘This is my conductor’s baton,’ he said. ‘Tonight we’re playing for the Captain.’

  The musicians cheered, but the bald man behind the bar of the old tavern stepped forward. He picked up the pistol and pointed it at Steve.

  ‘Not so fast.’

  Steve gulped and took a step back. But the man followed, pushing the pistol forward until the barrel rested on the tip of Steve’s nose. Steve shook with fear. Everybody in the Cutlass and Snarl held their breath.