The Pirates! In an Adventure with Scientists

by Gideon Defoe

  ‘No. No, I don’t. I . . . I don’t even know what you’re talking about,’ said the Elephant Man quickly. The pirate with a scarf thought he saw a flash of fear in the wretch’s eyes, but it was hard to tell because his face was such a funny shape.

  ‘Listen. Why don’t I sing you a song?’ said the Elephant Man, obviously desperate to try to change the subject. He even got up and did a little ungainly jig as he sang.

  I look like some ex-pe-ri-ment!

  But please believe me I’m a proper gent!

  I seem like a monster, but whatcha don’t know is,

  I got a scorching case of neurofibromatosis!19

  Jennifer and the pirate with a scarf gave up on getting a straight answer, and went to search for any clues that might be evident at the other exhibits. But they had no more luck with the Man Who Could Eat A Bicycle, or the Lady Who Had Had Hiccups For Forty Years, or even with the Girl From Chesterfield Who Would Repeatedly Go Out With Idiots When She Could Do A Great Deal Better For Herself. The pea-soup fog was starting to make their eyes sting, so Jennifer and the pirate ducked inside a tent that was simply marked ‘A Special Exhibit For The Ladies’. It didn’t seem very special – it was just an empty and badly lit tent as far as the pirate with a scarf could make out.

  ‘It’s very dark in here. I can’t even see what we’re meant to be looking at,’ said Jennifer, slipping her hand through her companion’s arm. The pirate with a scarf’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t believe how well it was going. Usually by this point with a girl he’d have said something idiotic, or spilt drink all down his front, or chewed with his mouth open, but he’d managed not to do any of those things so far, and he even seemed to be impressing her with some of his nautical anecdotes.

  ‘It must mean a good deal of responsibility, being the first mate on a pirate boat,’ said Jennifer, shivering at a sudden breeze that seemed to blow through the tent.

  ‘It’s not easy. But I try to look after my crew,’ said the pirate. ‘I saved a man’s life the other day. He got attacked by a huge jellyfish, and I neutralised the sting by pouring a bucket of wee all over him.’

  He instantly wished he had instead told her about the time he fought a monstrous manatee, because it cast him in a slightly more heroic light, and didn’t involve big buckets of wee. Jennifer had gone very quiet, and looking up from his shoes – he was terrible at making eye contact with girls he liked – the pirate with a scarf was surprised to see her slumping unconscious to the floor. For one frightened moment he thought his conversation might have sent her into a daze, so he was pretty relieved when he felt a chloroform-soaked rag press against his mouth, and blacked out himself.

  The pirate with a scarf opened his eyes groggily. His vision seemed to go cloudy, but then he realised it was just his breath condensing on the inside of the massive glass tube in which he now found himself trapped. The tube was attached to some kind of improbable contraption, fashioned of wood and brass and covered in cogs, pipes and hissing gaskets. Looking to his left, he saw that Jennifer was held in an identical predicament. With a sinking feeling, he realised that yet again a date with a pretty girl had gone horribly wrong. He could just make out that they were in some kind of big square room, with what looked like gigantic stained-glass windows for walls. He gave a peevish sigh – he certainly wasn’t enjoying this adventure as much as, say, the Pirates’ Adventure On The Island Of Rum And Amazons.

  ‘So, young scarf-wearing lady! You and your pretty friend are awake!’

  The room was so dingy, and so cluttered with menacing-looking bric-a-brac, that the pirate hadn’t noticed a figure dressed all in black robes20 busying about in the corner. It was the iniquitous Bishop of Oxford himself! The pirate with a scarf could tell it was the Bishop because he was wearing a bishop’s hat, just like the chess pieces that he had seen the Pirate Captain play with on occasion. The pirate with a scarf preferred Ludo or Snakes and Ladders himself.

  ‘What’s all this about, you beast?’ asked Jennifer from inside her big glass tube. The Bishop fixed her with a beady stare.

  ‘How old would you take me for?’ he asked, as if by way of explanation. Jennifer had never been particularly good at estimating this sort of thing, but she hazarded a guess anyhow.

  ‘Mid to late forties?’

  ‘Hah! I’m actually fifty-one years old.’

  The Bishop gazed at the pair of them expectantly. Jennifer and the pirate with a scarf just looked blankly back at him. He seemed a bit annoyed that he had to explain things further.

  ‘I keep myself so fresh-looking by using this devilish machine to distil the very life-essence from young ladies such as you!’ he added impatiently.

  ‘So you’re responsible for all these grisly murders! I had my bets on it being a member of the Royal Family. Or maybe gypsies,’ said Jennifer, wide-eyed and fuming. ‘You villain!’

  ‘I must say, Bishop,’ said the pirate with a scarf – remembering to keep up his lady voice – ‘the sack and the drugs. It’s not the sort of behaviour I’d expect from a man of the cloth.’

  The diabolical Bishop looked almost sheepish.

  ‘I realise that my methods leave a lot to be desired,’ he replied with a rather forlorn sigh, ‘but you have to appreciate the climate I’m working in. Anyone will tell you how difficult it is to meet a nice girl in a big city like this. So you can understand that in my case, where I need to meet about a dozen nice girls a week in order to synthesise my ghastly concoction . . . well, it’s virtually impossible.’

  ‘I can see why you’re not a girl’s first choice,’ said Jennifer with a sneer. ‘If a lady is looking for anything to be planted on her mouth at the end of an evening, it’s a kiss, not a dirty old cloth soaked in chloroform. The least I’d expect of a fellow who intends to drain the youthful life-force out of me would be flowers and conversation.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a bit much. Do you really need the sinister circus and the swirling fog and the kidnapping? Have you tried a nice coffee shop? I hear that they’re great places to pick up us women,’ said the pirate helpfully.

  ‘Of course I have!’ replied the Bishop with an air of despair. ‘But it just never works out. I meet a girl, I laugh a booming maniacal laugh at their anecdotes, just like I’ve read you’re meant to, and I make sure to pay them a compliment – “you’ve got a lovely hairline, I won’t need to shave your temples when I attach you to my nightmarish device” – something like that. But more often than not it’s a swift peck on the cheek, thanks for a lovely evening, and I’m home alone in my macabre lair. I just don’t have time for it! I’m not getting any younger, you know. Well, I suppose in a manner of speaking I am, but you see my point.’

  ‘I doubt that funny little moustache is doing you any favours,’ said Jennifer with an arched eyebrow.

  ‘It’s an evil moustache, not a gay moustache,’ replied the Bishop with a pout.

  ‘That’s why you’re so bothered by Darwin’s Man-panzee!’ exclaimed the pirate. ‘You’re worried that if Mister Bobo is a roaring success then all the crowds will forget about the Elephant Man, and they’ll flock to see him instead! Without a constant supply of young ladies visiting the circus for you to kidnap, you wouldn’t be able to fashion your evil elixir!’

  ‘It’s not really an elixir. It’s more a sort of facial scrub,’21 said the Bishop. ‘But listen, I’m not about to let you gab your way out of this. On with the show!’

  The Bishop threw an enormous lever, and his horrific machine roared into life. Sparks bounced off the walls, pistons smashed up and down, lights flashed and bells rang. But just as the contraption seemed to be building to a crescendo there was a sickening metallic gurgle, a belch of acrid black smoke, and everything fell silent.

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ moaned the Bishop, giving an apologetic look to his captives. ‘Honestly, this has never happened before.’ He spent the next few minutes trying fruitlessly to find a fault with the various gears and pulleys and bits of wire that made up his mac
hine. The pirate with a scarf took this opportunity to attempt a bit of romantic small talk with Jennifer, but she seemed a little preoccupied and he could sense that the moment might have passed.

  ‘There’s no reason why this shouldn’t be working. It’s brand new,’ said the Bishop tetchily. ‘Unless . . . one of you isn’t really a lady!’

  The pirate with a scarf gulped, and tried to do his most winning lady smile, but then he realised that this just showed off more of his gold teeth.

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said the Bishop, a nasty reptilian grin playing across his face as he advanced upon Jennifer and the disguised pirate.

  Forty minutes later, the two of them reluctantly handed the Bishop their completed psychometric test papers. He pored over the results, and then pointed an accusing finger at the pirate. The scarf-wearing pirate hung his head in dismay – his skill at spatial awareness and numerical pattern identification compared with his comparative weakness at colour differentiation and verbal reasoning had given away his secret.

  ‘You’re no lady!’ said the Bishop with a scowl. ‘In fact, these test results suggest you’re a pirate! Goodness knows what you’ve done to my machine. It’s only designed to work with ladies aged nineteen to twenty-six. You’ve probably invalidated my warranty, you lousy bum.’

  The Bishop unhooked the pirate from his infernal apparatus, and rolled him in his tube over to what looked for all the world like a massive metal cog. Then he opened up the top of the tube, slid the bound pirate out and fastened him to one of the notches between the cog’s gigantic teeth. The Bishop looked at his watch irritably. ‘I’ve got an appointment with a man and his monkey,’ he said, turning his attention to Jennifer. ‘But I expect you to be a lifeless husk by the time I get back, young lady. No funny business.’

  With that, he pulled the big lever again, and went off whistling a show tune. The pirate with a scarf looked on in horror as the life started to drain from what was the first girl in ages who looked as though she might actually have put out for him.

  19 Or possibly Proteus Syndrome. There is still some debate in medical circles. Contrary to popular belief, Michael Jackson never did purchase the Elephant Man’s skeleton from the Royal Hospital. This is a good example of how you shouldn’t believe everything that people tell you.

  20 Black looks best on persons who have black in their features (hair, eyes, brows and lashes), although black can be worn by most people for very dramatic occasions.

  21 The Bishop of Oxford was widely known as ‘Soapy’ Sam Wilberforce. However, if you look this up on Google, chances are it will ascribe the nickname to his ‘slippery ecclesiastical debating skills’ rather than because he turned ladies into bars of soap.

  Ten

  A DEAD MAN’S CHEST!

  Halfway across town the Pirate Captain strode along with big piratical strides. He didn’t stare down at his feet and scuttle through the sudden downpour like the sorry rubbernecks who shared the narrow streets with him; he held his head high and seemed almost to be snarling at the sky, willing it to do its worst – he was the Pirate Captain, and he wasn’t bothered by a bit of rain.

  Just a few minutes later – he walked at quite a pace, and had been known to swing his cutlass at ditherers who blocked his way – the Pirate Captain arrived at the Hotel Metropolitan where, according to his letter, the Pirate Convention was being held. The concierge, a slight and sweaty man, greeted him in the swanky lobby.

  ‘You must be here for the Pork Convention,’ he said with an exaggerated wink.

  ‘Pork Convention? Are you mad? I’m here for the Pirate Convention!’ said the Pirate Captain, dumbfounded.

  ‘Ha-ha! A Pirate Convention!’ laughed the concierge, nervously brushing some of his few remaining hairs across a shiny scalp. ‘Imagine! If you were an otherwise respectable hotel, and you were to hold a pirate convention, why . . .’ the concierge gave a meaningful pause ‘. . . you’d probably pretend it was a Pork Convention, or something like that.’

  ‘What’s this blathering about pork?’

  ‘I think that’s what you’re looking for.’

  ‘I’m looking for no such thing! And stop winking at me! I’ve run men through for less!’

  ‘I was simply saying the word “pork” instead of “pirate” so as not to draw any unwanted attention to the proceedings. It’s a kind of clever code. It doesn’t really matter any more,’ whispered the concierge, a touch irritably.

  ‘Ah! Yes. I’m here for the Pork Convention,” said the Pirate Captain in a loud voice, adding quietly with a wink of his own. ‘I see what you’re doing now.’

  ‘If you’ll just follow me.’

  ‘Certainly. Is there anywhere I can leave my gammon?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘My gammon. It’s clever code for “cutlass”. I just made it up.’

  The concierge led the Pirate Captain through the lobby, which had been smartly decked out with big misleading papier-mâché models of different kinds of pork products – including chops and sausages – across an expensive-looking carpet, and into the hotel’s main conference hall. It was full to the brim with pirates from all over the globe. Several of them were roaring, so it was quite noisy, and there was a distinct smell of seaweed about the place. Scanning the room, which read like a Who’s Who of the nautical underworld, the Pirate Captain recognised a familiar figure. He threaded his way through the crowd.

  ‘Raagh! You lubber!’ roared the Pirate Captain.

  ‘What’s that? Lubber! Who’s calling me a lubber! You cur!’ said the pirate, spinning round angrily. He must have been a good seven feet tall, with hands the size of the hams the Pirate Captain usually ate for dinner. Several of the other pirates in the immediate vicinity fell silent, their hands on their cutlasses, expecting trouble. But the giant pirate held up his arms and proceeded to squeeze the Pirate Captain in an embrace that would have crushed the breath out of lesser men with a more limited lung capacity.

  ‘Why! It’s my old friend the Pirate Captain!’ bellowed the pirate.

  ‘Scurvy Jake!’ said the Pirate Captain, evidently glad to see his former comrade. ‘I haven’t seen you since that incident on Madagascar!’

  ‘Aaarrr! I was sure they were girls!’ said Scurvy Jake with an apologetic shrug.

  ‘What are you doing here, you salty old dog?’ laughed the Pirate Captain, giving his friend an affectionate slap on his oversized biceps.

  ‘I’m in the nostalgia business!’ said Scurvy Jake, indicating the convention buzzing on around them. ‘I mean, after I hung up my eye patch I tried my hand at a few things, but what with the Industrial Revolution, it’s all factory work. I’m not cut out for all that fiddly business, haven’t got the fingers for it.’ Scurvy Jake indicated his fingers, which were the size of bananas.22 ‘But then I found out how lucrative going on the Pirate Convention circuit can be. You sign a few books, tell a couple of stories, there’s plenty of grog in return, and you get free board and lodging to boot. I’m actually a lot better at reminiscing about pirating than I ever was at doing it in the first place.’

  Scurvy Jake helped the Pirate Captain to a complimentary glass of rum.23

  ‘Let me show you the ropes,’ the giant continued. ‘There’s a panel quiz later on where fans can ask us a few questions, and everybody tends to hit the bar after that. But right now I’m going to sign a few photos of myself. I charge a doubloon a time. Care to join me?’

  As it happened the Pirate Captain had stopped off at a Victorian Snappy Snaps, and was clutching a stack of black and white six-by-eights, in which he was doing a very debonair face indeed. He settled down at a table next to Scurvy Jake and pretty soon had a queue of asthmatic-looking kids and creepy middle-aged men lining up in front of him. He’d been sort of hoping that groupies might prove to be a problem – girls who wanted nothing more than to annoy their respectable families by throwing themselves at a handsome Pirate Captain, but it was immediately obvious that they were going to be in
short supply.

  ‘Could you sign it to Paul,’ said the first fan to come shambling up. ‘And maybe put something like “Arrgh! Here be treasure!”. I was going to stick it on top of my money box, you see.’

  ‘Certainly. That’s very clever.’

  ‘My money box is shaped like a pirate boat.’

  ‘Even better,’ said the Pirate Captain, handing him his picture with a grin.

  ‘You’re fantastic!’ said another eager young boy.

  ‘Ah, I don’t know if I’d go that far . . .’

  ‘No, really, you are. I was even going to buy a resin model of you swinging on some rigging, but I only had six shillings, so I got Black Bellamy instead. Have you ever met Black Bellamy? He’s my favourite pirate ever!’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s terrific. You’re almost as good, though. But why are you wearing a hat like that?’

  ‘This happens to be a very stylish pirate hat.’

  ‘Black Bellamy has some brilliant hats. You should talk to him to find out where he gets his hats from.’

  ‘How would you like to be run through by a genuine pirate cutlass?’

  Ker-chunk!

  Back in the Bishop’s gloomy lair the pirate with a scarf was starting to realise the nature of his predicament. Every few minutes the massive cog to which he was tied clicked on a few inches. It meshed with another gigantic cog, and he estimated that in a couple of hours he would reach this second set of metallic teeth and be crushed to a pulp of bone and gristle and bits of scarf. The only consolation was that he had found Erasmus Darwin, who was tied between two teeth a little further round, and would be crushed to death several minutes before him. And as the Bishop’s monstrous contraption continued to chug away, Jennifer would probably be worse off even sooner. Neither fact was actually much consolation at all.