The Ship's Log O' the Festerin' Boil

"Any more of that Low Country Sunrise?"

"I think there's a quart of it down by the entrance."

"A quart? I've got three cells still to finish!"

"How about Irish Bog? There's still a lot of that."

"Are you kidding! That's green! Mix it with Low Country Sunrise? It'd make the prisoners puke!"

"Well, I don't know what else you can do."

"I'm going to go talk to McCormack."

Spencer turned from Red Molly and stomped back down the cell block, eventually finding Cementhands sprawled out in the floor of a cell recently painted a perky shade of yellow called Jamaica Jaundice. The young pirate prodded the snoring pirate with the toe of his boot.

McCormack lashed out with one hand as if trying to swat an annoying insect, but Spencer had too much experience waking sleeping pirates in general – this sleeping giant of a pirate in particular – to be caught. Jumping back, he launched another prod to the ribs, leaping back again just ahead of the sweeping paw McCormack aimed at where he'd been.

"Thi'd be'erbeimpornn." the man muttered.

"Wake up ye great fat git," Spencer said. "If you don't I'll have to try dashing water in yer face, and since there's no water in this cell, it'll probably mean I'll have to piss on ye."

"You wouldn't dare," the voice said, significantly more alert.

"Try me," Spencer said as his hand reached for the drawstring of his drawers.

"I'm awake, but don't expect to make the list of my top 25 friends in my diary," he muttered darkly.

"You keep a diary?"

"Well, it's more like a sheet of paper. On one side are the names of people I owe money to. On the other side is a list of my friends. Interestingly, they're pretty much exactly the same list," McCormack said as he stirred and began folding himself into a sitting position. "Now what's so damn important that you had to interrupt me in the middle of an important planning session?"

"A planning session is what that was?" Spencer asked.

"Aye, I was trying to decide what to do when we've finished painting this gaol and we still haven't found George or Welly or Hamnquist."

"Well, you'd better have come up with a plan quick," Spencer said. "We're running out of paint."

"Running out? How could that be?"

"We've been painting for a week!" Spencer said. "We're almost down to the dungeon level. And still no sign either of our guys or the captain's old friend."

"Yeah, well, the way they keep moving people around, it's hard to keep track of who's where. And then there’s Dogwatch and Sawbones claiming that women are tunneling around in here. I've been staking out this room – "

"While planning," Spencer added.

"Oh aye, of course, staking out AND planning, it's something I've decided to call multi-tasking."

"Multi … ?"

"Multitasking. I'm going to trademark the word and anytime anyone uses it, they'll owe me $27."

"Why would anyone use the word 'multitasking?'"

"You owe me $27."

"Look, all I'm saying is we need more paint."

McCormack patted the pockets of his pants and jacket as if looking for something, then turned to Spencer and offered an elaborate shrug.

"Sorry, don't seem to have any on me."

"Well what are we supposed to do?" Spencer fumed.

"Look, there's enough paint to finish the job."

"But there's not enough of anyone color to paint anything! I'm not sure there's enough paint to finish the lower level dungeon at all, and if we're not painting that, how do we justify going down there?"

McCormack sighed.

"Do I have to do all the thinking for everyone? No wonder Slappy put me in charge. If there's not enough paint of any one color? Then for the love of moldy cheese, mix 'em altogether."

"Mix 'em … ? And what would we call it?"

"Curacao Clot."

"That sounds horrid."

"You have any other ideas for getting more paint? Because we HAVE to get down to the lower level if we're going to find … "

There was a polite, perfectly modulated cough at the door.

"Mr. McCormack? I wonder if I might have a word."

The two pirates stopped talking and looked to the door, where the governor's assistant and valet, Bernard Jeffries, stood, his bearing indicating both important business and a reluctance to intrude, with the tilt of his head offering silent comment on how well the painting was going, the set of his shoulders and position of his feet testifying to the delightful meal he'd consumed a short time ago and his compliments to the chef, respectively, and something about the slant of his hips indicating how nice the weather was today.

"Ah, Mr. Jeffries. Come in, come in," McCormack said. "My congratulations to whoever taught you posture."

Jeffries acknowledged the compliment by a slight but unmistakable re-positioning of his feet.

McCormack dismissed Spencer with a regal wave of his hand.

"You can go now, and tell the crew to take a break. I'll deal with the situation momentarily. And now," he said as the young pirate left. "What can I do for you?”

Jeffries removed his hat as he ducked through the low doorway of the cell.

"I've come to ask if you can help us with a slight problem that's arisen," he said apologetically.

"A problem? Well, you know the old saying, there are no problems, only opportunities."

"Yes, a popular saying with salesmen, I believe. But in this case this problem might be an opportunity for most of the members of our opera company to take residence in these charmingly painted cells."

"Really? I've never been a big fan of the opera myself, too much singing in it for my taste, but gaol seems a bit harsh even for tenors. Perhaps you had better fill me in."

"Yes of course," Jeffries said. "Well, as you no doubt know, the governor's wedding is now just a week away. And part of the festivities commemorating the big day is a special presentation by the Curacao Opera Theatre?"

"Theatre? Or theater?" Cementhands asked.

"Theatre. We're nothing if not cosmopolitan here. In any case, the opera was preparing a presentation of Die Fledermausketeer. Perhaps you know of it?"

"Not by that name. Judging by the music I overheard while passing the opera house, I'd assumed …"

"Well yes. The music was adapted from the work of Donna Isabella de la Vaca Verde, the former wife of the governor of Maracaibo, Don Taco. She penned …"

"Former wife?" asked McCormack, surprised.

"Well, as good as," Jeffries said, the slightly bowlegged stance he adopted along with the set of his chin revealing that he hated spreading gossip of a personal nature. "It seems that at about the same time she married the governor she came to public attention for the quite unusual oratorio she had written. She was becoming famous and yearned for a continental tour, but Governor Taco was occupied with affairs of state. She threw herself into her music, adapting the string of songs into the opera we are to present tonight, but it wasn't well received and her reputation suffered. She blamed the governor and, well, they are now estranged. Technically still married, last I heard, but no longer the devoted, loving couple they once were. The governor, I am given to understand, is inconsolable."

"He would be. He's a sentimental guy and loves music as much as anyone."

"You know him?"

"We've met," McCormack said, remembering a long Atlantic crossing made longer by the fact that Don Taco would be better named Don Talkative. "But how does this involve us?"

"Well, the singers and orchestra are all ready to perform, but the technical work is seriously behind schedule. As you may not know, I've also been named technical director of the COT, and we have a very ambitious set we've been working on. But it's not finished, and I fear we'll never get it painted in time. And the governor is, well, let's call him a passionate fan of opera and a severe critic when things don't meet his exacting standards. And since you and your crew are painters …"

"You were wondering if we'd come and paint the set."

"Yes, I confess that's what I'd hoped to ask. But I know how busy you are, so maybe I'll just see …"

Well, it's not just the time, but we have barely enough paint for this job."

"Oh, that's not an issue. The theater has a small ocean of paint available. Theatrical pigments in every hue."

"Oceans of paint? Every hue?"

"Oh yes, that won't be an issue. You could paint the entire set twice and not make a dent in the quantities of paint the opera has on hand."

"Really now," McCormack said, thinking. "I'll tell you what. I can lend you a handful of painters. A week to the opening you said?"

"No. A week to the wedding. Six days to the 'wedding eve," festivities, which include the opera."

"Well then, we'd better get right on it. If you want to get back to the opera house, I'll send you some painters. You'll be very impressed with what they can do."

"No doubt," Jeffries said, though the slight wrinkle of his nose and extension of his left pinky expressed the slightest bit of doubt.

"No, really! We've got a couple of guys who can do wonders, and we'll send enough others to make sure the job gets done on time."

"Well, if you're sure."

"Of course I'm sure. Don't give it another thought," McCormack said, slapping Jeffries on the back in a friendly way, so friendly that it merely knocked the man into a wall instead of dislocating his shoulder. "You trot back to the opera house and I'll have some painters on their way right behind you."

"That's good of you," Jeffries said, virtually every inch of his body showing the relief he felt at the thought that maybe he wouldn't be sent to gaol for a subpar opera.

He made his way quickly out of the cell block, so quickly that McCormack didn't see that one physical manifestation that Jeffries had hoped to mask. He had his fingers crossed.

McCormack headed out to the main corridor where Spencer had gathered the remaining dribs and drabs of various colors together and enlisted other Boils to help him mix them into Curacao Clot.

"Hold on their little fella," McCormack said. "Belay that conglomerating of colors!"

"What's up, McCormack?" asked Cap'n Slappy, who been about to pour Anguilla Avacado and Martinique Mist together.

McCormack quickly filled the rest of the team in.

"And that way we can get all the paint we'll need to finish this job," he concluded.

Slappy seemed unconvinced.

"You' know, McCormack, it's not like we're real painters here. If we don't do a thoroughly professional job, all we really care about is finding the guys and Hamnquist."

"And if we don't at least act like professionals," McCormack countered, "we'll never get down to the lowest level and find them. That's where they've got to be. For all this switching prisoners here and there, I haven't seen any sign in any cell that our boys are up here."

"Up here" was a relative term. They were three floors below the surface, a good 40 feet. But "up here" was adequate when comparing it to "down there." They had seen the heavy oaken door, and even gotten a glimpse down the dark, narrow staircase that seemed to disappear into the gloom. A glimpse was all; their mutant shaped overseer had quickly slammed it as if the heavy door were no more than a sheet of paper.

"So why don't we send a squad over to the opera house, do a quick job on their set, acquire enough paint to finish this job, and get on with it?" McCormack said.

"Who do you think I should send?" Slappy asked.

"Well, Oscar and Salty Jim, for sure. They have more … what's the word I want here? … ‘creative’ spark than your average pirate. Butch ..."

"Butch? He's a cook?"

"He's creative. And say five more. And you should lead them."

"Me? What the hell for? Why not you?"

"I'm the foreman. I have to stay here," McCormack said patiently. "It's not like I wanted the job, but if I have to be here, that's just the way it is. Why? Are you afraid to go over to the opera house?"

"Of course not! Me? Afraid??!?"

"No offense meant," McCormack quickly assured him. "I just thought with the songs being based on your personal," McCormack managed to put so much spin on the word personal that if it had been a baseball it wouldn't have just curved, it would have done flips, "poetry that you'd be uneasy being around when they're rehearsing. You don't want to look weak in the eyes of the crew, do you?"

"I'm not afraid of anything. Except clowns of course," Slappy admitted.

"Of course. Who isn't? Creepy." McCormack shuddered, then got back to business. "So if there's no personal reason not to, you'll lead the squad over?"

The captain glared at his subordinate, trying to figure out how he'd been maneuvered into this. He looked over at where the rest of the crew was waiting on his decision. Damn!

"Of course," he said. "Let's go."

“Uncle, nobody is ever going to believe that we are caterers.”

Jacques fidgeted nervously with the cutlery they had used only moments before to dispatch the actual caterers whose identities they now assumed. He wasn’t sure whether to clean the knives or sharpen them so he just kind of handed them back and forth between his left and his right hands.

“Nobody would have believed that Duvall here would have made a suitable floatation device, but, in fact, he did! And besides – I’m an excellent chef. I would have opened a fancy Paris bistro if only I had the disposition to do so.”

As Le Fleur spoke, he busied himself with the making of dough for what would eventually an exquisite pastry.

His frustrated nephew tossed the bloody knives into a pot of water that was heating on the wood-burning oven. “What’s the matter, Uncle – not enough blood in the food services industry?”

“Quite the contrary, lad.” Le Fleur smiled, “I lacked the ruthlessness necessary to work in the restaurant business – piracy has nothing on kitchen work!”

Duvall smiled and nodded. “Did I really do a good job as a floatation device?”

“We’re all here, aren’t we?” Fifi replied matter-of-factly. “Nobody drowned, did they?”

“Oui, mon … chef?!?” Duvall replied sheepishly

Fifi raised one dangerous eyebrow – then, with a sudden clap of his hands declared with uncharacteristic glee, “That’s right! We no longer have to pretend to enjoy or even understand other languages! We’re French caterers now! We can be snotty to our customers in our own native tongue!”

“But mon uncle!” Jacques broke in. “What’s the point of us pretending to be caterers – French, Dutch or English? How does this help us accomplish our mission?”

Fifi Le Fleur raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Do you KNOW our mission, nephew?”

“Not really, uncle. But we didn’t jump ship, tromp through the jungle and ruthlessly murder two innocent Dutch caterers just so we could branch out into the food services industry, did we?”

Le Fleur smiled. “Our mission is to find out where the treasure of Horatio Hamnquist is – and as a condemned criminal what does he get the night before his hanging?”

Luc Duvall shot a hand into the air. “I know this one! I know this one mon capitane!”

“Monsieur Duvall? What is the correct answer?” Fifi pointed at him like a gleeful headmaster – proud of his eager student.

“A Last Meal!” Duvall elbowed young Jacques to register his victory.

“Oui!” Le Fleur nodded. “And as the only surviving caterer in Willemstad, who handles last meal duties?”

“Alright. I get it!” Jacques blurted impatiently over Duvall’s re-extended raised hand. “We cater the last meal and spring Hamnquist from prison.”

“At least until he tells us where the treasure is – unless he’s already told someone else.”

“Mon Capitaine!” Luc Duvall protested, “Who else would he tell? You were always the favorite of the Captain Hamnquist, no?”

“Oui.” Le Fleur replied thoughtfully. “It was either myself or ol’ Sloppy.”

Just then, the bell on the door jingled and announced the presence of their first customer. As the three of them looked up, their mouths fell open at the sight of the giant baby-like man in the doorway.

“Master says we need your services.”

*********************************************
“Now, let me get this straight.” Cap’n Slappy swirled the last few ounces of ale around the bottom of his tankard – as if he was hypnotizing himself into understanding. “Sally WANTS us to stick around Willemstad so she told you to get to get us to go to Westpunt?”

“Perhaps.” Ol’ Chumbucket replied, eyeing the last drops of rum in his glass. “Her meaning wasn’t altogether clear.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere until we get our mates out o’ that prison!” Cementhands McCormack asserted.

“But if her game isn’t matrimony at the highest levels of Dutch colonial government, what is it?” Slappy soldiered on – trying to make meaning out of the meeting between his mate and his mate’s love-o’-his-life.

“Well, the marriage – or rather – the trappings of the marriage or some marital by-product is what she’s after.” Chumbucket was thinking out loud as much as he was talking to anybody else – this, of course, didn’t stop Cementhands McCormack from replying.

“Marital by-product? You mean, arguments? Broken dishes? Financial hardships?” Here the big man paused, “Children?”

“SHE DOESN’T WANT TO HAVE HIS CHILDREN!” Chumbucket snapped.

“Then what is it she wants?”

“I don’t know!”

All three men downed the last of their drinks and held them aloft as a friendly buxom bar wench came by and collected their cups.

“Another round o’ the same, dearies?” she said with a wink toward McCormack.

“Aye, me saucy minx!” the big man replied “And put ‘em on his tab!” he added with a gesture toward Slappy.

“You’re welcome!” The captain snarled.

“Think nothing of it, Cap’n! It’s the least ye can do!” McCormack replied.

“And ye always do …” Ol’ Chumbucket started the familiar refrain to be joined by his mates for, “THE LEAST YE CAN DO!”

“Well,” Slappy continued to work on the problem at hand. “Whatever it is, it must have something to do with the dress shop they’re running over by the gaol. But it doesn’t really matter, now, does it?”

“What do you mean?” Chumbucket asked.

“We’re here to do what we’re here to do! To retrieve Hamnquist – or his secret – and now to free our own men! And we’re not chasing off to Westpunt until we have ‘em!”

Conversation stopped as the wench brought their next round to the table. Once she was gone, the three lifted their glasses in salute.

“To the mission!” Slappy declared.

“I thought we were going to paint the gaol?” McCormack asked in some confusion about this new, “mission” job.

“I think the ‘mission’ to which Cap’n Slappy refers,” Chumbucket explained carefully, “is a set of objectives designed to accomplish a larger task and not a far-flung institution of worship.” But as he finished his clarification, he could see the cheeky smile on McCormack’s face so he simply added, “You bastard.”

“Alright boys, let’s finish off these drinks and get back to work. Ol’ Chumbucket, get back to the ship and make sure young Gabriel hasn’t gotten into too much mischief whilst he’s had the helm.”

With an “Aye-aye!” the three swallowed down their drinks and headed out into the bright afternoon sun; Chumbucket to the wharf and McCormack and Slappy to the gaol.

As the Cap’n and McCormack passed the opera house, they were stopped in their tracks by some familiar refrains.

“Isn’t that music from that thing that Lady Isabella in Maracaibo wrote – using your penis poetry?” McCormack asked. (As recorded for posterity, or at least posteriors, in "The Maracaibo Caper." )

Cap’n Slappy was transfixed – as if being teleported back in time to the greatest artistic achievement of his life. He listened carefully and mouthed the words as they wafted through the air around them.

“Aye! That IS it, ISN’T it?” McCormack said with added emphasis. “Didn’t Lady Isabella turn the whole thing into an opera complete with big beautiful women in horny hats?”

“Valkyrie!” Slappy snapped impatiently, “And they’re not ‘Horny Hats!’ They’re WINGED helmets! And they choose the worthy battle-fallen for a place in Valhalla!”

“Alright!” McCormack relented “But you must admit that is YOUR poetry she’s singin’ isn’t it?”

Slappy paused and smiled. “Aye, that it is – but we can’t bask in the warm glow o’ the fine arts when we’ve got some paintin’ and plannin’ to do!”

********************************

“Where’s the captain and McCormack?” Keeling poked his head into the empty cell and asked Dogwatch as put a second coat of sea-foam green on the grey stone walls.

“It’s not my turn to watch ‘em.” Dogwatch’s reply was a bit more snippy than he had intended – he thought perhaps the paint fumes were getting to him. “Have you asked Jenny?”

“So it’s her turn to watch ‘em?” Keeling snipped back. Everyone’s nerves were frayed. Their plan to locate Hamnquist and their imprisoned mates, George the Greek and Wellington Peddicord, were being thwarted by the big jailor’s constant shuffling of his prisoners from cell to cell to ever deeper parts of this seeming bottomless gaol.

Both pirates took a moment to comport themselves – “My apologies, Mr. Watts.” Leftenant Keeling said showing his famous self-control. “These infernal paint fumes must be getting to me.”

“No need to apologize, Leftenant.” Dogwatch replied. “We’re all a bit batty from this. That big jailor bastard locks us in whenever he leaves the gaol so we’re like prisoners – only with a task.” He paused and backed away from the wall he was painting and gave it a careful glance. “What do you think? Another coat?”

“It’s hard to tell when you’re painting by torchlight.” Keeling confessed.

Butch stuck his head in – “I’m all out of Moonlight Peach and I’ve only painted two of my cell walls.”

Before Keeling could suggest a proper mixture of paints to match Moonlight Peach Sawbones Burgess wandered in adding his two cents worth;

“Cocoa Butter Morning” makes a splendid accent wall for most of the pallet.

“Isn’t that just brown?” Two-Patch chimed in – facing the wrong direction.

“That’s like saying, ‘Untainted Salmon’ is just ‘Moonlight Peach’ without the resonant ‘Turkish Sunlight’ overtones!” Burgess snapped, adding, “Besides, Two-Patch, you’re as blind as a bat!”

Two Patch slammed his paint can and brush to the floor and took a fighting stance – punching the air in front of him in hopes of landing one on the good doctor’s nose.

“You wouldn’t know your ‘Irish Shamrock’ from your ‘Blarney Castle Moss’ if it wasn’t written on the damn can, ye tonic peddlin’ Charlemagne!” Two Patch was now adding a vicious kick to his fighting repertoire.

“That’s ‘CHARLATAN’ you inbred, heat-seeking, ignorant freak o’ nature!”

The word, “nature” had barely passed Burgess’ lips when Two-Patch’s bony fist made contact and pushed that exclamation point back down Sawbone’s throat. The two men grappled to the floor where they provided some brief entertainment to the pirate painters who placed bets on which would come out ahead.

“Well, now that they’re wrestling, I’m putting my money on Two-Patch!” Keeling said as he handed a silver coin to Jenny who volunteered her services as bookie and referee.

The frenetic scene was sharply interrupted when a stone fell out of the cell wall behind them and the face of a lovely albeit dirty young woman poked through.

She directed her comment toward the eldest of the group – the now paint besplattered and somewhat battered Sawbones Burgess. “Horatio Hamnquist, I presume?”

Burgess disentangled himself from his sparring partner and stood to his feet – shaking wet paint from his arms and cleaning blood from his mouth. But he quickly assumed the bearing of a distinguished pirate of good breeding.

“That depends, Luv.”

“On what, Luv,” the young woman shot back now braced by strong suspicion, “does your identification depend?”

Without any hesitation, Doc Burgess replied, “Well, Luv, on whether this visit is professional or social.”

The young woman shuddered but otherwise held her composure. “This visit is strictly professional.”

“Well!” Burgess replied with a bit of a huff “In that case I am NOT the pirate Hamnquist as they move him constantly from cell to cell in order to thwart any escape attempts and all of your tunneling has been a waste … unless you can think of some way to salvage this happy accident.”

The young woman rolled her eyes derisively and turned back toward her confederates in the tunnel behind her. “He’s not here! They move him around!”

“He’s not here, they move him around!” echoed down the tunnel from different voices – all female. The faintest, most distant voice could be heard in a lower rougher tone, “Dammit! I knew this wouldn’t work!”

The young woman pointed at the dislodged stone on the floor with her eyes and cast a quick glance toward Dogwatch. “Would ye mind, Luv?” (This time, the word, “Luv” seemed truly flirtatious without a hint of derision.)

Dogwatch picked up the stone and placed it back in the wall where it belonged as the young woman eased herself backwards and just like that she was gone.

“Now I have to repaint that whole section!” he fumed to himself.

"Omigod!" the lookout on the Dutch frigate called out.

"What?" his fellow lookout asked.

"I … I thought I … saw something, over there," he pointed. "But no, there's nothing there," he said, his mind working overtime to deny the ghastly hued horror that was The Festering Boil.

"Are you sure?" the colleague asked.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. But what's that ship over there? The one on the horizon making way?"

The eye of every lookout on the two Dutch warships swung over to Le Petit Mort Deux as the ship unfurled its sails and started moving out under a growing spread of canvas.

"Ahoy the deck," the first one shouted down from the mast trees where they perched. "Ship making sail due west."

On the quarterdeck of the Dutch ship the captain gave Le Petit Mort Deux a good long look, then motioned to his subordinate.

"Run up a signal to De Jongen van het Deeg to pursue that ship," he said. "If they can board her, find out who she is. He's got a head start, but at the very least he should make sure whoever she is, she's safely on her way out of our waters. I don't want anything marring the next two weeks."

The first mate nodded his assent, saluted and stepped away. Within moments, signal flags were flying up the mast. Those signals were acknowledged and the smaller ship, De Jongen van het Deeg, began wheeling around to pursue. Even though it was the faster of the two, the captain doubted it would be able to catch the fleeing ship, which looked at least as fast and was picking up speed with a good head start. Still, it would soon be away from Willemstad, and that was all the captain cared about.

Two weeks of quiet, he said to himself. That's not too much to ask. Just two weeks of quiet, and then he could head back to the low country and worry about nothing more than a few channel smugglers. He could get away from the hot, humid, crowded streets of this Caribbean hell hole.

The hot, humid, crowded streets of what the captain thought of as a hell hole looked like just one more Caribbean port city to Ol' Chumbucket as he walked beside his young guide through the fetid air of the main road. They matched strides in silence. Chumbucket was a little surprised when they walked right past the governor's mansion, which he half expected would be their goal, and on into the city. Past the taverns Chumbucket thought looked like apt places for pirates to meet in secret, past the market place where vendors and customers jostled and haggled over the prices of vegetable rotting in the bright sunshine.

They turned a corner at the square that fronted the opera house, where the company was practicing a special production in honor of the impending nuptials. The two men passed along behind the building, where the squeal of saws and pounding of hammers competed with the screaming of the set designer. Then up a small lane where the buildings were crowded more closely together, the covered upper floor balconies practically reaching out towards each other, closing out all but a small slit of the sky over their heads.

"So how long have you worked for Sally?" Ol' Chumbucket asked casually as the red-headed young man led him through maze of streets. The younger man's head turned just slightly, but he kept going without breaking stride.

"I'm sorry. I thought I told you. I am the personal attendant of Countess Sonja av Sarasgalen …"

"Save it," Chumbucket said, not even looking up. "Call her whatever you want. How long have you known Sally?"

"I have worked for the same person for quite a while now," the man said.

"And you're name is?"

"Known to my employer, sir" the red-head said in his most assuring tone.

"I see," said Ol' Chumbucket. He glanced at the younger man. He carried himself with the easy insolence of youth, with a patrician air. That might be the role he was playing, Chumbucket admitted, but might simply be arrogance. Slim, his red beard neatly trimmed, not quite as tall as the older pirate – and Chumbucket was not a tall man. But under the thin veneer of propriety and hostility, Chumbucket could sense a competence, and maybe even a menace. The man smiled at him, but it was a smile that went no further than his mouth. It never reached his eyes.

"Mind if I call you Dave?" Chumbucket asked as they turned off the thoroughfare into an alley.

This took the other by surprise.

"Dave? Why Dave?"

"Well I've got to call you something don't I? I've known several Dave's," Chumbucket continued conversationally. "One of the them was a complete jerk, tried to kill me more times than I care to think about, but the other two were really nice guys. One of them was an accountant, so there's that, but otherwise he was alright. No, wait. I think that was me. That's right. I used the name David when I was trying to pull that scam on the Bank of London. It would have worked too, except for the damn cats."

"Cats?"

"Oh yeah. Cats. Never get involved in a con with a partner who has more than three cats. That became my motto, my rule to live by, and I've never strayed from it since."

"Cats."

"Yeah. So anyway, I'll call you Dave, alright?"

"Call me whatever you like. It doesn't matter. I'm just taking you to see the countess and then we're done."

“Fine, Dave."

"And I will call you … ?"

"Whenever you have a message for me," Ol' Chumbucket said as his guide led them down an alley.

"This way," the younger man said. "Through that arch. You'll find her there. I'll wait out here and keep an eye on things."

Ol' Chumbucket had been watching for tails and was relatively certain they hadn't been followed, but if this young pup wanted to protect their back, who was he to cavil? He just nodded, said, "See ya later, Dave," and went through the arch.

Directly ahead of him was a brick wall. Likewise to his left. To his right was another archway, and since that was the only way to go, he went. Passing through it, he found himself in a small patio area with a pair of small tables and chairs and dozens of plants hanging from the louvered panels that made up the ceiling. The air was redolent with the smell of exotic flowers growing in many of the pots.

Very lovely, Chumbucket thought. But where's Sally?

She didn't seem to be in the patio area. There was a French door across the patio, but when Chumbucket tried it, it was locked. Normally that would not pose a problem, but peering through the glass panes of the door into the room beyond he saw no point. The room was empty.

He turned back toward the arch he'd entered, planning to demand from "Dave" an explanation.

And there she was.

He stopped and stared. She looked good. And not just because, as a countess, she was clean, beautifully dressed, carefully coiffed and draped in jewelry. It was much more than that. Her eyes shone with confidence, a liveliness, a strength that he hadn't seen since their early days together. He'd feel kind of bad about that if he thought about it, if he'd been part of whatever had dimmed that light before. But it was there now, and he stared.

It was she who eventually broke the silence.

"How have you been?" she asked.

"Oh, you know. Busy. Pillaging, plundering, escaping with my life now and again. The usual. I must say you're looking good," he continued. "Being a countess seems to agree with you."

"Being a captain, you mean."

"Captain, countess, whatever."

"I'd have to say you're right, as far as that goes. It's been a good couple of years as captain of my own ship."

"Has it now?"

"Oh yes. I always knew I could, and it's nice to know I was right. Command suits me. So … "

Courtesy almost required she make some idle return of the compliment, but in truth, Sally thought Ol' Chumbucket looked like hell. He looked tired, his once neatly timed beard was scraggly, he wasn't quite the young, trim, vibrant corsair she'd been remembering. “Well, we all get older,” she told herself.

"No, really Sally," Chumbucket said. "You look great."

"Enough idle chit chat," she said, getting down to brass tacks. "We have business to discuss."

"Business?"

"Aye. Personal business."

She indicated a chair at one of the tables. Chumbucket thought about pulling out a chair for her, the whole chivalry thing, but decided, "Hell. This is business. Let her get her own damn chair." He pulled one out and sat in it. She took the chair at the opposite side of the small table.

"Let's get down to it then," she said. "What are you and the Boil doing in Curacao?"

"I could ask you the same thing, and I wouldn't get a better answer than you'll get from me."

"Personal business?"

"Aye, personal business. But in our line of work, isn't all business personal?"

She smiled at that.

"Yes, yes I suppose it is."

"So, what? You're here to get married, I understand." He says this very flat, totally devoid of emotion.

"Let's say I'm here for a wedding."

"Well, that's an interesting distinction. And what's all this countess business? I don't remember any royalty or titles in your background, unless you were holding out on me all those years."

"Oh, there's a real Countess Sonja. She's 92 years old, remarkably healthy for her age. Must be those daily swims in the fiords. For reasons that will stay between her and me, we made this arrangement. I needed the title for the wedding."

"But why marry the idiot governor of an obscure Dutch colony on the edge of the map? I don't get it," Chumbucket said.

"And you don't need to. But I do have something for you."

"I'm all ears."

"My crew and I will be here for a short while, then we'll be leaving very suddenly."

"Ah, so the wedding is the point, not the governor."

"Didn't I just say that?"

"Words to that effect, but never mind. Go on."

"It will be worth the Boil's time to give us a little assistance in our departure."

"Oh really. But we have our own business to attend to."

Sally sighed. He just refused to make this easy.

"Look, these aren't mutually exclusive things. I think you can help us and still do whatever it is you're here to do."

"You think?"

"You couldn't possibly be here for the reason I'm here."

"True, the governor really isn't my type."

Sally snorted with exasperation.

"Look. It's simple. What we're doing will require us to sail out of here very quickly. You might have noticed a couple of Dutch warships sailing into the harbor today?"

"Yea, I saw them. What about 'em?"

"It would be helpful if, on my wedding night, those two ships were chasing pirates headed, shall we say, toward the town of Westpunt."

"Westpunt. Really?"

"I'm just saying."

"You're not saying much."

"I can't."

"And why would we do this? Note I said 'we,'" he added, cutting off hr response. "I'm just one member of the crew. I can't act unilaterally or make any promises."

"I know that, but you can explain to Slappy and between the two of you I'm sure you can convince the crew."

"But why should we?"

"How about 'for old time's sake?'"

Chumbucket smiled ruefully.

"When you get to be my age, 'old time' covers a lot of ground. Would this be like old times on Tortuga, and Barbados, and in Santiago? Or old times like when you missed our dinner appointment in Mossel Bay?"

"I left you a note."

"Yes you did. A very stirring declaration of independence, as I recall."

"I explained it all then and I'm not going to apologize for it now. I did what I had to do. I'd do it again."

"I'm sure you would."

"That doesn't mean it was easy."

"Well, I certainly would hope it wasn't. I'd hate to think it was easy to leave me in the lurch."

"I'm sorry if you were hurt."

"But not sorry you hurt me."

Sally glared at him. He glared at her. They glared, the two of them.

It was Sally who broke the standoff.

"Look. We need those Dutch ships out of port and up the coast to Westpunt. Can the Boil help with that?"

"I'll take it under advisement," he said, in one of the classic dismissive phrases.

"In other words no."

"No, I'll talk to Slappy about it. Maybe a cruise to Westpunt is exactly what's needed for our plan to succeed. But you haven't given me much to work with. What am I supposed to say?"

"You're clever. You'll think of something."

"Well, I'll consider it and get back to you."

"I'll send my aide down tomorrow to see if you have anything for me."

"Your aide. Yes. Interesting fellow. I'll look forward to seeing Dave in the morning."

"Dave?"

Chumbucket gave a short, never-mind shake of his head, and rose.

"Then I take it we're done here?"

"Are we ever done?" Sally asked, rising.

"Depends on what you mean by done. For now, you probably have to get back to your boyfriend at the mansion, and I've got to do something or other, probably pretty squalid. I'll let you know where things stand tomorrow."

Sally rose and took a half step toward him, as if she wanted to say something, then turned and headed towards the exit. Pausing under the archway she turned back.

"I have missed you," she said.

"And me you," he said, "but what difference does that make?"

"Maybe none."

"Maybe. See you later. And Dave."

She gave him a perplexed look, then turned and walked away.

Taking the arm of her servant Johan, she headed out into the street. Once out of sight, she turned and asked, "Dave?"

"He likes to talk, doesn't he?"

"What did you think of him."

"Like I said, he likes to talk."

"Aye, he's good at it, too. But don't let that fool you. He can be very dangerous."

"So is he going to do what you asked?"

"Oh no. I'm sure he won't. That's why I asked him to do the opposite of what we need. If I want him to stay in Willemstad and keep Westpunt clear, the best way to ensure it is to ask him to go to Westpunt."

"There's a phrase for that," the young man – whom readers may recall is really named Johan, not Dave – mused. He dug into his academic background, then with a self-satisfied smile said, "oppositional defiant."

"I'd have called it being a suspicious asshole, but yours has a nicer ring. Let's get back to the mansion before we're missed."

Ol' Chumbucket remained a few moments longer, breathing the floral scented air deeply. Then he put his hat on, gave it a sharp tap, and headed out. At the archway he paused, looked back at the table, and smiled as he turned and walked away.

"Oh Sally. Just how stupid do you think I've become?"

“Mon Capitaine.”

Luc Duvall spoke only loudly enough to be barely audible as he stood several paces away from Fifi LeFleur. The French pirate captain carefully scoured the port-side cityscape of Willemstad’s harbor.

“Mon Capitaine?”

Duvall spoke only slightly louder – half hoping not to disturb his mercurial commander with his probably all-too-petty concerns.

“In Dutch, Luc.” LeFleur said softly and deliberately – denoting full menace. “We’re working on our Dutch today.” He never broke his watch of the shore.

“With utmost ned-er-ig-heid” Luc carefully pronounced the word so as to impress the boss.

“Humility” LeFleur spun around and looked at his bedraggled dogsbody with great affection and appreciation for his efforts. “That’s very good, Luc! You’ve learned the Dutch word for Humility! That will serve you well!”

“Merci – I mean, Dank u, mijn kapitein!” Duvall was ebullient with self-satisfaction.

“Splendid! Now, stop showing off and tell me what’s so urgent that you have to interrupt my surveillance of the bumbling Boilers and those hoop-skirted harlots with whom they are in cahoots!”

“Capitain LeFleur, it is probably nothing and if that’s the case then I volunteer to violently flog myself as you see fit, but I couldn’t help but noticing a pair of Dutch frigates loaded with marines and cannons and all manner of anti-piracy apparatus coming this way.”

LeFleur snapped his spyglass to attention and pointed it out to sea – true to Duvall’s word, two very dangerous looking Dutch frigates were making their way toward Curacao.

“Jean Pierre de la Muqueux!” LeFleur called out as if he feared some other de la Muqueux might mistakenly come a-running.

“Oui! – I mean, Yes! – I mean Ja! Mijn Kapitein!” panted de la Muqueux, breathless from his mad sprint from below decks.

“No time now for language lessons, Muqueux! The Dutch are coming and we need to move. Did somebody cover the name plate as I ordered?”

“Oui, mon capitaine – I saw it replaced myself!”

Fifi paused with a small but troubling concern. “And what, pray tell, is our disguise name for this harmless Dutch merchant vessel?”

Muqueux cast a desperate look at Duvall who looked up and whistled to nobody in particular.

Fifi registered their discomfort, but didn’t have time for it. “Damn it, Muqueux! Just tell me!”

A sheepish Muqueux confessed, “Neptune’s de Uitsteeksels van de Mens.”

There was an uncomfortably long silence finally broken by Duvall who translated.

“Neptune’s Man Nipples, Captain.”

“I know.” LeFleur answered calmly.

There was another uncomfortably long pause before Fifi spoke again.

“Who …”

Muqueux and Duvall answered as one.

“O’Malley.”

“Didn’t I recently kill him?” LeFleur asked calmly.

“Oui!” Muqueux replied.

“Ja!” Duvall corrected.

“Can I go back and kill him again?”

“Your rank and temperament certainly provide you with the right to do just as you please, Captain.” Muqueux answered with the wisdom of Solomon.

“Seems a bit of overkill, though.” Fifi confessed, finally smiling about the ridiculous name plate affixed to the back of his ship.

“The very definition of the word, Captain!” Muqueux chuckled in agreement.

“Why, your middle name could be, ‘Overkill’ Captain, couldn’t it?” Duvall joined in the laugh – but unfortunately squashed it in his attempt.

Fifi LeFleur stared at him for a moment – then decisively, “Take off your clothes!”

“Ce qui? – I mean, Wat?” Duvall was near panic – but the cold look on LeFleur’s face was all it took for him to start stripping. “Mama told me, ‘You’re always one verbal slip-up away from dropping from Dogsbody to Bugger-boy!’ and she was so right!” he thought to himself.

“Muqueux! Take command of – Neptune’s Man Nipples – and bring her around – as if we’re going out to sea. Then bring us in as close as you can to shore about a mile north of town. It should be getting dark by the time we arrive. I’ll swim ashore there with my nephew and dogsbody and we’ll sneak back into town and see what’s going on. You sail to the north end of the island – there’s a town there called, Westpunt. Keep quiet there for two weeks – if you don’t hear from us – sack the town and plunder what you can from this island! Do you understand me?”

“Oui! Mon Capitaine!” Muqueux snapped his heels and went off to do his duty.

“Hurray!” Luc Duvall thought to himself, “I’m back up to Dogsbody!”

“Duvall, go get us three havresacks for our clothes and small weapons.”

“Ja! Mijn Kapitein!” Duvall dashed away before his fortunes shifted again.

Young Jacques approached as Fifi LeFleur was beginning to disrobe.

He hesitated before speaking. “You wanted to see me, Captain?”

“Jacques! Nephew! My dear boy!” Fifi kissed both cheeks in greeting – as he did, his britches fell to his ankles. “You must call me ‘Uncle’ when it is just you and I!”

The young man hesitated as ‘Uncle Fifi’ stepped out of his trousers. “Uncle. I know we’re French, but …”

Fifi gave the boy a quizzical look before understanding the lad’s confusion. “Oh! This?” he made a self-sweeping gesture of his own near-nakedness. “No, lad! You misunderstand! We’re going for a swim!”

“Who, uncle?”

“Well, there’s me. Luc Duvall my faithful dogsbody.” He counted two on his fingers and pretended to forget the third. “Oh! Yes, of course! And YOU, my boy! You and I are going on our first raid together – as a family!”

“But we’ve gone on several raids together, uncle. I’ve been aboard your ship for months!”

“Not as my nephew, lad! Oh, this is going to be fun! We’ll swim ashore, spoil Cap’n Sloppy’s plan, get directions to the treasure from Ol’ Hamnquist and get out! Who knows? We might even get you laid!?!”

“I’ve been with women before, Uncle Fifi.”

“Yes! But not since I’ve known you!” Now nearly naked, Fifi became a bit self-conscious of his genitals – he held his boots in front of his dangly bits. “Ah, yes! The manly times we’ll have in Willemstad!”

Luc Duvall returned with three havresacks. He handed one to Jacques and began packing the other two with his and the captain’s clothes.

Jacques shrugged. “Aye-aye, Captain. But I should warn you, I’m not a strong swimmer.”

“That’s alright, lad! Neither am I! We’ll use Duvall here as a floatation device!”

Duvall nodded agreeably, but secretly wondered if that was a step above, below or lateral to the job of dogsbody.

**************************

“And just where the Hell do you think you’re going?” the marital tone caught Ol’ Chumbucket by surprise – even though it was coming out of his own mouth.

“I’m going to work!” Cap’n Slappy replied as he made some last minute adjustments on his blond page boy wig and coveralls in the tiny mirror in his cabin.

“With THAT on?” Ol’ Chumbucket’s overly broad gesture left Slappy searching the mirror for what he’d done wrong fashion-wise this time.

“What!? I’m dressed as a painter!” Cap’n Slappy’s tone was overly defensive, “Oh, sure, my costume is a bit houte couture but I had to get Salty Jim to make a few adjustments to accommodate my manly girth and provide ample opportunity for accessorizing. Have I committed some unforgiveable fashion faux pas?”

“And do you think a brace of six pistols is accessorizing that one might expect of a Dutch boy painter? – With a scraggly white beard?”

“Do you expect me to go naked?” Slappy seemed shocked and shaken to the core.

“No. That would be unpleasant for everybody – but I do expect you to go undetected!” Chumbucket removed Slappy’s pistols himself as he spoke. “And why are you wearing that ring?”

“My Precious? My Birthday Prezzie?” Slappy was back to his defensive tone. “Take away my pistols! Take away the two phosphorous grenades I’ve tucked away in the ample crotch of these coveralls!” (Ol’ Chumbucket merely glanced downward and winced at the idea of removing anything from that comically bulging crotch.) “But do not, I implore you, DO NOT take away this symbol of the unfaltering affection of my crew for their adoring father-figure … me!”

“Fine!” Ol’ Chumbucket acquiesced. “Wear the ring! But don’t you think you might get paint on it?”

“It’ll wash.” Slappy said as he headed for the door.

Ol’ Chumbucket stopped him – “WAIT!” Slappy turned around and rolled his eyes as if to say, “What now?” but let his body do the talking.

“YOU can't leave the ship! We’ve only got a skeleton crew – barely enough to set sail in the event of an emergency and most of them have little or no experience! I mean, with George in gaol and most of the crew in the work party, the next in the chain of command is Gabriel! And after Gabriel, it’s either Jonas Grumby or Miguel Magana! If you’ll recall, they’re actors who were pretending to be sailors – and they’ll be looking to young Gabriel for leadership!”

Slappy nodded. “He’s a good man!”

“He’s a CABIN BOY!” Ol’ Chumbucket snapped back.

“I know what this is about, old friend.” Cap’n Slappy said calmly – using his best annoying counselor tone.

“No you don’t.” Ol’ Chumbucket replied with equal calm – just hoping to avoid the topic altogether.

“Oh, yes I do! This is about Sally – You never futz over me unless you are heartbroken – and you’re never heartbroken unless it’s about Sally.”

Ol’ Chumbucket just shook his head – he knew any protestation would only make Slappy believe he was right – whether he was or wasn’t.

Slappy continued, “But my friend, she’s made up her mind. You need to let her go. Women …” Slappy thought for a moment – he wasn’t really sure where he was going with this. “Women are like the wind. They cannot be tamed. They cannot be predicted. And when they are broken, they stink.”

“Was that a fart joke?” Ol’ Chumbucket was trying to make sense of the jabbering spewing forth from the mind and mouth of Cap’n Slappy.

Slappy paused in thought. “Yes … AND No … with a dash of Perhaps.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” Chumbucket offered Slappy’s favorite dismissive phrase back to him.

“Excellent!” Slappy approached his old friend with arms open wide. “I think this calls for a man-hug!”

“Really?!?” Ol’ Chumbucket replied.

“Oh, yeah.” Cap’n Slappy embraced Ol’ Chumbucket in a manly bear-hug that lingered uncomfortably long.

Finally, through squeezed lungs, Ol’ Chumbucket spoke, “Are those phosphorous grenades in your pants or are you just happy to see me?”

“Those ARE phosphorous grenades in my pants AND I am always happy to see you!” Slappy backed away and held his mate by the upper shoulders at arm’s length. Then, with a hearty slap on his mate’s left shoulder, “From my extensive experience with women I’ve learned this – make a decision, take action and never, ever look back.”

"And you've been married seven times."

"And I've NEVER looked back," Slappy said with smile. "Except when they were chasing me with large pointy weapons."

With that bit of sage advice, Slappy turned on his heels and out the cabin door.

Ol’ Chumbucket thought for a minute or two and then made his way up to the deck in time to see Cap’n Slappy pass a young man on the dock – the two didn’t speak, but exchanged nods as they hurried on their respective ways. He perched himself on the rail next to the gang plank and watched as the young man approached the ship.

“I’m looking for a sailor who goes by ‘Ol’ Chumbucket’!” the young red-headed man called up to the man himself.

“State yer business, lad!” Chumbucket called back.

“My business is with Ol’ Chumbucket and no other!” the young man replied with calm defiance.

Ol’ Chumbucket smiled. “Ye’re speakin’ to him, lad.”

“Permission to come aboard!” the young man kept to protocol.

“Permission granted!”

Something about the way the young man came up the gang plank – the way he moved and carried himself reminded Ol’ Chumbucket of someone he recognized, but couldn't think why. The stranger's very walk proclaimed a confidence bordering on cockiness – but always thinking and taking great care not to make a mistake.

“I have a note for you, sir, from Countess Sonja …” Ol’ Chumbucket snatched the note away before the young man could finish his sentence and began to read it in the waning light of the setting sun.

“I’m to show you the way.” The young man said – clearly eager to be going.

“One moment, lad.” Ol’ Chumbucket called below deck for Gabriel who scurried up from the galley.

“Aye, sir!” The cabin boy said with a smart salute.

“Gabriel, you’re in charge until I return. Or until the captain returns. Or until anyone else returns, anyone else at all – do you understand me, lad?”

“Aye-aye, sir!” another crisp salute.

The young red-headed man gave a curious look at Gabriel and the man who was leaving this boy in charge.

Ol’ Chumbucket quickly explained as they went down the gang plank together. “It’s alright – he’s a dwarf.”

Gabriel overheard this comment and called after them, “I’m not a dwarf!” When they didn’t react, he called again to them as they walked along the dock, “I’M NOT A DWARF!”

Then he turned back to the ship and glanced up and down at her timbers and rigging and took in a deep, satisfied breath, “I’m a captain!”

Mad Sally was a pirate. Always had been.

True, that was not always an easy position to maintain in what was typically considered a "man's field." She had long ago lost count of how many times big burly pirates, or even small wimpy ones, had taken it on themselves to "protect the womenfolk," which included her. Or the voyages where, every time it looked as if she'd finally be able to command her own ship, a group of macho he-man types had decided they had to take command.

Even most – not all, but most – of her crewmates had failed to see her as a pirate, let alone a leader among pirates. It was always, "Good fight, Sally, loved the way you cut down that squad of marines. Now someone should mop this deck," with pointed looks in her direction.

She'd had to take a variety of jobs when stuck ashore because a ship wouldn't sign her on. Everything from bar maid to bank teller to P.E. teacher at an all-girl school. Her field hockey team had been league champions three years in a row. Sally had always thought field hockey would be good training for buccaneering – sure pirates were fierce, but nothing compared to the ferocity of a group of young, gently-reared ladies sublimating the onslaught of puberty by rushing up and down a field with heavy wooden sticks.

But she was a pirate, it was in her blood. How could it not be? Her father had been one of the most feared pirates on the Spanish Main "back in the day." She had never wanted to trade on his name, which would have been useless anyway since he had disgraced the family. It was the family's dark, hidden shame. They never spoke of his treacherous act, preferring to tell people he'd become a gravy mopper in a whorehouse rather than admit the awful truth. And you certainly won't hear it here and now, because she's never told it so the author doesn't know it to relate it. And the author rather suspects that if he did repeat the story, heads would roll and one of them would probably be his.

So anyway, Mad Sally had jumped at the chance when she finally had the opportunity to seize her own ship and go on the account for herself. That she'd done so with an all-girl crew made up of some of the most formidable field hockey players she'd ever coached was all the better. That she'd had to leave behind friends, especially Ol' Chumbucket, was hard. And The Festering Boil was better than most in terms of its treatment of women. They had several aboard as members of the crew, all treated as equals, but still, there wasn't a single female officer and Slappy, despite his modern attitudes, still had a predilection to "protect the womenfolk" that he was only slowly overcoming. And even Chumbucket would have to admit he had a tendency to take over and make decisions that weren't his to make, based on being the male.

Chumbucket had been harder to leave behind. In fact, she'd almost invited him to come along, but knew he'd probably feel bound by loyalty to Slappy to stay aboard the Boil, might in fact even have warned them of her plans. Then she thought about hitting him hard on the head and bringing him along without asking. But that would have gone against the all-female pirate crew she'd been planning, so in the end he was lured ashore with the rest and Sally and her girls had taken the ship they had named The Poison Pearl and set off to write their own tale of adventure (as related in "The Diego Garcia Caper.") So far they'd done well, especially if you counted getting the Swedish crown jewels. They hadn't stolen them, not from Swedes, but they had figured out which Baltic sea rat had them and relieved him of them, along with his head.

Sally and Ol' Chumbucket had first met almost 30 years earlier, back before he was Ol' Chumbucket. He'd been using another name then, one of dozens he'd used in his career. In many ways they were opposites, she quick and intuitive and acting on the spur of the moment, he calculating and careful, always judging the odds before making a move. She always took pride and pleasure when she spurred him to acting without regarding the consequences and trust to luck and instinct. And he'd enjoyed debating the finer points of a plan until the two of them had worked it into a thing of beauty. They'd been together on most of the inhabited islands and many of the uninhabited ones, had had their share of scrapes and adventures and fights and romance. It was an on-again/off-again relationship, each pulled in some other direction, and yet their courses always brought them back together like a couple of bits of flotsam in a tidal eddy.

And now here he was and that was a problem, Sally thought. Here she had this carefully crafted plan – something she grudgingly admitted she'd learned from him – and had left nothing to chance. This would be an easy strike. Her crew was all set up in the wedding shop that would be the base of operations, she was ensconced in the suite at the governor's mansion, and all the pieces were in place. In two weeks would be the wedding ceremony, which was all part of the plan.

He'd obviously recognized her, she could see it in his eyes. Now what would he do about it? How would his actions affect the plan? And if Chumbucket was here the rest of the Boil's crew must be too – Cementhands had said as much, and though he wouldn't tell her why she could certainly guess. Which complicated things quite a bit.

And what about her? Here she was, captain of The Poison Pearl and a very successful rover in her own right, and everything was in place for a major coup. And suddenly all she could think about were those days, like the one when she and Chumbucket had captured that sloop, just the two of them, or the time they'd escaped from the tattoo parlor in Santiago with the Spanish on their heels, or the days sailing the blue Caribbean waters or the nights on the white sand beaches, the air redolent wth the scent of orchids.

She shook her head. No time for the past. There was a plan to put in motion. She'd just have to make sure Chumbucket was nowhere near when things started moving.

"I need you to deliver a note," Sally said to her companion.

"A note?"

"I haven' written it yet."

"To?" the redheaded young man asked.

"An old friend," she replied, knowing he'd know who she meant.

"Well, I've been looking forward to meeting this old friend of yours."

"Just be quiet and let me think about what to write."

Aboard The Festering Boil, the crew was in an uproar.

"Get everyone armed and we're going in to get them," Keeling said, fuming. "They can't just arrest George and Wellington."

"Of course they can. They did," Chumbucket said.

"So what do you propose we do then?" Black Butch snarled.

"Exactly what we were always planning to do. We're going to get into the gaol, find Hamnquist, get him or get the information …"

"And I still don't care much which," Slappy added.

"Right. Either way, we'll get George and Wellington then."

"You mean you want us to leave them there rotting in that pile of stones?" Red Molly asked.

Chumbucket glanced at Slappy. The two of them had already been over this, and Slappy had agreed. In fact, Slappy had been the one to cool Chumbucket from leading a raid on the gaol, which would have surprised everyone aboard had they known. They always assumed the captain was the hot-headed, impetuous one, and Ol' Chumbucket the plotter. But Slappy'd noticed something was bothering the older man, he didn't seem himself.

For that reason, the captain took the lead in the debate.

"If we do anything too soon, we'll tip the whole game. We're going to get one chance to pull this off. We don't want to give the game away early. First we have to get into the gaol and let the guards get used to us. We'll time it so that we're moving into the cell block the day of the big wedding. All the extra security will be there, not watching us. If we move now and we blow it, we'll never get a second chance. This is the way it has to be."

"We're just going to leave them there?" Dogwatch asked, incredulous.

"I'm afraid so," Slappy said. "But they'll be all right, it's less than two weeks. Besides, this way I'll be sure I know where at least two of my crew are."

"But wait," Leftenant Keeling said, a frown on his face. "The Dutch just arrested two 'Dutch painters' and incarcerated them as pirates. Isn't our cover blown?"

"I've sent Cementhands ashore to take care of that," Slappy said.

Cementhands was again standing in the government office. He'd endured the inevitable Dutch inquisition from the clerk, stoically waiting for the appearance of the Englishman he'd spoken to before. Eventually Bernard Jeffries was shown in.

"I just heard that a couple of pirates were arrested."

"Indeed," Jeffries said. "News travels fast, does it not?"

"Yes, it does. What's this I hear about them being disguised as men from my crew?"

Jeffries raised his eyebrow fractionally.

"Yes, very fast indeed. It is as you say. They were dressed as you, but underneath they were clearly pirates, as was quickly apparent from their tattoos."

Cementhands rolled up his sleeves to show his un-inked skin, while saying, "It's despicable what some of that rabble will try. I want to make sure they don't get off on some technicality. I'm here to press charges against them for masquerading as my representatives."

"Indeed? You wish to press charges?"

"Of course. My reputation is at stake. I can't have pirates parading around pretending to be me. Besides, I don't know if you've got any evidence on them for piracy. I heard they were arrested in a tavern and weren't actually doing any pirating at the time."

"Quite so," said Jeffries as he reached below the counter. Cementhands stiffened, but all Jeffries brought out was a sheaf of government forms. "While that is the case, evidence isn't strictly necessary for our jurisprudence. But if you'd like to press charges, that will speed things up considerably. If you could fill out this form, and this one, and this one," he made several marks on the forms as he leafed through them, "and this one and this one, initialing here and signing here on the first page and the second to last, that should be sufficient."

"Great," Cementhands said, dipping a quill in the inkstand and beginning. "How long will they get if they're convicted of this?"

"Oh, they'll hang."

Cementhands paused, then kept writing.

"Really? For impersonating a painter?"

"Swift, certain, sadistic judgment is the hallmark of our legal system. It removes most of the questions and all of the incentive for committing crimes."

"How soon will they hang?"

"Oh, it will be a long process, I assure you. Two weeks."

"Really?"

"Yes, the governor's getting married in two weeks and has his heart set on a 24-noose hanging. We were two short, so this is something of a lucky break."

"Not for the pirates, I'm sure."

"No. It's a break for them but not so lucky. Perhaps next time they'll think twice about impersonating a painter."

"Ye-e-e-s," McCormack said, not sure if he was being put on. Then back to business. "This won't affect our relationship, will it?"

"I wondered if you'd be worried," Jeffries said. "No, the more I've thought about it, the more I think you're right. Our gaol, or jail if you prefer, is truly a depressing edifice, and nothing would make me happier than to see you in it … brightening it up with a fresh coat of paint. When can you start?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

“Stack the bustles, darling! Let’s get as many as we can on this cartload!”

The deep, raspy voice of Grandmama Jeanette du Bonnier barreled down the gangplank from

The Poison Pearl to the women who hefted the cargo of wedding dresses and wedding dress accessories from the ship to the cart and then on to the little boutique they had purchased next to the gaol.

“It’s a corset, dear! It’s made of bone and meant to be ripped off and tossed aside – you can’t do any harm to it that God himself didn’t intend so, for God’s sake, just toss it on and grab another armful!”

These wenches were used to scampering up the rigging or waging a sea battle – but they did it in pants. Now, in the very civilized town of Curacao, women wore dresses – especially women who were opening a wedding dress specialty store.

Of course, Curacao was in the grip of wedding fever. The newspaper was filled with nothing but talk about the upcoming nuptials of the happy governor and his mysterious Swedish bride. Women from all over the island were intent on not letting this marital season pass without nailing down a firm commitment from their lovers and suitors.

“If he’s getting the milk for free, why buy the cow?” one woman remarked to her friend during a chat in a local coffee shop.

“Well, if he’s getting free milk from some other cow, I’ll be serving up a barbeque they’ll never forget!” Her friend replied.

Suffice it to say, the gentlemen of the island were less enthusiastic about the matrimonial frenzy.

They busied themselves with menial tasks long put off and a deluge of binge drinking.

“She keeps talking about cows and milk!” one man said to his mate during a drunken rant at a local ale house.

“Well if she expects me to become a dairy farmer, I’ll be serving up a barbeque she’ll never forget!” his friend replied.

“That doesn’t make one damn bit o’ sense!” the first man slobbered as he gestured broadly, sloshing his tankard about and spilling ale on his friend.

“Welllll!” his mate answered angrily “Neither does cows!”

At this point, the two men began a pushing match that quickly turned into a brawl.

At a corner table, Wellington Peddicord and George the Greek sat and enjoyed their frothy beverages and the floor show.

“It seems a bit early in the afternoon for a fight.” George observed.

“Yeah, and they’re not even forced to wear these ridiculous outfits.” Peddicord, or course, was making reference to the blue coveralls, blond page-boy wigs and floppy blue hats that they were required to wear when going into town – to prevent them from being spotted as pirates.

“They may be ridiculous, my friend,” George pointed out “but you have to admit, the plan is working like a charm!”

“I don’t know that I HAVE to admit anything. But I am growing fond of the wig!” Just as Wellington Peddicord was about to adjust his hair piece, a citizen landed on their table which held for just a moment as the man on his back glanced up at the two painters and smiled just before the legs of the table gave way and he went crashing to the floor.

“That was close.” said George, “I almost spilled some ale.”

The Dutchman at their feet rolled off the broken table top and staggered to his feet. Still wobbly, he tried to focus on the two men in front of him.

“Do I … Do I … Are you … Who are you?”

“We’re painters.” Peddicord answered in his well-practiced Dutch.

“Aye!” George chimed in, “We are two Dutch boy painters – he and I.”

The man leaned from side to side – staring hard at the black man in the blond wig.
“You don’t LOOK Dutch!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Peddicord replied, “I’m from Haarlem.”

“Oh.” The man nodded – seemingly satisfied until he saw the olive-skinned Greek at his side.

“And you! Where are YOU from?”

“Athens.”

The man looked momentarily confused.

“Athens, Dutchland.” George added confidently.

“Oh!” The man nodded – trying to pretend he knew where that was. “Beautiful scenery in Athens, no?”

“Yes.” George smiled, “It’s lovely this time of year!”

Suddenly, a bottle thrown from the midst of the fracas smashed into the side of the Dutchman’s head. He staggered for a moment, but regained his footing. “Excuse me.” He said politely before flinging himself headlong back into the fray.

“Athens, Dutchland?” Peddicord raised his eyebrows at the Greek. “That was a bit cheeky, don’t you think?”

“You wanna talk cheeky, mate? What was all that ‘Haarlem’ talk?”

“It’s at least a real place – IN A REAL PLACE! Where is this mythical ‘Dutchland’ of which you speak?”

“So, I panicked a bit! What do THEY call it?”

“Holland.”

“Then why aren’t they ‘Holls?’”

“Holls?”

“Aye! HOLLS! Why are they called, ‘DUTCH’ when they’re from HOLLAND?”

“By your logic,” Wellington was trying to calm down his Mediterranean mate, “people from England should be called, ‘Engs!’”

“Then, ‘Hollish!’” The Greek continued “Folks from China are called, ‘Chinese’ and folks from Spain are called, ‘Spaniards!’ At least the people from those countries have the self respect to include the name of their country in what they expect others to call them! I’d be perfectly happy with ‘Holliards’ or ‘Hollandaise’ or …”

“Hollandese” Peddicord corrected. “Hollandaise is a sauce.”

“I don’t care how saucy they are!” George was clearly getting drunker than he had thought – his voice was beginning to rise dramatically. “I’m just saying there’s nothing close to DUTCH in all of FRIGGIN’ HOLLAND!”

The fight stopped immediately and all eyes settled on the two Dutch boy painters sitting at the collapsed table in the corner of the room. Perhaps in the hopes that the crowd had attached its collective interest on something behind them, Wellington Peddicord whipped around in his chair and looked at the back wall of the ale house – nothing but old beer advertisements and a framed poster for an old production of the sequel to the musical that was a hit in the Copenhagen theater district, Yaagen Hoogen Two: Electric Boogaloo.

Unfortunately for our two Boilers, the spirit gum used to secure Peddicord’s blond wig to his head had become loose due to the humidity and Welly’s healthy sweat response. As he spun in the chair, his head-piece kept going long after the head had stopped and the wig and hat twisted and flipped to the floor three feet away.

“Piraat!!!” the roomful of Dutchmen now had a common enemy – for with his ingenious disguise now laid to waste, it was clear that the tall black man was no Dutch boy painter – but a fearsome buccaneer.

“Piraat!!!” George echoed as he pointed an accusatory finger at his mate. Peddicord was shocked by the betrayal – but not half as shocked as he would be only half-a-second later when The Greek smacked him hard in the side of the head with a detached table leg – knocking poor Wellington unconscious.

In truth, George was doing as he always does – turn a no-win situation into a long-odds chance at survival. He hoisted the stunned, lanky body of his companion onto his shoulders and began to make his way through the crowd.

“Pardon me fellow Hollandaiseians! I’ll just lug this sea-miscreant to the local jail and he’ll trouble the peace no longer!”

The crowd backed away to form a perfect passage to the front door of the ale house. George smiled as he saw the warm rays of the afternoon sun as it streamed through the open doorway. The weight of his comrade had shifted, so he squatted slightly to bounce him back into balance. As he made this adjustment, the daylight vanished – as if eclipsed by the moon.

But it was no moon that blocked the light – but rather a very, very, very large jailor.

“Hims is a big heavy black man, isn’t hims?”

The crowd parted even farther at the appearance of the big baby-faced jailor and a company of policemen – numbering more than twenty.

“I’m just taking this piraat to gaol, big fella. No need to keep you from your business – whatever that may be.” George grunted under the strain of his friend’s dead weight. “I’ll take it from here, citizen!”

“Hims is too big for little Greek man to carry all the way to prison. Let me help.”
George looked hard at the jailor. He knew he was dealing not only with a powerful opponent, but a smart one as well – despite the baby-talk. After a moment’s consideration, he nodded in agreement.

“You’re right, my friend, he’s an awfully big piraat.” George placed his hands under Peddicord’s thigh and between his shoulder blades – and with a quick squat-thrust weightlifting move, launched his limp mate toward the waiting arms of the big jailor who caught him out of the air and cradled him like a baby in his enormous arms.

Seeing his only chance, George took that moment when the big man’s arms were full of knocked-out pirate to land what would be an enlightening blow directly on the snout of the jailor. It was a good punch and might have killed a lesser man – George could feel the cartilage of the giant’s nose give way under the blow, but no reaction was registered. None.

A slight trickle of blood from the left nostril was all the damage George could see – and the jailor just smiled at the attempt.

The company of policemen charged en mass and George picked up a chair and smashed it over the first one – spinning on the second with the broken pieces and quickly disabling him with a blow to the tender groin region. The third and fourth didn’t fare as well as the jailor to George’s fists of fury – but the fifth through twelfth policemen tackled the lone pirate and after a half a minute of wrestling about on the floor, they had him bound in chains and shackles.

His wig and hat were lost in the scuffle and the on-lookers could now see that he, too, was clearly not a Dutch boy painter – but a dreaded “piraat!”

“Piraat!” somebody in the crowd shouted as if the point needed to be made vocally.

George found himself feeling a bit jealous of Wellington Peddicord as he was paraded up the street toward the gaol. He hated being in chains and hated the taunts of the townspeople as they lined the street to catch a glimpse of the ne’er-do-wells on their way to their comeuppances. “At least Welly is missing this scene.” He thought to himself.

As they passed the newly-opened dress shop next to the gaolhouse, he locked eyes with an attractive shop girl moving inventory from the cart into the boutique. She looked very familiar – and he could see that she, too recognized him from somewhere. She quickly broke from the scene and rushed into the shop. The sounds of heavy renovation – hammering and digging – swept out onto the street from the store.

“Thems pretty girls making big shop for wedding dresses.” The big jailor commented as if to a friend who was new to town and was seeing the sights rather than being locked away. “Pretty, pretty girls with pretty, pretty dresses!”

Daylight gave way to torchlight as they marched deeper into the gaol. Down a winding stairwell, they were led into a darkened cell. The jailor gently laid Wellington Peddicord on a stone slab and shackled his wrist to the wall. Likewise, George found himself being chained to the opposite wall – and for the first time noticed a shadowy figure sitting at the only table in the room.

The jailor walked over to the table and lit a candle that had gone out some time ago. As the match was struck, George knew exactly who they had found.

“Cap’n Hamnquist, I presume.”

“Aye!” Hamnquist replied, “And you must be Slappy’s first mate – the one they call, ‘The Greek.’”

Every afternoon Gov. Roelof Van Wubbeldinker stood atop the scaffold, scanning the horizon.

“Is that them?" he asked.

Bernard Jeffries, the governor's valet and personal assistant, sighed. They'd gone through this every day for two weeks.

"Begging your lordship’s pardon,” Jeffries replied with a voice that was wearying of the routine, "to which ship are you referring now?"

"That one over there, to the left, just coming in."

Jeffries turned his glass and found the ship in question. He paused.

Finally: "You know my lord, that very well might be."

"Oh goodie!" the governor chortled.

The ship in question was flying the Swedish flag, and was certainly large enough to have made the crossing.
As it crossed in front of the fort it fired a single gun, the traditional salute from ship to shore. A single gun answered it from the parapet.

Inside half an hour the answer was clear. Jeffries could now see the name of the ship as it dropped anchor in the roads just off Willemstad.

"Kejsardömen av Sverige," Jeffries read aloud.

"And that's the ship carrying my bride?" the governor asked.

"Yes, milord. That is the ship bearing your lovely bride, Countess Sonja av Sarasgalen. Perhaps we should retire to your office to make preparations for her arrival."

"But I want to be here when she comes ashore!" Wubbeldinker pouted, stamping his foot petulantly.

"And so you shall, you mad incurable romantic you," Jeffries said, taking his master firmly by the elbow and steering him back in the direction of Government House. "For none from that ship will set foot on land until we signal them permission, which we won't do until all is ready."

They were now hurrying up the hill toward the government office building with Jeffries reminding the governor of the sequence of events that had to be set in motion now that the ship was in harbor, what had been planned for the coming fortnight of festivities culminating in the wedding, followed by the mass hanging.

"Oh, I love a party!" the governor panted. "Tell me again what comes next."

Jeffries sighed – he'd done that quite a lot since coming to work for the governor – and repeated his initial instructions.

"First we must alert the honor guard and mass them in the square. We should also send a team down to the quay to make sure the bunting is fresh and the decorations looking their loveliest."

"Or heads will roll," Wubbeldinker said.

"Absolutely. Or heads will roll. Your carriage will bring you down to the waterfront, with suitable escort, 15 minutes before their longboat pulls up to the quay. As soon as her highness's foot touches the ground the band will strike up a suitable Swedish tune – I believe they've picked out a lively number called 'Mama Mia.'"

"But that's Italian isn't it?"

"You would think so, but no, it's quite Swedish. Abba - I mean – About that time, a volley will be fired from the fort. You will say a few words of welcome and your bride-to-be will be whisked away to the quarters reserved and lovingly prepared for her."

"Will there be opportunity for a little pre-wedding carnality in the carriage?"

"No sir, sadly protocol demands that the countess have her own carriage."

The governor looked put out, but he didn't say anything.

"Then begins the glorious round of activities – tonight's banquet, tomorrow's arts fair in the park, the concert, the 5K run, the mimes, the public floggings of the mimes. It will be quite the social whirl."

They had reached Government House by now, and Jeffries set about putting his plans into action.

On board The Festering Boil, the crew had been discussing Cementhands' success that morning in securing the painting contract, and everyone was preparing for the upcoming work detail.

"Cementhands," Slappy said. "You, Keeling, Spencer and Chumbucket get down to the jail to 'take measurements' and get the lay of the land. See what's going to be the best way to spirit Hamnquist out of his cell. If it turns out not to be practical, at least see if there'll be an opportunity to talk to him and convince him to get the information we need."

"Why do I have to go?" Cementhands whined. "You said I'd be the foreman of this little adventure, and so far I seem to be doing all the work."

"Fluent in Dutch, remember," Keeling whispered to him, a little snootily, McCormack thought.

While the planning was going on all crew members were aware of the ship that had just arrived, and everyone stopped what they were doing to watch it drop anchor.

"Yeah, those are our Swedish friends," George observed. "Hope the paint job is good enough to keep them from recognizing us."

As it happened, the paint job was having a curious effect on all the shipping in the harbor and people ashore. The ghastly mottled eggplant shade, fading like a bruise toward the stern, stood out so much that every eye was immediately drawn to it, but so horrifying for a ship that every mind immediately blanked it out as the unholy abomination that it was. The Boil, in that sense, had become almost invisible, with every subconscious mind working overtime to deny what the eye couldn't help but see. Already two fishing boats had nearly come to grief, colliding with the ship that their masters hadn't been able to make themselves see. Only cries from the alert lookouts on The Boil had prevented catastrophes.

In fact, the lookouts and officers on Kejsardömen av Sverige had glimpsed it only long enough to think to themselves, "Ohmigod! What happened to that ship," before they too had blanked it out of their conscious field of view and never identified it as the pirate ship that had sacked them only two days before.

The only lookouts who had noted and registered the ship were too far away to receive the full effect. La Petite Mort Deux was holding station just within sight of the harbor, far enough out that it couldn't be spotted or identified from shore, and just barely close enough that its lookouts in the masts could keep track of comings and goings.

A call from the lookout to the deck had brought Fifi scurrying up the ratlines to see for himself. He was 30 years older than the boy who had first gone to sea with nothing more than an empty sea chest and a desire for a wide vista to practice the sadistic streak he was already nurturing, but he still prided himself on his skills as a seaman and was able to eschew the lubber hole and fly up the rigging.

The lookout handed over his spyglass and pointed out the odd looking ship, which was – in this odd case – far enough away to be visible.

"Sacre bleu!" Fifi muttered.

"No," the lookout said, 'Sacre aubergine,' I think."

"Eggplant?" shouted Fifi. "Who the hell paints their ship eggplant? It's a monstrosity! Now, keep an eye peeled for Slappy and The Boil."

"Say," thought the lookout, "Slappy and the Boil would be a good name for a band!"

And thus even Fifi was deceived by the paint job.

Two hours later a longboat put off from The Boil with the shore party designated by Cap'n Slappy a few paragraphs ago. They were on their way to get the lay of the land and, just perhaps, check out a couple of the taverns that Cementhands had mentioned.

They found the jail easily enough and though it had all been a ruse to gain entrance, they quickly agreed it was the grayest, most demoralizing building they had ever seen, even for a jail. Just looking at it depressed them. Knowing that on the morrow they'd be going inside to take measurements made it even more depressing.

"You know, as long as we're here, maybe we should throw a coat of mauve over it," Spencer said with a sigh.

"Don't even talk to me," Cementhands said. "I'm too depressed."

Keeling didn't say anything; he just groaned.

"Remember being in the jail in Havana?" Chumbucket asked no one in particular.

"Yeah," one of them, but no one in particular, answered.

"Or being lost in the jungles of South America and almost certain to die?"

"Yeah."

"Or waiting in Sao Paolo for the Portuguese to come and capture us all?"

"Oh yeah."

"I miss those times, don't you?"

"I know what you mean."

They all sighed.

They stared at the pile of gray stones, various melancholy thoughts and random nightmarish images floating around their heads. That's how depressing the outside of the jail was.

"And if it looks this bad on the outside," Spencer said.

"Yeah, imagine how bad it is on the inside," Chumbucket finished for him.

Keeling groaned again. McCormack muttered something that might have been "Yaagen Hoogen" but probably wasn't.

The moment was broken at last by a shriek of pain and terror emanating from the building in front of them. It was horrifying, but at last it was a human sound, and the four of them shook themselves off and felt a little better.

"Well at least there seems to be a window, that's something," Keeling said.

"C'mon lads," Chumbucket said, "let's go find those taverns Cementhands here was talking about."

"Oh, aye! Down to the waterfront," Cementhands said with a grin. "I'll lead ya, and remember that the first one there gets free drinks all night."

They argued about just how much free drinking McCormack would – or could – do, while ambling back to the water. As they approached they noticed the crowds getting thicker, and they could hear the sound of a brass band tuning up. By the time they got to the square by the pier, the crowd was shoulder to shoulder and the band was playing a peppy little dance tune.

"What's going on?" Chumbucket asked Cementhands, the only one of the four tall enough to see over the crowd.

"Looks like some kind of reviewing stand, something's happening. Yeah, there's a pudgy guy with a silly smile in his face, and it looks like a boat's pulling in. The pudgy guy is dancing? No, he's just sort of hopping from foot to foot like he can't wait for something. Probably has to take a leak."

"Okay," McCormack continued as the four disguised pirates worked their way deeper into the crowd, "not the longboat's tied up and some people are getting out, and …"

Cementhands paused and cast a nervous look at his companions.

"What?" Spencer said, "What's going on?"

"Ummm, some people got out of the boat and it looks like they're getting a big welcome. Probably the tourism commission trying to make everyone feel really special so they'll get repeat business. You know how these feather merchants are. Nothing to see here. C'mon, the tavern's over this way."

McCormack forced his way to the edge of the crowd, which was roaring approval at something the more normal-sized pirates couldn't see. Through the cheering they caught occasional words floating from the speaker's platform, "welcome" and "festivities" and "beautiful" several times. But nothing that made sense.

They had worked their way almost out of the plaza, with just another knot of people and a carriage to get past before they could retreat to the tavern McCormack was heading for, when there was one more loud round cheering from the crowd and some serious jostling from the center, rippling out in their direction.

"Make way you lot, make way," a harsh voice shouted. "Make a hole there, clear the way."

A detachment of soldiers forced their way through the throng, elbowing people out of the way to form a corridor and apparently heading straight for the pirates. McCormack pushed his way forward to get out of their way, followed quickly by Spencer and Keeling.

Ol' Chumbucket was right behind them but just as he stepped towards the safety of Cementhands' lee, the crowd reeled backwards at the soldiers' insistent push, knocking into the pirate and knocking him to his knees. He started to rise when a cudgel struck him across his back, knocking him flat on his stomach.

"Out of the way, you riffraff," a voice snarled, a hand grabbing for his shoulder.

Rising to one knee Ol' Chumbucket pushed back and grabbed the hand, twisting, then pushing so the man released his grasp and fell backwards. Then Ol' Chumbucket looked up.

And directly into the eyes of Mad Sally.

Oh, she was dressed with more class for a pirate wench, silk gown, pearl earrings peeking out from the cloud of red hair, diamonds dripping into her ample décolletage, a fashionable hat perched on her head. But it was her.

She stared back. Neither said a word.

The soldier Chumbucket had shaken off grabbed him again, angrily twisting him to the ground. Chumbucket let himself be taken down, then used the impetus and a twist of his body to send the soldier sailing over his head.

Chumbucket rose to his feet, then doffed his painter's cap and swept into a low bow.

"My pardons, Countess. Your carriage awaits."

Sally looked as if she wanted to say something, but caught herself. Taking the arm of the young, redheaded man at her side, she stepped up into the carriage.

The soldier regained his feet and turned on Chumbucket with a snarl, but the "Dutch painter" maintained his deep bow, and at a sharp command from the sergeant the guard turned and took his position behind the coach, which started off.

The last thing Chumbucket saw as it rattled across the cobbled square was Mad Sally's face staring out the back window at him.