The Ship's Log O' the Festerin' Boil

As The Festering Boil closed in on the dread pirate Fifi Le Fleur’s La Petite Mort, a cluster of Boilers gathered behind Cap’n Slappy and Ol’ Chumbucket as they kept a careful watch on their intended prey. The two were peppered with questions from this impromptu peanut gallery that came fast and furious – like a desperate press conference with a world leader who had just done something of which he should be utterly ashamed;

“Is it true he’s killed more than three hundred men himself?”

“Did he really murder the Austrian ski champion?”

“I heard he drinks the blood of virgins from a silver chalice – can we offer him Gabriel?”

“No, Spencer!” Cap’n Slappy snorted in great miffedness, “And stop trying to foist young Gabriel’s blood on evil geniuses!”

“Is he REALLY an evil genius?”

“Where does he get his clothes? – He looks fabulous! – At least in the last woodcut I saw of him in Pirattitude Monthly!”

“Do you think the devaluation of the doubloon is responsible for the lagging ship-building market which resulted in rudder manufacturing jobs being shipped overseas or was there simply a bubble in the maritime industry as a whole that is now being self-corrected?”

Ol’ Chumbucket and Cap’n Slappy turned slowly to give this last questioner the full force of their “Double Stink-Eye.” But it was, in fact, their old pal, Cementhands McCormack wearing a strange hat he called a, “fedora,” with a paper card emblazoned with the word, “PRESS” in large bold letters held snugly in the head-band.

“Shouldn’t you and your crew be readying the cannons?” Ol’ Chumbucket chided.

“We readied them while you and the captain were playing pinch-fingers with the captain’s spy glass!” McCormack shot back – adding, “Or is this just a part of this administration’s disregard for a free and unfettered press as guaranteed in the first amendment of our constitution?”

Cap’n Slappy opened his mouth with what he intended to be a flurry of creative profanity when Ol’ Chumbucket quickly tugged on his coat and whispered something in his ear.

“You’ve got to be freakin’ kiddin’ me!”

Ol’ Chumbucket shook his head and continued his secretive admonition.

“We have a Ship’s Constitution?”

Ol’ Chumbucket nodded and whispered a bit more.

“How many amendments?”

More whispering. Slappy looked at Chumbucket and asked, “Is there some reason we don’t call it ‘Ship’s Articles’ like every other pirate ship on the planet?”

Ol’ Chumbucket gave a meaningful glance in the direction of the punctilious Leftenant Keeling. Slappy’s eyes registered understanding, then the captain composed himself, straightened out his great coat and cleared his throat.

“Very well, then! I have a brief statement after which I will entertain questions regarding that statement and our impending encounter with a ship purportedly belonging to a pirate of some repute – Fifi La Fleur.”

He paused briefly and noticed that most of pirates – even those who he knew perfectly well couldn’t write their own names let alone take notes of a conversation – gathered around him stood poised with pencils and note pads hanging with vigilant anticipation on his next words.

“A few minutes from now, we will be challenging a ship called, La Petite Mort. She was last known to be the sea-bound home of that notorious French pirate, Fifi La Fleur who, amongst his pantheon of nefarious deeds murdered the crown prince of Denmark in a duel, murdered the rightful king of Scotland in his sleep and proceeded to slaughter several Scots noble-people and their families; he talked a noble Moorish general into killing his wife in a fit of tragically misplaced jealousy, all the while fomenting an on-going feud between Italian families resulting in the tragic deaths of some potential splendid young lovers.”

Several of the pirates dabbed at their teary eyes with their note pads.

“Yet despite his manifest naughtiness, this Gory Gallic, has escaped the grasp of retribution either personal or governmental – always pinning his misdeeds on an unsuspecting patsy. He is, by every definition, an evil genius! Therefore it is with great caution we approach this vessel knowing full well what dangers may await us there. For all appearances, this is nothing but a ship of fools floundering helplessly at sea – but if Fifi La Fleur is behind this – and all our intelligence sources suggest that he is – rest assured, friends, we may be in for the fight of our very lives!”

“I’ll now take questions from the floor. I see we have Helen Thomas with us today in her traditional spot – front and center. Helen, how are you, dear?”

“Very will, Mr. Cap’n. Thank you.” The diminutive elderly pirate woman smiled only briefly and then was all business.

“Cap’n Slappy. If this character, La Fleur is as treacherous and deadly as you say, why are we seeking out such a perilous appointment with, as it were, Fate?”

“We are in a curious business, Helen. We didn’t become pirates to go gently into that good night – and as seasoned as this crew is, I suspect La Fleur has even more to fear from us than we have from him. Still – caution is the order of the day. It’s only prudent. There may be untold riches aboard La Petite Mort as her captain, by all accounts, has amassed substantial treasures. But we won’t know unless we investigate – and to hell with the dangers!”

With Ms. Thomas’ question out of the way, the rest of the pack vied for the captain’s attention with a jumbled chorus of, “Cap’n Slappy! Cap’n Slappy!”

After scanning the crowd, Cap’n Slappy fixed his vision on Keeling. “Yes, leftenant?”

“The name ‘Fifi’ fails to inspire fear, and ‘La Fleur’ translates simply, ‘The Flower.’ How well do you know the man personally and can you give us any insight with regard to the causes of his personal distemper and capacity for cruelty?”

“I first met La Fleur at a Pirate Networking Retreat twenty years ago. We were both new to the pirate game and looking to make social connections – you know, ‘make friends, influence prospective governors’ that sort o’ thing – ANYWHO … after a particularly grueling communication and negotiation seminar that morning, Fifi invited me to join him for lunch on the beach. Well, I was there to network – so I gratefully accepted the invitation. When I arrived, I found that he had set a beautiful table for us near the surf as the tide was coming in.”

The erstwhile-mentioned gathering exploded in an unsightly display of caterwauling and lewd “Woo-Hoos!” until Ol’ Chumbucket stepped forward and gave them his fiercest stink-eye. There were to be no homophobic displays of mass hysteria at this press conference. Slappy paused for a moment until the throng regained its composure, then continued;

“This was, I might add, a very masculine picnic setting in which a fine, albeit grossly lumpy, Persian carpet stretched out between the table and the shore thus creating an intoxicating scene of decadent wealth and refined taste. In short, the rug really brought the beach, the table and chairs and the sea together.”

A single interrupting “Whoop!” was met with Ol’ Chumbucket’s icy gaze and quickly stifled.

“At the stroke of noon, fancy French footmen appeared with silver platters covered with silver lids and placed them before us – opening them with suitable flare. We were served omelette du fromage in a light creamy basil sauce.” Slappy paused at the memory of a scrumptious feast. “Delicious!”

“Did it come avec des champignons?” a pirate reporter inquired.

“No!” Slappy replied curtly, “This was a picnic on the beach – not L’Escargot Heureux – France’s finest chain of family-style restaurants!”

A pause for potential debate – there was none. A voice in the crowd sang the familiar theme heard sung by advertising troubadours – Manger bon dans le voisinage!

“ANYWHO! After the main course was served, the rug was rolled up revealing those lumps to be the heads of our morning workshop presenters – Justin Treadwell and Matthew Fluggenheimer. Fifi La Fleur had buried them up to their necks in the sand and was feasting as the tide rolled in – using their slow, torturous murder as meal-time entertainment. Gags were removed from their mouths and they immediately pleaded their case. – ‘This is OUTRAGEOUS, you MONSTER!’ bellowed Treadwell. But his partner was quick to employ some of the effective communication techniques that were so unwieldy during the morning’s workshop. ‘Name-calling is counter-productive, Justin. This man is clearly differently-moral in a way that may be unfamiliar and upsetting to us, but as we well know, effective communication begins with an ‘I-Statement’ and a non-threatening declaration of your feelings.’ To which Mr. Treadwell replied in as calm a voice as he could muster, ‘I feel angry and hurt that your behavior has precipitated this unfortunate blub-blubby-blub-blub-blub.’”

“He said, ‘blub-blubby-blub-blub-blub’?” McCormack inquired, glancing at his careful notes and trying to get the quote just right.

“Not exactly.” Slappy replied. “It just sounded like ‘blub-blubby-blub-blub-blub’ to me because the water level had reached his mouth – but then, what he was saying before that sounded like, ‘blah-bladdy-blah-blah-blah’ anyway, so I didn’t really notice the difference.”

“Cap’n Slappy! Cap’n Slappy!” the chorus clamored for more information.

“Mr. Watts.” Slappy nodded toward Dogwatch Watts, his navigator, and for a brief moment wondered who was steering the ship.

“Cap’n Slappy – it seems wildly out of character for you to participate in the water torture and death of innocents! Can you explain your involvement?”

“Well, in the first place, I had nothing to do with their predicament. And I did protest his behavior with a firm ‘Now see here, Fifi …’ but I was new to the pirate game and thought this was some sort of tradition.”

“I have a follow up question!” Dogwatch interjected and was given the nod by Cap’n Slappy. “My follow up is this … ‘Really? Back in those days you could eat eggs and watch men drown?’”

“You must understand three things. First, those were delicious omelets. Second, Justin and Matthew were insufferable presenters who offered little more than hackneyed, stilted platitudes instead of genuine communicative insights. And finally, I was encircled by Fifi’s crewmen who held pistols to my head to ensure that I wouldn’t protest too much. Have you ever tried to eat omelette du fromage and watch men drown whilst having four blood-thirsty pirates hold pistols to your head AND try to make conversation with a certifiable psychopath at the same time, Mr. Watts?”

Dogwatch Watts looked at his feet for a moment. “No, Cap’n.”

“Well it’s off-putting, let me tell you! One last question.”

“Cap’n Slappy! Cap’n Slappy!”

Slappy looked down at his young cabin boy, Gabriel and smiled. “Yes, Gabe. Do you have a question?”

“I have a two-part question. The first part is; ‘What is a psychopath?’ And the second involves your hypothesis about ‘Why you think Fifi Le Fleur is one?’”

“Well, I’m no expert so here’s a helpful pamphlet that will explain the emotional disconnect and subsequent viewing of others as objects for manipulation and entertainment owing in part to a narcissistic personality disorder and a sense of cruel entitlement to use others as emotional surrogates to fill the cavernous empathic void that is the hallmark of your classic psychopath. Le Fleur’s psychopathology may stem from the fact that his father named him after their standard Poodle. In fact, during his sensitive formative years, the family referred to him as ‘Fifi, Junior.’ This withholding and misplacement of natural familial affection may, in fact, be the source of Fifi’s distemper. But, again, I’m no expert.”

George pushed his way through the crowd of pirate reporters.

“Well, I did say, ‘One last question …’ but it appears our first mate has a pressing issue he would like to address. George?”

The Greek wiped the sweat from his brow before speaking.

“We’ve lashed La Petite Mort to our starboard side and secured her crew for questioning. They offered no resistance and may be in need of medical attention.” He took a deep drink of rum from his flask. “Le Fleur is not among those on board her. Would the cap’n like to question the prisoners?”

Cap’n Slappy saw that, indeed, while he had been holding his press conference, the industrious first mate had captured the French pirate ship – a gift that lacked only a bright red ribbon. The captain was stunned.

“Yes, of course! Well done George! Ol’ Chumbucket and I shall be over presently.”

“De boze ballen van Neptunus!”

As soon as Ol’ Chumbucket heard this exclamation, he knew two things. First, he knew that Cap’n Slappy had just closed his telescoping spy glass with enthusiasm, pinching the meaty portion of his left hand in the collapsing mechanism thus causing him to bellow something from his random collection of Dutch oaths. Secondly, he knew there must be something good on the horizon to make the captain forget his legendary difficulty with his telescoping spy glass – and all things of a mechanical nature for that matter.

As he approached the captain, Ol’ Chumbucket witnessed the traditional passing of the spyglass to the ship’s cabin boy, Gabriel.

“Tell Salty Jim it’s broken again …” the boy had turned to go when Slappy called after him, “And tell him not to use so much weasel grease this time! I nearly dropped it in the drink!”

Whereas most cabin boys would pay some sort of respectful acknowledgement to their captain on a proper ship, Gabriel simply waved the spyglass in the air, nodded and smiled a rather obviously patronizing smile that even Cap’n Slappy could decipher.

Before Ol’ Chumbucket could speak, Slappy had a mini-rant coming.

“Did you see that?!? I raised the wee sprog – practically nursed him at me teat!”

Ol’ Chumbucket cringed at the mental imagery – but knew things would go faster if he didn’t try to intervene.

“And what do I get for all me troubles? Nothin’ but sass and smart ass! I do and do and do for these pirates and what thanks do I get?”

Ol’ Chumbucket had hoped not to have to join in the rant – but Slappy’s pause demanded filling – and the path of least resistance was the only path not overgrown with brambles.

“No thanks?” Ol’ Chumbucket said in as sympathetic a tone as he could muster.

“Exactly! None-what-freakin’-so-ever! And all I ever do is bring them more opportunities to pillage, plunder and loot – you know, REAL PIRATE STUFF! Take that ship on the horizon I was just eye-ballin’ … Well, you can’t see it now ‘cuz I just gave away me broken spyglass … but …”

By now, Ol’ Chumbucket had his own glass out and was gazing intently at the horizon. As Cap’n Slappy called for Dogwatch at the helm to change course, he spotted a tiny sail far out, its hull below the horizon. For all of Slappy’s buffoonery, there were things he was good at – finding ships was one. Of course, there was never any guarantee that those ships would hold any treasure – but, as Slappy was keen on saying, “Ye don’t know if ye’ve got a pearl till ye scoop the oyster!” Slappy stopped talking so Ol’ Chumbucket could focus on his search. Then, when he settled on the spot – Slappy continued;

“See her? I reckon she’s a sloop – probably pirate – but who knows? We got nothin’ else to do but chase. Say, that’s a nice spyglass ye got there. Who makes it? Does it ever pinch yer hand? Mine’s a chunk o’ manatee poo! Practically useless! Good lens, though.”

By now, Ol’ Chumbucket was done looking and made a point of closing his spyglass with enough care to demonstrate how not to pinch one’s hand in the collapsing tubes. This was probably eighty percent instruction and twenty percent mockery – but he knew that the captain learned best when some modicum of shame was involved. Slappy knew he was getting a lesson and by now realized that he probably deserved one – so he took it in stride and complimented his instructor.

“Nicely done.” But he couldn’t resist a needling of his own. “You probably got one of those new-fangled non-pinch glasses the kids are so keen on these days.”

“Nope.” Ol’ Chumbucket wasn’t going to let him off so easily. “I believe the model name of my glass is The Pinchtastic 5000 – a glass so devilishly designed to pinch that it takes almost a superhuman effort to avoid permanent nerve damage at every closing.”

Slappy was perplexed, “Why in the name o’ me Aunt Hildegard’s apple brown betty would a fella purchase such an item?”

Without missing a beat Ol’ Chumbucket replied, “So as to keep a pinch-prone pirate captain from borrowin’ it!”

Slappy stopped to take a mental inventory of the many, many things he had borrowed from Ol’ Chumbucket over the years but stopped when he ran out of mental paper and imaginary ink.

A voice from high up in the rigging called to the deck below; “Sail ho!”

Ol’ Chumbucket and Cap’n Slappy looked upward to see Two-Patch looking in the wrong direction and pointing. Ol’ Chumbucket whipped out his Pinchtastic 5000 and scanned in the general direction of their nearly-blind lookout’s point direction but saw nothing.

“How does he do that?” Cap’n Slappy thought admiringly. “The man couldn’t see the beans on his plate if you set them on fire but he can always tell when someone is out there!”

“Yes.” Ol’ Chumbucket agreed reluctantly. “But he has no idea where they are.”

Slappy slapped his friend’s shoulder appreciatively, “That’s why we have you, ol’ chum! Ye’re our details man!”

Cementhands McCormack rushed up from the lower decks – breathless with excitement and the obvious trauma of running.

“You HAVE to see this!” he managed between gasps.

“Get a hold o’ yerself, man! What is it?” Slappy demanded.

“Can’t - - explain - - must - - come see!”

But they didn’t have to “come see,” because a very angry Sawbones Burgess was hot on the big man’s heels. However, it took a moment for Cap’n Slappy and Ol’ Chumbucket to recognize the ship’s doctor as the source of the big pirate’s glee because it took them more than a moment to recognize the doctor – as he was dressed, hat-to-boots as a well-to-do lady.

The good doctor stamped a dainty boot against the deck and slapped a floral print parasol menacingly into his gloved hand. “Now see here, McCormack!” While the doctor’s voice was entirely normal, his appearance gave it a rather matronly tone. He continued, “If you are going to run out on every audition, how do you intend to have your production of Twelfth Night go off by Twelfth Night?”

The big man motioned as if he was about to answer but dissolved in a torrent of laughter. Slappy and Chumbucket could only stand by, mouths agape, and try to make sense of the scene. Whatever had possessed Sawbones Burgess to audition in drag had such a hold on him that even now he stayed in perfect character.

“I can see that none of you would know a real lady – even if she walked right up and kicked you all in the nuts!”

With that, the doctor turned on his high heels and strode majestically toward the steps leading down to the lower deck. As he passed in front of the helm, he saw Dogwatch gaze at him with a combination of amazement and fear – and popped open his parasol to shield himself from the ogling. After one last, “Harrumph!” he was gone.

Apart from the recovery side of McCormack’s laughing fit, there was not a sound on deck besides the flapping of the sails in the wind and the slosh of water against the ship’s hull. Finally, Cap’n Slappy spoke, “What by the name Davy Jones’s left gonad was that??!?”

“That,” Chumbucket replied with admiration, “was what they call, ‘commitment to a bit’ in theater terms!”

“Really?” Slappy's tone was incredulous.

“Oh, yes!” McCormack answered emphatically. “I’m casting him for sure! Even Shakespeare couldn’t write something as funny as Burgess in a dress! Because Sweet Baby Jaysus! That was funny!” He chuckled to himself as he followed the doctor below stopping only to admonish poor Dogwatch. “And you! Stop eye-humpin’ me bleedin’ leadin’ lady!”

Dogwatch just looked awkwardly away – but noticed something on the horizon. He called below to the captain.

“We’re gainin’ on her, Cap’n, whoever she is!”

“That seems fast!” Cap’n Slappy replied as he turned to look out – reaching for his spy glass which was below decks being “fixed.”

“Care to borrow mine?” Ol’ Chumbucket offered with a hint of dare in his voice.

At first, Slappy reached for it, but quickly backed off when he remembered the name – Pinchtastic 5000. Then, trying to save face through bravado he said, “You go ahead and check her out – I don’t need to see her to know what’s going on aboard her.”

Chumbucket focused his glass on the ship as Slappy, using only his knowledge of these sorts of situations, described in startling detail exactly what was happening.

“She has a skeletal crew – four, perhaps five men – none o’ them could be described as ‘able’ by any nautical standards. Her sails are ill-positioned and poorly rigged – a lot of shoddy knot-tying. She has two guns on deck – neither of them is in a gun port because they don’t know which side we’ll come at them from. Not that it matters, because I doubt any of these fellows ever hit anything with a cannon. Right now they’re debating whether or not to run up a white flag and throw themselves on our mercy or toss themselves overboard and trust the mercy o’ the fishies.”

“Yes,” Ol’ Chumbucket confirmed, “But what color stockings is the tall one wearing?”

“Trick question!” Slappy shot back immediately, “He’s barefooted!”

Ol’ Chumbucket took another glance in his spyglass and confirmed that the tallest of the men was, indeed, barefoot.

“Lucky guess.”

“Well, let’s not terrorize the poor bastards more than is necessary.” Slappy then called to Spencer who was standing nearby. “Show ‘em our colors – let’s give them every chance to see tomorrow.”

Within a minute of The Festering Boil making herself known, the troubled little sloop shot up a white flag and her own jolly roger flown upside down to emphasize her obvious distress. This second bit of news had an ominous feel, however.

“Who is she?” Slappy asked.

Ol’ Chumbucket lowered his glass slowly. “La Petite Mort.”

“Not Fifi Le Fleur’s La Petite Mort!”

“Are there any other La Petite Mort ships out there that I don’t know about?” Ol’ Chumbucket inquired.

Cap’n Slappy thought for a moment. “Um … nope. I don’t think so.”

“Then, yes! Fifi Le Fleur’s La Petite Mort.”

Slappy now didn’t hesitate. “Leftenant Keeling! Beat to quarters!”

The drum roll and cries of “Battle stations!!” brought pirates running to their posts.

The deck of The Festering Boil was abuzz with activity. Young Gabriel who had returned some time ago with Cap’n Slappy’s “repaired” spyglass asked innocently, “Who is Fifi Le Fleur?”

Slappy’s eyes widened as he explained, “In my time I have come across many ruthless French bastards – but of all of the ruthless French bastards I’ve known, Le Fleur is the most ruthless, the most bastard-like …”

Ol’ Chumbucket chimed in, “ … and the most French!”

“Aye!” bellowed Slappy, “And the most French of them all!”

Slappy now moved to take command as they drew nearer their prey. “Look lively me hearties! These poor bastards are only five minutes away from hell – it’s just for us to determine if they’re comin’ or goin’!”

# posted by Cap'n Slappy @ 1:13 PM 1 comments

The cold steel poised above the exposed breast of Ol’ Chumbucket as if seeking exactly the right spot, then flashed forward, piercing his unresisting flesh. It withdrew, then raced forward again.

And again and again, slicing through the pirate’s skin over and over.

“This is really annoying,” Ol’ Chumbucket said to himself, then out loud, “C’mon Clay. How long is this gonna take?”

“Do you want art or do you want fast?” the tattoo artist asked, looking up from the diagram Chumbucket had sketched out to his work on the man’s chest. “You can’t have both.”

“Do your best work, but jeez this is annoying,” Chumbucket said. “That needle and all those little pricks.”

“All those little pricks,” Clay snorted. “That’s what my sister always complains about when she comes home from work at the sportin’ house. But don’t worry I always do my best work.”

“I know. That’s why I was so glad you came by. I wouldn’t have anyone else putting ink under my skin. Let’s just finish this up, okay? I’ve got work to do here.”

“And I’ve got a whole line of yer crewmen who want the best tattoos in the Caribbean.”

“In the world, my friend. In the world.”

It had been a happy meeting at sea. The Festering Boil, two days out of Port Royal, had spotted a sail and chased after it. But the vessel in question hadn’t tried to flee, instead making straight for the pirate ship. To everyone’s delight, it was Cap’n Clay and his floating parlor, Ye Olde Tattoo Shippe. Those crewmembers who still had any swag left and some undecorated skin were quick to line up. All except Cementhands, who scoffed as Sawbones Burgess showed off the tattoo of a bottle of leeches on his forearm.

“I don’t even need to advertise now,” Burgess, the ship’s doctor, had said proudly. “Everyone will be able to see exactly who I am.”

“And how handy it'll be. You'll be able to treat yerself when you start gushing puss and gangrene sets in.”

“Not from Clay!” Burgess protested. “He uses the cleanest tools I’ve ever seen. Why, his tattoo needle is cleaner than my surgical equipment.”

“With all due respect Sawbones, the officer’s privy on a Barbary slaver is cleaner than your surgical equipment.”

“Oh, you’re just afraid of getting stuck with a needle.”

“No, I just don’ see any reason to give the authorities anything to identify me with. You’ve heard the questions they ask – ‘Did he have any identifying marks? Any tattoos?’ This way anyone who thinks they need to send the police after me won’t have anything to go on. I’m anonymous, just a face in the crowd. I blend in completely.”

Sawbones just stared at the gigantic pirate in disbelief. Blend into the crowd? McCormack was at least six and a half feet tall and weighed more than 20 stone. With his wild eyes, unruly shock of hair and maniacal leer, “blend in” was the last thing McCormack would do, unless he was at a convention of fairy tale monsters.

“A face in a crowd? McCormack, you ARE a crowd,” Burgess said.

McCormack just shook his head.

“All I know is when the authorities start looking for me, they’ll have one less thing to identify me by.”

“That’s right,” Burgess retorted. “They’ll just have to look for the only sailor in the Caribbean without a tattoo!”

“Whaddaya think cap’n?” Dogwatch asked, showing off his new tattoo of a mermaid with implausibly large anatomical protrusions on her chest.

“Lovely,” Cap’n Slappy said with raised eyebrows. “I’m not sure she could swim with those, or even stay underwater very long, but she’s a beauty all right.”

“How about you, Slappy!” Clay called out as Chumbucket rose from the chair. “Should we do a little more work on yer magnum opus?”

“Not this time,” Slappy said with regret. “I’m afraid I’m a little short on cash just now. The holidays and all.”

Slappy had just the one tattoo, but it kept growing. It had started as a picture of the ship, The Festering Boil, under full sail, all the guns run out. Then a compass rose grew around it, with dolphins, mermaids and sea sprites dancing in and out of the waves. After that he asked for a ship’s wheel around all of that, rather like a frame. The wheel had been completed on his last visit with Cap’n Clay, and the tattoo artiste was eager to see what Slappy came up with next.

“I could do a little work on credit, you can pay me later,” Clay said, drawing started glances from nearby pirates who knew thatYe Olde Tattoo Shipperarely if ever extended credit – especially not too pirates who more than likely would be dead before they ever got around the paying. There was only one way he’d do the work on credit – if the pirate in question agreed that if he failed to pay in a specified time period, Clay could take the tattoo back, and all the flesh it was attached to.

“No, not this time thanks,” Slappy said. “I remember when that ol’ loper from The Bloody Billwasn’t able to pay you on time and you took his bicep back.”

“Yeah, but I left him the lower arm,” Clay said reasonably.

“Lot of good it did Lefty, since it wasn’t attached no more.”

“I’m sure it made a right nice souvenir,” Clay said, grinning.

“Tell you what,” Chumbucket said,. “I’ve got a couple of coins left. I’ll treat you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure. Why not? Let’s see what you can add.”

Slappy closed his eyes and thought about it. Suddenly a grim smile played around the corners of his mouth and he told Clay what he wanted. The artist nodded and went to work.

An hour later Slappy rose from the chair with satisfaction as Chumbucket handed over the doubloons to pay for the work.

“Let’s see it,” he said.

The tattoo was much the same, except now two hands were holding the spokes of the ship’s wheel (in the safety approved “two and ten o’clock” positions, of course.) And on the ring finger of the right hand gleamed a gold ring.

“There,” Slappy said with satisfaction. “If no one’s going to get me that ring I’ve been askin’ for, at last I can see it on my hand here in the artwork.”

“That’s your hand then?” Chumbucket asked. “How can anyone tell?”

“That’ll be the next part of the picture. I’ll have him make that me holding the wheel in a gale. Or a battle. Or something.”

“We’re going to need a lot more booty to pay for that,” Chumbucket said with a shrug. “But really, don’t you think you’re obsessing on this ring thing a little much? I’m no psychiatrist …”

“Of course you’re not, they haven’ been invented yet,” Slappy said.

“Right, anyway, I’m not one o those things, but it sure seems to me like it’s preying on your mind. It’s just a ring …”

“No, it’s just NOT a ring, because I don’t have one,” Slappy said.

“Sure, but unless you think some kind of mystical, malevolent spirit has poured his power and evil into a ring to enslave all the creatures of earth, and that if you possess that ring you’ll be able to use that power …”

“No, but that’s not a bad idea for a story,” Slappy said.

“Well then, I just don’t see the point.”

Slappy sighed.

“Maybe I don’t either. I admit it shouldn’t seem like a big deal, but I’ve been hinting around for the longest time, and at first it seemed like maybe the rest of you were just kind of dense, but now I’m beginning to take it personally.”

“Well, anyway, I think you ought to relax about it. But nice ink work,” Chumbucket said.

“Anyone else?” Clay said as he began gathering his equipment. He looked reverently at McCormack, whose vast expanse of unsullied skin offered a canvas worthy of his skills. On more than one occasion he’d offered Cementhands free ink if he’d let him do something magnificent, but the pirate had, as always, turned him down.

There were no more takers, so Clay and his staff went back aboardYe Olde Tattoo Shippe,which had been tied up astern, and prepared to cast off.

“Alright then, just remember the fundamental rules of tattoo maintenance. Take plenty of rum internally as an anesthetic, don’t let any Spaniards or Royal Navy blighters cut my work, and for the next couple of days try not to get so much piss on the new tattoos.”

“Oops!” said Dogwatch, who had been trying to urinate off the windward side of the ship.

“Any word of any shipping that needs our attention?” asked Slappy as he two ships began to drift apart.

“I hear tell of a lot of traffic between the towns off Panama,” Clay shouted. “They must be getting up a fleet back to Spain because there’s a lot of coasters shuttling back and forth. A few of the brethren are already on their way west to take advantage of ‘em.”

“Oh they are, are they?” Slappy said. “George! Let’s make sail! I want to be off the Santa Catalina in 10 days, and I don’t want any other brotherhood ships beating us there! It’s our turn to pick up a little booty!”

(Here, the crew joined in the final line, followed by raucous cheering – in keeping with the holiday tradition.)

All was quiet as the great wooden ship churned its way south towards the warm water of the Caribbean. The crew of the Swedish merchant ship, Kejsardömen av Sverige, had enjoyed their Christmas celebration, singing, drinking and eating a variety of ethnic dishes that were all too rare at sea.

Their distinguished passenger had not seemed to enjoy the meal, refusing anything. Those few sailors who thought it odd that a member of the Swedish aristocracy didn’t enjoy Swedish delicacies, especially after weeks and weeks of typical seagoing fare, shrugged it off. Such traditional dishes as lye-soaked lutefisk, the boiled crayfish known as kräftskivor. and the spicy sausages called falukorv (traditionally made from oxen that had dropped dead from overwork) was probably only suited to peasants, they told themselves. The rich probably ate much differently – fancy foods the crew couldn’t even imagine. Even the captain’s table probably paled in comparison to the banquets the passenger was used to. And there was the sea sickness factor as well. Though they’d left Sweden more than six weeks ago, some stomachs just never seemed to adjust.

“Oh well,” the sailors had decided. “More for us.”

The party had gone on quite late, but finally the last song had been sung, the last toast drunk and the last drunken sailor had tottered off to the fo’c’sle. All was silent save the slap of the waves on the hull, the hum of the wind in the rigging, and the unsteady tread of the watch as he made his rounds accompanied by the bottle of akvavit, the potent, caraway flavored alcohol that the captain had allowed in honor of the holy day.

Deep below decks a careful listener (had there been any on the ship) might have heard the softest tread of a pair of feet. This would have been followed by a rattling, a muffled oath, then a click and the slightest squeak of a hinge as a hatch opened and closed. The midnight prowler seemed to know just where the cargo in question was stored. The crates and trunks – carefully marked with signs only two people would have noticed – were undisturbed. All was as it should be, carefully sealed. Satisfied that all was in order, the intruder exited the hold, carefully relocking the passageway before starting up towards the stateroom. Suddenly the dark figure froze as a voice called out a challenge.

“Who goes there?” Ensign Marck Ericsson asked.

The figure stepped into the light of Ericsson’s lantern, and the young officer who had the command of the night watch instantly relaxed, his stern expression fading into puzzlement.

“Countess Sonja?” he asked the woman who stood before him. “What are you doing down here in the middle of the night?”
The woman looked embarrassed, her face turning almost as red as her fiery hair.

“Thank God you found me!” she gasped. “My stomach was still feeling a little queasy, but when I went to look for … well, you know, I’m afraid I got lost. I’ve been wandering around downstairs for almost an hour. Can you help me back to my stateroom?”

“Certainly ma’am,” the ensign said, ignoring her use of the word “downstairs” instead of the nautically correct “below decks.” The elegant noblewoman was clearly a lubber, he thought to himself, offering her his arm. “You’ve been lost below for an hour? How horrible for you. Even I would have trouble finding my way down there in the dark.”

“Oh, you’ve no idea,” the countess said. The officer could feel her tremble as he took her shoulder to steer her aft. “I was afraid I’d end up like that Flying Frenchman …”

“You mean Dutchman,” he gently corrected.

“Flying Dutchman? Yes, Dutchman,” she said. “Forgive my being so silly about these things. But I was afraid I’d be wandering down there forever, never to see the sun again. Then, after every turn got me more lost, I was mostly just afraid.”

“Don’t worry ma’am, we’re almost back to your stateroom now.”

“Oh lieutenant …”

“Ensign, ma’am, I’m just an ensign.”

“You’re a lifesaver is what you are. You won’t mention this to the captain will you? I’m afraid I’d feel so silly that …”
“No harm done ma’am. It’ll be as if it never happened. You have my word as an officer.”

“And a gentleman, I’m sure,” the countess said, favoring him with a smile that melted the young man.

“And here’s your cabin. If you need anything ma’am, and your servant isn’t available, go up to the quarterdeck, not below.”

“Of course. Upstairs it is. I’ll remember that next time. Good night.”

“Good night ma’am.” The young officer snapped his heels together and offered a low bow, then took a step back, turned and resumed his rounds.

The countess stepped back into her room, dropping the latch on the door with one hand while tossing the stiletto she’d had concealed in the other hand on the shelf beside her bed.

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t have to use that,” she said to herself. “He seems like a nice boy.”

-----

Meanwhile, several hundred miles away, the holiday party on The Festering Boil, the sleek, black ship tied up to the dock of Port Royal, had taken a contentious turn. Amid much laughter and carousing, a giant pirate was looking for the present from his captain which he was sure had to be around there somewhere.

“Am I getting warmer or colder?” he asked playfully.

“You’re getting drunk is what you’re getting,” Cap’n Slappy said. “I’m telling you, Cementhands, there’s no present hidden for you anywhere.”

“Of course there is. There’s ALWAYS a hidden prezzie for me.”

“I TOLD you, Cementhands. Those cannons everyone unwrapped came out of my personal booty and it’s my gift to the entire crew! It’s a group present. And since you’re a part of the group just sit down, enjoy it and stop being a prat!”

“Well you sure don’t know much about the Christmas spirit,” Cementhands McCormack sniffed.

“Now don’t get all sulky” Slappy snapped. “I bought them guns as a gift for the crew, you bastard, and they were all I could afford so don’t expect anything from me in your stocking!”

“No, no. You’re quite right, I’m sure. Just because this is the first Christmas since I started sailing with you that I didn’t get a prezzie, and I’ve been a VERY good boy this year, and I did get you that wonderful present.”

“Mittens! You got me mittens again!”

“Well what did you want? Socks and underwear?” Cementhands asked.

“You got me mittens! AGAIN! We’re in the Caribbean for the love of cheese! I ask ye, have you ever seen me wear mittens?”

“No, and what does it say about YOU, when I go to all the trouble each year to knit you these mittens and you NEVER wear them. How’s that supposed to make me feel?”

“Well, if I wear ‘em, it’s gonna make ME feel as if me hands are on fire. It’s 85 degrees!” Slappy said.

“Fine. Now I know how you really feel about me. I’ve only risked my life for you … how many times? And bailed the whole crew out just a month ago, but I guess that doesn’t mean …”

“Fine!” Slappy bellowed. He muttered to himself, “Every Christmas I drop subtle little hints like, ‘God Damn! It would be nice to get a gold ring for Christmas this year instead of another pair of mittens you great stupid git!” but even as he muttered, he pulled the mittens out of his gun belt and tugged them over his hands. “Look! I’m wearing the mittens! Are you satisfied?”

“You really like them then?” McCormack said in a tone that surprised Slappy with its neediness.

“Yes, yes, love ‘em. The best mittens you’ve made me yet.”

“Well, I figured that, since they’re the first you’ve ever put on.”

Slappy decided that the conversation had gone far enough – he’d never be able to one up McCormack. So he reached for his flask and held it out to the massive pirate.

“Merry Christmas, Cementhands.”

“For me? Oh, thank you captain! It’s just what I wanted! A flask! Half full of rum!”

“No! I was just offering you a drink! I wasn’t gi … Oh never mind. Merry Christmas.”

While Cementhands might have been miffed, the rest of the crew was having a great Christmas, if for no other reason than just a month earlier they’d have bet they wouldn’t live to see it. The adventure (chronicled in “The Havana Caper”) had left the crew poor but appreciative of the chance to wake up each morning. As a result, Christmas gifts had been few and inexpensive, but all the more gratefully received as a result. Black Butch, the five star chef who was the ship’s cook, had outdone himself again in whipping up a holiday feast, and there was always plenty of rum.

And everyone except McCormack had oohed and aahed when the wrapping paper and ribbon had come off the mysterious bulk that “Santa” had left on the deck. The two new nine-pounders stood in all their bronze glory, surrounded by the remains of colored paper and bows the crew had eagerly torn off them, ready to be wrestled into the bow as “chasers” – guns that could hurl iron at ships as The Festering Boil pursued them instead of the ship having to slue to one side or the other to fire a broadside.

The two nine-pounders returned the Boil’s armaments to its full compliment of destruction. In its recent escapade, most of the ship’s guns had been spiked, leaving it with plenty of powder and shot but only four working guns. After escaping from the trap laid for it in Havana they’d had a lot of hard work to re-arm. Salty Jim, the ship’s carpenter and general handyman, had been able to re-tap eight of the spiked guns. The Brotherhood of the Coast had donated another ten in gratitude for the Boil’s crew having put a stop to both the evil plot and the potential alliance between England and Spain, either of which would have spelled the end of the golden age of piracy. Thus armed, the Boil had been able to capture a pair of merchantmen that had yielded little in booty but supplied another pair of four-pounders.

The crew stood in an admiring circle around the two gleaming guns, one or another venturing to run a hand tenderly across its bronze barrel and sigh.

“A wonderful present,” Ol’ Chumbucket acknowledged to Cap’n Slappy. “How in the world could you afford them?”

“I can’t,” Slappy said. “I had to use all my share of the booty from those two ships, sell my stake in that ‘home for wayward women’ on Tortuga, and borrow a little from Keeling.”

“You sold your share of Diana’s Doxie Domicile? I thought that was your retirement nest egg? I hope you at least got to keep your ‘owner’s’ privileges when you’re in port.”

“No, I’m afraid I’m out of the fallen women business, at least for now.”

“Damn! And I sold my cutlass to buy you a box of prophylactic devices for when you visit the place,” Chumbucket said.

“You’re kidding! And I used by last couple of shillings to get you this jar of Ol’ Doc Stevens’ Cutlass Polish, endorsed by Sir Nigel.”

The two old shipmates looked at each other, then burst out laughing.

“Wow. That’d almost make a story, the kind of tale you’d read to the family at the holidays,” Chumbucket said.

“Maybe, but it’ll have to be written by a better author than either of us,” Slappy agreed. “But wait, here comes my favorite part of the holiday. Cementhands is ready.”

On the deck, McCormack was organizing the crew into their choir positions.

“Basses on the left. Then tenors, altos and sopranos! Let’s go people! We want to get going before New Years!’

The crew finally found their positions and hummed and hawed until their voices were more or less warmed up.

“Alright then, everyone ready?” McCormack asked.

“What are we singing,” Sawbones asked.

“You’re not singing, you’re just croaking as usual. The rest of us are singing ‘The Twelve Pirate Days of Christmas.’ And a one and a two …”

In case it wasn't clear (and we thought it was) Installment 49 was the last chapter of "The Havana Caper," with the crew of The Festering Boil sailing into the sunset on the quest for more glory and adventure – or at least more rum.

But don't fret! That doesn't mean the story is over! Oh no. The Havana Caper will soon (like in about a week) be available as a book from our Web site, the fourth in the growing saga of The Festering Boil.

And we'll be starting a new adventure soon. This whole thing started as a writing exercise, and it's not like we've learned all there is to learn about THAT. Oh no. But we're more clear about what we want to get out of it, so before we commence the new Caper, we want to plan just a little bit. We'll be back before Christmas with a new adventure of Cap'n Slappy, Ol' Chumbucket, Sawbones Burgess, Dogwatch and all the other denizens of that legendary pirate crew. Until then, have a happy Thanksgiving and prepare for more swashbuckling – coming soon!

“So, let me get this straight ...” Doc Burgess was trying to brush the fog of confusion from his mind and our story line. “ … young Tharp was your nephew and the cousin to our own Dogwatch Watts, right?”

“Wrong.” George the Greek chimed in. “Young Tharp and Dogwatch are brothers. And since young Tharp is now aboard his father’s ship, no doubt putting in a good word for Cheesey and the other marines and a bad word in for the Cap’n here, we can only assume that the next time he sees us, he’ll be in a less than cordial mood.”

“No doubt.” Ol’ Chumbucket agreed. “But back to the issue at hand. They boys have different mothers. Correct?”

“I don’t see what difference any of this makes.” Slappy tried to change the subject. “We’ve just set England and Spain back at war and that can only be good for business.”

“So pretty boy here, is Fanny’s issue of tissue?” McCormack gestured at Dogwatch with his thumb. He was much more interested in the family drama than any geopolitical machinations.

“What!?!” Dogwatch was visible disconcerted.

“No.” Lieutenant Keeling had been drawing a genogram – a sort of family tree in bracket form. “As you can clearly see, our Dogwatch was the love-child of the admiral and a woman named Victoria.”

“That sounds like a queen’s name!” Spencer chimed in as if he’d been invited.

“Maybe in the crazy science fiction future!” Red Molly added a woman’s voice to the proceedings. “But for now, Elizabeth is queen … or is it James?”

There was, at once, great hullabaloo about who was monarch of what and whether or not there was even such a thing as Queen James. The gathering began taking on carnival proportions and Slappy felt the need to bring it all to a head.

“LOOK!” he bellowed. “Young Tharp is the Tharp heir and our Dogwatch is the admiral’s surprise bastard child from a tragically mismatched but loving relationship he had in his youth and about whom he had no prior knowledge.”

“So, that makes you his uncle.” Wellington Peddicord interjected matter-of-factly.

Slappy sighed heavily and shot an exhausted glance at Peddicord because he had not only cut to the chase but verbalized the part that would now have to be addressed.

“Shall I call you, ‘Uncle Mortimer,’ Cap’n?” Dogwatch asked innocently enough.

(For a moment, Slappy’s boiling blood was so completely pressurized that it nearly shot through his pores – like a nightmarish colander of gore – and he nearly fired back, “CALL ME MORTIMER AND DIE!” But he remembered what he’d learned in his anger management class. He took a deep breath and had nearly calmed himself when he was suddenly goaded by his pal, Ol’ Chumbucket.)

“Oh, yes! Let’s all call you, ‘Uncle Mortimer’ from now on!”

“I want to call you, ‘Daddy!’” Jenny joined in the ripping good fun.

“Et tu, Jenny?” Slappy looked so stricken she nearly felt badly – but he soon started laughing and all was forgiven. “The answer is, “NO, DAMMIT” to all of you.” Then, with a flirtatious wink toward Jenny – “Except you.” Then, to break the sexual tension he turned to Dogwatch – “And you, nephew, may call me ‘Uncle Slappy’ never, ‘Uncle – the M word’ Calling me ‘Uncle – the M word is like saying, ‘Please kill me without mercy right now!’” Then Slappy thought about it for a moment and added, “But not when we’re on the ship! On board this ship I am and always will be ‘Cap’n Slappy’ until I get voted out in our fair and democratic process!”

A shout of “Huzzah-hippity-do-dah!” rang upwards from the deck of The Festering Boil.

The crowd began to disperse leaving only Cap’n Slappy, Ol’ Chumbucket and Cementhands McCormack strolling toward the bow of the ship which sat in the same fetid waters around which she had been surrounded for the last several days.

“What day is this?” Slappy asked.

Ol’ Chumbucket knew that he wasn’t asking which day of the week it was or the calendar date – the only question on anyone’s mind was, “When will we get moving again?”

“Day six.”

“Dammit!” Slappy said, scrunching up his face as he breathed in the stinking air he’d been breathing for nearly a week.

At sea, the ocean is your toilet and theirs hadn’t been flushed in some time. The usual course is simply to sail away from your personal sewage leaving it to break up in the current or be swallowed by some sort of shit-swallowing whale or something – but here they sat – wallowing in their own filth and none-too-happy about it.

As if on cue, young Gabriel came over and climbed up onto the rail just a few feet away and, facing the sea, opened his breeches and began to pass water. He stood, arms akimbo, as a full stream of urine jettisoned itself into the stagnant morass below.

Slappy rolled his eyes but let the call of nature pass as he changed the subject to the weather situation – or more correctly, the current lack of a weather situation. He had no sooner made mention of an interesting cloud formation than his young cabin boy pivoted in place turning his back to the briny deep, dropped his trousers and, taking a hold of a nearby rope ladder, assumed a squatting position with his hind quarters poised for action as far over the edge of the ship as he could get.

“Really?!” Slappy’s question was also a statement and the boy, mid bowel movement, looked from side to side to see what or who the captain was dithering about or to. Seeing nobody in his area, he responded as best he could.

“Why don’t you make a wood cut? It’ll last longer!” The boy was pleased with the sauciness of his reply but perplexed as to why the pinching of this particular loaf was of such interest to the captain and his brain trust. But his curiosity about their concern was quickly lost in the sense of self satisfaction with the zinger he’d just invented and began imagining other circumstances in which he could repeat it. This flight of fancy was broken when Cap’n Slappy simply wouldn’t let it go.

“Great Neptune’s dangling salty testicles! Must you do that here?” Again, Slappy made the mistake of using a question with a child when a directive was called for.

“Where do you suggest I do this?” Gabriel was rightfully confused. This was a popular spot for the evacuation of the bowels – Hell! He’d seen Slappy dump a load from this very spot hundreds of times. Besides, he was mid-movement and not about to shut down operations and move them now.

“Why don’t you poop off the poop deck?” Ol’ Chumbucket offered helpfully – gesturing to the back of the ship.

“There’s ladies on the poop deck!” the boy argued.

“Pirate ladies!” McCormack argued. “They’ve seen men poop off the side of the ship before!”

“Not me!” Gabriel declared with a grunt as he passed a rather large chunk. Slappy, Chumbucket and Cementhands winced at first, then nodded approvingly. The boy continued, “I’m a shy pooper!”

Satisfied that he had taken care of business, Gabriel pulled a crumpled piece of paper from a pocket in his shirt and proceeded to wipe his ass with it. Slappy recognized the paper immediately.

“Is that from my memoir?” Slappy’s brows raised and his eyes were wide with anticipation of the answer.

“What if I said, ‘yes.’?” The boy asked.

“Then I would ask, ‘Which chapter?’!”

“What if I said, ‘Chapter Six!’?”

Slappy thought for a moment – then he nodded approvingly. “Then I would say, “Okay. That’s fine.’”

“Chapter Six.”

“Okay, that‘s fine.”

The boy finished his paper work and returned below deck.

The three stared up at the flaccid sails. Slappy sighed heavily and for a moment, wished he could sigh hard enough to bend those sails and move the ship.

He looked at McCormack. “Can’t you do something about this?”

“What can I do?” McCormack replied uncomfortably. He was afraid Slappy had work for him and he was not in the mood for labor.

“Can’t you work some of that St. Swithin mo-jo or ju-ju or whatever it is you do that makes weather stuff happen?”

“You mean perform a miracle.” Ol’ Chumbucket corrected the captain’s magical word vocabulary. “That IS something saints do.”

“See?” Slappy pointed at Ol’ Chumbucket as if to say, “I told you so!” but he had no sooner began to taunt when Ol’ Chumbucket quickly pointed out that Cementhands was not a saint himself – but rather, was simply the conduit for a saint whilst said saint had possession of his body. He went on to point out that Skeptical Pirate Magazine had a recent article which explained how superstitious pirates often attributed natural phenomena to a wide variety of extra-natural manifestations up to and including “beatific possession.”

Slappy blinked his eyes several times trying to take in the meaning of Ol’ Chumbucket’s observation.

“So, you’re telling me he can’t control the winds and get us the hell out of here?”

“Yup.” Chumbucket replied crisply.

Slappy turned to McCormack, “So just what the hell good are you?!?”

Before Cementhands could defend his existence, Dogwatch came running up. “Uncle Slappy! Uncle Slappy!”

The captain shot him a death glance whose meaning was immediately understood.

“I mean, Cap’n Slappy! Cap’n Slappy!”

“What is it, nephew?” Slappy smiled.

“I’ve been studying the charts and it appears to me that there’s a major current three hundred yards off the starboard bow!” Dogwatch pointed to the spot in the chart – and Slappy double checked their position.

“The lad is right! Give yourself an extra piece of Granny McCafferty’s rhubarb pie at our next family reunion!”

While Dogwatch had never been to a family reunion, much less tasted Granny McCafferty’s rhubarb pie, he figured this all had to be good. Cap’n Slappy was once again infused with energy.

“Well, ye may be useless in the weather conjuring saint department, but you can still lead a long boat crew, can’t ye?”

“That just seems like a lot of work to me.” McCormack argued. “Why don’t we just catch the next wind and sail over to the current?

“By Poseidon’s Barnacled Bottom!” Slappy roared, “Aren’t you sick of this stinking swamp yet? How can you even – …”

Just then, a stiff breeze lifted Slappy’s hat from his head and tossed it overboard.

“Dammit!” he called out as he chased after it and watched it land in the thick ooze that encompassed the ship – then, like the man who was slow to realize he’d just set his beard on fire – Slappy spun around and saw the wind billowing the sails.

“It’s a miracle! Saint Cementhands be praised!”

Ol’ Chumbucket shook his head and gave McCormack a look of stubborn incredulity.

“I think Saint Cementhands deserves an extra ration of grog every day for a month. Don’t you?” McCormack said as if he was renegotiating a contract with Slappy.

“Whatever you want – just keep it coming!” Slappy rushed to the figurehead of the ship and leaned out over the front. The wind blew his hair and beard from behind – they were really moving now.

“Set a course for that current, Mr. Dogwatch, if you please!” Slappy called out to his nephew.

“Aye-aye, Cap’n!” Dogwatch headed back toward the wheel on the double.

“Where to now, captain?” Ol’ Chumbucket asked – still smirking at Cementhands who wore an unmistakably cheeky grin.

“Wherever the winds and the current take us – that’s where our next adventure will be.”

“You know,” Ol’ Chumbucket couldn’t hold back any more. “Cementhands just watched the clouds above moving toward the ship and knew the winds wouldn’t be far behind – there’s no great mystery here.”

McCormack offered only a look of feigned offence.

“I know.” Slappy smiled at his friends. “But I have always been fond of a good mystery – and perhaps a miracle or two.”

The three pirates stood looking forward as The Festering Boil picked up speed and eased herself into the current as the sun kissed the ocean on the western horizon.