The Ship's Log O' the Festerin' Boil

“You bastard!” Slappy declared, splashing his glass of port into the Russian tapestry, “You’re lucky the bar is between us, or you know I’d kill you!”

It was true, Lord Sir Admiral Percival had, in fact, positioned himself behind his lovely, fully stocked bar – the finest at sea – before confessing his own indiscretions with Lady Fanny; knowing full well that Slappy’s respect for the sanctity of liquor would prevent any violent outburst.

“Now look here, little brother,” Tharp used a tone of voice, simultaneously defensive and aggressive, “staining that tapestry was just gratuitous target practice on your part. Besides, there isn’t an officer in the fleet that little trollop hasn’t boarded on more than one occasion.”

Slappy approached the bar. “Take that back.” His tone was low and menacing. “Never.” His elder brother matched him tone for tone and continued. “Her proclivities are well known and have been parlayed into a large fortune as well as friends in high places. From princes to pirates she’s had them all and the one thing they’ve – we’ve had in common is that at some point we’ve been useful to her.”

“But” Slappy protested, “she told me that I was special.” Tharp joined him on the word, “special.” Slappy winced at him but continued bravely. “She said I was her – (again, he was joined in unison by the Admiral) – Lubba Lubba Lubba Muffin.” “Stop that!” Slappy demanded. Tharp only smiled sympathetically as his half-brother continued. “She said to me that I was her …” Tharp joined in word for word in perfect cadence, “… guiding Northern Star, the sole comfort to a lost soul adrift in a lonely sea, trying to find the way home.”

“Dammit!” Slappy tried to toss the contents of his wine glass at a collection of antique books – fortunately for bibliophiles everywhere, he was out of ammunition.

“Alright. She’s a trollop. Ol’ Chumbucket was right all along.” Suddenly Slappy stopped short, slammed his fist on the bar and declared, “De Faecaliën van de hond!” took a bottle of ancient single malt scotch and shoved it into his haversack as he made toward the door. He looked like a man on a mission. “Where are you going?” the Admiral inquired.

“I’ve got a friend to rescue and I have wasted too much time already.” As Slappy opened the door four well-armed marines blocked his way.

“She isn’t worth it.” Lord Sir Admiral Percy contended.

“Oh, I know.” Slappy said, “But it’s not her I’m coming for – it’s me ol’ pal Chumbucket.”

“The Marquis?” Tharp asked.

Slappy looked momentarily confused, then, something returned to his memory and he smiled, “Aye, - the Marquis.”

“This really is a job for a professional navy, not a rag-tag collection of Dutch fishermen.” Tharp smiled at his own warning – as he waved off the guard.

“Aye,” Slappy nodded in agreement, “but we’re bad-ass fishermen.” With that, he marched out.

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“Darling, you’re going to wake the children and they’ll be spitting mad!” Chumbucket looked over his shoulder at the puppy pile of Spanish sailors if full snore.

“Shut it!” Sally demanded. “Do you think this is funny? Do you think this is a game?”

“I can think of a game I would like to play with you – let’s call it, ‘Angry Headmistress and Truant Schoolboy.’ It starts with you letting me out of this cage. And then you’re very cross with me so …” Chumbucket was starting to really get into describing the game when she cut him off with a sharp punch to the face.

“I said, ‘Shut it!’” He staggered backward, stunned. He rubbed his jaw line, looking for a fracture. “Oh, baby – her tone shifted immediately to a very tender, loving lullaby, “did I hurt you, baby?”

“Aye, you did. A wee bit, but I’ll live.” Chumbucket replied.

“Damn and Blast!” the rage in her voice woke the other men who scrambled to the corner with variations on the theme, “No! Senora Sally Loco! Ella nos matará y comerá nuestros testículos.”

“No, my brothers – she will not make a snack of your dangly orbs of joy.” The voice of Juan Garbonzo came from the dark corner of the cell. “For she is in love with the Markee of Sauce Pans. Only a woman in great love will give so savage a beating to a man who wants to play ‘Angry Headmistress and Truant Schoolboy’ with her. Why else would she be here? Why else would she struggle so much with her emotions so nilly wooly?”

“Nilly Wooly?” Sally’s face was contorted with confusion. “Who the hell are you?” Her tone was less of disgust than curious attraction.

“Juan Francisco Gustavo Garbonzo at your service, my lady.” She reached her hand through the bars and he kissed it gently as he bowed.

Sally turned her attention back to Ol’ Chumbucket who, by now, was getting a little tired of the “Romantic Latin” thing. “I am letting you all out – there is a small dinghy off the stern with enough food and water in it for two days. And I am only doing this because Juan Francisco Gustavo Garbonzo knows how to talk to a woman." She shot a death glance at Chumbucket who simply rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Now,” she said as she began unlocking the cage, “you must …” she was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming toward them in the darkness. She quickly ducked behind some crates.

The approaching figure was holding a candle but a hood masked any identity until proximity made it clear to Chumbucket’s surprise who was standing before them.