Thursday, April 28, 2005

 

A Pirate Tale 78

Life aboard ship quickly settled back into a routine. With a strong wind at their backs the ships moved briskly toward Africa and the cape, spread out over several miles of ocean. Juan’s Blood Oath was in the lead, followed at about a mile by The Festering Boil. The Sea Witch flitted back and forth in the pack in defiance of the wind.

By the third day at sea HMS Susan’s Doily had made up much of its late start and was hull up on the horizon. This was more annoying than anything else to Slappy, who watched the distant ship through his spyglass.

“Nice of him to ‘provide an escort’ to the cape,” the pirate captain grumbled. “But who asked him to shadow us?” Slappy’s attention focused to the ship passing northeast a couple of miles distant. A nice fat prize, a Dutch merchantman no doubt loaded with something nice and saleable, judging from the way it wallowed in the gentle swell. Tempting as it was, there was no way Admiral Tharp on the Doily would let him take the ship. And that was the second possible target to cross his path this day.

“The sooner we get into the Atlantic and rid of our guardian angel, the sooner was can get back to doing what we do best,” Slappy said.

He glanced forward, where any crew member who didn’t have a specific job to be doing at the moment (and several of those who did) were staring north towards the Dutch ship. He could tell by their occasional glances to stern at the distant British naval vessel that they understood the situation, but they didn’t like it any more than Slappy did.

“At least a week more before we’re rid of him,” Slappy said. “Lef-TEN-ant Keeling, we’ve got to do something to improve morale.”

“How about a spelling bee, sir?” Keeling offered. Slappy gave him a long look that indicated his own morale could use a little boosting.

“Hardly the thing just now, Keeling, especially considering the majority of the crew can’t read or spell. Just what we need to perk up the ship, a reminder that most of them never went to school.”

“I see your point, sir. Maybe a talent show?”

“No. It hasn’t been a week since our latest stab at Shakespeare. I don’t think an evening of show tunes will do the trick.”

“Well, sir, let me think on it. I’m sure I can come up with something,” Keeling said, a furrow of concentration creasing his brow.

“Yes, I’m sure you will,” Slappy said. “In the meantime, let’s break out an extra rum ration, say at four bells of the afternoon watch.”

Below him, on the foredeck, Slappy could see Ol’ Chumbucket giving sword-fighting lessons to the ship’s youngsters, Spencer the cabin boy and Gabriel the powder monkey. He had a couple of dummies set up with heavy bars thrusting outwards to represent an opponent’s cutlass. Chumbucket was running the boys through the guard positions. The boys, being boys, didn’t see the need for such Spanish Academy rigmarole.

“We’ve seen plenty of fights. We’ve seen YOU fight,” Spencer said. “You don’t stand with your feet just so and your arm at a 45 degree angle and all this other stuff.”

“Yeah, you guys just seem to whack away with your swords and it works just fine,” Gabriel chimed in.

“I might not use every bit of the manual every time, but my training allows me to improvise so that, in combat, it’s the other guy, not me, who dies. All things being equal, the trained fighter will win nine times out of 10,” Chumbucket said for the fifth time in the last hour.

“For example, if you had to leap over an opponent’s attack, would you be able to land and deliver a lethal blow without falling over?” he asked.

Without waiting for their answer, Chumbucket lashed out with the flat of his own cutlass, aiming below their knees. Spencer was caught completely by surprise and was knocked flat on his ass. Gabriel, being slightly farther away and more suspicious than Spencer, was able to leap over the blade but landed awkwardly and ended up on top of the cabin boy.

“No fair,” Gabriel shouted. “You didn’t tell us you were going to do that.”

“Boys,” Chumbucket said, laughing and helping them up, “When you meet an armed opponent who tells you what he’s going to do before he attacks, call me and let me watch. ‘Cuz that ain’t gonna happen. Now get to your feet and assume the position three again.”

The boys rose and took their positions before the dummies, each with his lead foot slightly ahead and pointing forward, his rear foot slightly behind at a 90 degree angle.

Chumbucket examined their posture carefully,

“Very good, Gabe, but close your stance a little, you’re a swordsman, not a ballet dancer.” “Spencer chortled, but Chumbucket turned his attention to the cabin boy. “You’re holding that cutlass as if it’s a fishing pole and you’re hoping for a big one. Turn your wrist more. In position three your hand should be supinated and your elbow tucked in to your sternum.”

George the Greek was passing by, carrying a mop and bucket for the crewmen about to swab the poop. He paused to watch the boys.

“Now on my count you swing out from three to four, and carry your opponent’s thrust safely past your body,” Chumbucket said. “One, two …”

George offered a suggestion. “Or you could just do this.” He swung the mop handle down sharply, cracking it against the “arm” of the dummy, pushing it out of the way. Then with a spin he was inside the dummy’s guard and hit it sharply with the head of the mop. The dummy’s head flew overboard. George had accomplished this without spilling so much as a drop from the bucket he carried. He smiled at Chumbucket.

Ol’ Chumbucket’s lips compressed into a tight line of annoyance. “Yes. That works too. But it’s not what we’re teaching just now.”

Keeling’s voice broke over the deck. “Four bells! Captain’s ordered a special rum ration.“

Cheers broke out over the ship. Chumbucket sighed and grinned back at George.

“Perhaps tomorrow you’d teach that move to the boys,” he said.

Monday, April 25, 2005

 

A Pirate Tale 77 - Pull Away Home

“… Give me your hands if we be friends,
And Robin will restore amends.”

Gabriel uttered Puck’s last line with a wink to the audience and bowed low as the curtain fell on the Festering Boil’s production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” The audience applauded and the actors bowed.

In the front row, sitting next to the director, Admiral Tharp sat glassy eyed.

“Well, what did you think?” Ol’ Chumbucket asked eagerly.

Pinned, Tharp searched carefully for words.

“Amazing! I’ve never seen anything like it!” Tharp said. “Really, such bold, bold choices!”

“Why thank you,” Ol’ Chumbucket said, lowering his eyelids with humility. “That’s very kind coming from you. But it was the cast, really, that made this what it was.”

“Oh the cast, eh?” Tharp said, eyeing them carefully. “So, tell me, I don’t recall there being quite so much blood in the play. I mean, look, there’s one fellow still lying there with stage blood all over him.”

“Oh, no, I see the problem,” Chumbucket explained. “He’s really dead. We were actually attacked by a skiff of thugs from the mainland during the show, and repelled them swiftly, without breaking character. Between you and me I think the boarders must have been drunk, or else extremely unforgiving critics. So that might have confused you a bit.”

“Yes, well that does explain it,” Tharp said. “But was it normal for Bottom to yell out ‘Shit, my buns!” every 12 minutes or so and disappear from the stage? Should the doctor have look at his posterior?”

“On, no. That was Butch, the ship’s cook. He was getting ready for tomorrow’s breakfast.”

Just then Don Taco strolled by and saluted Chumbucket.

“Quite a show! I particularly liked your Egeus,” he said, referring to the cranky father in the play who wants to have his daughter executed. “Very clever casting.”

“Well, you know, Prof. Droppingham, whom you never had the pleasure of meeting, was originally cast in the part, but he had to give over as he had a conflict, having been killed by one of your crew when we took your ship. So I thought this worked very well, although the other actors took a bit of convincing.”

The part of the father had, in the end, been played by Strumpet the monkey. Strumpet had conveyed the character’s extreme unpleasantness by screeching and throwing her feces at the other actors.

“Very visceral, very original,” Taco said, smiling, as he walked out. Tharp made a note to remember “visceral” and “original” for the next time he made the mistake of sitting next to the director.

“There is one thing,” Tharp said, turning back to Chumbucket. “I was wondering if you could introduce me to someone.”

“Certainly admiral, it would be my pleasure.”

“That woman playing Titania. She was the most beguiling and fetching creature ever to catch my eye. And what a performance! That ‘OOOooo’ before each of her lines really brought out the subtext, didn’t it? I’ve never seen so much grace, such femininity. I really must meet her to … well, express my admiration and perhaps invite her for a late supper in my cabin.”

Chumbucket glanced over to where the cast was chatting with the last stragglers from the audience. Cementhands McCormack was still in the Fairy Queen’s costume. Stifling a chuckle, he quickly assented and led the admiral over to the “Titania’s” side, where the officer gushed out his praise.

In the back, Slappy turned to Burgess.

“Well, that was something,” he said. “I’m not sure what, but it was something.”

Burgess didn’t reply.

“So what are you going to write for Pirattitude Monthly?”

Burgess let out a snore that sounded more like a clap of thunder. As was his habit, he’d been thoroughly drunk by the start of the second act, singing bawdy ballads in the back row and challenging several of the actors to fights during the performance before settling in for his traditional “final curtain snooze.”

Slappy glanced at Sawbones’ notes, which were strewn about the floor. Under the heading “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” underlined twice, he saw the words, “William Shakespeare was from England,” followed by some doodles of waves. Then the words, “protean qualities” followed by “Buns for breakfast? Yum!” On another page he saw scrawled, “What kind of a name is Puck? And who names their kid Bottom?” On yet another he saw Burgess had once again been outlining his theory that the plays of William Shakespeare had actually been written by another man who was also named William Shakespeare but slightly taller.

Slappy sighed. As usual, he’d have to pen the review for the ship’s doctor. Picking up Sawbones’ quill, he started writing. “It was an absolutely dreamy production of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ that took the stage of the Festering Boil …”

Despite the fact that the cast party had gone on late into the night, the Festering Boil began bustling with activity at first light. The sailors had been too long at sea, too long in the Indian Ocean, too long away from any port, let alone their homeport in the Caribbean, to want to linger. The Boil and Juan’s Blood Oath were ready to sail, with Jezebel and the Sea Witch in company, at least for a while.

Tharp and HMS Susan’s Doily were going to stay one more day to scour the island one more time in hopes of finding Lady Fanny, who had clearly lost her mind and was digging desperately for the lost treasure. The signs of her spadework were everywhere, but so far Tharp’s marines had failed to locate the demented dominatrix. Even traps cunningly baited with jewelry had been singularly ineffective. The admiral wanted to make one more try at corralling the bloodthirsty Fanny before making sail and catching up with the three ships.

All four would sail together as far as Mossell Bay on the southern tip of the cape. Then Sir Nigel would take a northerly route to fulfill his promise to return the kidnapped girls to their home in England, while the Boil headed across the Atlantic for the Caribbean where the pickings for pirates were much richer, and to keep Slappy’s word to his brother and search for the missing heir. Jezebel would go wherever Jezebel wanted to – there was no telling with her.

Tharp also was headed north, but would pause only briefly in England before sailing to Stockholm, where the admiral was to assist the Swedish in a search for missing crown jewels.

It was that part of the mission that intrigued the pirates aboard the two ships. Having been sworn to secrecy by Tharp, Slappy immediately shared all he knew about it with the other pirates.

“It sounds like someone got away with a good haul,” Dogwatch noted. “Lucky bastard.”

“Aye, but there’s not much we can do about it,” Leftenant Keeling observed. “Even if we were heading that way, we don’t know the Baltic, and we have no contacts. It’s probably a land-based job anyway.”

“Don’t be too sure, old man,” Sir Nigel said. “Even if it was some city-dwelling landlubbers, they’d have to get the jewels out of the country and unless they have one of those dog sleds, that probably means a ship. And there aren’t too many places you could sell jewels like that.”

All the pirates were quiet for a moment while they thought of the circuitous ways that the crown jewels of Sweden might comes across their paths. Finally Slappy broke the silence.

“It’s probably time you got aboard your own ship,” he said to Sir Nigel and Don Taco. “We’ll weigh anchor as soon as our last crew member comes aboard, and if I’m not mistaken that should be him now.”

All eyes turned to where a longboat was being rowed over from the Doily. Seated in the middle, trailing one massive finger in the water, was Cementhands McCormack, still wearing his costume from the play the night before. The giant sailor clambered nimbly up the rope tossed to him and saluted Slappy.

“Reporting for duty, sir,” McCormack said.

“Very good,” said Slappy. “So how was dinner?”

“Absolutely delicious. Never had scrod before. Quite tasty.”

“Speaking of scrod, did my brother …”

“Behave himself? He was a perfect gentleman,” McCormack replied. “You can say what you want about those Royal Navy officers, but they do know how to treat a lady.”

Forward, Chumbucket was having one last go at trying to change Sally’s mind.

“But why can’t you stay here? It makes no sense,” he said.

“Look, don’t tell me when I do or don’t make sense,” Mad Sally said. “I won’t be that long, but I have an obligation to those girls. I have to get them to their homes. Besides, the Blood Oath is still pretty undermanned, so the girls and I will have plenty of work to do.”

“But I’ll miss you dreadfully.”

“And I’ll miss you. But let’s not get all sappy here. You have a job to do on this ship. My job for now is with those girls. What would I do here?”

Chumbucket had a couple of ideas, and he told her. She rolled her eyes, punched him affectionately but firmly on the upper arm, and asked, “Is that all you ever think of?”

“I just don’t like the thought of you sailing away with Sir Nigel.”

“Oh, he’s harmless,” said Sally, using the one word above all that Nigel would hate to have applied to him. “I can handle Sir Nigel.”

“I still don’t like it,” Chumbucket sulked.

“Well, you’ll have to file it with the other things you don’t like but can’t do anything about,” Sally remonstrated. “Now just shut up, you’re wasting time talking when you should be kissing me. And then I’ve gotta go. But it’s not forever.”

Chumbucket did as he was told. Then they went aft, where Sir Nigel and Taco were waiting to disembark for Juan’s Blood Oath, anchored nearby. Nigel dropped onto the deck of the dinghy first, then assisted Sally, who climbed down after him. As he reached up to assist her, Nigel threw Chumbucket a grin that almost prompted him to reach for his pistol. Then Taco joined them and they were off.

“Alright you scurvy dogs!” Slappy shouted. “Man the capstan and weigh anchor. Shake out the canvas!”

The crew jumped to their tasks. In just a few moments the Festering Boil was turning to the west with a freshening breeze filling it’s sails. Slappy looked pleased.

“Alright lads, let’s pull away home!”

Saturday, April 23, 2005

 

A Pirate Tale Continued – Part 76 “The Show Must Go On”

Provisions were loaded aboard The Festering Boil just as the sun was setting toward the coast of Africa. It had been agreed that the four ships should stay together for mutual protection until they reached the Cape of Good Hope. It had also been agreed upon that they would sail at first light and give Lady Fanny a chance to come to her senses and come out of hiding as well as allow them more visibility in tracking the weather for the start of their journey.

When Ol’ Chumbucket was informed that they would be staying one more night, he was pleased not only to be able to spend a few more blissful hours with his love, Mad Sally, but also to debut his production of William Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

At first, Slappy was less than enthusiastic. “We’re not going to spend four hours watching McCormack flounce around in a dress, are we?” he questioned his friend – knowing that Cementhands had a penchant for playing tragic female figures. His performance as Lady MacBeth was something of a legend among the theater-going pirate populace. His insistence of prefacing each sentence with a prolonged, “Ooooooo” had managed to stretch the play’s length to epic proportions.

“No!” Chumbucket was insistent. “No.” His tone was dramatically less insistent. “Not a ‘dress’ per se …” He now sounded a bit non-committal. “More of a tutu, really.”

“A tutu?” Slappy questioned.

“A rather large tutu.” Chumbucket replied.

“A muumuu of a tutu?” The visual of the Big Man in an alarming large ballet costume was searing itself onto Slappy’s imagination – Chumbucket thought for a moment he could actually hear it sizzle.

“Look.” Chumbucket explained calmly – as was his custom when Slappy became unreasonably alarmed by events that warranted neither alarm nor even a mild concern. “He was the only REAL choice for Titania – the fairy queen. He had his own costume!”

Slappy opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He stood for a moment with his gob agape and a look in his eyes that showed more alarm than they would had a cannon ball just blasted a hole in the deck between his feet.
“Don’t worry. I’ve reined in the ‘OOOooooos’ and Jezebel does a wonderful job as Oberon – the fairy king!” Chumbucket slapped Slappy on the shoulder, turned quickly and began to walk away.

Slappy managed to call out after him – “Why not have Jezebel play Titania?”

“Too small for the costume!” Came back the reply although Chumbucket never broke his stride, “It’s a bold new production – I’m gender-bending the Hell out of it!” And he was gone to set up the stage.

“God save us all from bold new Shakespearean productions.” Sir Nigel said smilingly as he approached the still dumbfounded Slappy from behind.

“Amen.” Slappy added thoughtfully.

The evening turned to night and every soul aboard the four ships had gathered on the deck of The Festering Boil for the evening’s production.

Enthusiastic applause greeted Ol’ Chumbucket’s arrival as he and Mad Sally took their seats in the front row next to Lord Sir Admiral Percival Winthorpe Mandrake Tharp and his companion for the evening’s performance, Liz.

“I say, O.C.” The Admiral always used initials when putting himself on familiar terms with celebrities of the performing arts, “I hear frightfully good things about your offering tonight – it’s the ‘Mustn’t Miss’ show of the season!”

“You’re too kind, Lord Sir Admiral,” Chumbucket replied noting Tharpy’s elevated sense of his own ‘Englishness,’ and matching it – affectation for affectation. He continued, “But truth be told, we are the only show of the season unless Lady Fanny on yon island is mounting a one-woman production of “The Tempest” featuring the creature ‘Caliban’ portrayed by a stack of coconuts and a slightly rusted shovel. Besides you ordered your men to come see this production.

“Which is why I call it the ‘Mustn’t Miss’ show – as in, ‘If you lads miss this one, I will make you pay, by thunder!’ If you catch my drift.”

Chumbucket lifted his rum tot and replied, “You are, as ever, a patron of the arts.”

Toward the back of the crowd, Slappy and Sawbones Burgess sat in a section they called, “The Critics Corner.” Burgess actually wrote a column for Pirattitude Monthly called, “Pirate’s Playbill,” in which he would render his verdict on ship-board theatrical events. In fact, when Cap’n Slappy directed Julius Caesar – insisting on playing the title role himself, it was Doctor Burgess who wrote;

“Mr. Slappy has a body more fit for such characters as Falstaff or … well … just Falstaff. My medical background prevented my disbelief from being appropriately suspended. When Brutus and company went about their stabbing business, I was taken out of the moment by the thought that none of those blades were nearly long enough to poke their way through his many layers of flab to do any real damage to any internal organ. … The bounds of Mr. Slappy’s self-indulgence we limitless as evidenced by his ghostly appearance (in the form of a canvass bag with eye holes gouged out of it) in the battle scenes late in the show – urging Marc Antony to ‘Fight on! Marc Antony! Kick Brutus in the Gonads!’ and other such words that I am quite confident never fell from the quill of the Bard of Avon.”

When Slappy directed, Chumbucket would sit with Sawbones – and vice versa. All three had sat together when Cementhands McCormack made his directorial debut in a play he had written under a “pen name.” He called it, “Of Mice and Me.” It was a tender autobiographical account of his years spent on an orphan farm and a very special friendship he had with a mouse. Heartwarming it was – until the end, when the mouse turned out to be a French aristocrat in hiding and was taken away and brutally beheaded. Burgess, Chumbucket and Slappy just sat there – mouths agape – unable to believe what they had just seen. Burgess submitted a one-word review that never ran in Pirattitude Monthly. It simply read, “Jesus!”

As the play began, Los Mariachi strummed a bit on the guitar. Dogwatch Watts and Ginger La Stella took up their positions as Theseus and Hyppolyta. Dogwatch began to speak, “Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour Draws on apace; four happy days bring in
Another moon …”

“This is going to be good!” Slappy giggled a whisper toward Doc Burgess.

“Shhh!” Sawbones replied sharply and readied his note pad for work.

 

A Pirate Tale Continued – Part 76 "The Show Must Go On"

Provisions were loaded aboard The Festering Boil just as the sun was setting toward the coast of Africa. It had been agreed that the four ships should stay together for mutual protection until they reached the Cape of Good Hope. It had also been agreed upon that they would sail at first light and give Lady Fanny a chance to come to her senses and come out of hiding as well as allow them more visibility in tracking the weather for the start of their journey.

When Ol’ Chumbucket was informed that they would be staying one more night, he was pleased not only to be able to spend a few more blissful hours with his love, Mad Sally, but also to debut his production of William Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

At first, Slappy was less than enthusiastic. “We’re not going to spend four hours watching McCormack flounce around in a dress, are we?” he questioned his friend – knowing that Cementhands had a penchant for playing tragic female figures. His performance as Lady MacBeth was something of a legend among the theater-going pirate populace. His insistence of prefacing each sentence with a prolonged, “Ooooooo” had managed to stretch the play’s length to epic proportions.

“No!” Chumbucket was insistent. “No.” His tone was dramatically less insistent. “Not a ‘dress’ per se …” He now sounded a bit non-committal. “More of a tutu, really.”

“A tutu?” Slappy questioned.

“A rather large tutu.” Chumbucket replied.

“A muumuu of a tutu?” The visual of the Big Man in an alarming large ballet costume was searing itself onto Slappy’s imagination – Chumbucket thought for a moment he could actually hear it sizzle.

“Look.” Chumbucket explained calmly – as was his custom when Slappy became unreasonably alarmed by events that warranted neither alarm nor even a mild concern. “He was the only REAL choice for Titania – the fairy queen. He had his own costume!”

Slappy opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He stood for a moment with his gob agape and a look in his eyes that showed more alarm than they would had a cannon ball just blasted a hole in the deck between his feet.
“Don’t worry. I’ve reined in the ‘OOOooooos’ and Jezebel does a wonderful job as Oberon – the fairy king!” Chumbucket slapped Slappy on the shoulder, turned quickly and began to walk away.

Slappy managed to call out after him – “Why not have Jezebel play Titania?”

“Too small for the costume!” Came back the reply although Chumbucket never broke his stride, “It’s a bold new production – I’m gender-bending the Hell out of it!” And he was gone to set up the stage.

“God save us all from bold new Shakespearean productions.” Sir Nigel said smilingly as he approached the still dumbfounded Slappy from behind.

“Amen.” Slappy added thoughtfully.

The evening turned to night and every soul aboard the four ships had gathered on the deck of “The Festering Boil” for the evening’s production.

Enthusiastic applause greeted Ol’ Chumbucket’s arrival as he and Mad Sally took their seats in the front row next to Lord Sir Admiral Percival Winthorpe Mandrake Tharp and his companion for the evening’s performance, Liz.

“I say, O.C.” The Admiral always used initials when putting himself on familiar terms with celebrities of the performing arts, “I hear frightfully good things about your offering tonight – it’s the ‘Mustn’t Miss’ show of the season!”

“You’re too kind, Lord Sir Admiral,” Chumbucket replied noting Tharpy’s elevated sense of his own ‘Englishness,’ and matching it – affectation for affectation. He continued, “But truth be told, we are the only show of the season unless Lady Fanny on yon island is mounting a one-woman production of “The Tempest” featuring the creature ‘Caliban’ portrayed by a stack of coconuts and a slightly rusted shovel. Besides you ordered your men to come see this production.

“Which is why I call it the ‘Mustn’t Miss’ show – as in, ‘If you lads miss this one, I will make you pay, by thunder!’ If you catch my drift.”

Chumbucket lifted his rum tot and replied, “You are, as ever, a patron of the arts.”

Toward the back of the crowd, Slappy and Sawbones Burgess sat in a section they called, “The Critics Corner.” Burgess actually wrote a column for Pirattitude Monthly called, “Pirate’s Playbill,” in which he would render his verdict on ship-board theatrical events. In fact, when Cap’n Slappy directed Julius Caesar – insisting on playing the title role himself, it was Doctor Burgess who wrote;

“Mr. Slappy has a body more fit for such characters as Falstaff or … well … just Falstaff. My medical background prevented my disbelief from being appropriately suspended. When Brutus and company went about their stabbing business, I was taken out of the moment by the thought that none of those blades were nearly long enough to poke their way through his many layers of flab to do any real damage to any internal organ. … The bounds of Mr. Slappy’s self-indulgence we limitless as evidenced by his ghostly appearance (in the form of a canvass bag with eye holes gouged out of it) in the battle scenes late in the show – urging Marc Antony to ‘Fight on! Marc Antony! Kick Brutus in the Gonads!’ and other such words that I am quite confident never fell from the quill of the Bard of Avon.”

When Slappy directed, Chumbucket would sit with Sawbones – and vice versa. All three had sat together when Cementhands McCormack made his directorial debut in a play he had written under a “pen name.” He called it, “Of Mice and Me.” It was a tender autobiographical account of his years spent on an orphan farm and a very special friendship he had with a mouse. Heartwarming it was – until the end, when the mouse turned out to be a French aristocrat in hiding and was taken away and brutally beheaded. Burgess, Chumbucket and Slappy just sat there – mouths agape – unable to believe what they had just seen. Burgess submitted a one-word review that never ran in Pirattitude Monthly. It simply read, “Jesus!”

As the play began, Los Mariachi strummed a bit on the guitar. Dogwatch Watts and Ginger La Stella took up their positions as Theseus and Hyppolyta. Dogwatch began to speak, “Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour Draws on apace; four happy days bring in Another moon …”

“This is going to be good!” Slappy giggled a whisper toward Doc Burgess.

“Shhh!” Sawbones replied sharply and readied his note pad for work.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

 

A Pirate Tale 75

Feverish days of activity followed. The ships, anchored now in the cove below the still-smoking volcano, were repaired, watered and readied for their long journeys to their various destinations. A search party had been sent inland to track down Fanny, but found nothing more than a few holes scratched randomly in the soil.

A dispute arose between the captains of the two pirate ships on the one hand and Tharp over supplies. Juan’s Blood Oath was still fairly well off, as it had been operating with a short crew since reaching Africa months ago. This would come in handy, as Sir Nigel had agreed to use the ship to convey the remaining 40 girls, kidnapped from their boarding school in the Tortugas, back to their well-to-do homes in England. Mad Sally had agreed to accompany them as their guardian, to Chumbucket’s consternation.

The Festering Boil was a different story. It had stocked what provisions it could during its careening on the African coast, but had not been in a port in months and had taken only one prize during the long chase to Diego Garcia. The galley was short of everything. Had it not been for the 60 barrels of salted pork taken from the Dutch merchantmen in the Atlantic, things might have been pretty grim. Still, there’s only so much a chef, even one as talented as Black Butch, can do to disguise from the crew that it’s salt pork for dinner again.

But Tharp was adamant. “These are the property of the crown of England, and I am not going to go back to London and explain to the king why I gave his property to two shiploads of pirates …”

“Dutch fishermen,” Slappy inserted.

Tharp rolled his eyes.

“Very well, Dutch fishermen, or Polish philosophers or French ditch diggers. You’re not getting the king’s property.”

“We helped you stop a plot that would have had serious repercussions for the king,” Slappy pointed out. “We were instrumental in your victory. You said so.”

“Not in the report,” Tharp said. “And even if that is true, I will not, cannot provide you with supplies from HMS Susan’s Doily.”

“How do you propose we feed our sailors on the voyage to the Caribbean? You’re not suggestion we steal what we need, are you?” Slappy asked.

“There is an East Indies Company outpost five days sail from here. They’d be happy to sell you supplies,” Tharp said.

“They’d be happy to send us to the bottom if they had a few ships on hand,” Slappy retorted.

“Really? Two harmless shiploads of Dutch fishermen?” Tharp asked innocently. “Well then, all I can suggest is the obvious. You say you’re fishermen; Get out the nets.”

Slappy turned to go, then stopped, turned back. Checking to make sure no one was listening, he hissed at his brother, “Remember your pet hamster, the one that ‘ran away’ when you were 12?’ Mother told you that, remember?” Tharp jerked his head in one sharp nod. Slappy continued. “That was a lie. My cat Stinger ate him. Slowly.”

It was a more subdued Admiral Tharp who called for Slappy’s presence on the Doily two days later, when the repairs had almost been completed. Slappy knew it had something to do with the small, expensive but well-armed yacht flying the flag of Sweden. The ship had appeared that morning and quickly sailed into the cove and anchored near Tharp’s flagship. From his vantage aboard the Boil Slappy saw Tharp being rowed over to the new arrival, where he was met on the deck by a short, dowdy woman with a small dog tucked under her arm. The woman, looking stern, led Tharp below.

He re-emerged some two hours later with a bundle of papers under his arm, Slappy noted, keeping watch through his spyglass, and returned to his own ship. Half an hour after that Slappy saw signal flags going up the mast of the warship, flags he decided to ignore. The warship fired a single cannon to draw attention to the flags. Still Slappy waited. Finally a longboat was dispatched from the British ship. A Royal Marine approached Slappy on the poopdeck, where Slappy reclined carelessly in a hammock strung between the railing and mast

“Begging your pardon, mijn goede heer,” the officer said, offering a salute that Slappy let pass. “The admiral would like a word with you.”

“Sorry, but if I have the word I want to with your admiral, one or both of us might end up dead. I think I’ll stay here.”

“He said you might take that attitude. He said I was to say ‘please.’”

That brought Slappy’s head up. THAT was a new one. Lord Sir Admiral Percival Winthorpe Mandrake Tharp NEVER said please. He took things as if they were his due, like all members of his blasted class. Bastards thought because they were born rich they could treat the world like … Slappy restrained himself from going off on a political rant and addressed the Marine.

“Please, huh? Well, if the admiral is going to say ‘please,’ how can I resist? Who knows, maybe he’ll even say thank you!”

Slappy had often seen his brother upset. Indeed, he was often the cause of the admiral’s discomfiture. But he had never seen him as shaken as he appeared to be now, three days after the triumphant end of his mission.

“Sit down,” Tharp said tersely.

Slappy did so, accepting a glass of port from the orderly. In deference to the other man’s obvious distress, he even refrained from spilling it on the expensive carpet.

“That will be all, Fiffington. You may leave us alone please,” Tharp said. The orderly left, closing the door behind him.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this audience, your worshipfulness?” Slappy began.

“Not now, Mortimer. I have something to ask you, something important.”

“Well you’re starting off badly, if you’re going to start calling me that name again,” Slappy said, getting to his feet to better launch his port at the tapestry.

“Oh sit down and stop sloshing your drink. That’s 80-year-old port,” Tharp snapped reflexively. “Listen, please, just sit down.”

“Please again? What’s up Percy? I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I have to ask you something. It’s along the lines of a … it’s rather a …”

“Percival Winthorpe Mandrake, are you about to ask me for a favor?”

Tharp winced at the word “favor,” but plowed on.

“Just listen, alright. Just listen. It’s about my son.”

Slappy grinned malevolently. “You mean the young man born of an all-too conventional arrangement between a young ensign and an obliging parlourmaid, an ensign who has in the intervening 20 some odd years grown up to be a powerful, well-placed admiral?”

“What? Him? No, no. Good heavens, why would I be asking you about him? No, I’m talking about my son and heir, your nephew, Mandrake Bulwer Pondicherry Tharp.”

“That prat??!? What’s he done? Forgotten how to tie the perfect knot in his cravat? Or has he lost money at the tables again? Really Percy, you should teach him not to try to draw to an inside straight. What else are fathers for?”

“Would you shut up and listen!!” Tharp barked. “I know you dislike the lad, but he is the next heir to the estate. What is more, he is family. And he’s in trouble.”

Slappy sat down quietly. As fun as it was to taunt his brother, he had never seen the man so upset.

“That yacht that came into the cove today is the personal ship of Princess Matilda of Sweden. She came here under cover of attending a symposium on controlling piracy.” Slappy grinned at this, but Tharp ignored him and continued. “She bears my orders for my next mission. Without going into details, it requires me to immediately head to Stockholm. A matter of some missing crown jewels.”

At the word “jewels” Slappy’s ear perked up and he quickly scanned Tharp’s desk. That thick envelope one the edge of the desk. That had to be it. “What possible interest could jewels be to me?” he asked.

Tharp threw him a baleful look. “No, I can’t imagine you’d possibly be interested in a million pounds in jewels, innocent Dutch fisherman that you are. But listen. She also carried a personal dispatch. My son Mandrake purchased a position aboard a Royal Naval vessel and set out to hunt pirates in the Caribbean.”

Slappy didn’t mean to spit on the expensive antique desk, but this news caused him to snort up the port he had been sipping. It took a full minute of coughing before he could regain his breath.

“Hunting pirates in the Caribbean? Well, I’ll make sure to look him up,” he finally managed to croak out.

“Shut up, damn you. Listen. He was executive officer to Captain Theodore “Toasty” Gustafson. They were to spend two years cruising the Caribbean suppressing the pirate trade. They made it as far as Port Royal, where their ship, HMS Tigershark, docked and Gustafson sent a report to London.”

“Well, if they couldn’t find pirates in Port Royal, they weren’t looking very hard,” Slappy said, more to himself.

“He reported that he was heading for Hispaniola and then going southwest searching for pirates. They stood out to sea, and they haven’t been seen since. The governor of Anguilla reported debris from a shipwreck on that tiny island, and merchantman in the vicinity reported finding an empty dinghy from the Tigershark. But Anguilla is on the eastern edge ...”

“The eastern edge of the islands,” Slappy chimed in, suddenly curious, “exactly opposite of the direction he said he was sailing.”

“Right. The admiralty has written the ship off and won’t send a search mission. As far as they’re concerned, the ship is lost with all 200 souls, including my son,” Tharp said.

“Why don’t you search yourself?” Slappy said. “You’ve got this ship and all these men.”

“As I told you,” Tharp said, “I’ve been ordered to Stockholm. Duty calls.” Slappy had never heard such a bitter tone in Tharp’s voice.

“So that brings us to this. I have to ask a favor of you Mortimer.”

Slappy saw it coming. He didn’t help his brother out, but waited and made him voice it.

“Will you go to the Caribbean and search for my son?”

“Can you have any doubt?” Slappy said. “This is more than some silly matter of life or death, good or evil, pirate or navy, landed gentry or dispossessed bastard descendant of the ancient king of Ireland.”

“Once and for all, Mortimer, you are NOT the king of Ireland,” Tharp cried in frustration. Slappy looked shocked.

“I’m hurt to the quick that you would take a moment of this gravity to engage in personal slights,” Slappy said, hitting exactly the right tone of reproach. “This is about blood, and I had hoped we could put aside such …”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry. You’re right of course. That’s all that matters. So, will you do this for me?”

Slappy glowed inwardly. When was the last time he had the chance to put his elder brother in a position of asking a favor, of owing him one?

“Of course I will,” said Slappy, who was bound for the Caribbean anyway. “You have but to ask, and I will put aside my own plans to search for the lad. This is, after all, family.”

Tharp looked genuinely touched. He reached out and took Slappy’s hand.

“Is there anything I can do to help you in your search? Charts? The latest reports?”

“Those would both be helpful, of course,” Slappy said. “But there’s something of more immediate importance.”

“Name it.”

“We could use some provisions.”

Saturday, April 16, 2005

 

Part 74 – “A Parting Of Ways”

Part 74 – “A Parting Of Ways”

Blood trickled down the arm of one of the young officers accompanying Lord Sir Admiral Percival Winthorpe Mandrake Tharp during his visitation of the “Dutch Fishermen” who had just defeated a notorious pirate. Young Clinton Burgess had, unknown even to himself, taken a nail from the explosion of the Sabado Gigante in his upper arm – the head of which was still protruding through his jacket.

Sawbones, who was busily attending the wounded, took notice of the young man. Tall and proud, the young man had a familiar face and posture. The two made eye-contact and felt the binding tie – but neither spoke a word. After stitching up Dogwatch’s right thigh, the good doctor moved to check on the source of the blood dripping from the young man’s fingers.

Clinton looked at Admiral Tharp when the rather dingy looking “Dutch Fisherman” began his examination of the nail hole in his jacket, but the Admiral simply half-closed his eyes and shook his head as if to say, “Let the man do his job.”

Sawbones ripped the jacket open wider at the point of impact and ran some rum over the wound. The sting was palpable, but the young officer never flinched.

Sawbones looked off in the distance and said, “My God! What is that thing?!” Clinton snapped his head around to see what was causing the doctor’s distraction and in that moment, felt the sharp, violent wrenching of the nail out of his arm.

The good doctor applied more alcohol to the wound and said, “Son, ye’ll have a wicked good scar, but no permanent damage.”

Clinton took in his father’s face, knowing that one day it would be his own and replied simply, “Thank you.”

Just then, Cementhands McCormack walked up and looked at the scar and said, “Nasty – but that’s what tattoos are for,” and went about his business. Sawbones shook his head paternally, but quickly followed suit.

Juan’s body had been sewn into a hammock with a cannonball at his feet. Don Taco offered a few prayerful words in Spanish over the body before Chumbucket, Leftenant Keeling and two of Slappista’s former pirates released his body over the edge of the ship.

Further up the deck, Sir Nigel was flirting coyly with Sally who had turned over custody of Lady Fanny to Admiral Tharp’s marines. The Admiral had not yet decided what to do with her.

Chumbucket saw Sir Nigel take her hand and kiss it. This was quite enough for him and he moved quickly to intervene – but as he neared the couple he heard Slappy call for Sir Nigel who immediately broke off his chat with Sally to see what Cap’n Slappy wanted. This was the opportunity Ol’ Chumbucket had been waiting for – Sally was alone without any other pressing business. Sir Nigel nodded as he passed en route to see Slappy and the two men nodded at each other politely.

Sally’s eyes smiled as she saw Chumbucket coming her way – this stopped him dead in his tracks for a moment as he feared his heart would leap out of his chest causing another mess on the deck. But onward he trudged.

As he reached Sally, he began to protest her attentions to Sir Nigel and declare his love for her, but before he could speak a word, she grabbed his face firmly in her hands and planted a long, lingering kiss on his mouth. Sir Nigel, walking in the other direction, looked over his shoulder to witness the event, turned back toward Cap’n Slappy’s direction and smiled.

After the kiss, Chumbucket managed only a couple of words as he gestured toward Sir Nigel – “But I though …” these were again muffled by an even more passionate kiss than the previous one. After which, Sally said, “Shut up, you silly, stupid pirate. Just shut up.”

Chumbucket could find no reason not to obey.

Sir Nigel arrived to the place where Cap’n Slappy had called him. They were joined by Don Taco who had also been called over.

“Alright lads, here’s how it’s going to be.” Slappy began, “Sir Nigel will take command of this ship and the crew – most of which will be old friends and colleagues of Don Taco, here. He will be second in command until such time as a suitable command can be ‘commandeered’ for himself and what crew he is willing to take. But don’t be in a huge hurry to part ways, it is my strong impression that the two of you could learn a great deal from one another. At any rate, this adventure has proven once again that you can never have too many allies on the sea.”

They talked for a few moments about the logistics of their new command structure and others began gathering around. A bottle of rum was opened and before long the decks were cleared of blood and bodies and a party began. With Jezebel’s coaxing, even Admiral Tharp joined in the festivities.

Los Mariachi had “borrowed” a guitar from a British sailor and was playing what Slappy described to his half-brother Admiral as “Traditional Dutch Polka Music.” The atmosphere was light for the first time in weeks. British sailors and “Dutch Fishermen” drank together – Jezebel, Liz, Sally and the girls all danced with as many men as their generosity, modesty and tolerance would allow. Even Stinky St. Claire was released from his cell to join in the festivities – he got drunk and yelled, “Viva la France’!” over and over for no apparent reason.

During this festival, nobody seemed to notice when Genevieve slipped away from the party, distracted the drunken guards and facilitated the escape of her Aunt Fanny. The guards quickly realized something was wrong and chased Lady Fanny across the deck, but she shrieked and cast off her clothing as she ran – grabbing a shovel out of a long boat, she brandished it as a weapon, swinging it wildly in the path of her pursuers. With no where left to run and few clothes remaining on her body, she leaped over the rail of the HMS Susan’s Doily and was last seen swimming toward the island.

When this was reported to Lord Sir Admiral Tharp, he lifted his glass toward the direction of the island and said, “And a good place for you!” before returning to the party where he was honored to finally unite Leftenant Keeling and Red Molly in holy matrimony. Jezebel stood off to the side and shed a tear – perhaps two.

Spencer and Gabriel clapped as Strumpet the monkey danced. The party continued well into the night. Lanterns were lit and the deck was illuminated with a soft yellow glow. Salty Jim slow-danced with Liz – his hand drifted down the small of her back and came to rest on her ass. She gently moved it back up and smiled, whispering, “You are so barking up the wrong tree.”

As they stood on the deck of La Herida que Filtra de la Cabeza, Ol’ Chumbucket and Cap’n Slappy were having a discussion about what the new name of this ship should be. Finally, Chumbucket declared, “It’s Sir Nigel’s ship now – he should name her!”

The music stopped as the focus fell on Sir Nigel – a position with which he was remarkably comfortable. He thought only for a moment before he answered. He looked at Ol’ Chumbucket and said, “She’ll be known from now on as Juan’s Blood Oath.”

Chumbucket and Slappy smiled and nodded. The party continued. Nothing more needed to be said.

Friday, April 15, 2005

 

A Pirate Tale 73 – It never happened

Admiral Percival Winthorpe Mandrake Tharp was not by nature a happy man.

He was not a man who smiled at rainbows, or got warm, fuzzy feelings when watching butterflies dart between wildflowers in a field, which he never did anyway. A basket of wriggling puppies did not evoke more than the briefest of polite smiles, and the joyful sound of children at play on a warm spring day only left him worrying about the state of his well-manicured lawn.

He was not a happy man in general, and standing on the deck of a pirate ship listening to what was obviously pure bullshit erased any feelings of pleasure he had left from winning a sea battle and all but completing his mission.

He had boarded the ship to find a Pieta-like scene on the quarterdeck, with Ol’ Chumbucket cradling the body of a dead Spaniard in his arms. Slappy stood, obviously spent, over the body of Don Juan Diego de la Mercada y Slappista con Carne, who with his demise had left Slappy in sole possession of the title of black sheep of the family. Slightly to the right, completing the picture, was Lady Fanny, who was writhing, foaming at the mouth, gibbering and generally behaving as if recreating Sawbones Burgess's portrayal of Ophelia in the Boil's production of "Hamlet."

It took very little time to sort out the details of the battle and arrange for the disposition of the prisoners. That’s when Tharp began to lose what little equanimity he had.

“What do you mean there are no prisoners?” Tharp demanded of Slappy, pointing to the 18 Spanish sailors who had survived the fray. “Who are those men over there?”

“Just Dutch fishermen, like the rest of us,” Slappy said innocently.

“Oh now really,” Tharp said crossly. At least his tone seemed cross, although in a few moments his voice would take on a tone that made this seem like an expression of glee. “You don’t seriously expect me to believe that.”

“No, true. Just a bunch of Dutch fishermen here,” Slappy said, adding “Waar de haringen?” for verisimilitude.

“And that tall, bearded gentleman who spoke to me earlier,” Tharp said, indicating Don Taco, “the one who offered to surrender his sword to me? I presume he’s a Dutch fisherman?”

“No,” Slappy said. “He’s a Dutch pastry chef. Name of Hansel. We just hired him on board. Working out quite well. Stay for breakfast and try his croissants. Delightful.”

Tharp rolled his eyes. “And if that man over on your poopdeck isn’t the infamous pirate Sir Nigel Pomfrit Couer de Noir, then I’m a Christmas plum pudding.”

“Him?” Slappy asked innocently. “No, he’s a fishing guide, very familiar with these waters. His name’s also Hansel, curiously enough. Causes no end of confusion on the ship. But he’s a wizard with a fly rod. You should see him some time.”

Tharp started getting one of his headaches. He looked about at the carnage and chaos.

“And what happened to cousin Slappista there?” Tharp asked acidly.

“An accident. The monkey shot him,” Slappy said.

“The monkey ...?”

“Admiral Tharp, I give you my word on my mother’s soul, Slappista was killed by an accidental pistol discharge from a monkey,” Slappy said.

This caused Tharp to turn and stare at his unacknowledged brother. One thing he knew, Slappy would never take his mother’s name in vain.

“Very well. Accidental monkey death is how I shall note it on my report. Obviously there’s been a battle here and you’ve won. Our plan worked,” Tharp said. “Now I need to straighten things out, take possession of the treasure and any prisoners and get on my way.”

This is where things started going seriously wrong for the admiral, because as Slappy, Jezebel, Ol’ Chumbucket, Mad Sally and several other sailors from the Festering Boil started explaining the situation. Tharp wasn’t buying it, and said so vehemently.

“Admiral Tharp, I’m telling you the absolute, honest truth,” Cap’n Slappy said, enjoying his brother’s discomfiture. “We put the treasure in that cave in the future, and now with the mountain in full eruption, it seems obvious that when the treasure gets there, it’ll be gone.”

A small tic caused Tharp’s left eyebrow to vibrate as if he were mentally trying to calculate the various angles and forces necessary to bludgeon Slappy into silence without actually killing him.

Jezebel, standing by, offered something she thought might help. It did not.

“When we placed it in the cave, the room seemed intact. So perhaps somewhere deep under the mountain that room will continue to exist and it might be possible to tunnel through a mile or so of solidified magma and retrieve the treasure, but I don’t think the technology necessary will exist for a couple of hundred years,” she said.

“Stop. Just stop,” Tharp said. “Tell me this. Where is the treasure now? Right now, right this minute.”

That brought a silence from Slappy, Jezebel and the various other sailors taking part in the conversation. That was something, anyway. It wasn’t an answer, but Tharp appreciated the silence. Finally, Ol’ Chumbucket cleared his throat.

“That’s a very difficult question,” he said. “Part of the treasure will be in the cave next Wednesday – and if I remember right it’ll be a rainy day .” The others all nodded agreement at this future memory. “But where it IS in a purely physical sense, where it exists in the universe as we know it ...” His voice tailed off.

Mad Sally jumped in. “We know where it will be, and we know where it was. But it seems to be sort of out of the loop of ...” She too gave up.

“The loop of the space-time continuum,” Cementhands McCormack tossed in, drawing a baleful glare from Tharp.

“Alright. Everybody stop. I’ll tell you where the treasure is. It is at the bottom of the ocean with the wreck of the Sabado Gigante, where it will lie until doomsday,” Tharp said. Several listeners tried to object, but he silenced them with a look and plowed on. “It was always on the Sabado Gigante, and any suggestion that it was removed by some supernatural means and placed outside the universe will be dealt with severely. Further, the Spanish treasure ship Sabado Gigante was sunk, unfortunately, by either accidental or intentional mishap on the part of one of her crew. We will never know which because the ship was destroyed with all hands. We have captured its captain, a French fop by the name of Francois St. Claire,” who can shed no light on the affair. And when I say ‘no light,’ I mean his raving story of the treasure disappearing from his hold is obvious sign of his dementia, probably due to injuries received during combat with HMS Susan’s Doily. There were no other ships involved in that combat,” he stared hard at Jezebel as he said this. “In an act of charity, he will not be hung for piracy or imprisoned as an enemy of the British crown, but will instead by repatriated to France, where I believe they want to talk to him about several incidents.”

“Are there any questions?” Tharp cast a stern eye around the circle of listeners. There was a pause, then a chorus of agreement.

“No.” Absolutely, that’s what happened alright.” “Yes, I seem to recall that.” “No question here.” “An excellent summation, old chap.” “Glad that’s all cleared up.”

“Good. I will now prepare my report, in which none of you will appear so don’t go talking about this because it officially never happened. I will then have it delivered to the admiralty and that should end the whole affair. It is unfortunate that the treasure was lost, but not decisive. My orders called for me to stop the arrival of the treasure in Spain. The Spanish government will find it difficult to continue operations against England in its current state of financial disarray. Naturally the British crown would have liked to obtain the treasure for itself, and delivering it would have meant a lot to me personally, but that was secondary. It was also imperative that we stop Fanny’s plot and prevent her from gaining the throne of Spain. Can you imagine what that bloodthirsty she-devil would have done?”

“True,” Slappy concurred. “But how did you know about her plan?”

Tharp smiled for the first time since arriving on the ship. It wasn’t often he knew something that Slappy didn’t.

“We had a paid informant rather high up in the ranks of the plotters,” Tharp said. “The man told us he was a Spanish nobleman. Turns out in that he was lying. It seems he was nothing more than a Dutch pastry chef.”

Thursday, April 14, 2005

 

A Pirate Tale – Part 72 – Dead Reckoning (Part Deux)

The air seemed to still itself as the two heavy men alternately clashed violently delivering blows with swords that were blocked or parried. When swords wouldn’t land on their target, they improvised with fists and the occasional forehead. After every vigorous exchange, they panted like two dogs running through the sand on a very hot day. One of the Spanish sailors recently won over by Don Taco’s impassioned plea observed, “They will kill each other with the heart attacks before they ever cut each other!”

Still they fought on.

“You know, my cousin!” Slappista puffed, “One of us is going to die with a side ache!”

Slappy breathed hard trying to suck the oxygen out of every molecule of air. “And the other will have to live with one.” He had enough distance between himself and his cousin now to put his hands on his knees and bend over – trying to ease the searing pain in his chest and hoping his lungs could take more in if he “assumed the position.”

But this didn’t last long as Slappista found the strength and breath to launch another attack.

Slappy pushed his body upright as Slappista’s sword flashed downward – stopped inches above Slappy’s head by his uplifted sword. Slappy spun away to the right and Slappista followed suit. Each man used his free hand to grab the wrist of the other. With their arms locked thus, both men drew back their heads and brought them crashing into each other.

Now, the “normal” head butt requires motion on the part of only one head. Two heads in motion can therefore be thought to be “better than one.” This would be an interesting equation in mathematics – the force of impact by a doubly initiated head butt compounded by the rush of adrenaline and the combined weight of two heavy combatants equals a rather impressive “ca-thunk!”

Their mutual disorientation was a cause of much-needed comic relief as the two men slashed wildly at the air in front of them – dramatically miscalculating their opponent/cousin’s proximity.

Unnoticed during the melee and the closing in of the observers of this family battle royal, was Fanny’s pistol. A small hand reached through the crowd and picked the weapon up off the deck – still loaded.

Slappy and Slappista desperately danced around each other – trying to find both their target and their footing. Slappy could see the crowd and make out the shapes of some of the more familiar figures in it, but they all seemed to wobble and undulate as they came and went from focus. His head was bleeding badly from the recent exchange of blunt force trauma and it appeared that several times he was about to lose his footing.

Blood and sweat obscured his vision and he blinked hard several times to gain clarity, but none was forthcoming. Still, he was cognizant enough to know that if he didn’t find a way of improving his orientation, it would be he that died with a side ache.

Slappista was not fairing much better. He, too, was bleeding and sweating profusely. He, too, could barely make out figures in the crowd – few of them neutral and none friendly. He could see Lady Fanny standing upright and still with Sally’s knife held close to her throat. This didn’t prevent her from offering him one last gesture of her feelings toward him – her middle finger.

Finally, the two cleared away enough blood and sweat from their eyes to spot each other and they began a final charge. What Slappista failed to see, was the pool of blood on the deck that had spilled from Juan’s head after Lady Fanny had shot him. He had taken only four steps at a dead run when his right foot touched down in the pool – now slick with coagulation – and his leg shot out from underneath him, sending the fat man sprawling to the deck. His sword flew out of his grasp and was stopped on the circle of spectators by Ol’ Chumbucket’s left boot.

Slappista sighed deeply as he pushed himself up to his knees. Slappy had, by now, stopped running and approached his cousin slowly. He held the point of his sword at Slappista’s chest.

Beyond the rail, Slappy could see that The Sea Witch was now within a few yards of the two ships and The HMS Susan’s Doily was not far behind.

“Juan made a blood oath to stop you, Cousin – and by his blood you are now stopped.” Slappy declared between heavy breaths.

“Correction, Cousin.” Slappista sneered. “He made a blood oath to kill me, and as with so many other things in his insignificant life, he has failed. I will accept your offer to surrender and throw myself on the mercy of the British Judicial System. I have a cousin who is an admiral, a knight AND a lord. And as you well know, there’s no justice like well-connected justice.”

Slappy scowled, but he was without options now. Slappista was unarmed and surrendering. Whatever “the code” might be for pirates or princes – Slappy was guided by his own code. “You can’t slaughter an unarmed man – no matter how evil.” He put his cutlass away and extended a hand to help Slappista to his feet.

Slappista smiled and glanced at Juan’s lifeless corpse. “Your blood oath is only as good as you are – and you, my friend, aren’t much good to anyone anymore.”

Chumbucket reached for his pistol, but Cementhands put his hand on top of his friend’s, shook his head and whispered, “Let him talk – it’s only words now. A reckoning will come in time.”

As Slappista turned his face toward Slappy and accepted his hand up, a shot rang out from the crowd to his left. Slappy spun quickly, still holding his cousin’s hand, but Slappista remained motionless.

Slappy was stunned to see Strumpet the monkey, jumping up and down around the pistol which was once again abandoned on the deck, shaking her hands wildly and screeching. She jumped up onto Sawbones Burgess who waved his hands in an attempt to shoo her away. “Get off of me, you flea-bearin’, poo-slingin’ primate!”

She jumped to the more monkey-friendly shoulder of Leftenant Keeling whose brain injury made him unsure if this was a monkey or a visitation from an angel.

Slappy shrugged it off as an accidental discharge of a weapon until he turned toward his still kneeling cousin whose grip had remained unchanged in the preceding five seconds.
Slappista’s face seemed to be frozen. His head hadn’t moved, but his eyes had followed the bouncing monkey and he felt the river of blood flowing down his face from a hole near in his temple. Gone was the smile, replaced how by a grimace of pain and confusion. He focused his sight on Slappy and managed only one word, “Monkey,” before collapsing on top of the body of Juan Garbanzo.

Slappy stood stunned. He looked over at the monkey who seemed to be leading Leftenant Keeling in prayer. He watched as Ol’ Chumbucket and Cementhands McCormack pulled Slappista’s body off of Juan sending it sprawling onto the deck and turned their fallen comrade onto his back – so his face could be seen.

The self-satisfied smile that had adorned Slappista’s face only a moment before was now visible on Juan’s face.

“As good as your word, my friend.” Chumbucket said softly, “You were always as good as your word.”

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

 

A quick note

Blogging will become a bit more sporadic for the next month or so. Cap'n Slappy, in his landlubber guise as mild-mannered Mark Summers, is directing a play (and not just any play, it's "Hamlet") at our local theater. This will eat up a fair amount of his time, and since his employers expect him to actually work, that will cut into his writing time.

But fear not! We are dedicated to the story, and will carry it on past the climax (coming soon) of the current part of the tale. In fact, the installment that Slappy is working on right now has some very cool stuff in it. So bear with us. Just a little bit of patience and all will be revealed.

Monday, April 11, 2005

 

A pirate Tale 71 – Dead Reckoning

-

The tide of the battle on La Herida que Filtra de la Cabeza was turning towards the invaders, as more sailors from the Festering Boil swarmed into the fray. McCormack had picked up a wormer from beside a silenced cannon and, swinging it like a bat, dropped three men to the bloody deck before skewering the fourth against the main mast.

Don Taco, locked in combat with his former first mate, drew back, parried a thrust from the man’s saber then riposted so quickly that he got past his guard and cut him viciously across the forearm of his sword hand. The man dropped his blade and fell to one knee, awaiting death.

Instead, Taco lowered his guard and extended his hand.

“Come, Pablo, we have sailed together too long to let it end like this. Do you really want to serve that treacherous bastard and the evil snake of a woman he’s sold his soul to?”

The man looked up at Taco, then looked across the deck where Slappy’s crew was hemming in the last of their opposition. His uninjured hand reached up and clasped Taco’s. The grandee lifted him to his feet as his voice rang out.

“Sailors of Spain,” he shouted. “Drop your weapons. This is not the day for any more of you to die!”

The ugly combat on the gun deck slowed, but didn’t cease. Who drops his weapon in the midst of a heated duel? But Taco’s voice rose above the sounds of battle.

“My friends! You know me! You serve me! In the name of La Broche de Presión, let us end this.”

The two sides maintained their guards, but the sailors of the Boil took a step back, leaving their foes backed against the rail. The remaining handful of Spanish sailors slowly lowered their weapons.

“There are only two more now who need to die, the two who led you into this,” said Taco, conveniently forgetting his own part in the plotting. It didn’t matter, the sailors didn’t want to die and accepted Taco’s reasoning. All eyes shifted to the quarterdeck where a defiant Slappista stood over the body of Juan Garbonzo and a psychotic Fanny feverishly reloaded her pistol.

“My friends,” Slappista said urgently. “Do not listen. We can still prevail. The treasure, the greatest treasure ever seen by man, still awaits us, either on that ship or on the island beyond. What they hid, we can find.”

“I’m afraid not, cousin,” a new voice cut across the stillness. Slappy, standing on the rail of the Boil, grabbed a line and swing across to the deck of La Herida, landing just below Slappista. Immediately Dogwatch, Cementhands, Keeling and Ol’ Chumbucket surged to his side protectively.

“The treasure is gone, Slappista,” Slappy said.

“You lie,” Slappista snarled.

“It breaks my heart to admit this, but it’s true,” Slappy said, pointing back over his shoulder to where the volcano still smoldered on the island. “I have to admit we were not nearly careful enough with it, and the island’s goddess of fire has taken it from all of us. If you dug for a hundred years, I don’t think you’d find a thing.”

Slappista looked shocked as he stared out at the smoking mountain. “But how? There was no time. This must be a trick. How did you do it?

“You’d never believe it, but the fact remains, except for a few trinkets the treasure is gone. And the girls are out of your reach, and so is your chance of whatever glory you had hoped for back in Spain.”

A cry came out from the poopdeck of the Festering Boil, where George the Greek and Sir Nigel were pointing to sails in the distance.

“That is probably someone you know – Admiral Tharp from the British Navy. I think it’s time for you to make a decision, cousin. Will you surrender and have us turn you over to the British, or shall we finally settle this here and now?”

All eyes were on Slappista as he took a deep breath, swung his cutlass once or twice, stepped back from the ladder to the quarterdeck, and beckoned to Slappy to join him. In the tension, the eyes failed to notice Fanny – always a mistake – whose face had turned ashen at the news of her treasure and whose eyes glowed with a fire that clearly indicated that whatever tenuous hold she had maintained on sanity was now irrevocably snapped. As Slappy climbed to the top of the short ladder, she rushed forward and clapped her pistol to his temple.

“You flatulent pig,” she hissed. “You tell me where my treasure is right now or I’ll splatter your brains all over the deck!”

Slappy’s comrades froze as the captain turned his head slowly and carefully to face the enraged woman that had once been his lover. The turn brought the pistol barrel directly between his eyes, but he didn’t flinch as he noted the tremble in her hand. He read death in her eyes. “Why,” he asked himself in an irrelevant thought, the sort that always flitted across his mind in moments of greatest peril, “why is it that every woman I sleep with ends up trying to kill me?” But his voice, when he spoke, was steady.

“Fanny, I promise you, that treasure is as gone as if it had never existed. It is gone.”

She pushed the pistol directly against the bridge of his nose. “It can’t be. It isn’t. I won’t let it be!” she shrieked.

Slappy noticed a blur of motion and was prepared to throw himself to the deck, but it wasn’t necessary. Mad Sally swung in from the deck of the Boil and crashed into Fanny, sending the pistol flying from her hand. It fell against the rail, discharging. The ball smacked into the mainmast, three inches from the head of Ol’ Chumbucket. Cementhands looked from Chumbucket to the bullet hole, and back to Chumbucket.

“Sorry, dude,” he said. “I think I was supposed to stop that from happening.” Chumbucket looked at the hole then smiled wanly at McCormack and shrugged.

Fanny leaped back to her feet and grabbed Juan’s cutlass, turning to face Mad Sally, who had lost her dagger in swinging across to La Herida.

“You bitch!” Fanny screamed, spitting foam. “I should have killed you back in Tortuga!”

She lunged at Sally, flailing wildly. Sally stood her ground, not moving as the blade whistled past and sank into the railing. Them, pivoting off her left foot, she put all of her body into a straight right that caught Fanny squarely on the point of the chin, sending her former boss flying through the air and crashing, unconcious, at Slappista’s feet.

“Probably just as well,” the Spaniard said with a shrug. “She can be very tiresome.”

“She shouldn’t have tried that two days before my period is due,” Sally said. “I’m feeling cranky enough as it is.”

“And now cousin,” Slappy said. “Let’s settle this.”

“What if I win?” Slappista said. “I don’t think your friends down below will let me live. The very best I can expect is a couple of months as a guest of Tharp’s brig before I’m hung. What do I get by fighting you?”

“True. I’m afraid you’re a dead man, Slappista. But neither of us wins much in either case. I’ve chased you halfway around the world, and all I’ll reap from it, in the end, is your head. All that’s in it for you is the chance to take me with you.”

A grin split Slappista’s face.

“A very good offer indeed. Let us begin.”

He lunged forward. Slappy’s cutlass flew up and the two blades clashed together.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

 

A Pirate Tale – Part 70 “Mayhem and Death”

With fierce whoops and savage cries, twenty-two pirates from the Festering Boil swung from the rigging and onto the deck of La Herida que Filtra de la Cabeza. The gun officer on La Herida, known to the men as El Hombre Grande although his mother had named him Simon, had seen them coming, and instead of trying to meet them in the air had drawn his men back, then rushed the boarders in the second after their feet touched the deck.

The effect was rather like a well-thrown bowling ball perfectly hitting the pocket between the one and three pins, sending them scattering. The boarders from the Boil found themselves in a morass of well-armed disarray. Pistols firing, blades flashing, blunt objects … “blunting.” The scene presented the very definition of a melee.

As Ol’ Chumbucket’s feet touched down, for instance, his first sight was of the blade of a thick cutlass as it swooped toward the tender skin of his neck. Though the momentum of his landing propelled him forward, the appearance of fast-moving steel compelled his upper body backward. He looked as though he were going through the world’s fastest Conga Line. “Just how low CAN I go?” He wondered as his aging knees sent pained smoke-signals to his brain – “What the Hell are you doing?” they seemed to be asking.

A veteran of many such battles, Chumbucket realized he was going to be on his back in the middle of a crowd of bloodthirsty, weapon-wielding, combatants. This, he knew, was a disadvantageous posture to assume, but gravity and arthritis were about to have their way despite tactical shortcomings.

As he fell backward, he realized that the only thing worse than lying on his back during the fight would be to be laid out on his back during the fight without a weapon in his hand. Fortunately, he had two fully loaded pistols in his sash which he pulled during his fall and cocked on the moment of impact. Two of La Herida’s sailors moved in to finish him off, but found their bellies filled with the burning sensation of a hot mini-ball that passed through their stomach linings and shattered their spines.

Ol’ Chumbucket rolled out of the way as the two men fell hard onto the spot where he had been laying. He scrambled to his feet and dropped the pistols then he pulled his cutlass and a dagger and entered the fray.

A few yards away, Cementhands McCormack, the king of improvisational weaponry, had taken a peg leg from a dead pirate and was using it as a club. He had seen Chumbucket go down, and was fighting his way toward him – crushing skulls as he came. Once he saw that his old friend and comrade was up and fighting, he noticed another big man – El Hombre Grande – coming toward him wielding something that looked like a piano leg with huge spikes erupting from its surface.

McCormack looked at the peg leg in his hand and thought it seemed puny by comparison. Simon charged him with a fierce war cry. Cementhands scowled at the peg leg, but that didn’t make it any bigger, so he tossed it aside – seemingly paying little heed to the large animal coming his way. He squatted down and appeared to be searching the body of a fallen Spaniard for a weapon when Simon began his two-handed attempt at a cu de gras.

The spiked club came down, but it did not sink into Simon’s intended target. With the swift motion of a weightlifter, Cementhands “cleaned and jerked” the seemingly dead Spaniard above his head as a shield. In fact, the Spaniard was only “playing dead” to stay out of the battle and pledge allegiance to whoever won. Just how alive he was became clear as the blow from Simon’s club sank the spikes deep into his back and out through the front of his torso. His accompanying scream gave both of the big men quite a shock, but McCormack brushed off the surprise of a live human shield and tossed the now dying death-faker over the side of the ship – spiked club in the back and all.

With both men now unarmed, Simon was about to find out why they called this man, “Cementhands.” Simon punched wildly and missed, McCormack – now in his element – landed a right hook to Simon’s jaw.

“El Hombre Grande” had never been hit so hard by anything in his life and he sprawled backward and to the deck. He seemed to see stars and bluebirds chasing each other around the circumference of his head. McCormack smiled and took a boxer’s stance as he waited for his opponent to get to his feet. Which he did.

The two men exchanged punches as the smoke of battle swirled around them. Had life and death not been in the balance, their comrades would have enjoyed watching the two giants put on a clinic of raw determination and pugilistic skill – but there was a battle to be fought. McCormack clearly had the upper hand and was hoping to knock his opponent out so as to keep him from further harm in the fight when a stray musket ball sunk into Simon’s skull just below his left eye.

The man was dead before his body slumped onto McCormack’s shoulder. With respect, Cementhands lifted his lifeless opponent up over his shoulder and carried him to the edge of the ship and tossed his body overboard. There was no time for sentimentality however, as he remembered that one of his tasks for the day was to keep Ol’ Chumbucket alive. He turned and re-entered the fight.

Meanwhile, Slappista hacked and slashed his way through several of The Festering Boil’s skilled, but unheralded fighters. The battle had only been engaged for a few minutes when a bright flash froze everyone aboard both ships. “The Sabado Gigante!” Slappista gasped. Although the girls and the treasure were long gone, any hope of finding and transporting them went up in that flash of fire. The sound of the boom came next and it literally shivered the timbers of both La Herida que Filtra de la Cabeza and The Festering Boil. As they stood still for a moment longer, bits of burning wood and ash began to fall upon the decks of both ships – a black snowfall of destruction.

Slappista heard a familiar voice behind him – he knew immediately to whom it belonged. “Hola Capitan!” Juan said darkly as he twirled the handle of his cutlass in his right hand flashing the blade in the sun. “Juan, my friend!” Slappista began ebulliently, “Welcome home! Have you come to re-join me?”

Juan shot back an icy stare.

“Juan – Juanito! – The Juan-in-ator!” Slappista’s attempt at name humor also had no impact, but he soldiered on. “Look! You’re a pirate – you should know this. Allegiances shift quickly – it’s not who your ‘friends’ are, but ‘who’s on top?’ that matters!” He glanced around the deck at the battle. “Look! There’s Don Taco fighting with his former first mate! It’s not personal. His first mate thinks I will win, Taco thinks Slappy will. So, they try to kill each other now – but if they both survive, don’t you think they will sign on with the winner?” Again, Slappista attempted humor – “Of course, if you ever had to sit through one of Don Taco’s Officer’s Meetings, you might want to kill him, too – and that WOULD be personal!” He laughed awkwardly.

Still, Juan just stared. Finally he said, “Enough talk. It’s time to die.”

“So it is.” Slappista replied grimly with a hint of sorrow that he couldn’t sway his old friend.

The two battled fiercely. The crash of their blades played like vicious wind-chimes in a hurricane piercing the ears of those around. At one point, Juan fell backward over a body, and Slappista turned his sword to stab downward onto the deck in an attempt to pin Juan there like a butterfly in a display case, but Juan rolled to the side as Slappista stuck his sword deeply into the deck. Juan quickly kicked Slappista away from his sword.

Unarmed, Slappista was now cornered and at the mercy of Juan who had by now gotten back on his feet and pulled his enemy’s sword from the deck. Slappista knew the situation was bad and began to use the only weapon he had left – his mouth. “Juan. It is not like you to kill an unarmed man. That’s more like me. But not you – never you.” Juan stepped closer to Slappista who continued even more urgently.

“Seriously, Juan! I know you hate me, but if you kill me like this, you will become just like me! Is that what you want? To be just like me? I mean, I’m flattered and all, but to kill me and become me – doesn’t that defeat the whole reason for killing me. I mean, if you become me than don’t I really survive – as you?”

Juan tossed Slappista’s sword to him and spoke only two words. “Stop babbling.” Suddenly, a shot rang out and the right side of Juan’s head exploded. Lady Fanny stood a few feet away, lowering her smoking pistol as Juan’s body dropped to the deck.

“God Damn! You boys talk too much!” She said as she began reloading her pistol.

Slappista got to his feet, took his sword, looked once more at his fallen former first mate and hurried off to the battle.

Slappy, who was still aboard The Festering Boil – bracing for a counter-attack that had not come, had watched the fight between Juan and Slappista through his spyglass. Without speaking, he handed it to Spencer who closed it silently.

“It’s time.” Slappy said.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

 

A pirate Tale – 69

Dogwatch Watts put his slow match to the touchhole. There was a sizzle as the primer caught, then a tongue of red fire shot from cannon with a roar, one of 12 guns that fired from the larboard side of the Festering Boil. At the same moment, 10 guns from La Herida que Filtra de la Cabeza barked in near unison, and the two ships were suddenly immersed in smoke. Where two sailing vessels had been a moment before, there was now a huge white cloud with the tops of mast and rigging projecting out of the maelstrom.

The three-person crew that had just fired the gun had little time to admire their handiwork or even duck for cover as onrushing balls pounded into their own ship, sending splinters flying. Victory, and life, lay in getting the piece ready to fire again as fast as possible. Faster than the opposing gunners.

As soon as the cannon had bucked back with a force that, had it not been tied down, would have sent it flying across the deck and through the gunnels, they leaped into action. Red Molly ran her worm down the barrel, corkscrewing out the last smoking remnants of the cartridge. Then Two Patch ran his wet swab down, extinguishing (they all hoped) the last of the burning cinders from the contained explosion.

Molly then carefully lowered the cartridge – a cloth bag with a pre-measured amount of coarse powder – into the mouth of the cannon and drove it down the barrel with her rammer. Two Patch followed that with the ball – four pounds of iron about three and a half inches in diameter – and some cloth wadding. Molly rammed that home. Meanwhile, Dogwatch jabbed his piercing iron through the touch hole, ripping the cloth bag open and spilling the powder. He poured a small amount of fine-grain powder down the hole and the three of them shoved the heavy gun back into position.

Dogwatch sighted along the barrel into the cloud, aiming for a spot under the masts he could see above the smoke. Satisfied, he blew on the slow match, then brought it down to the touchhole.

Another sizzle, another stab of fire, another roar, and a second ball was hurtling towards the enemy at about 1,000 feet per second. It had taken just over two minutes to load and fire the second shot. Eleven of the 12 guns managed to fire within about 20 seconds of each other, but Dogwatch was proud to note they’d been first. But he had no time to gloat. They had to reload.

On La Herida, Slappista knew that his crew, though tough veterans of dozens of fights, were not the homogenous, tightly-knit crew his cousin Slappy commanded on the Boil. They had been brought over from Conchita and Sabado Gigante to take the place of the girls who had been running the ship and hadn’t had much time to fall into rhythms and learn to work together. He didn’t even have enough men to manage every gun in the battery, and had been able to fire only 10 of his 14 starboard pieces.

Knowing that they wouldn’t be able to keep up with the pace of the Boil’s gunners, he had to rely on maneuver to buy time. As soon as the guns fired he had his mate, Miguel Ballesteros, throw the helm hard to port to break contact and hopefully circle around and engage again with a full broadside. If the Boil kept a straight heading or turned to starboard, it would work. It was a gamble, but it had worked before.

It didn’t work this time. As soon as Slappy saw the target veer off, he ordered the crew to luff sails, and the Boil’s speed dropped off as George the Greek brought the ship just slightly to port. In the two minutes it took for the crews to reload, La Herida had gotten part way through her turn and lay with her stern fully exposed. While four of the 11 shots went wide at the narrowed target, the other seven all slammed home, splintering the rudder and shattering the ship’s high castle.

George threw the wheel over harder as the crew in the ratlines tautened the lines again. The Boil surged forward, coming alongside La Herida’s starboard side again. Marksmen in the rigging of both ships rained shots down on the decks.

“Larboard guns, you’re turn again!” Slappy roared over the din. “Starboard crews, prepare to board!”

Slappy had thought this over carefully. First, he was relatively certain his crew outnumbered the crew of La Herida. Second, Jezebel had said she had seen Chumbucket take a fatal wound in a fight on the deck of the Boil. The obvious solution, he decided, was to get his old friend off the ship and onto the enemy’s deck. Chumbucket, with Juan, Don Taco, Keeling and Cementhands right behind, clambered to the rigging and prepared to swing across. The ships were close now, and they weren’t as worried about chain shot in the masts. The guns would be aimed at the hulls.

“Fire!” A third volley from the gunners on the port side slammed into the now stricken La Herida. But her gunners had also had time to reload, and their return volley was almost as devastating. Railings were smashed, holes punched into the hull near the waterline, with Salty Jim rushing through the carnage below decks to try to plug them. One shot slammed directly into one of the Boil’s cannon, killing the crew instantly and knocking flat the crews of the guns on either side.

But the Boil’s third volley had been equally effective, and the decks of La Herida were a mess of blood, bloodied men and torn wood.

From her vantage on the poopdeck with Slappista, Fanny screamed. She loved violence, loved the spilling of blood. But it was her spilling other people’s blood that appealed to her. Helpless victims were what she craved, not an enemy who will fight back and can claw harder than she could. She had no taste for this.

“Get us out of here!” she screamed.

“I’m afraid that may not be possible just now, my love,” Slappista said through clenched teeth, as he drew a pistol and with calm deliberation shot a pirate out of the Boil’s rigging. “We may have a little scuffle before we’re through here.”

Fanny stared at Slappista, her mind reeling. “Fuck you! First you lose my lovely treasure and my crown. Now you're losing my ship! Give me a weapon,” she shrieked.

“I don’t think cutting me is going to help right now,” Slappista said.

“No, you fool! They’re about to board us. I'll kill them now. I’ll take care of you later.”

A musket shot from the Boil struck Miguel’s knee and he writhed to the deck. Slappista leapt to the wheel, but realized it was useless. The steering was gone. He reached down and relieved the mate of his cutlass and handed it to Fanny, along with his other pistol.

“I believe you know how to use this,” he observed with cold irony. They exchanged a look, then turned to face the attack.

From the poop of the Festering Boil, Slappista looked down at the carnage with satisfaction. He turned to his crew who watched him eagerly. He gave the command.

“Boarders away!”

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

 

A Pirate’s Tale – part 68 “Sometimes a Great Explosion”

“They’re taking the hook.” Lord Sir Admiral Percival Winthorpe Mandrake Tharp muttered between puffs on his pipe as he saw La Herida que Filtra de la Cabeza take after The Festering Boil. “You’re out of my hands now, brother – avenge the potato sack race.”

He looked northward where the Sabado Gigante and La Conchita positioned themselves for the attack. They showed no signs of fearing the greatness of the British Navy or the power of the HMS Susan’s Doily. “We shall teach them respect!” Tharp bellowed to his gunners who now readied the cannon. He maneuvered his frigate so that La Conchita found herself sandwiched between the two much larger ships. As they came within range of each other’s guns, Tharp strolled to the far side of the deck where The Sea Witch sat with sails down waiting to fly into action.

Tharp nodded to Jezebel who smiled and saluted. Her sails now full, she pulled around the Doily and made herself visible to the now bewildered crew of La Conchita. The two cannons she had borrowed from the British naval vessel were primed and ready as she got up to speed and aimed at the hind quarters of her target. In the distance, Jezebel could hear the simultaneous volleys from La Herida que Filtra de la Cabeza and The Festering Boil.

With a look that could only be described as “bloodlust,” Jezebel ordered the firing of the cannons aboard The Sea Witch toward the stern of La Conchita. Two of the girls touched fire to the cannons which erupted in dual thunderclaps and a thick explosion of white smoke. Her timing was perfect and the ship’s rudder crumbled under the two direct hits.

The Susan’s Doily now presented her broad side as The Sea Witch zigged and zagged to confuse any intended cannon or musket shot.
Seeing the Conchita in trouble, Stinky St. Claire had himself and a few men loaded into a long boat and they set out to try to make a hasty repair to her rudder. He felt that The Sabado Gigante, being, as she was, “impregnable to attack,” would fair as well without his expertise as she would with it.

He was halfway to the Conchita when his Sabado Gigante fired her first volley.

As he saw the half-hearted cannonballs fall cruelly down upon the mid-ranged Conchita he became keenly aware that something was not right. “Merde!” He exclaimed as he spun back toward the mother ship. “What are you doing? Idiots!”

He saw his gunners running around in a panicked confusion. What Stinky St. Claire couldn’t see was that the confusion was caused by the fact that each of the cannons fired from the Sabado Gigante triggered a fast burning fuse – all of which ran through holes in the deck toward the depths of the ship. What was at first seen by the gunners as an oddity quickly became an act of potential sabotage as they all compared notes on where these flickering, sparkling cords of fire might be going.

Now there was even more damage to La Conchita! And this time, St. Claire was responsible for it.

Despite her friendly fire wound, La Conchita managed to get off a volley of her own. The well-placed shot was an attempt to pay back the big ship for rudder damage done to their own ship and it worked. Damage to the stern of the Susan’s Doily was negligible, but the rudder was completely shattered.

The men aboard La Conchita cheered but their enthusiasm would be short lived as the fuses that had begun burning downward at the first volley of the Sabado Gigante found their own destination; barrel upon barrel of black powder stored in the deepest hold of the ship.

The explosion that followed did more than pick up St. Claire’s long boat and toss it, stern over bow like a piece of silver being flipped to decide who goes first. “Heads! You Lose.” Tharpy growled as he puffed again on his pipe. It shattered the unsinkable Sabado Gigante into a million toothpick-sized pieces and rained them down on the ocean for miles around. Small slivers of burnt and burning wood fell onto the decks of both La Herida que Filtra de la Cabeza and The Festering Boil several miles away.

La Conchita was thrust violently from starboard to port casting a dozen or so of her sailors and several cannons into the sea. The impact of the explosion nearly capsized her which, as it soon turned out, would have been a mercy.

The shock wave blew into the side of The HMS Susan’s Doily and shivered the great frigate’s timbers knocking several men off their feet and blowing out the burning bowl of tobacco in the Admiral’s pipe, but they regained their equilibrium and fire quickly and positioned their cannons on the one remaining target – La Conchita.

Before the wounded ship could right itself completely and reload for another volley, Admiral Tharp gave the order (after taking a deep drag on his pipe) – “Fire!”

The only sound was the crunch of wood and the screams of dying men. The devastating volley launched at La Conchita left barely a skeleton of the ship’s frame in tact as water rushed over the rest of her body. Even Tharp, who had seen hundreds of ships sunk during battle had never seen one succumb to the depths so quickly. In a matter of two minutes, her crows nest sank beneath the surface. A few survivors could be seen grasping desperately for anything that could float.

Tharp ordered two longboats with marine escorts into the water to pick up whoever they could in an act of mercy. As the powder smoke began to clear, he could see Stinky St. Claire standing straight and tall on the spine of his overturned longboat. His body rigid and his right hand locked in a formal military salute; he looked like a surfing statue.

Jezebel, who had turned The Sea Witch away from the Sabado Gigante before her fateful moment thereby catching great wind in the sails from the explosion but no damage, returned to the scene of devastation and brought her agile ship about in Stinky St. Claire’s path.

“Madam,” Stinky began, “I am your prisoner, dispose of me as you see fit.”

“Shut up, Stinky!” Jezebel said with a smile.

“Do you know me, madam?” Stinky asked.

“Let’s just say, I knew your father. Now stop asking questions and catch this line.” She tossed some rope in his direction and he gratefully broke his posed stance to take the life line.

Quacking could be heard overhead as a duck flew over on his way to the island.

Monday, April 04, 2005

 

A pirate Tale – 67

-


The Festering Boil sailed north in the hope of flanking the oncoming vessels and regaining the wind, while Tharp maneuvered HMS Susan’s Doily south to avoid getting pinned against the island. Slappy stared at the ships through his spyglass, waiting to see whether they took the bait.

A signal flag flew up the mast of the lead ship, and it veered north to cover Slappy’s move. He noted with satisfaction that the ship moving to intercept him was La Herida que Filtra de la Cabeza..

“Excellent, here comes Slappista,” Slappy said, collapsing the scope and handing it back to Spencer. Spencer stopped, awestruck.

“Your hand,” he said, his eyes growing bigger.

“What about my hand?” Slappy asked.

“You didn’t hurt it. You always pinch it in the spyglass. You ALWAYS pinch it in the spyglass, and this time you didn’t.”

Slappy stared at his palm. “Son of a gun, you’re right.”

The sailors in the vicinity stopped what they were doing and stared. Slappy became uncomfortable.

“What’s the big deal? I closed my spyglass.”

“But you ALWAYS pinch your hand with it,” Spencer said again. “I mean, every single time. But now you didn’t. Is it some kind of omen? And if it is, what kind of omen? Good? Bad? What does it mean?”

Slappy saw the other crewmembers watching him with concern., He couldn’t have this. Not now.

“It means I’ve finally gained enough coordination to close a silly spyglass, that’s all.” He took the spyglass back from Spencer, opened it and closed it again, pinching his palm in the collapsing tubes.

“Dit is te stom zelfs voor mijn moeder in wet!” he cursed. “There. That’ll be enough of this nonsense. Let’s go kill something.”

The surrounding crew members smiled and went back to their tasks.

Slappy returned to the poopdeck, where George the Greek manned the wheel and Chumbucket watched the ship.

“Wind’s coming around a bit to the northeast,” he observed to the captain.

“Good. George, let’s try swinging around to a southeast heading. No point in giving him all the wind advantage.”

The two ships were now on headings that would bring them together and into firing range within about 15 minutes. Time seemed to stand still for the 50 pirates – men and women – aboard the Boil. Gunners poised over their cannon, slow matches held over the touch holes of the 24 guns ready to throw four-pound balls of iron into the lives of the enemy now easily within sight.

Minutes passed, during which each sailor became lost in his or her own thoughts and preparations. Ol’ Chumbucket stood to one side by himself, thinking he was calm but unaware he was idly swinging his cutlass back and forth as if to make sure his arm was loose and limber. Dogwatch Watts leaned forward against the railing, doing stretching exercises to prevent muscle pulls during the coming fray.

While Cementhands McCormack recited dirty Irish limericks, Juan Garbonzo paced restlessly in his small space at the bow. Lieutenant Keeling, his head bandaged, hummed show tunes. While his eyes seemed to be focused elsewhere, his body was tensed like a spring and he clearly was ready for action.

Sir Nigel was still trying to decide if he would be better served with his left arm, still in a sling, bound tightly to his body or hanging loose at his side. “Probably too late to do anything about it now,” he told himself. “I suppose this will work. I just wish the sling didn’t mar the line of my suit.”

Don Taco, about to do battle with a crew that until days ago had been under his command, chattered incessantly about past battles to anyone who would listen. Unfortunately for her, Red Molly was the closest person to the Spanish grandee and wanted to yell at him to shut up, but was afraid that if she opened her mouth a hysterical shriek might come out. Mad Sally stood motionless, but the constant tap-tap-tap of her long dagger against the cannon beside her revealed her inner tension.

Sawbones Burgess was one of the few on the ship with work to do in the interval, spreading sawdust on the floor of his medical area – the ship’s galley, which during battles became the medical ward – and laying out his instruments. He looked at the accumulated rust and blood on the saws and knives and decided to sterilize them, so he quickly wiped each off on his smock. He was assisted by Black Butch, the ship’s cook, who doubled as orderly. Though consigned to medical duties, Butch also was armed with both a cutlass and a large meat cleaver in case the opportunity arose to get some action. Butch’s cooking knives, in contrast to Burgess’s medical ones, were almost antiseptically clean.

At the helm, George the Greek steered the ship impassively, but a gleam in his dark eyes gave away his own lust for battle. Beside him, Cap’n Slappy leaned forward with a grim grin lighting his face. He couldn’t know it, but his adversary and distant cousin, Slappista, bore an identical expression and posture on the approaching ship.

“We’re about a long musket shot away,” George told the captain.

“Keep closing. I don’t want to open fire until we’re much closer,” Slappy said.

“500 yards,” Miguel Ballesteros said at the wheel of the La Herida que Filtra de la Cabeza.

“Closer,” Slappista said. “Much closer.”

The wind picked up and the two ships continued to converge, their paths like two lines plotted by a schoolboy in a geometry class. Sails taut, lines creaking, the two ships carved through the rolling sea with an inevitability that could lead to only one conclusion. Black flags flew from the mizzens of both ships.

“300 yards,” Ballesteros said on La Herida.

“Gunners, ready!” shouted Slappy to the crew of the Festering Boil.

On both ships, gunners leaned over their cannon, and the others on the gun teams readied their worms, ramrods and cartridges. The battle was rarely won on the first broadside, but in the race to get off a second. Musketeers tensed in the rigging, checking their flints one more time and shouldering their firearms. Unlikely as it would seem for two crews of pirate ships, more than a few silent prayers were uttered.

“Half a musket shot distant!” George said tautly.

On both ships the same command came simultaneously.

“FIRE!”

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