Table of Contents
Also from EXTERMINATING ANGEL PRESS
CHAPTER THE FIRST, - or the Growing of the Captain’s Beard.
CHAPTER THE SECOND, - or the Captain’s Great Good Fortune.
CHAPTER THE THIRD, - or a Foregathering in Nombre Dios Bay.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH, - or the Captain Has A Banyan Day.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH, - or The Captain Unclasps a Secret.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH, - or A Close Shave.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH, - or A Barrel Of Fun.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH, - or The Great Wen.
CHAPTER THE NINTH, - or The Pool of Life.
CHAPTER THE TENTH, - or The Captain Calls For A Boucan
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH, - or Blue Peter Trusts His Heart.
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH, - or The Summoning of Satan.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH, - or The Return To Nombre Dios Bay.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH, - or Two Wonders.
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH, - or The Voyage to Baart’tzuum.
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For my mother, and in memory of my father.
CHAPTER THE FIRST,
or the Growing of the Captain’s Beard.
Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges was growing his beard, which was to say he was idling and drinking rum. If someone should ask him “What are you doing this afternoon?” he would say “I think I shall just sit and grow my beard.” Growing his beard would necessarily involve the drinking of rum, of course. And a fine beard it was, too! Lustrous and as yellow as Spanish gold, it reached nearly to the belt that cinched the black broadcloth of his coat over his hard flat belly. The belt from which hung his heavy cutlass in its black leather scabbard, the wide black belt that had three knives and two flintlock pistols thrust into it, easy to hand, for Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges was a pirate.
In this business of growing his beard, and drinking rum, he was ably assisted by Israel Feet, his First Mate, right-hand man and partner in many a villainy. Bulbous Bill Bucephalus was there too, the porcine sailing-master of Captain Greybagges’s ship Ark de Triomphe, and Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo, the giant African who was the Master Gunner. The four buccaneers were sitting around a wobbly table in the back room of Ye Halfe Cannonballe tavern, which was conveniently close to the quays of Port de Recailles, that nest of sea-wolves whose name would be first in any Baedeker of infamy. The back room was pleasantly cool, whilst the lane outside baked in the heat of the late Caribbean sun and the eponymous half-cannonball hung on its rusty chain with no breeze to make it swing and creak. Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges’s beard grew and the rum bottle passed around. Blue Peter lifted his little finger as he sipped his rum delicately, for although his face was decorated by tribal scars - the face so black it seemed blue in certain lights - and his teeth were filed to points, he aspired to be an English gentleman, an ambition which would have caused hilarity among the rough crew of the Ark de Triomphe, except that any such merriment would have been instantly fatal. His companions at the table were fellow officers of the ship, and so his equals, and accepted his cravings for refinement as no more than an endearing eccentricity. Blue Peter dabbed at his lips with a fine white lawn handkerchief, then tucked it into his sleeve.
“As Aeolus denies us his zephyrs we may surely take our ease, my friends,” he rumbled, “but we may with profit turn our thoughts to such stratagems and ploys as the future will surely require. Especially before we purchase another flask of this fine sugarcane distillate.”
“A-who? Zebras?” piped Bulbous Bill, his high-pitched voice incongruous coming from so obese a body.
“Arr! You fat fool! He means there ain’t no wind, but we oughter be a-plottin’ for when there is. Be. For when wind there be! Arr!” Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges’s ambitions were in an opposite direction to those of Blue Peter. He was a man of some education, but yearned to speak as though he had been born in a Dorsetshire hovel and schooled on a bumboat in salty Poole Bay. “Speshly afore we gets blootered. Arr!”
“Har! ‘Ee do have the right of that, and you ‘as me affy-davy on’t! Cheerly messmates all, look’ee! Har!” Israel Feet downed the rest of his rum and splashed some more into his tarred leather drinking-jack.
The pirates sat for a moment in silent contemplation, firstly at Israel Feet’s effortless