“England, France and Spain united?” said Blue Peter. “I thought they all hated each other.”
“They do.” Captain Greybagges sighed again. “Bloody, Bloody, Morgan sacked Panama, though, and thus the Spaniards are so weakened on their own Spanish Main that they must make peace with the cursed ungodly English. King Charles, meanwhile, has inherited a bankrupt nation from Noll Cromwell and so must make peace with Louis le Roi Soleil, who knows it well, but who cannot take advantage of Charles’s penury because he has his own troubles at home in la belle France. Thus they can all make common cause against the wicked pirates for a while, and feel a great warm glow of righteousness, the hypocritical sods. They will fall out again soon, of course, but that will be too late for some. We need a treasure now more than ever, my lads. We will need to either retire or keep our heads down for a while, and that will need gold.”
They came to Ye Halfe Cannonballe and entered into its dim cool interior.
Bulbous Bill Bucephalus was already seated on a settle at their usual table in the back room, his posterior being too wide for a chair. He was sipping Madeira and chewing on pieces of smoked dried squid from a dish of assorted snacks. The three buccaneers joined their colleague with gloomy expressions on their faces.
“What cheer d’yez bring us, Bill?” said Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges. “We are in need of some good news to hearten us. And some Madeiry to wet our whistles, too.” He poured himself a glass of the rich brown sweet wine.
“I seen the man Denzil,” said Bulbous Bill, “and got some o’ them peppers. Some very special peppers. Very hot, they be.” He sipped the Madeira thoughtfully. “Very hot indeed.” He lowered his voice and tapped the side of his nose. “An’ we spoke of the other thing, too.”
Blue Peter got up and walked casually to the taproom door and peered in, then to the door to the front bar. He sat down again and nodded.
“Denzil is agreeable to our suggestion. Grateful for them gold coins, too,” continued Bulbous Bill in a low voice. “He says that he has become pally with a fellow down in them Spanish Americas. The kind o’ cully they calls a brujo, which is to say a sorcerer or medicine-man. He says them fellows claims to be able to fly like witches and to talk to gods an’ devils an’ spirits an’ the like. He thinks it’s all my eye and soft soap, but that all them brujos sticks together so they knows a lot of what’s a-goin’ on, even if it be miles away, d’ye see?” He sipped the Madeira. “Anyways, he says he’s a-goin’ down there this next week and if anybody knows anything to our advantage it would be them sorcerer fellows, and no mistake. We’ll know in a week, mind yez.”
Captain Greybagges looked thoughtful. “Well, messmates, we be hopin’ that he comes up trumps, but still keep yez ears open. I reckons we’ll take the Ark de Triomphe out tomorrow, wind and tides permitting, and sees that everything is shipshape and Bristol-fashion. Something will come along, you marks my words. We must be ready when it does.”
The lieutenants of Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges nodded in agreement, then all four buccaneers sipped their glasses of Madeira in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.
Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges stood on the quarterdeck of the Ark de Triomphe as it slipped into the harbour of Port de Recailles, conned with great skill between the stone pillars that flanked the harbourmouth by Bulbous Bill Bucephalus, the sailing-master. The morning light gave a blue tint to the scene, and the air had a slight chill remaining from the cold of the cloudless night.
“Away the sheets!” cried Bulbous Bill, and the sails flapped loose and the frigate slowed. There was a splash as the longboat was launched over the side, and soon the frigate was towed to the quay and secured with singled and doubled mooring-cables to the squat stone bollards. There was a purposeful scurrying in the rigging as the crew lashed the furled sails and loosened the stays to put the masts and yards in a shipshape fashion for port.
Captain Greybagges was pleased. The ship and crew had performed well during the six days that they’d been at sea. They had not encountered a fat merchantman to board and plunder, alas. Only a fishing boat, from whom the Captain had purchased a couple of tunny and a swordfish (only a foolish pirate would rob a fisherman; they were the great gossips of the seas and it was best to have them on your side) and very good eating the fish had been, too. The Captain was satisfied, though. The Ark de Triomphe and its crew of jolly buccaneers were fit and eager for piracy upon the high seas. If information was received, if a tip-off came their way about treasure suitable for the plundering, they would be ready to act upon it, he was sure.
The Captain retired to the Great Cabin to write the ship’s log, after leaving word that the crew could go ashore in parties of six when their duties had been completed. He was writing an article for the newspapers about Morgan’s forthcoming knighthood and governorship when Bulbous Bill tapped on the cabin door.
“I shall go and see if the man Denzil is back from them Spanish Americas,” said Bill. “He said he’d be gone a week or so.”
“Aye, Bill, you be about that. Any information about some fat galleons a-waitin’ to be plucked would be right welcome. The crew be eager and the barky be shipshape, so the sooner we be sailin’ off to meet with fortune the better.”
Bulbous Bill nodded and left, and Captain Greybagges continued with the article, scritch-scratch. He needed to pitch it just right; he must not sound carping or jealous of the bloody jumped-up Welshman’s success - in fact he must wish him well - but he did need to point out the possible danger to the sea-rovers of the Free Brotherhood of the Coasts, and yet the writing must be humourous and light. It really ought to be in the post today, too, lest some other scribe scoop him. Scritch-scratch.
That evening Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges sat in the back room of Ye Halfe Cannonballe tavern sharing a jug of ale with Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo. He reached into the pocket of his black coat and pulled out a pistol.
“Here,” he said, pushing the gun across the table to Blue Peter. “Clap yer eyes on this, shipmate.”
Blue Peter examined the pistol. It was a flintlock, but quite lightly built with a smallish bore and a longish barrel. Blue Peter’s thick index finder would barely fit through the trigger guard.
“Hmm, is it a woman’s gun?” asked Blue Peter. “It is a very light weapon. Very finely made, though. Beautiful chasing, and very elegant, I do declare.”
“It is called a Kentucky pistol,” said Captain Greybagges, “and it is not built for a woman, although a woman could surely fire it. The gunsmiths of Kentuck have their own ideas about guns. They believe that a light gun with a longish barrel is more accurate than a great cannon with a shorter barrel and a great charge o’ powder, and so more likely to kill at the first shot. They makes a fine lightweight rifled musket, too. Some calls ‘em squirrel guns because the Kentucks loves squirrel pies like we loves rabbit pies, d’ye see? I came across it today in the market when I was out posting a packet to the Tortugas Times.”
“I think I see, Cap’n,” said Blue Peter slowly. “You are informing me that the British North American Colonies not only make good firearms,