Greenbeard. Richard James Bentley

mouths open, their eyes wandering.

      “So when I gives each o’ yez a letter such as this,” Captain Greybagges held up a square of paper, “yez must regard it as a treasure map! And it is a treasure map, for it will take yez to the offices o’ the Bank o’ International Export - my bank, your bank, our bank, which we all owns - where yez will find two hundred and fifty golden guineas held there in yer very own personal account. Yer very own little treasure chest under yer very own feet at all times. Now what does yez think of that?”

      There was a rumble of approval from the crew. A low rumble of qualified approval, but nevertheless a rumble.

      “Now iffen yez is daft when ye does that, yer will draw out the whole nut and get robbed in the first tavern or bawdy-house that yer sees, and my wise words to yez this day will have been wasted. If yez is smart yer will take out enough for a shant and some fun, enough to buy yer missus or yer tart a new dress, enough to put shoes on yer sister’s weans, even, but leave the rest under yer feet for the next day, an’ the day arter that. That’d be the sharp way, shipmates.”

      The Captain folded his arms and beamed at them for a few seconds.

      “Now, shipmates, I’ll be giving yez these papers in the Port o’ London, and any of yuz that wishes to shake hands and bid goodbye to the buccaneering life may do so then, an’ I will buys yer a drink afore yer goes an’ no hard feelin’s. Some of yez will wish to sign up for another cruise, an’ yer may do that, too, but until then we are finished with freebooting. From now on we are a innocent Dutch armed merchantman, so’s we can travel incognito, and we will disguise the good old Ark de Triomphe tomorrow, whilst in this pleasant anchorage. Then we shall leave, firstly for the port o’ Gabes, and then on to London. Now gets yer rations and fills yer bellies, for yez will have heard enough o’ my yammerin’s, and there is hard work to do on the morrow!”

      “Well, they took that better than I thought they would,” said Blue Peter quietly. He, Bulbous Bill Bucephalus and Israel Feet were sitting in the wardroom, eating ham-and-egg pie and drinking small beer.

      “T’were a fine speech, it were,” said Bulbous Bill in his high squeaky voice. “When Cap’n spoke a’ compound interest an’ leveraging - why! - I ain’t never reely thought-a it like that afore, I have’nt. It do make a person ponder...”

      “Yer can rip out me liver iffen I follered even the one word, dammee, yer can,” said Israel Hands, munching on pie, crumbs spraying. “The Cap’n do speechify nice as kiss-yer-hand, mind yez, and damn me for a lubber, else! An’ two hunnert an’ fifty guineas be even nicer, har-har!”

      “If yer’d bin a-listening,” said Bill, “then yer’d know yer be gettin’ eight shares. That be two fahsand guineas. Same as me an’ Peter, you bein’ First Mate, an’ all.”

      The First Mate continued chewing for a second, then his face went red and he choked. Blue Peter reached across and slapped him on the back. His huge hand nearly knocked the scrawny First Mate from his chair, and lumps of pork, egg and pastry were expelled from his mouth like buckshot. Blue Peter went to to slap Israel Feet on the back once more, but he raised his hand and shook his head, coughing and spluttering, his thin face red. He recovered somewhat and took a drink of ale.

      “Two thousand guineas!” he whispered, the piratical slang leached from his language by sheer surprise, leaving a soft Dorset accent. “Why, that be enough to buy a baronetcy!” He continued coughing.

      “Ho-ho! Or a bishop’s mitre, belike to ole Lance, eh? D’yuz recall the cully? Archbishop o’ York he now be, don’t ‘ee,” chuckled Bulbous Bill, his chins and jowls wobbling.

      “You jest!” spluttered Israel Feet.

      “No, Izzie, he speaks the truth, perhaps,” rumbled Blue Peter, smiling. “Lancelot Blackburne - the very reverend Lancelot Blackburne - was the chaplain to a small fleet of privateering ships in the Caribbean, and some say that he himself turned pirate in a discreet way, but I don’t know the truth of that. He is, however, presently the Archbishop of York, and there is talk that he bought his mitre from debonair King Charles with looted gold. We met him once or twice down in Jamaica. He can be pleasant company, but he has a wicked sharp tongue when he is in drink. He is a learned cove, too. Fond of quoting Waller.”

      Blue Peter took a draught of ale to clear his throat, and declaimed:

      “Such game, while yet the world was new,

      The mighty Nimrod did pursue;

      What huntsman of our feeble race

      Or dogs dare such a monster chase?”

      The last lines reminded Blue Peter of the Captain’s tale. He is chasing a monster, he thought, one way or another. Is he sufficiently a mighty Nimrod, though? Another thought struck him; if he is mad, then he is mad like a fox. He bored the crew into acquiescence, and I believe he meant to. He dared them to mutiny, then he stunned them with words, then he gave them a bag of gold, and a bag of gold dependent upon his goodwill, at that. The cleverer members of the crew will be too busy trying to explain the meanings of negotiable instrument and assignat to the slower crewmen to stir up any discontent. That is what they are doing right now, I am sure.

      “Two thousand guineas! Archbishop o’ York, wi’ a curse!” muttered Israel Feet, becoming piratical again as he mastered his surprise.

      “I got summat that might be just the thing for a night-cap,” said Bill, getting up from his settle. While he was away from the wardroom Blue Peter and Israel Feet sat in silence, thinking of two thousand guineas. From the galley came the sound of voices, Bulbous Bill’s squeaky tones among them, then the sound of a slap, and a shriek. Bill returned to the wardroom with a tray.

      “Cap’n ‘as decreed that all shall get at least a single share, even the young ‘uns. Jack Nastyface were overcome by the thought o’ that gold, got so giddy I had to give him a slap,” said Bulbous Bill complacently. “He be alright now, mind.” He passed out porcelain mugs. They drank.

      “What on earth is this?” said Blue Peter, his eyebrows raised. “I have never tasted the like, yet it is exceedingly good!”

      “Denzil got it from one o’ his indian pals,” said Bill. “Them’s little beans. Yer a-roasts ‘em, then yer grinds ‘em to powder, then yer chucks ‘em into boiling water and stirs like buggery. Bit o’ sugar. Bit o’ cream. It be called chocolatl, in the indian lingo.”

      They sipped from their mugs.

      “This has been a day of wonders, it has, an yer may skewer me with a marlinspike, else!” said the First Mate.

      The Ark de Triomphe cut cleanly through the ocean. The wind was brisk, slightly gusting, on the larboard beam, and the sea was choppy. The frigate was making eight knots on the log, and the sun was shining.

      “It itches a trifle, is the only thing,” said Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges, pacing the quarter deck.

      “Even in the bright day it is impossible to tell,” said Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo. “Even where the boot-polish has been rubbed off slightly. The glint of green just looks like a trick of the light.” He examined the captain’s newly-brown beard critically. “No, it is very convincing. Fine rig, too!”

      Captain Greybagges was dressed in the powder-blue uniform of a kapitein van schip in the Dutch East India Company, with gold epaulettes and frogging, and a bicorne hat with gilt edging. Blue Peter was wearing the more-sober blue uniform of a luitenant, Bulbous Bill the black-and-tan broadcloth of a bootsman as he stood at the wheel. The crew were in VOC matrozenpak slops, the red and grey wijde jurk en broek.

      “Where did you obtain such an abundance of apparel?” asked Blue Peter.

      “From the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie itself,” said the Captain. “Slight