Greenbeard. Richard James Bentley

Jake to bring him hot water and a cannikin of coffee. As he sipped his coffee and Mumblin’ Jake shaved his head Captain Greybagges recalled the previous evening. In the event, only Israel Feet had taken himself to Madame Zonga’s establishment, with a foremast jack to carry the lantern and protect the drunken First Mate from footpads and ruffians. (What was the town coming to? Upon a time it had been safe for an honest pirate to walk the streets at night!) The Captain, the sailing-master and the Master Gunner had felt too logy with food and drink to climb the hill, so had settled for a game of Bezique and a few glasses of Smoking Bishop to round the evening off. The mortress of beef had indeed been very good, the Captain recalled, a little bland perhaps, what with the goat’s milk and soppets of sourdough bread, but surely that only enhanced the flavours of the meaty skirt-of-beef ? He felt sharp-set and ready for breakfast at the mere thought of it.

      After Mumblin’ Jake had helped him into his freshly-brushed black broadcloth coat and spit-shined black top-boots Captain Greybagges sent his servant to call the officers to join him for breakfast in the Great Cabin. He buckled on his wide belt with the cutlass, tucked the knives and pistols into it and carefully placed the black tricorn hat on his freshly-shaven head; a pirate captain should look like a pirate captain, even at breakfast. The other officers joined him at the table as the ship’s cook and Mumblin’ Jake set out the gleaming cutlery and brought bacon, eggs, lamb chops, sausages and grilled tomatoes in chafing-dishes, toast in a rack of silver and a tureen of Bulbous Bill’s fiery chilli. Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo was the last to arrive. He had drunk the least during the evening and had been up with the lark to ensure that the pirate crew were not skimping on their duties, skiving or otherwise swinging the lead. Slushing the yard-arms with rancid tallow was a dirty job even if one was supervising, so he had taken time to wash and change. Blue Peter liked to be informal in the mornings and so he wore only a white silk shirt and sky-blue knee-britches and not the turquoise moiré coat, white lace stock and powdered periwig of the night before. Informality only went so far, however, so a short cutlass with a brass knuckle-duster grip and a horse-pistol like a small cannon were thrust into the multicoloured sash around his waist.

      Israel Feet had perhaps drunk the most and looked even more rat-like than usual, his eyes red and watery and a hangdog expression on his face. After a plate of eggs and mixed grill, a bowl of chilli and a quart of black coffee his looks improved and some colour came back to his narrow pale features.

      Captain Greybagges kindly waited for his First Mate’s recovery to proceed a little, helping himself to buttered toast and marmalade, then questioned him gently on his cozening of Madame Zonga. Israel Feet answered at length and, in amongst a barrage of “Hars!”, a number of “Scupper me gizzards, elses!” and even a solitary “Rupture me kidneys if I should tell a lie, messmates!” they understood that the First Mate had been hospitably received by Madame Zonga, that because of his consumption of rum he had only been able to complete the first of her famous Six Lessons, that the Lesson had been free because she liked him despite this amatory faux-pas, but that she had not been forthcoming with any information useful to buccaneers eager for plunder.

      “No mind, Izzie, me ole fighting-cock,” said the Captain. “Maybe she’ll hear of something in days to come. Let’s see if Bill here can’t glean something from his mate Denzil.”

      “Aye-aye, Cap’n. I’ll go over s’arternoon,” piped Bulbous Bill. “I needs summa them peppers anyways.”

      Blue Peter drank the last of his coffee and wiped his lips fastidiously with a linen napkin. “Mr Feet and myself shall keep the crew at their labours, methinks. The futtock-shrouds need serving and parcelling, the harpins are quite poorly catted and there are always cannon-balls that need to be chipped, alas.”

      When his lieutenants had gone about their tasks and Mumblin’ Jake had cleared the remains of their morning repast from the table Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges took out his writing-case from beneath the bunk. The teak writing-case opened along a brass piano-hinge to form a sloped lectern, its green leather surface lifting to reveal sheafs of paper and vellum. An inkwell, sealed with a brass lid, contained blue-black oxgall ink and a compartment held goose-quills. Captain Greybagges was very fond of the writing-case, which had previously belonged to some hoity-toity Austrian aristocrat (whom the Captain had so disliked that he’d been glad when the ransom was quickly paid, as he would have otherwise have killed the stuck-up sod and been out-of-pocket) and he admired it as he whittled a fresh goose-quill into a nib. For the most part of half a dog-watch he composed letters to his informants, the scritch-scratch of quill on parchment audible to his servant polishing the silverware and mumbling in the Captain’s pantry. There was an occasional crash, thud or shouted order from the deck above, but these were the normal sounds of a fighting ship and did not disturb his concentration in the least. He read the letters through again after he had sanded them and the ink was dry, nodded to himself and wrapped them carefully in vellum packets closed with great blobs of red sealing-wax squelched down with the black onyx stone of his ring. He took a small key on a fine gold chain from around his neck, opened a secret compartment in the writing desk and took out a small booklet. With scissors he cut squares from the booklet. Each paper square was printed with an image of a death’s-head blowing a post horn, the horn muted with a bung, and the inscriptions Ten Reales and Postage Paid. He glued the squares to the vellum packets with gum arabic. The Captain seemed a little furtive while he did this, glancing over his shoulder to ensure nobody was looking through the stern windows and keeping an eye on the door. Some of a pirate captain’s secrets are best kept even from his officers and crew, and the Tristero company’s clandestine postal service was surely one of them. He tucked the packets into an inside pocket of his coat and called for Mumblin’ Jake.

       CHAPTER THE SECOND,

       or the Captain’s Great Good Fortune.

      Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges ambled along the quay of Port de Recailles, flanked by two bully-boys armed with oaken cudgels who glared aggressively at anybody within range. The Captain was not unduly worried about being robbed, but the two ugly thugs enhanced his stature in the eyes of the townspeople. Being a pirate captain was about three-quarters public relations, he estimated. That show-off Eddie Teach and his ridiculous trick of tying sputtering fuses in his beard! The Captain shook his head in wonderment; he had once been obliged to hurl a bucket of water over the fellow, before Teach had learned to soak his beard in alum to fireproof it. There was no doubt that the trick had worked, however, and now treasure-laden prizes would heave-to the instant that Teach’s Jolly Roger rose above the horizon rather than risk his wrath by running or giving fight. What a saving in powder, shot and wear-and-tear on the ship and crew that would give. And now the fellow was calling himself Blackbeard! He was fond of Eddie Teach and enjoyed his subtle sense of humour – that night when Eddie had blown his first mate’s kneecap off with a blunderbuss concealed under the table! How they’d laughed! – but he wondered if he might not go too far one day. Teach did not have the benefit of a university education, ruminated the Captain, whereas he himself had taken the Cambridge course-option Ye Art Of Showinge A Fine And Charitable Face To Ye Worlde, One Hundredd And One and so knew the advantages of restraint in self-publicity; nobody would find Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges calling himself Yellow Whiskers!

      The Captain turned up a narrow alleyway and came to a small dingy shop so decrepit, its wooden beams so crooked and its stucco so cracked that it might have levered out of a previous and wider location with pry-bars and pounded into its present space with mauls. The Captain gestured to the bully-boys to stay by the door and entered. A bell jangled as he opened and closed the door. The interior of the shop was dark and crammed with junk. Broken furniture, cracked dishes in stacks, piles of malodorous old clothes, unrecognisable things in tangled heaps. A path between the rubbish led into the interior of the shop, where an ancient pantalooned man in a filthy peruke sat smoking a churchwarden clay pipe. He might have been a corpse except for the occasional wisp of smoke from the pipe.

      “Do you have a waste bin?” asked the Captain. The ancient indicated with a glance of his rheumy eyes to a dark