Greenbeard (9781935259220) (12 page)

“
Alstublieft!
” roared the crew.

“The next word is ‘thankyou', or ‘thank'ee', which is
dank U wel
or
bedankt
...”

 

This notion of the Captain's to bludgeon the crew into obedience with words works wondrously well, thought Blue Peter Ceshwayoo, but I pray that he does not over-use it. If he ever intends to give them lectures in the appreciation of water-colours I shall try and stop him. The sun was hot on his neck, and the still air oppressive, the sky a blue bowl from horizon to horizon. The Captain was still bellowing.

“ ... the Dutch for ‘no' is
nee
, or
neen
in some parts. ‘Yes' is
ja
. After me ...”

 

There was a shout from the mainmast top. Blue Peter was jerked from a reverie about a plump Dutch lady he had once seen in a painting. The look-out at the main-top was pointing.

“Lesson over!” roared the Captain. “Do
any
of yuz lubbers speak any Dutch at all?” A few hands went up. “Yer must stay on deck, then. Enough crew in the rigging to trim sail iffen the wind stiffens, the rest o' yuz below. Cutlasses and guns ready. Cannon loaded and primed, but not run out. And be as quiet as little mice below, d'yuz hear me? As quiet as little mice!”

“Do you intend adopting Lord Mondegreen's stratagem of concealing the crew below decks?” said Blue Peter.

“Well, I do have the advantage that
my
crew will come up when I call them,” said the Captain, “but I would rather convince any corsairs that we are a Dutch ship, and so not their prey. Peter, go and attend to your guns, then come back on deck. Your great size and fine uniform may impress them if we parley.”

“I have no Dutch, Captain.”

“Well then, look shy and mumble. I must go up and see for myself.” The Captain strode from the quarterdeck and jumped up onto the ratlines. Blue Peter was briefly obstructed by the ship's carpenter wrestling the blackboard and easel down the companionway before he could get to the gundeck. The gun-crews were already loading and ramming the cannons, the gun-locks were out of their wooden boxes and fixed to the touch-holes, while the rest of the crew armed themselves in silence broken only by muttered curses and the clink of metal.

When Blue Peter returned on deck Captain Greybagges was climbing down from the shrouds.

“It is Algerines, blast ‘em. A galley. With no wind we cannot even bring the guns to bear. If I launch a longboat to swing her round, then we don't look much like a peaceable Dutch ship that has its protection paid for. I shall have to brazen it out, Peter, unless a wind comes.”

No wind came, and the galley came closer, until Blue Peter could see the massed corsairs on its deck and the glint of the bright sun on their scimitars and breastplates. The oars of the galley moved as one, like the wings of a bird, as it manoevred to approach the frigate from the prow, out of the line of fire of her broadside guns. There is something odd about those Algerines, thought Blue Peter, but I cannot place what it is exactly.

When the galley bumped gently into the becalmed frigate, its low rakish silhouette sliding easily under the bowsprit, corsairs clambered over the forepeak rail and flooded onto the ship. Captain Greybagges, Blue Peter and Bulbous Bill stood on the quarterdeck. An enormous corsair bearing a huge
tulwar
and a ferocious grin led the boarding-party up the steps to the quarterdeck and stood before them. They have no beards, thought Blue Peter, that is what is odd. They have turbans, curved scimitars and baggy pants, but they are all clean-shaven.

“Goed middag, heeren! Hoe ik u kan helpen?” said Captain Greybagges affably.

“Spraak-je ‘
Scheveningen
!'” commanded the huge corsair, waving his
tulwar
menacingly.

“Wat?
Scheveningen
! Potverdomme! Bent-jou gek?” said the Captain, with surprise.

“Hie zijn en Engelsman!” said a voice, and a pale blue-eyed man stepped from behind the huge corsair.

“Hah! A cursed Englishman!” roared the corsair, waggling the
tulwar
. “Dank U wel, Jan!”

“Ik bent en Nederlander, zeker!” protested the Captain.

“Hah! Nobody but a true Hollander can pronounce the word
Scheveningen
correctly! You are caught, cursed Englishman!” the huge corsair laughed. “Did you think our mighty admiral Suleyman Reis is such a fool? He gives me his own quartermaster,” - the blue-eyed man bowed - “to unmask such pitiful impostures. The Dutch East India Company have paid their
tarifa
, but you have not! Now
you
will pay, ho-ho-ho!”

“You speak English remarkably well,” said the Captain.

“Hah! You think compliments will make me look upon you more kindly!” sneered the corsair captain. “How little you know! My father had an English slave whom he trusted, and the fellow swore that English schools were the best in the world, and so I was sent up to your cursed Eton College. Five years of hell! Drinking! Brutality! Endless dreary sermons! Foul food! Vile infidel depravities! I have loathed the filthy English ever since. You will find no mercy in me, Englishman!”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed the Captain, “I remember you! You were one of the warts who came up to school in my final year! You fagged for Stinky Bodfish!”

“
Bismallah!
I remember you, too ... Greybagges, that is your name ... you clean-bowled the foul cretin Bodfish out for no runs in the House matches, third ball of his first over, middle stump with a wicked slow bouncer! That will not help you! I laughed at the vile Stinky Bodfish when you did that, and he beat me cruelly with a leather slipper, the infidel fiend!”

“He was always a bully and a sneak, that Stinky Bodfish,” said the Captain, shaking his head. “Always creeping around and peaching to the beaks.”

“But wait!” said the corsair captain, “the Greybagges chap at school had fair yellow hair, and yet you have a brown beard!”

“Merely part of the imposture,” said the Captain. He pulled a black handkerchief from his sleeve and rubbed carefully at his long beard. “There, green, can you see? I am not only the Greybagges who took Bodfish's wicket, I am also Greenbeard the pirate.”

“
Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim!
” said the corsair, lowering his huge
tulwar
, looking at the beard with awe. “This is a sad day! The buccaneering exploits of the fearsome Greenbeard are known even here - even as the name of
Abu Karim Muhammad al-Jamil ibn Nidal ibn Abdulaziz al-Berberi
is known in your neck of the woods, I dare say - and that was indeed a wonderful ball you bowled that day! I remember it now! There was so much spin on it that a little puff of dust went out sideways where it bounced and jinked behind foul Stinky's bat ... so I would dearly love to have swopped tales with you over a glass of
serbet
or two, but my thirty-nine pirates and I have sworn a solemn oath to be the greatest thieves on land or sea until all infidels are driven from ... from ... well, from just about everywhere, actually. It's that kind of oath, it goes on a bit, you know? Until then we will not
grow our beards, either. We follow the teachings of our mullah, Ali.”

The corsairs parted, and a man stepped forward as if summoned by those words. He was small and wiry-looking, and his orange turban was the size of a prize-winning pumpkin. His shaven chin was as brown as mahogany, his nose was a blade like an eagle's beak and his eyes were as mad and yellow as a chicken's.

“I am Ali!” he spoke in a light musical voice, red light glinted from the large ruby that he wore on his orange turban. “Too many infidels infest the world! We shall sweep the infidels from the seas, and from the lakes, and from the rivers, and from the ... and from all the rest of the places. Thieving is not thieving if it is from infidels! So we are thieves gladly! We have sworn not to grow beards until the task is done! I, Ali the Barber, have sworn an even mightier oath! I have sworn ...”

He brought out an enormous cutthroat razor and opened it. It was as big as a scimitar.

“I have sworn that I shall shave every man who does not shave himself! I have sworn a mighty oath that it shall be so! So take your choice, captain of dogs, shall you shave yourself, or shall I, Ali the Barber, shave you?”

I have a pistol in my belt, thought Blue Peter, but my coat is buttoned over it. Can I wrench my coat open, ripping off the buttons, and get to the pistol before the big fellow splits me in twain with his
tulwar
? The tension in the hot air seemed suddenly to fizz and crackle. Out of the corner of his eye Blue Peter saw Captain Greybagges's green beard, still with a few patches of brown boot-polish upon it, wave slightly and shiver as though stirred by a breeze. Yet there was no breeze, he thought, and the hairs on the back of his neck lifted.

“You should be very careful before making such terrible oaths,” said Captain Greybagges evenly. “Oaths which you cannot possibly keep.”

“I shall keep this oath! I have sworn so! Your beard will be shaved one way or another!” hissed Ali the Barber, waving the enormous razor from side to side, glints of light sliding along its honed edge.

“That is not what I meant,” said the Captain. “You swore that you would shave the beard of every man who did not shave himself, did you not?”

“I did! I, Ali the Barber, swore that! And it shall be so!”

“But who shaves you, Ali the Barber?” said the Captain, smiling reasonably.

“I shave myself, of course, you infidel fool!”

“But your oath, your mighty unbreakable oath, was that you would shave
every man who
doesn't
shave himself, so how did you shave yourself without breaking the oath?” said the Captain, still smiling reasonably.

“I, Ali, ...” The mad yellow eyes under the orange turban crossed slightly in thought. The thirty-nine corsairs and the corsair captain looked at each other in consternation.

“That's ... that's nothing but a mere quibble!” shouted Ali at last.

“No, it is not,” said the Captain. “You have broken your oath! Your mighty oath is broken and meaningless! You swore that you would shave every man who
did not
shave himself, then you shaved
yourself
and made your mighty oath into a lie!”

“I, Ali, do
not
shave myself. I get my servant to do it! I forgot that!”

“But then,” said the Captain, again smiling reasonably, “you
should
have shaved yourself, because you swore to shave every man who did not shave himself, did you not?”

“I, Ali, ...” the yellow eyes were now
very
crossed in frantic thought.

The captain of corsairs was looking down at Ali the Barber appraisingly, his lips pursed and his brow furrowed in thought.

“Captain Greybagges would seem to have the right of this,” he said slowly. “Ali, you have misled us, I fear ...”

 

 

“Are you sure you would not like a glass of fruit juice, Abu?” asked the Captain. He and the captain of the corsairs were seated comfortably in the Great Cabin, in the shade, by the open stern-windows.

“No, Captain Greybagges,” said the big corsair, “a glass of cool beer will be perfect. Anyway, I find I am disillusioned with oaths and pledges just now. Call me Muhammed, if you will.
Abu
is more of a courtesy title, meaning ‘father'.”

“By all means, Muhammed. Please call me Sylvestre. We are no longer up at Eton, thank God, and need not use our sire-names.”

There was a high-pitched shriek from the deck above, followed by a rumble of laughter.

“What are your men doing to the fellow?” asked the Captain, pouring beer carefully into his tilted glass.

“They are shaving his ... his
body hair
with his own razor,” said the corsair,
leaving the last drops of beer in the bottle so as not to disturb the yeast-lees at the bottom. “Mmm, this is good ale! I haven't drunk its like since I left England. Your fellows are watching, and giving encouragement and advice. When they have had their fun I shall find an oar for him to pull. I dislike being made to look a fool.”

“Ali the Barber speaks English very well,” said the Captain.

“Winchester College,” said the corsair.

“A Wykehamist! Why am I not surprised?” said the Captain.

“Yes, indeed! As some wise cove once said; ‘You can always tell a Wykehamist, but you can't tell him anything much'.” Muhammed al-Berberi, the captain of corsairs, sipped his beer and smiled the wolfish smile of a Barbary pirate, his teeth white against his sunburned face.

 

 

In the gloom of the gundeck Blue Peter was facing a minor mutiny, his gun-crews wished to go on deck and view Ali the Barber's humiliation.

“Gun-crews never see anything! It goes with the job, you know that, you lubbers! There's nothing to see through a gun-port except the side of another ship and clouds of smoke! Anyway, you've seen a fellow getting his nadgers shaved before. We do it to somebody every time we cross the Equator, don't we?”

In the end Blue Peter allowed the youngest gunners and the powder-monkeys to go on deck, but the remaining crew must stow the gun-locks, stopper the touch-holes with spiles and the bores with greased tompions, lash down the guns and sweep and water the deck first. Thorvald Coalbiter, a Dane from the Faeroe Islands, master of the starboard number-three gun
Tordener
, was still aggrieved, as he had wished to see the giant razor. Blue Peter made safe the powder-magazine, locked the copper-sheathed door then took the lantern from its glazed box on the magazine bulkhead and blew it out. He went on deck. The freshly-shaven Ali was being manhandled over the rail into the galley. The corsairs and the pirates were socialising warily, and bartering Ali's clothes and possessions. A corsair was washing suds and hairs from the giant razor in a bucket. He wiped it dry, oiled it and put it in a velvet-lined box. Blue Peter had a thought.