Greenbeard (9781935259220) (13 page)

“Ali the Barber will not be needing that anymore, I think,” he said to the corsair. The corsair had no English, so Blue Peter repeated it in Swahili, and was answered with a nod. After some negotiation Blue Peter acquired the huge razor
for five
gulden
and a bottle of rum, the corsair insisting that the rum was not for drinking, but as liniment for his
baridi yabisi
. Blue Peter had not heard the words before, but the corsair's mimed pain suggested rheumatism. Yes, indeed, thought Blue Peter, liniment to be applied from the inside, but kept a straight face. The corsair stashed the coins in a fold of his sash and the bottle in his baggy shirt.

Blue Peter showed the razor to Thorvald Coalbiter.

“I have never seen one as big as that,” said Thorvald wonderingly. “The engraving is very pretty, isn't it?”

The rectangular blade of the razor was as long as Blue Peter's forearm and as wide as his hand. The black-filled etching on the silver-steel blade showed a hunting scene in rolling countryside, the huntsmen and hounds in the middle distance with sly reynard in the foreground. The other side of the blade was etched with a pattern of curlicues and whorls around the words:

“I think it must have been made to go in a shop window,” said Blue Peter, “as an advertisement of the cutler's skill. It will make a good keepsake for the Captain, and we can use it for the next line-crossing merriments. Neptune's court will have some fun with it, I feel sure.”

Blue Peter folded the blade back into the ebony-and-silver handle and put the razor back in its box.

 

 

“... and the Pipsqueak, what of that little devil?” asked Captain Greybagges.

“Ho! Billy Pitt! The fellow acquired a taste for old port wine and got gout! Only fifteen and he got gout!” said Muhammed, shaking his head.

“He always was an adventurous little scallywag.” The Captain sipped his beer.

“Indeed! Pluck of a lion. Crafty as a fox, too. He was forever reading
Demosthenes in Greek, looking for tips. The
Philippics
mainly, as I recall.”

There was a knock on the door, and Bulbous Bill entered with the blue-eyed corsair. Bill's meaty hand rested on the Hollander's shoulder in a friendly way, but the corsair looked rattled nonetheless.

“I thought I'd bring
myneer
Janszoon down here, Cap'n. The crew was miffed he tricked you, like, and wished to shave him, too,” fluted Bill.

“Sit you down, mister Janszoon! That was indeed a wily ploy!
Scheveningen!
” the Captain chuckled. “A shibboleth, ‘pon my word, and I am caught alike to an Ephraimite! Does it indeed work for all who are not Dutch?”

“
Ja
,
kapitein
, even for Germans, who are by us in speech.” The Dutchman grinned uneasily.

“I do love a subtle stratagem!” said the Captain. “Do not quake so! We captains of buccaneers do not bear grudges! We do not have the time for ‘em, we be too busy killin' people! Har-har! ... Jake! Bring some Hollands
jenever
for the quartermaster of Suleyman Reis!”

The Dutchman did not look entirely reassured, and downed the gin in one gulp.

“The wind do seem to be stiffening, too, Cap'n,” said Bulbous Bill.

“Get the jacks back up the masts, then, Bill,” said the Captain.

“In that case I shall go to my ship,” said Muhammed al-Berberi, “but I will escort you into the port of Sfax myself, if you will permit me, and please consider my house to be your house for as long as you shall stay.”

They went up on deck. Bulbous Bill started shouting orders to the foremast jacks. Jan Janszoon stayed warily close to the corsair captain.

“What do you seek in Sfax, Sylvestre?” the corsair captain asked. “I do not wish to appear inquisitive, but perhaps I may be able to aid you.”

“I wish to ransom a fellow from slavery. A Mr Frank Benjamin,” the Captain said.

The captain of corsairs nodded, then went to board his galley. The Dutch corsair hung back for a moment.

“The false name of your disguised ship, ‘
Groot Ombeschaamheid
,' is chosen well,
kapitein
.” The Dutchman smiled, then ran to catch up with Muhammed al-Berberi.

The wind was playful; gusting airs and small calms. The frigate would lead for a time, then the breeze would wane, its sails would flap, and the galley would pull ahead. As the ships passed the crews would shout cat-calls, and Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges and Muhammed al-Berberi exchanged friendly insults from their quarterdecks.

“If it were not for the slaves a galley would be a fine vessel,” said the Captain admiringly. “They do indeed resemble a large bird in slow flight, as the ancient Greek coves used to say.”

“The Greek triremes of old had hand-picked crews of volunteers,” said Blue Peter. “If Thucydides wrote truly, then they could top eleven knots, and keep that up for a whole day and a night. The port of Piraeus to the island of Melos in twenty-four hours.”

“I ain't fussed ‘bout that Ali the Barber a-pulling on an oar, the tom-fool,” piped Bulbous Bill, keeping an eye on the sails.

“Indeed, he was a
klootzak
,” chuckled the Captain, “and now he has a shaved
klootzak
, har-har-har!” He saw his friends' incomprehension. “It means both ‘idiot' and ‘clot-bag' in Dutch, d'you see?”

“Blood and bones! They bain't be funny iffen yez has ta spell ‘em out, Cap'n, and damn me for a lubber, else!” said Israel Feet.

“Arr! Izzie, an' thou art a
klootzak
, too! Get yerself about readyin' the barky to anchor, there be a smudge o' land on the horizon.”

 

 

The pirate frigate
Ark de Triomphe
, masquerading as
VOC schip Groot Ombeschaamheid
, lay at anchor off the port of Sfax. The sun was setting behind the low hills and the first stars twinkled in the deep-blue sky. Captain Greybagges had changed into his customary all-black clothes and wrapped his long green beard in a black scarf, only his face and hands showed clearly in the twilight.

“Hear me, yez lubbers! We be havin' the goodwill of
one
Barbary pirate, mateys, but there be more than one, so I will keeps yuz gussied-up as Dutchmen whilst we be in these waters, and yez shall keep a sharp look-out, too. The Master Gunner has not drawn the charges from the guns, and yez will surely have espyed that we be not in the inner harbour, drawn up at the quay alike to a pie on a window-ledge, so yez can see that I be not a trustin' sort of cully. Yez'll be not
missin' much by not goin' ashore, as there be no drink there, which being why they corsairs was so eager to buy your'n. If any little boats comes yuz must point muskets at ‘em, not buy dates from ‘em. I must go to parley with Muhammed al-Berberi. Keeps yer eyes peeled!”

Captain Greybagges waited while Loomin' Len Lummocks and the crew of bully-boys lowered a keg of beer into the longboat, then clambered down the side of the ship. There was a splash of oars and the longboat rowed away to Sfax. Blue Peter, leaning on the quarterdeck taffrail, watched them go. In the gathering gloom he could just make out the longboat tying up at the harbour wall, the bullyboys passing up the keg, then the darkness became too profound.

 

The Master Gunner, the sailing-master and the First Mate were sitting at a folding table on the foredeck drinking
chocolatl
and playing Puff-and-Honours with a deck of greasy dog-eared cards when Captain Sylvstre de Greybagges returned. The first bell of the middle watch had just struck, a muffled
bong
as the clapper was muffled with a rag; half past midnight a low whistle from the mainmast look-out told them a boat was approaching, then two whistles told them it was the Captain's longboat. Captain Greybagges joined them at the card-table and unwrapped the black cloth from his green beard. Mumblin' Jake brought him a mug of
chocolatl
. He laced it with a splash of rum and stirred it.

“Jake, gives Len and his bully-boys a mug o' this, and a double tot o' rum, when they has stowed the longboat.”

The Captain took off his belt and black coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, placing his cutlass and pistols within easy reach.

“Shall I deals yer a hand, Cap'n?” said Bulbous Bill, shuffling the pack.

“Nay, Bill. I shall be for me bunk arter I sits awhile.” Captain Greybagges yawned, slapped at a mosquito. “Muhammed al-Berberi is a fine gentleman, but still a slaver at heart, I fear. He wished to purchase the ship's carpenter from me.”

“Har-har! Hello, sailor! Wi' a curse!” chuckled Israel Feet.

“No, I do not believe he is of that persuasion, else he could o' gotten Mr Chippendale for a bunch o' flowers an' a shy smile,” said the Captain. “He cannot see a pair o' mighty arms an' wide shoulders alike to Chips and not wish to see ‘em chained to an oar, is what. To see a man as though he were a horse be a failin', I finds, especially these days. When I were a brief I would have sold him,
an' laughed as I spent the money, but a man changes as he do age, he do indeed.” The Captain shook his head. “Muhammed is fine company, mind yez, he is fond o' an ale and he has a great love o' cricket, so I cannot find it in my heart to mislike him at all.”

“Cricket be damned,” said Bulbous Bill, dealing cards. “Did you sees any o' them hareem ladies, wif the baggy pants o' gauze and them curly-toes shoes, Cap'n?”

“Not a one. The only fellas allowed into the hareem be eunuchs, o' course, so's I thought it best not to pry. We was mostly talkin' business, anyways.” The Captain drained his mug. “I be for me bunk. Keep look-outs posted, an' check that they be awake. Goodnight to yuz.”

 

 

Captain Greybagges awoke suddenly, for no reason it seemed, a little before the change to the morning watch. Half-past three, by the
pings
of his repeater, he replaced the Breguet on the night-stand. A sense of unease prevented him from sleeping again. He got out of the hanging bunk, buckled his belt over his black nightshirt, slid two pistols into it then grabbed his cutlass and another pistol. As he went up the companionway he reached down and tapped on Blue Peter's cabin door with the tip of the cutlass.

He padded swiftly up the steps. In the dim glow of the stern-lantern he saw Israel Feet laying face-down on the quarterdeck, a figure in dark clothes crouched over him, preparing to hit him again with a club. Captain Greybagges shot him in the head, and he fell down. Other dark figures swarmed the decks. Captain Greybagges threw down the discharged pistol and ran down the steps from the quarterdeck, roaring, brandishing his cutlass and grappling at his belt for another pistol. Behind him came the sound of bare feet slapping the deck and Blue Peter joined him, armed to the teeth. They both fired pistols into the silent crowd; there was a cry, and also a
clang
, and a ricochetting ball whirred past the Captain's ear. They charged at the dark-clad men, and there was a brief melee, then their opponents seemed to vanish over the side of the ship like rats. The pirate crew of the
Ark de Triomphe
suddenly erupted from hatches carrying lanterns, muskets, pikes and cutlasses.

“Quiet, you lubbers!” roared Captain Greybagges. The crew were quiet.
From the dark there was the faint sploshing of muffled oars. The Captain pointed.

“There! Fire!” he said, raising a pistol. There was a crackle of musketry, and several shouts and a
clang
from the dark.

“Cease fire! They be too far now.”

 

On the quarterdeck Bulbous Bill Bucephalus was crouched over Israel Feet. He carefully turned him onto his side. The First Mate's eyes were shut, and there was a dribble of blood on the deck.

“He breathes. I better get him below,” said the sailing-master, “it be too dark to see up here.”

He picked the unconscious First Mate up in his arms, and carried him gently, resting on his substantial stomach, down the quarterdeck steps.

“Where is the fellow I shot?” asked the Captain. “I shot him in the head.”

“Those fellows were wearing black turbans over steel helmets, I think,” said Blue Peter. “You may have only stunned him.”

“If I had shot the sod with your long-barrelled Kentucky pistol, Peter, he would be laying there still.”

“Indeed, it is a lucky gun.” Blue Peter handed the pistol to the Captain and pointed. There was a bright silver gouge deep into the blue'd metal of the lock. “One of those fellows ducked down, and came up at me from below with a rapier. The gun was in my sash, and it struck and caught on the lock-plate.”

“A lucky gun, indeed!” said the Captain, turning it in his hands.

“When the fellow lunged he looked up at my face to see my moment of death, the dog, and I saw his blue eyes. It was Jan Janszoom.”

The Captain was quiet for a while.

“Jan Janszoom van Haarlem, also known as Murat Reis,” he said. “That makes sense. I won Muhammed al-Berberi's goodwill today - or yesterday, rather - but Janszoom will not be well pleased, nor will his master Suleyman Reis. If he wishes to be Salomo de Veenboer once more, and have his morning
jenever
and coffee on Warmoesstraat, then he will not appreciate us wicked buccaneers masquerading as Dutchmen on his patch. It complicates matters. Also, I wish to ransom Frank Benjamin from him. If this little caper had succeeded he would have Mr Benjamin
and
the ransom
and
my ship
and
my crew
and
me as well, to ask politely why I wanted Mr Benjamin in the first instance. I should have seen this
coming.”