Greenbeard (9781935259220) (40 page)

The old priest turned to Miss Miriam Andromeda Chumbley, and asked:

“
Miri-aam, vis accípere Pee-tar., hic praeséntem in tuum legítimun maritum juxta ritum sanctae matris Ecclésiae?
”

In a loud voice, trembling a little from nerves, Miss Chumbley answered “Volo!”

The priest then blessed them with the sign of the cross, as he said:

“
Ego conjúngo vos in matrimónium. In nominee Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti. Amen!
”

“He says that you are now man and wife!” whispered Captain Greybagges, who was giving away the bride, at her request. “Pass him the ring, Izzy!”

“Bill's got it, ain't he?” replied the First Mate, and there was a brief
sotto-voce
argument between the two before the ring – a gold band with a rose-pink diamond – was found in the First Mate's waistcoat pocket and placed on the bride's finger. Captain Greybagges was ready to say “you may now kiss the bride!” but Blue Peter forestalled him by lifting the new Mrs Ceteshwayoo off her feet and kissing her lovingly, passionately and lingeringly. The pirates roared their approval, cheering repeatedly, cheering so deafeningly that the monkey-birds flapped from their perches in the surrounding jungle and circled overhead, squawking loudly as though adding their approval, too.

Blue Peter thanked the priest in bad Spanish, and slipped a
reale d'or
into his hand as he shook it.

The bride threw her bouquet over her shoulder. The eldest of the island women caught it, and looked at it in surprise.

“Oh, dear!” said Bulbous Bill, wiping away a tear. “Do they not look lovely together, Cap'n!”

It is true, thought Captain Greybagges, they look wonderful. The bride's wedding-dress is not white, but the island women and the old tars have done a magnificent job. You would not guess it was made from cut-up signal flags. It looks very colourful and flattering. A white gown would have looked a little pale and anaemic next to Blue Peter in his finery, but instead she out-shines him like a firework display. A prancing Froggie dressmaker from Paris itself could not have
stitched her a better one from the silks of Cathay. And the island women have done her proud, too! They look just right as bridesmaids, all in those nice boxy dresses with the wide sleeves –
kimonos
, did they call ‘em? – even with those sticks in their piled-up hair, alike to knitting-needles in balls of wool.

Blue Peter and his bride were walking among the crowding pirates, Blue Peter accepting handshakes and good wishes and Miriam offering her cheek for good-luck kisses. Captain Greybagges looked around and caught the eye of the cook and raised an eyebrow. The cook, attending to the barbecue, a white chef 's hat jammed on his head, nodded happily and waved a huge carving-knife.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” roared the Captain, clapping his hands. “The victuals are ready! Let the
boucan
begin!”

Somebody pushed a tankard of iced rum-punch into his hand, and was gone before he could turn and thank them. He sipped it, and smacked his lips appreciatively. Behind him a violin struck up a sprightly jig. A concertina joined it, followed by a fife and a drum catching the tune and embroidering upon it, and a small ripple of applause and catcalls, ironic but cheerful, told him that somebody had started dancing.

 

 

“Curse and damn it!” snarled Captain Greybagges. “Why must the damned-and-blasted breeze be so bloody contrary? On this of all days, too!”

The wind, light and steady, had been on-shore since dawn, keeping the pirate frigate
Ark de Triomphe
trapped in the almost-circular Nombre Dios Bay. Everything had now been done that could be done. The last action had been at midday; the sinking of the emptied husk of the ‘scallop-shell' to the bottom of the bay once again, and the towing of the raft to the shore for the local people to use as they wished. The ship was ready, the crew were ready – despite more than a few sore heads from the previous night's
boucan
– and the Captain was certainly ready, yet the wind defied them all. The
Ark de Triomphe
swung by a single anchor, her bow pointed toward the open sea, her sails hanging loosely on the yards waiting to catch the puff of wind which would push her out of the bay and away from land.

As the Captain stomped grumpily up and down the quarterdeck, Blue Peter tried to compose his features into a stern expression. He had already done so many times that day, but at even the tiniest distraction – a seagull crying overhead,
a sudden squawking of the monkey-birds in the distant jungle, a laugh from some foremast-jack in the rigging – his face would instantly rearrange itself into a look of the most fatuous and idiotic happiness.

The night before at sunset when he and his new bride had attempted to slip away from the
boucan
to his cabin on the frigate they were waylaid before he could launch the skiff from the beach. Torvald Coalbiter and a party of gunners had respectfully asked the couple to accompany them, as they had a small wedding-present they wished to present, begging your pardons
most
kindly. It would have been churlish to refuse, so he and the newly-minted Mrs Miriam Ceteshwayoo had grudgingly gone with them. Torvald Coalbiter had led them along a narrow jungle-path, until they had come to a clearing where there was, to Blue Peter's amazement, a cottage in the Spanish style. “It was the Spanish governor's, until the town was abandoned,” explained Coalbiter. “Me and the lads found it when we was out a-hunting for the jungle-fowl, and we've cleaned it up for you both as best we could.” The gunners had indeed ‘cleaned it up'; the thick undergrowth had been hacked back, the
stucco
walls whitewashed and the roof repaired with split-wood shingles, all with thorough-going nautical efficiency. Torvald Coalbiter had ceremoniously ushered them in through the yellow-painted front door. The rooms were lit with oil-lamps and the waxed parquet floors gleamed in their glow. A mahogany dresser held covered dishes of food “for you and the lady to partake of a late supper, if you wish” and a dining-table had settings for two places with silver cutlery, crystal glasses and a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice (the ordinary wooden bucket had been ruthlessly scrubbed and waxed like the floor, its iron hoops polished, and would not have shamed the Palace of Versailles). While an enchanted Miriam had admired the
décor
, distracted by the vases of fresh flowers and the thin white canvas swagged over the windows, Torvald Coalbiter opened a door of oiled oak and indicated the bedroom. Through the doorway Blue Peter saw an imposing canopied four-poster bed, with clean white sheets tucked in and turned down with geometrical precision. Torvald Coalbiter whispered discreetly: “The side-chamber has a wash-stand and the heads, which is alike to a throne. You must lift the seat to find the pot, and there is another pot in the little cupboard. We gunners shall keep watch outside so nothing shall disturb you and your lady.” And then he and the gunners had removed themselves, vanishing almost magically, silently closing the front door behind them.

Alone in the cottage, Blue Peter and Miriam had regarded each other with serious expressions, until Blue Peter grinned and pulled back a chair: “Will you be seated for the feast, my lady?” he had said, with mock servile unctuousness. Miriam had grinned back at him, curtsied and settled herself on the chair as he slid it forward. “Will you now take a glass of champagne with me, gracious lady?” he had whispered in her ear, before kissing her neck gently.

 

 

“Peter, you seem to be a-practicing for a gurning contest, such as village yokels do when they make faces through a horse-collar to see who can look the silliest.” Captain Greybagges drew a hand over his face. “Oh, sod it! I do apologize! I am strung tighter than a fiddle-string! I wish to get away from here. I am
gravid
with eagerness! I am
with child
with impatience for us to be on our way! I do apologise for my unpleasantness of speech, Peter, sincerely I do!”

“There'll be a seaward wind after sunset, you may lay to that Cap'n,” said Bulbous Bill Bucephalus, who was by the wheel with Mr Benjamin, explaining the parts of the new binnacle to two of the old pirates and two of the new pirates; the old chief steersmen and two trainees.

Captain Greybagges went to answer, but a cry from the maintop look-out interrupted him; “A sail, Cap'n! A sail! A sail to east-by-nor'-east!
A sail!
”

The Captain stood stock-still for a moment, then called down to the waist:

“First Mate! Go you up the mainmast and have a butchers! Here, take my spy-glass, and don't drop the damn thing!”

Israel Feet took the Dolland telescope in its leather case and slung the strap over his shoulder then went up the rigging as agile as a monkey. Captain Greybagges drummed his fingers on the larboard rail, frowning as he stared at the horizon through the mouth of the bay.

“What does ‘a butchers' mean, Captain?” said Blue Peter, to ease the tension on the quarterdeck.

“It is the cockaignie rhyming-slang, Peter. ‘Butcher's hook' rhymes with ‘look', and long use has shortened it, and the desire to be even more opaque, of course, because it is thieves' cant.” The Captain gave Blue Peter a bleak smile.

“Cap'n!” the First Mate's voice came down from the maintop. “Tain't no fat merchantman, I do lay to that! The sails and rig has themselves a rakish swagger
to my eyes, paste me like bloater if I speaks untrue!”

“Keep the glass upon it, Izzy!” roared the Captain at the maintop, and in a lower voice; “Peter, Bill, Frank, we will prepare for action, if you please. Peter, guns loaded and primed, both sides, but not yet run out, deck guns loaded, too, but no hostile signs to show, the crews to lie flat besides the carronades to stay out of sight, if they must. Bill, two men with axes ready to cut the anchor-cable on my word -
only upon my word
, mark you! - and the longboat, with the strongest oarsmen as crew, ready on deck to launch and tow us if need be. Mr Benjamin, ready the sickbay for casualties, if you would be so good. To work, gentlemen!”

 

Any cheerfulness that remained from the previous night's festivities evaporated and was replaced by a sense of impending danger. The crew, even the stupidest, could see that the
Ark de Triomphe
was in a perilous position if the approaching ship was hostile. Caught in an enclosing bay, penned in by a mischievous breeze from the sea, the frigate's options were limited and she was vulnerable to a determined foe.

“This is what I had hoped would not happen,” muttered the Captain. “I knew that if we were here too long some tittle-tattle of our presence would spread, and I thought I had judged things aright, so that we would be gone before anybody came a-sniffing around. Even if no rumour reached the wrong ears there was still the element of chance. Some ship coming here to take on water, or just to anchor overnight, or for whatever reason. Damn!” He roared up to the maintop;

“Izzy! What see you?”

“I think she be a freebooter, Cap'n! She be low over the decks, and the crew be many! She be a-headin' direct toward this bay!”

“Good news, maybe, or bad, depending upon her master,” mused the Captain to Bulbous Bill. “Mind you, if it be …”

The Captain nodded to himself, as though coming to a decision.

“Bill, belay the longboat. Tell the men to re-stow it and send the oarsmen back to their positions. Pray call Mr Benjamin to the quarterdeck, at his earliest convenience.”

Israel Feet called reports down as the ship approached. She was indeed a pirate-ship, beyond all doubt, heavily manned and preparing for a fight, although taking some precautions to conceal her intentions. The First Mate's experienced
pirate's eyes, aided by the spy-glass, saw through the impostures with ease, although a merchant captain might have been fooled easily enough, his own fervent wish for a trouble-free voyage helping him to delude himself.

The pirate-ship was nearly to the entrance of the bay and easily visible from the level of the deck, so Captain Greybagges called the First Mate down from the maintop, told him to arm the crew ready for an engagement, and reclaimed his telescope. He peered through it at the approaching vessel.

“Ah, damn it!” he hissed. “It is Morgan!
Bloody
Captain
bloody
Bloody Morgan, curse the jumped-up Welsh midget! He means us no good, my friends, I am sure!”

Captain Greybagges slammed the telescope shut, and turned to the binnacle.

“Bill, Frank, I had intended to try this out at sea, where we would be alone from horizon to horizon, so that I would not reveal my hand, but my hand is now forced by that odious little Welsh jackanapes, so I shall take that risk! Frank, take your two best men and go below. Close the main shunt from the dodecahedron to connect the electrical fluid. Lock it in place, so it shall not work loose, then cover it again immediately with the wooden case. Wear the thick horsehide gloves at all times, except when removing and replacing the case! Then return back here as quick as you may, in case I need you to fix something. Bill, we have discussed the
theory
of this enough times, but now we must see to the
practice
! Follow my orders to the letter, if you please!”

Captain Greybagges stood next to the binnacle, quivering with impatience. Morgan's ship entered the mouth of Nombre Dios Bay.

“He is an excellent seaman, is Morgan, for all that he is a jumped-up fool! See how he has positioned himself so that he has enough way on his barky to lay it alongside us, even though the on-shore breeze will lessen in the loom of the land! Oh, what a treacherous dog! Now that he is Governor of Jamaica I believe he means to please his new master, King Charles, by sending him our heads!”