“This wharf is new, yet bustling,” Captain Greybagges sipped his ale. “This means that our barky will be less noticed and less remarked upon, especially as the wharfage fees are promptly paid and small gratuities distributed to certain persons of influence. The bustle of the wharf covers the
Ark de Triomphe
in distractions. The distance from the City and the recent construction of the wharf reduces the number of watching eyes with established links to interested parties - London's
flourishing and resourceful criminal underworld, London's quick-witted and venal merchants, London's many spies and government informers, as if one could tell the difference between those classes, or indeed if one was innocent enough to attempt to make such a distinction - The small bribes ensure that at least some of the watching eyes are on our own payroll, at least in theory ...” Captain Greybagges sighed.
“And the watchers that you had me station up and down the quay in shabby clothes, pretending to be idlers and along-shore men, will tip us off to any untoward interest in us,” completed Blue Peter.
“Yes, indeed. Yet we may not remain here too long, Peter, or else some clever soul will wonder why the Dutch East India Company, not known for its prodigality, pays steep daily wharfage fees when there is not much loading or unloading of cargo. We must be away from here in a day, or two at the latest. The crew who are no longer needed are paid off, very handsomely paid off, and happy. They are ashore, but not cast off like an old shoe, and so still feeling part of the pirate brotherhood and not likely to gossip. Some new crewmen, with skills that we shall need, are arriving daily. When the ship's complement is aboard we shall slip away into the sea mists.”
“Where did you find these new recruits? They are mostly young, but already have some sea-going skills and discipline.”
Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges smiled smugly and drained his tankard.
“All apprentice-boys dream of being pirates, Peter. Being young and full of hot blood, do they not wish to romance Spanish
senoritas
, to fight with cutlasses and to fill their pockets with
reales
and
doubloons
and
moidores
? Of course they do! I had some broadsheets printed, copies of the actual ones but with a notice added in the âmen wanted' part asking for apprentice buccaneers. I had them left in the coffee-houses and pie-shops that apprentice-boys frequent. I harvested a fine crop of young fellows â clerks, mechanics, foundrymen, blacksmiths, whitesmiths, tinsmiths, carpenters, printers â and had them practice swordplay and musketry in secret on evenings and weekends. Those that boasted to their friends, despite strict warnings, I dropped. Those who could keep a silent tongue in their heads I moved on to more training in small sailing boats. Some of them I have used to man our Bank of International Export, here and abroad, some to do other work for me ashore, which you will see the fruits of in due course. Many of them are
doing the same jobs that they have always done, but the knowledge that they are now secretly pirates, and a little extra money in their pockets, makes them happy and loyal whereas before they were bored and discontented and hated their masters.”
“I am impressed!” said Blue Peter. “Organising their selection and training cannot have been easy.”
“Indeed not, especially as I had to do much of it by correspondence. I was lucky in my first recruits, though, and they did a lot of the work once they were properly instructed. The biggest problem was finding places for them to practice the arts of war. There are few halls to rent, and apprentice-boys have a reputation for political trouble-making. In the end I bought some vacant buildings and established them as clubs for playing pall-mall. I thus had control of the meeting-places, and a sporting activity as a cloak for comings and goings at odd hours. Pall-mall has become so popular that the clubs even make a fine profit! Ain't life strange?”
“Is it a game, then? I have not heard of it.”
“It is a game played with wooden balls that roll upon a levelled floor of packed earth, struck with long-handled mallets. The Italian for the game is
pallamaglio
, but it's called pall-mall since Londoners talk as though they have a permanent head-cold.”
“I have heard the word, but I thought that it was a street of commerce.”
“Indeed it is, but the street had no name until a covered alley for pall-mall was built there. I don't know why the cockaignies don't say âpall-mall street', though, which would make more sense.” The Captain shrugged and drank some ale, as though dismissing the foibles of Londoners.
“These apprentices, with their varied skills, are required for your plan for revenge upon the extramundane creature, I assume,” said Blue Peter carefully. He had refrained from asking the Captain further questions since their discussion during the banyan day at Porte de Recailles, but the choice of new crewmen with diverse skills had aroused his interest.
“Indeed yes,” replied Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges. “I need to make some alterations to the
Ark de Triomphe
in furtherance of my plan, and they are the fellows to do it, with Frank Benjamin as their overseer and tutor. Mostly the metalworkers and mechanics, of course, not the clerks and book-keepers, who shall stay
ashore and run our banking business. I have retained about ninety of the original crew â I have specifically chosen those who are not afraid of new things, and who are, so to speak, not overly
superstitious
â and with about fifty new fellows we shall be able to get the work done over the coming winter, if all goes well. That gives us a crew smaller than before, but we shall not need so many fighting men and gun-crews as I intend to take no more prizes as we are well in funds, but we shall need excellent smiths. I have ordered and paid for the things that I shall need for the work well in advance, so they shall be ready in a timely fashion.”
“Where will these alterations be done?” asked Blue Peter.
“I have purchased a boatyard, a very suitable boatyard” said the Captain, with a wink that ended further questions.
There was a knock at the door of the Great Cabin.
“Who be it? Damn and blast yer eyes!” roared Captain Greybagges.
“It is ⦠it be ⦠only I, Frank Benjamin,” came a voice through the door.
“Come in then, Frank Benjamin, wi' a curse!” roared the Captain.
Mr Benjamin entered, looking slightly unnerved. The Captain smiled and indicated a chair.
“Excuse me, Frank. There are certain formalities to being a captain of buccaneers, and I did not know it was yourself.”
Mr Benjamin looked relieved and seated himself. Blue Peter grinned at him, his filed teeth gleaming whitely. He took the jug, poured a tankard and gave it to Mr Benjamin.
“There is nothing finer than a good London brew, Frank, provided it has not been watered, which is to say diluted with a small portion of the river Thames.”
“Don't be such an ass, Peter,” laughed the Captain. “Tell me Frank, have you been introducing yourself to the new lads?”
“Indeed I have,” said Mr Benjamin, sipping the ale, “and they are good fellows. Skilled at their trades. Adroit with their hands. Alert in their minds. Full of the fine intelligent curiosity of the mechanic, although I could not sate that yearning, except to tell them that all would be made clear in time.”
“And indeed it will be,” said the Captain, “as indeed will your fine intelligent curiosity also be satisfied, Frank.”
There was a another knock at the door, and Bulbous Bill and Israel Feet entered without waiting for a response. The First Mate's head still had a bandage
around it, but he looked cheerful and pain-free. They helped themselves to ale. Bulbous Bill scowled at the First Mate and went to take the tankard from him.
“Nay, Bill. Mr Feet may surely have a wet of ale if his headaches have diminished. No rum or other spiritous liquors for the present, mind,” said Mr Benjamin.
“Thank'ee kindly,” said the First Mate. “Please do call me Izzy, since you have joined the ship proper-like.” Mr Benjamin nodded in acknowledgement, replying that Izzy must surely call him Frank, as indeed must all of them.
They sipped ale in silence for a while, listening to the noises of the wharf.
“We must away soon. Tomorrow, or the next day at the very latest. Tell me the state of things,” said Captain Greybagges.
The Captain's officers made their reports. New sailcloth and cordage had been delivered, said Bill, but new sheaving-blocks, paint and pitch were still awaited. He had been promised them for tomorrow morning for sure. Israel Feet recounted how he had settled in the new crew, allotted them their watches and messes, told the old hands to show them the ropes and warned them to be sober and careful. The old hands who had been allowed ashore to visit families, wives and girlfriends were all now returned, except for two, and they had sent messages. Blue Peter confirmed that powder and shot had been delivered and stowed safely, and that timber and strap-iron had been brought, too, so that the carpenter could make some small but necessary repairs to the gun-carriages. Mr Benjamin confirmed that the carpenter's stock of fine copper wire had be replenished and that certain tools and equipment had been received, or else were expected on the morrow.
“Well, it seems that we shall depart the day after next,” said the Captain reflectively. “Upon the morning ebb, with luck, in the afternoon, against the tide, if there are any last-minute hitches. Things are nicely ship-shape, so it may be that I shall go ashore myself and grow my beard a little, and you gentlemen must join me, for your company is welcome, and we have seen but little of London's society.”
The others murmurred appreciatively.
“Go and check everything once more. The watchers on the wharf must keep a sharp look-out. Tell Loomin' Len and his boys to come to me for their orders.”
The officers left the cabin.
“Jake!” roared Captain Greybagges. “Come here, and bring the boot-polish!”
Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo lay in his bunk in his tiny cabin in the
Ark de Triomphe
, but sleep would not come easily, despite the food and drink that he had consumed during the afternoon and the gentle rocking of the ship. I do not like London that much, he thought. It may well be the greatest city of the entire Globe, but I am greatly disappointed with it. Perhaps after all I have read, and all the tales I have heard, my expectations were too high. In the Caribbean it is warm, and here it is cold and the the sun hardly shows its face. The nights of the Port de Recailles are made for talking, for music, for dancing, for drinking, for taking one's ease with friends, but here the cold black nights are uncomfortable and threatening. Everybody must be home before dark because of the fear of footpads and the like, and yet the day ends very early. Even if they stay in their own parlours the penny-pinching sods begrudge the cost of a tallow candle. The very rich can carouse through the midnight hours, of course, but they have coaches to take them home, servants to guard them and many bright lights to illuminate their feastings and shindiggeries, the lamps burning that great new luxury, the oil of whales. The night belongs to the thieves, the burglars and the highwaymen as well as to the wealthy, mused Blue Peter, and I suppose I shouldn't mind that, as I am a pirate and so first cousin to them. The growing of the Captain's beard had started on a strange disquieting note, too, he recalled. Israel Feet had declined to come with them at the very last moment; it would be no great pleasure going out upon the fuddle if he could not drink rum, he had said, and someone should stay with the ship, for Loomin' Len had not the wit to deal with the unexpected. If that great roisterer Izzy was seized by a mood of responsible sobriety, even allowing for his convalescent condition, then what was afoot? Indeed there is a serious and sombre mood aboard the barky, especially so given that a new draught of young crew is settling in, and we are after all a pirate ship and freebooters are rarely so sequacious. The surprising atmosphere of discipline that has prevailed since the greening of the Captain's beard must be partly responsible, thought Blue Peter, but there is something else. Even though the Captain says nothing of his plans and there is little discussion of our destination, there is yet a feeling that we are upon a dangerous enterprise. A voyage into the unknown, one might say, and that will make intelligent men thoughtful, and most of the stupid ones have been paid off
and gone ashore to enjoy their shares in the plunderings of the past year.
Mind you, said Blue Peter to himself, the fellow Frank Benjamin was in fine spirits. The coach-ride that took us into the City of London itself would have been a mumpish affair without Frank jesting about yokels losing their hearts to pretty ewes, and hallooing and waving his hat at the country-girls we passed along the road. Once the coach had left the little knot of taverns and warehouses fronting the Pacific Wharf at Rotherhithe they had been rolling through open countryside, rich with fields of crops despite the lateness of the year, the red-brick of the occasional farmhouses standing out against their greenness. That England is what I wished to see, perhaps, mused Blue Peter, the strong bones of Albion. Perhaps it is only London that I don't like. What was it that the wit Sam Johnson called it? âThe Great Wen', that was it. London is not easy to love, despite the fine great dinner we had, and those French wines which were worthy of the well of Hippocrene itself. The Red Cow at Wapping was perhaps a poor choice of tavern, though, being so close to Execution Dock where pirates such as we are hanged, and the tarred corpses of a couple of them hanging from a gibbet almost outside the window of the upstairs room where we dined. Frank Benjamin is a good fellow, thought Blue Peter, as he felt himself falling asleep at last. He was very enthusiastic for the game of pall-mall, there were wooden balls flying everywhere like a cannonade, and none through the hoop. He is an empirical fellow, though, with a passion always to try things out to see what happens, and that is both a curse and a blessing; I must be careful if I ever let him near the guns, for he is sure to ask. Ha! That strutting fool of a bruiser on the door of the Red Cow called me a blackamoor, but Frank snarled at him that he is not as black as your black heart, you whoreson jackanapes, and the bruiser had quailed before the Frank's fiery indignation. Blue Peter smiled, then he started to snore.