Greenbeard (9781935259220) by Richard James Bentley Page A

Dutch armed merchantman, so’s we can travel incognito , and we will disguise the good old Ark de Triomphe tomorrow, whilst in this pleasant anchorage. Then we shall leave, firstly for the port o’ Gabes, and then on to London. Now gets yer rations and fills yer bellies, for yez will have heard enough o’ my yammerin’s, and there is hard work to do on the morrow!”
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    â€œWell, they took that better than I thought they would,” said Blue Peter quietly. He, Bulbous Bill Bucephalus and Israel Feet were sitting in the wardroom,
eating ham-and-egg pie and drinking small beer.
    â€œT’were a fine speech, it were,” said Bulbous Bill in his high squeaky voice. “When Cap’n spoke a’ compound interest an’ leveraging - why! - I ain’t never reely thought-a it like that afore, I have’nt. It do make a person ponder...”
    â€œYer can rip out me liver iffen I follered even the one word, dammee, yer can,” said Israel Hands, munching on pie, crumbs spraying. “The Cap’n do speechify nice as kiss-yer-hand, mind yez, and damn me for a lubber, else! An’ two hunnert an’ fifty guineas be even nicer, har-har!”
    â€œIf yer’d bin a-listening,” said Bill, “then yer’d know yer be gettin’ eight shares. That be two fahsand guineas. Same as me an’ Peter, you bein’ First Mate, an’ all.”
    The First Mate continued chewing for a second, then his face went red and he choked. Blue Peter reached across and slapped him on the back. His huge hand nearly knocked the scrawny First Mate from his chair, and lumps of pork, egg and pastry were expelled from his mouth like buckshot. Blue Peter went to to slap Israel Feet on the back once more, but he raised his hand and shook his head, coughing and spluttering, his thin face red. He recovered somewhat and took a drink of ale.
    â€œTwo thousand guineas!” he whispered, the piratical slang leached from his language by sheer surprise, leaving a soft Dorset accent. “Why, that be enough to buy a baronetcy!” He continued coughing.
    â€œHo-ho! Or a bishop’s mitre, belike to ole Lance, eh? D’yuz recall the cully? Archbishop o’ York he now be, don’t ‘ee,” chuckled Bulbous Bill, his chins and jowls wobbling.
    â€œYou jest!” spluttered Israel Feet.
    â€œNo, Izzie, he speaks the truth, perhaps,” rumbled Blue Peter, smiling. “Lancelot Blackburne - the very reverend Lancelot Blackburne - was the chaplain to a small fleet of privateering ships in the Caribbean, and some say that he himself turned pirate in a discreet way, but I don’t know the truth of that. He is, however, presently the Archbishop of York, and there is talk that he bought his mitre from debonair King Charles with looted gold. We met him once or twice down in Jamaica. He can be pleasant company, but he has a wicked sharp tongue when he is in drink. He is a learned cove, too. Fond of quoting Waller.”
    Blue Peter took a draught of ale to clear his throat, and declaimed:
    â€œSuch game, while yet the world was new,
The mighty Nimrod did pursue;
What huntsman of our feeble race
Or dogs dare such a monster chase?”
    The last lines reminded Blue Peter of the Captain’s tale. He is chasing a monster, he thought, one way or another. Is he sufficiently a mighty Nimrod, though? Another thought struck him; if he is mad, then he is mad like a fox. He bored the crew into acquiescence, and I believe he meant to. He dared them to mutiny, then he stunned them with words, then he gave them a bag of gold, and a bag of gold dependent upon his goodwill, at that. The cleverer members of the crew will be too busy trying to explain the meanings of negotiable instrument and assignat to the slower crewmen to stir up any discontent. That is what they are doing right now, I am sure.
    â€œTwo thousand guineas! Archbishop o’ York, wi’ a