by Hunt N. Peck
Chapter the Thirteenth, or The Return To Nombre Dios Bay.
Captain Greybagges stood on the stony beach of the Elizabeth River. The Ark de Triomphe rode in the sluggish flow anchored bow-and-stern, with steadying kedges port-and-starboard the bows in a seamanlike fashion. The longboat which had brought him ashore was tying up by its side, the oarsmen climbing the cleat-ladder to the gangway hatch. Captain Greybagges shook the drips from his manhood, stowed it back in his breeches and buttoned up. A distant muted cheer came from the pirate frigate.
“Arr! Damn yer eyes, yer lubbers! Yer cap’n must piddle, same as all o’ yuz, curse yuz! Get on wi’ yer work, yer slackers! I sees a man neglectful o’ his duties, I’ll have his backbone for a walking-stick! Wi’ a wannion, by my green beard, I will!” Captain Greybagges roared, scowling. The pirates returned to their tasks with a good-humoured mutter. In truth, he was not displeased with them. During the two days he had been absent in Salem the crew had not given in to the temptations of the flesh and had remained sober. Not entirely sober, he was sure, as a wealth of circumstantial evidence suggested that the crew had entered into commercial dealings with the good citizens of Jamestown; empty bottles incompetently concealed from sight, the cook simmering a vast cauldron of beef stew, fresh beef and not salt-horse. Nevertheless, at no time had the ship been left unguarded it seemed, nor had any inebriated foolishness drawn attention to the ship.
“I do believe that you did that a-purpose!” said Mr. Benjamin. “Widdle in the river to attract their attention, then shout at them, to remind them that you are the captain and that you are back.”
“And to keep them hard at it,” said the Captain. “Time presses upon me now. I like your choice of name, by the way.”
The crew were once again disguising the pirate frigate as a Dutch trader. Canvas strips taut above the ship’s rails raised the height of her hull in profile, so that her silhouette against the sea or sky would be plump and complacent, not rakishly low and lean. Painted canvas tacked over the carved and gold-leafed ‘Ark de Triomphe’ on her prow and transom now gave a name more appropriate to a ship of the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie, sailing out of Amsterdam. The crew were once again wearing the red-and-grey matrozenpak jacket and wide trousers of the VOC. The people of Jamestown courteously gave them little heed, except for a handful of idlers, who were easily frightened away from the beach by the stratagem of offering them paid work.
“A pirate captain must not have too much dignity, Frank,” said the Captain, “although he does have need of much authority.”
They walked up the beach, gravel crunching under their boots.
“There are many tricks and dodges to the management of men,” said Mr Benjamin, “and many tricks and dodges to most things, I find. I have a mind to publish a sort of a journal, where such wrinkles may be presented in a humorous way.”
“Do you yet have a name in mind for this journal, Frank?”
“Well, maybe something like ‘Humble Harry’s Handbook’. That might serve, giving the impression of a farmer’s almanac for those who lack a farm.”
“Um, how about ‘Mean Michael’s Manual?”
“Or ‘Grudging George’s Guidebook’?”
“Hah! How about ‘Earnest Edward’s Ephemeris’?”
“Damn you! … Ah! … ‘Vulgar Vincent’s Vade Mecum’, top that, if you can!”
“I confess myself bested, Frank.”
“Well, perhaps alliteration is not a good thing for the title of such a tract, smacking as it does of excessive cleverness. My intention is to attract readers among the common people, not repel them by exercising my wit in an ostentatious and pompous fashion.”
The two arrived at the Wahunsunacock’s Mantle tavern. They sat a a table in the window, drinking strong coffee and eating flat cakes made with cracked oats, pork-dripping and molasses.
“These are surprisingly good,” said Mr Benjamin, taking another. “I suspect that they contain too much sustenance for a mere snack. They are to keep body and soul together when travelling the woods, or voyaging the rivers, as in Richard Bonhomme’s tales.”
“You may be right, Frank. The cook here says they should not be eaten when freshly baked, for they improve by being kept for a day or so. The bacon-fat may then soak into the hard oats, you see, making the cakes softer in texture and less oleaginous.”
“When will your Dutchman come?”
“Before noon, I hope. I have had word from him. A game of cards while we wait, perhaps?”
“As long as we shall not play that accursed Puff-and-Honours, Sylvestre, for it is an uncouth game suitable only for low types in thieves’ rookeries.”
“I see that Izzy and Bill have lightened your purse, Frank. Shall we play whist, then, like civilised old gentlemen?”
The Captain dealt the cards, and took another oatcake.
The Dutchman departed, his purse made heavier by a number of clinking gold reales d’or, and Captain Greybagges surveyed his purchase; four women from an island far away in the Pacific. They had black hair tied tightly back, slanted black eyes and jolly round faces, and were dressed in the jacket and trousers of common sailors. Their clothes were far cleaner than a common sailor’s, however, the canvas scrubbed to an almost bleached whiteness. Their small feet wore sandals of leather and woven hemp.
The eldest woman was seemingly in her thirties, although it was difficult to guess their precise ages as the pale-brown skin of their faces was unmarked by wrinkles or laugh-lines. She spoke passable Dutch, despite pronouncing ‘r’ as ‘l’, and the Captain conversed with her easily as they walked to the riverside. Mr Benjamin said little, although he appeared fascinated by them. The Captain reassured the eldest woman that he undertook to return them to their homeland when they had finished their work for him, and that they would be well rewarded in either gold or silver, as they wished. The eldest woman regarded him with shrewd eyes, then nodded her agreement and turned and spoke to her companions in an incomprehensible jabber. They replied in high fluting voices. The elder woman informed the Captain that the Dutchman was a vile grease-rag and a clot-bag and that they were all glad to be rid of him at last. He had attempted several times to have his way with the youngest of them when he was drunk, but that she had dissuaded him from such impertinence by kicking him in the balls, which had made his blue eyes, his most unnatural and devilish blue eyes, bulge out of his head in an agreeably comical fashion. The Captain replied graciously that although he had grey eyes and that many of his crew had blue eyes they were not devils and that he would see that the women were treated with respect at all times. Furthermore, he said the women were now temporary members of the crew, but part of the crew nonetheless, and that any such disrespect would be against the laws of his ship and swiftly punished by common agreement. The eldest woman conveyed this to the others in a rattling burst of their language, and they all nodded solemnly in unison.
The longboat ran aground on the beach. Captain Greybagges stepped forward to assist the four women into the boat, but they smilingly dodged him and hopped over the gunwales with the spryness of seasoned sailors, only the eldest accepting a helping hand from Loomin’ Len in the bows, solely from queenly courtesy, apparently, as she was as nimble as the others. The Captain and Mr Benjamin followed, Mr Benjamin requiring a discreet heft from the huge hand of Loomin’ Len on his coat-collar, the river sloshing around his boots as the longboat slid backwards into the stream.
As the longboat pulled towards the Ark de Triomphe Captain Greybagges heard a female voice shouting, its tone jagged with anger. The Captain glanced at the oarsmen; they looked stolidly to their front and gave no sign they heard anything. He turned to Mr Benjamin and raised an eyebrow.
“Um, it sounds like Miss Chumbley, perhaps?” said Mr Benjamin. “Oh, but she has a fine grasp of the vernacular! Who would have thought a young lady would know such words? … Good Lord! Now she curses in Dutch, too! What does ‘zwakzinnige’ mean?”
“A mentally-deficient person, or moron,” said the Captain. The longboat bumped against the side of the frigate. The eldest of the island women seemed to be suppressing a smile, but it was difficult to tell as her unlined brown face was impassive. Captain Greybagges stepped from the longboat and hauled himself up tumblehome of the frigate’s side by the cleat-ladder.
Miss Chumbley stood upon the quarterdeck, a small plump package of fury shaking her fist at the sky, her face as red as fire and her blonde sausage-curls quivering like brass springs. Captain Greybagges looked up and saw Blue Peter high up the mizzenmast, squatting on the topsail yard crosstrees, looking glum and agitated. Miss Chumbley took in a deep breath to continue shouting, but the Captain cleared his throat noisily.
“Ahem! Good morning, Miss Chumbley! I am happy to see you in such fine spirits …”
Miss Chumbley turned to him, and for an instant he thought that she would abuse him, too, as her blue eyes glowed with sparkling blue anger, but the eyes crossed slightly as caution took hold, and she breathed out slowly, lowering her fists.
“Captain Greybagges, I must apologise. I am behaving improperly.”
She said the words easily, but the Captain still faintly heard her teeth gritting. She does not like to apologise, he thought, but is practised in doing so.
“No matter, Miss Chumbley. You are not yet used to our ways by ship and by sea, and did not know that the quarterdeck is out-of-bounds even when the captain is not aboard. Also, I must have my Master Gunner back on deck, as there is but little for him to do up there in the rigging. I trust that your … ah … disagreement may be discontinued until a more appropriate time?”
“Yes, Captain,” said Miss Chumbley, with surprising meekness but with her winsome smile holding a hint of clenched teeth. A happy thought came to the Captain.
“Miss Chumbley. You speak Dutch well.”
“Ik praat en beetje, Kapitan.”
“As you are now a member of the crew I may perhaps presume to give you some work to do, may I not?”
Miss Chumbley nodded warily. The Captain turned around to find the four island women standing behind him.
“These ladies are now also part of the crew, yet they speak no English. However, the chief of them speaks Dutch. Will you minister to their needs for me? See the First Mate, Mr Feet, and the ship’s carpenter, Mr Chippendale, and get them to rig a private cabin where five hammocks may be slung, and see them settled comfortably there. That will create a women’s quarters. You may bunk there if you wish, and shall report to me upon any impudence or attempted lewdnesses by the crew, such as may be occasioned by conceitedness, the boldness of drink or linguistic misapprehensions.”
“Yes, I will do that, Captain,” said Miss Chumbley, after a moment’s consideration. Captain Greybagges smiled and gestured for her to lead the island women from the quarterdeck. They filed down the companionway to the waist. Once they were clear Mr Benjamin came up the companionway steps, still red in the face from clambering up from the longboat.
“I am impressed, Captain,” said Mr Benjamin. “You turn an advantage from the most unpromising circumstances.”
“Thank’ee, Frank, but I can claim no cunning plan. One thing does puzzle me, though …” Mr Benjamin raised an eyebrow. “… and that is why the crew did not behave as though they were at a boxing-booth and encourage Miss Chumbley with catcalling and applause. They were silent.”
“Perhaps they were afraid to attract her attention and so attract the lash of her tongue to themselves,” said Mr Benjamin.
“Perhaps we wuz listening too appreciatively, like, bein’ attentive to hear if she would not repeat herself, har-har!” said Bulbous Bill, who had come up the companionway ladder as they talked.
Blue Peter swung himself down onto the quarterdeck from the mizzen ratlines, a sheepish look upon his face.
“Well, gentlemen, now we are all present. Let us then prepare for sea, for the tide goes on the ebb in two hours, and I wish to be at the mouth of the Elizabeth River by then, setting a course out of Chesapeake Bay.”
The sun shone down on Nombre Dios Bay, a brassy glare that glinted hotly from the small ripples of the water, the fading remains of the waves of the Caribbean Sea which entered the north-facing mouth of the nearly-circular bay. The frigate Ark de Triomphe lay at anchor off the beach on the western side of the bay. The beach itself was a-bustle with determined activity, groups of pirates labouring in the hot sun, the lighter-skinned members of the crew wearing straw hats and shirts to ward off its harsh rays, the darker-skinned stripped to the waist and gleaming with sweat. The thunk of axes could be heard from the jungle inland. A party of at least a score of pirates emerged onto the beach carrying an entire tree-trunk on their shoulders, their slow synchronised shuffling steps resembling the movements of a centipede’s legs.
“The raft will be finished by this time tomorrow, Captain, no later,” said Mr Benjamin, wiping sweat from his face with a large linen handkerchief. Captain Greybagges nodded. “We shall need kedges placed further out in the bay,” continued Mr Benjamin, “for the raft is heavy and the frigate may drag her anchors when we use the capstan to haul it off the beach.”
“Yes, that would be wise,” said the Captain. He walked to the seaward side of the quarterdeck. The longboat was in the centre of the bay, and the island women were diving from it, almost naked except for a skimpy breechclout. They stayed underwater for a surprising length of time, but seemed perfectly happy when they re-surfaced, laughing and chattering and not at all short of breath. The Captain watched them through a telescope; the bully-boys manning the longboat’s oars had prim expressions upon their faces, and averted their gaze from the women’s breasts, which made the Captain smile briefly.
“They resemble seals, do they not?” said Mr Benjamin, his eyes glittering lecherously behind his pince-nez spectacles.
“A little,” conceded Captain Greybagges, snapping the telescope shut.
“It is their muscularity, and the sleek covering of fat which softens the female outline, whether they be divers or not.”
“Do not lust, Frank!” laughed the Captain, “or you may get a knee in your cobblers, as their Dutchman did, who was also surprised by their muscularity.”
“Cobblers?” said Mr Benjamin.
“No, it is perfectly true,” said the Captain. After a pause he took pity on Mr Benjamin. “The word ‘cobblers’ means ‘testicles’ in the rhyming language of the London Cockaignies. ‘Cobbler’s awls’ rhyming with ‘balls’, and also meaning ‘nonsense’, in some contexts.”
“Oh, I see,” said Mr Benjamin, looking hot and irritated.
“Frank, it is very hot. Will you not shed that thick broadcloth coat and your wig? Your face is as red as a beetroot.”
“I feel it would be undignified,” said Mr Benjamin.
“Undignified is better than an apoplexy, Frank, and you were taking your air-bath this morning wearing not much more than the island ladies. Anyway, I must ask you to oversee the unshipping of the tub, and that may require you to be energetic. A cotton shirt and a straw hat to keep off the sun would be appropriate dress, and not in the least undignified in this terrible heat.”
The Captain’s words were spoken kindly, but did not admit argument. Mr Benjamin removed his heavy buff coat with little grace, and went to direct the pirates working around the huge upturned wooden bucket stowed upon the deck.
The Captain stayed on the quarterdeck, dressed himself only in a black shirt, black knee-britches with no hose or shoes and his frayed cricketer’s straw hat. His green beard seemed to glow luminously when the bright sun caught it. He felt happy, despite Mr Benjamin’s mumpishness, which he forgave, as heat often makes lighter-skinned people ill-humoured. The work was going well here in the bay, proceeding entirely to plan. To his surprise, the presence of women on the frigate had caused no trouble on the voyage here from Jamestown. The island women had been accepted by the crew even before they had demonstrated their special talents for swimming and diving. The oldest of the island women was particularly respected as she was a forthright and cheerful soul, and fierce in her care of the younger women. Miss Chumbley was well-regarded, too, for her fearlessness and for her awesomely foul language when badly irked. She took her job as chaperone, translator and fixer for the island women very seriously, too, and was at present, sitting cross-legged on the foredeck in sailor’s canvas jacket and pants, gutting, filletting and scaling fish, for when they took their noonday break. The island women’s love of raw fish was a source of amusement to the crew, but Bulbous Bill Bucephalus had tried it and declared it excellent, especially soused in vinegar with a little cold boiled rice as the island women preferred it. But then, thought Captain Greybagges, is there any foodstuff that Bill did not like? Probably not.
The Ark de Triomphe had mysteriously acquired a cat during its stay in Jamestown, a lean black creature with yellow eyes, and it now stalked across the deck planking. Captain Greybagges squatted down and stroked it.
“You have my permission to be on the quarterdeck, pussycat, even though you have not asked politely, as is required by maritime custom even aboard pirate ships,” he said. The cat rolled onto its back and playfully batted at his hand. This cat, thought Captain Greybagges, is the only member of the crew who does not know the cause of the friction between Blue Peter Ceteshwayoo and his lady-love Miss Miriam Andromeda Chumbley, there being few secrets aboard a frigate, even though no one speaks of it.
“She will not allow him his full rights as her man,” he murmurred to the cat, “even though she yearns for him too, as she fears to bear a bastard into this world of tears. There, pussycat, now you know.”
The cat seemed offended that it hadn’t been told before, and stalked away to the shoreside rail where it curled up in the shadow by a cannon. Captain Greybagges stood up, a thoughtful expression on his face. Perhaps there is a solution, he thought, I shall go to the town of Nombre de Dios this evening.
There was a shout from the bay, a roar of ‘halloo!” from the mighty lungs of Loomin’ Len Lummocks. Captain Greybagges hurried to the rail. Loomin’ Len was waving frantically, standing up in the longboat, a broad grin upon his normally-impassive features. When he saw the Captain at the quarterdeck rail he cupped his hands to his mouth and roared:
“They have found it, Cap’n! They have found it!” Captain Greybagges felt such a wave of relief flood through him that his knees weakened slightly and he gripped the rail to steady himself. The eldest island woman pulled herself into the longboat with a single smooth movement, stood next to Loomin’ Len and waved to the Captain, grinning.
“Ha! Fine work, me hearties! Magnificent work, ladies!” roared the Captain across the water. “Get a marker-buoy tied to it quick as can be. Ha! Grand work!”
“They be putting the marker-line upon it now, Cap’n! It is found, and shall not be lost!” roared back Loomin’ Len.
Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges could not help himself in his joy, and danced a hornpipe on the quarterdeck, his bare feet slapping on the planks. He became aware of a murmur and noticed the pirates in the rigging and upon the sheerlegs above the huge upturned wooden bucket looking down at him in surprise.
“Har-har!” he roared up at them, “no treasure this, my lads, no treasure in our hands yet, but now we has the keys to unlock a great fortune, har-har! A very great fortune indeed, har-har! We shall have ourselves a few drinks tonight to celebrate, I does assure you all! But time still presses upon us, so back to your work with a will, you lazy swabs. Back to yer work now, me lads, but yer has my permission to dream o’ gold, to dream o’ gold just a little whilst yez labours! Har-har!”
And Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges continued dancing upon his quarterdeck, emitting an occasional ‘whoop!’ or “har-har!” or “whee!” of pure joy, his long green beard waving as he pranced.
Captain Greybagges sat at his desk in the Great cabin of the Ark de Triomphe. The tall stern windows were wide open to catch any breeze, and the cheerful babble of the crew on the deck above enjoying the celebration was audible above the gurgling of the small wavelets on the hull. The purple twilight was deepening to black night outside, and the yellow light of an oil-lamp spilled onto the desk, illuminating the papers of the Captain’s correspondence shuffled into a pile on the leather desktop, and gleaming on the glossy calfskin covers of his account-ledgers. He poured a glass of rum for Blue Peter.
“Oh, good Lord, Captain! It is far too blasted hot for rum. Is there no beer?”
“I would send Jake for some, but the dreadful old wretch has already drunk his fill and passed out in the pantry. Bear with me Peter, for I must broach a delicate subject with you before the others join us.”
Blue Peter raised his eyebrows.
“Um, Peter, are you intending to marry Miss Chumbley? Make an honest woman of her, ho-ho!”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Sylvestre, but there is not a parson within three hundred miles of here.”
“Aah! but there is a priest in Nombre de Dios town! I sounded him out earlier this evening. At first he stoutly refused even to countenance marrying non-Catholics, but after I presented him with a bottle of rum, a box of treacle biscuits and a couple of silver dollars he conceded that it might be morally preferable to prevent the sin of fornication than to be stiff-necked about Popish rules. In fact, after a glass or two of rum he swore that his conscience would be deeply troubled if he did not perform the marriage service. He is willing not only to officiate at the wedding but also to sign a marriage certificate and enter the wedding into his books. I, as Captain, would also put it into the ship’s log, of course. I am certain that such a wedding would be legal and binding – and here I speak as a lawyer, of course – although the authorities in England or the Colonies may require it to be officially recorded in their records at the earliest opportunity for the purposes of inheritance and taxation, it being regarded as an anomalous procedure under common law.”
“Pirates do not pay taxes, Captain,” said Blue Peter, scowling.
“Come now, Peter, I am trying to help, and actually we do pay taxes. The Bank of International Export – your bank, my bank, our bank – is punctilious in that regard, both for itself as an incorporation and for all its stock-holders. I make sure of that, since it is but a small amount to pay for the gloss of respectability, and to avoid unnecessary and bothersome inquiries from the powers-that-be.”
"I am sorry. You are right. I shall ask Miriam if a Catholic priest is acceptable to her,” said Blue Peter after a pause for thought, “and thank you, Captain, for taking the trouble.”
“No trouble at all, I assure you. If I may risk giving you another piece of advice, Peter, propose the marriage to her upon your bended knee, no matter how foolish you feel – in fact, the greater fool you look the better she will like it, for women do love a man the more if he shall be prepared to make himself appear undignified to win them – and try to look worried, as though you are not entirely certain that she will accept you. Give her a ring, too, when she accepts, which I am sure she will. Gold, but not too gaudy. That is the latest fashion among the idle rich in France, or so my informants tell me. A ‘ring of engagement’ it is called. A token that you have plighted you troth, posted the banns, that sort of thing.”
Peter scowled at the Captain again, his filed teeth and tribal scars making him look particularly irascible, but grudgingly nodded his agreement.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” said the Captain. Bulbous Bill Bucephalus, Israel Feet and Mr Benjamin entered, grinning happily. Mr Benjamin was carrying a large glass pitcher on a tray with five glasses, the glass pitcher was making a tinkling noise.
“Hee-hee! Here is a great miracle, Captain! A great miracle for your delectation!” said Mr Benjamin. With ceremony he placed the tray on the desk and poured the purple liquid. It tinkled into the five glasses. He handed the first glass to the Captain, still grinning like an ape.
“Upon my life! It is as cold as ice! Why, it has ice in it!” Captain Greybagges drank. “By the bones of Davy Jones! That is extraordinary! And extraordinarily good, too! Where the devil did you find ice in this heat, Frank!”
Blue Peter had his glass and was sipping at it, his eyebrows nearly on the top of his head with amazement. The three arrivals observed his and the Captain’s surprise with great satisfaction.
“I made the ice, Captain,” said Mr Benjamin. “Is it not wonderful? Hee-hee!”
“It is indeed! I confess myself almost beyond words!”
“I had the big air-pump brought up from the hold, as you had asked, and got it set up upon the deck and had the six bully-boys work the handles. The bronze bottles get mightily hot as they are pumped up. I had noticed this phenomenon before in my experiments with the compressed-air cannon, so I had them placed in a tub of sea-water as they were filled, so that the heat would not weaken the metal, and the water did indeed become very warm. Then I had an idea, I thought, ‘why, if they become hot when they are pumped up, will they therefore become cold when they are emptied?’ So I put one of the pumped-up bronze bottles – one of the little ones the size of a quart flagon – into a bucket of fresh water and opened the cock so the air whistled out slowly, and it became so cold that it turned the bucketful of water to solid ice in a matter of moments! In this heat the next thing to do was obvious! In a trice Bill here came up with a recipe for an ice-cold punch – water, wine, sugar, lemon juice and rum – and there you are! Is it not the best thing in this heat? The very best damned thing you have ever tasted?”
“In truth it is, Frank! And a very good omen indeed on this auspicious day…” said Captain Greybagges. “Let us go on deck, now it is a little cooler. I don’t feel entirely easy with the crew using the air-pump to freeze water without your supervision. One of them will surely have the notion to tie down the pressure-relief valve, thinking that will make for even colder ice, and one of those little bronze bottles could explode with the force of a grenado. Anyway, the crew will surely celebrate all night if we do not give them a broad hint by retiring with ostentatious yawns at midnight, or shortly thereafter. There is much still to do, and tomorrow will be another busy day.”
Captain Greybagges, Bulbous Bill Bucephalus, Israel Feet and Mr Benjamin sat at a folding table on the quarterdeck, playing hands of penny-a-point whist by the light of a lantern, although the full moon’s brightness gave nearly enough light as it hung in the star-packed black-velvet sky. The honk-wheeze, honk-wheeze, honk-wheeze noise of the air-pump came from the foredeck, where eight of the younger pirates were trying to beat the time that the six bully-boys had taken to fill a bronze bottle, standing four to each side, working the long handles of the rocking frame up-and-down up-and-down until the pressure-relief valve hissed. Torvald Coalbiter was referee, counting the seconds with the Captain’s pocket-watch. There were over two hundred crew, and each wanted a mug of beer or sugared rum-grog with a lump of ice in it, so it was well to make a game of the labour needed to make the ice.
“Tell me, Captain, if I may make so bold,” said Mr Benjamin, laying down the trey of trumps, “what are we celebrating? What lies down there on the bottom of the bay?”
“Ah! be you patient, Frank! With a little ordinary luck, touch wood …” the Captain reached out to tap the quarterdeck rail, “… we shall raise it up in the next couple of days and then you shall see it with your own eyes.”
He put down the five of trumps, then grimaced as Bill laid the ten upon it to take the hand.
Captain Greybagges had noticed Blue Peter and Miss Chumbley slipping quietly below earlier, and now he saw them coming back on deck in the waist of the frigate. Miss Chumbley was holding Blue Peter’s hand but released it reluctantly as they came up from the companionway. By the light of the moon the Captain saw the gleam of a thin gold band upon her other hand, her left hand. He smiled.
“Are you not afraid that we will be disturbed in these operations, Captain?” said Mr Benjamin. “By the Spanish, for instance?”
“I do hope not, but Peter is keeping the guns loaded and their crews alert in shifts just in case. We may thank that fine fellow Francis Drake for the quiet of this bay, you know. Nombre de Dios used to be a prosperous town, but it lacks natural defences, so Drake raided it several times with impunity, the last time taking the legendary ‘Spanish silver train’, which was the mule-train that brought the silver bars to this bay for transport back across the Atlantic to Bilbao. After that loss the Dons moved their centre of operations east to Portobello – which is indeed a ‘beautiful port’ with strong defences – and abandoned this place to the jungle. The old priest here has no church, for it was burned down, and must perform his weekly mass under a shade tree in the square. The little town survives, just, upon fishing and a little logging. The few remaining citizens have no reason to annoy us, and every reason to keep us sweet, for they are as fond of a few coins as anybody else. If any of the townspeople think they may get a reward for informing the authorities that we are here they will first have to take a long walk, and a then long wait cooling their heels until the gobernador of Portobello will condescend to hear them, and then the Dons will react in their usual leisurely fashion, and we shall be long gone by then. I am mainly worried that other pirates may come here by chance and feel that we have something worth fighting for, since we are taking such pains in the getting of it. Pirates mostly come here to take on water or make repairs, though, so it’s unlikely that will be seriously challenged.”
A concertina and a fiddle struck up a sprightly jig on the foredeck, although the two musicians seemed to be playing from entirely unrelated music-sheets.
“Let us have another couple of hands of whist so that I may wreak my revenge upon Bill, then we must encourage the crew to go to their hammocks, for an early start will avoid at least some of the day’s heat.” The Captain dealt the cards. The honk-wheeze, honk-wheeze of the air-pump came again from the foredeck. “They are much taken with the pump and the ice it makes,” murmurred Captain Greybagges to his officers, “but I feel sure that they will loathe and detest the very sight of it before much time has passed.”
By the time the sun rose over the jungle on the eastern side of the bay – the squawking of the monkey-birds echoing in the cool air to greet the dawn – the big raft had been dragged off the beach with hawsers and capstan and it and the Ark de Triomphe had been manoeuvred by kedging and sweep-oars out to the marker buoy, a yard-long piece of timber painted bright red bobbing in the ripples of the bay. Before mid-morning the huge upturned wooden tub had been raised off the deck by the sheer-legs, blocks-and-tackles and much labour at the ropes, accompanied by traditional pulley-hauly chants. The tub was swung out over the side of the frigate – the canvas strips that had disguised the ship’s outline as a plump Dutch merchantman had been stripped away, the starboard rail dismantled and the timbers stacked tidily on the quarterdeck – and lowered gently into the water.
“Are the brave ladies completely sure that they understand the use of the bronze bottles? And the signals to be tugged on the message-line?” Captain Greybagges asked Miss Chumbley earnestly.
“I believe they are, Cap’n,” said Miss Chumbley, who seemed to be trying to adopt a nautical way of speech. Captain Greybagges noticed that the elder island woman was nodding too, and that one of the younger island women touched the bronze bottle hanging from her waist when he said ‘bronze bottle’. They are absorbing the English language a little, he thought, and that is a good thing in these circumstances, for I am sure that their own tongue does not have words for ‘air-pump’, ‘fathom’ or ‘shackle’.
“Then let us proceed,” he said, in a crisp and confident voice.
“Aye-aye, Cap’n!” said Miss Chumbley, stopping herself from saluting him with an obvious effort.
The island women and Miss Chumbley went down the ship’s side into the longboat. The huge upturned wooden tub had sunk beneath the surface and was now barely discernable deep in the slightly-turbid water, its supporting ropes taut and creaking.
“Tell me again, Captain, how this will work,” said Mr Benjamin at the Captain’s shoulder.
“The tub descends to a fathom above the bottom of the bay. The ladies swim down to it. Inside it is a bubble of air, much squeezed by the water’s force. The ladies enter the tub from below and open the taps of the bronze bottles, adding to the air. They tie the empty bottles to a line and send them back up, and a full bottle is lowered to them. With the tub full of air they have a refuge to breath whilst under the water. The air will become stale, but they will know because the candle that they shall light in there will grow dim and flicker, then they signal for more bottles of air. From the tub they can swim out and attach the cables to … the prize. Then we shall raise it up.”
“Could they not have worked just from the longboat, swimming down and back up again?”
“That would slow their work. The cables will have to be wormed under the … object … through the sand of the ocean-floor and that may take some digging and ingenuity. To work from the surface would take a month, maybe longer. The less time we spend here the better I shall like it.”
“You do not wish to name it, whatever it is, do you, Captain?” smiled Mr Benjamin.
“I feel it would be unlucky to put a name to it just yet, although that is but foolish superstition, I know. It is not to torment you, Frank, although I admit I get a childish pleasure from keeping it a surprise.”
The tub-support ropes stopped descending, and the pulley-hauly crews tied off the ends to bollards, double-knotting them. Israel Feet checked the ropes, then gave a thumbs-up. Captain Greybagges waved to the longboat and the island women rolled backwards over the gunwales and slipped beneath the sea. Captain Greybagges and Mr Benjamin watched them from the quarterdeck. From the foredeck came the never-ceasing honk-wheeze, honk-wheeze, honk-wheeze of the air-pump filling bronze bottles.
It took the island women three days to complete the underwater work. The crew were very impressed by their skill and determination, making their appreciation plain by small gestures of kindness when the women boarded the frigate exhausted from several hours on the ocean’s floor. Miss Chumbley lost her temper several times when too many pirates crowded round the women as they were going to their cabin for raw fish, hot tea and a lie-down, and again astounded even the old pirates by her fine grasp of the technicalities of personal abuse. The air-pump never stopped its honk-wheeze, honk-wheeze during that time, and the Captain’s prediction was proved correct as the crew started to regard it as an instrument of torture.
In the early morning of the fourth day the lifting began. The huge wooden tub had been raised already and placed on the deck. The lifting cable was reeved through the block on the sheerlegs, then through other blocks lashed to samson-posts until it came to the capstan, where sweating grunting pirates heaved, two to each capstan-bar. Extra force was applied by nipping ropes to the cable from blocks-and-tackles to the mainmast. At first the object would not move, and the winching only made the frigate heel over slowly. Captain Greybagges and Israel Feet were considering how to take a hawser from the mainmast cross-trees to an anchor off the port side to oppose the list when the frigate slowly rolled back upright again, swashing and lurching gently.
“It was stuck in the sand of the bay,” breathed the Captain thankfully. “It is not too heavy.”
“The thing be damned heavy enough, Cap’n,” said Israel Feet. “Squash me toes with a caulking-mallet if it ain’t!” He indicated the masts, which still tilted noticeably to the loaded starboard side.
The lifting continued without a break. The pirates on the capstan and the blocks-and-tackles were relieved by fresh teams every half-hour. Captain Greybagges himself took a shift, as did his officers, so that all should share the brutal labour.
In the late afternoon a pale disk began to be visible through the water, its diameter about eight paces. The chatter of the crew died away until only the grunting and loud breathing of the labourers was heard. When the object started to come clear of the water idle pirates moved to the starboard rail to see.
“Stop, you lubbers!” shouted Bulbous Bill in his high-pitched voice. “Go you to the port rail, or the barky shall tilt the more! You will get to see it in time, sure enough!”
Finally the object hung clear of the water. A lenticular metal vessel with a round hole in its top two paces across with jagged shards of glass around the edges of the hole. The metal of the vessel, where it was not obscured by fronds of seaweed and other marine growths, had a dull matte surface with a slight blue-green colour to its silvery metallic shine. The bully-boys manning the longboat towed the raft of tree-trunks underneath the strange vessel, and the capstan was backed and the blocks-and-tackles were loosed to lower it gently down. The lifting teams relaxed, breathing heavily, spitting on their blistered palms.
“Har-har, me jolly buccaneers! You may look now, and satisfies yer curiosity!” roared the Captain. “Sees you what kind of little fishy we have landed ourselves today, har-har!”
The pirates eagerly went to look, those that were not busy securing the raft and its load, but there was little talk, only a bemused hush. The island women only took a brief glance, as they had already seen it underwater. Miss Chumbley shoved herself through the press of pirates to the rail, not disdaining to use a judicious elbow-jab or kick. She stared at the strange vessel with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, lost in thought.
“It is one of the extramundane saucer-craft that you told me about, is it not, Captain?” said Blue Peter in a low voice.
Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges did not answer, but smiled a small smile and nodded.