GREENBEARD: Chapter Twelve.

 

 

 

 

“Cap’n, we be lost,” said Bulbous Bill Bucephalus, “and it be as black as pitch.”

 

“I have faith in Izzy,” said Captain Greybagges, “ for he is an excellent scout. He used to track down witnesses and absconders for me when he was my clerk, when I was a lawyer and buccaneered with wig and pen.”

 

“The Ratcliffe highway on the kinchin lay an’ the rookeries o’ St Giles, that were his nursery, Cap’n,. He can find ‘is way around most o’ Lunnon by pure instinct, even in a pea-soup fog. These woods here-abouts be colonial woods, which, begging your pardon, do not even smell like proper woods, not being like Epping Forest at all.”

 

“No, Bill, it is not. Epping Forest stinks of corpses, it being very convenient for garrotters and suchlike, those who cannot dump their victims into the Fleet River because of other pressing business. These woods are quite fragrant, although dark to be sure.”

The path under the canopy of the trees was indeed dark, but not pitch-black. There was a bright moon, but the sky had clouded over and the moonlight came only in occasional beams through gaps in the overcast. One of these moonbeams revealed Israel Feet and his horse walking carefully back up the path. He and his mount were both ectomorphic, and haloed in the moonlight they made a sinister sight.

 

“I looked and I beheld a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hell was following close behind him!” Captain Greybagges cried, still fuddled from the afternoon’s drinking, theatrically waving an arm.

 

“By my liver and lights, Cap’n! Be thee less lusty an’ blaring!” hissed Israel Feet, gesturing for quiet.

 

“My apologies, Izzy, but you gave me a turn, popping up like that, and your damned horse is rather pale. The verse in Revelations says chlôros, which is Greek for ‘pale green’, I think, and your nag does look a little sickly in this gloomy light …” The Captain spoke in an undertone and looked abashed.

 

“I cannot find Peter’s trail anymore, curse it, so it may ‘appen as we took a wrong turn,” said Israel Feet, in an aggrieved tone, “but the horse be not to blame, anyhow, so there be no need to call it green and sickly.”

 

“No, indeed, and you are not to blame, either,” said the Captain soothingly. “These clouds over the moon are the only culprits, blast ‘em.”

 

“We ‘ave lost Peter’s trail, an’ we be lost our own selves, an’ it be dark,” said Bulbous Bill. “Mayhap we should seek shelter for the night, Cap’n, since we be adrift wi’out a chart.”

 

“I hate to admit such a thing, Bill, but you are right,” said the Captain.

 

“There be a light up ahead, Cap’n” said the First Mate. “A sort o’ dim glow offen the path. That be why I come back direckly.”

 

There was a ‘squeak-pop’ noise, followed by a ‘glug-glug’ noise, then Bulbous Bill handed the rum bottle to Captain Greybagges, who glug-glugged then passed it to Israel Feet. Then the three, without a word, walked their horses slowly up the path by the intermittent light of the moon.

 

 

“There be a signpost here-abouts,” whispered the First Mate eventually. They stopped, a horse whickering discontentedly, and dismounted, clumsy and cursing softly in the black-velvet darkness. The moon came out for an instant.

 

“Arr! There it be!” The First Mate pointed. The signpost stood at a crossroads, wan in a shaft of the pale moonlight.

 

“There be a field just here. We can moor these horses, an goes on a-foot.”

 

Their mounts tethered in a shipshape fashion, they proceeded up the path like blind men, stepping high and carefully, waving their arms in front of themselves, bumping into each other, stopping once or twice to sip on Bill’s rum-bottle. The occasional stray beam of moonlight gave them a vague idea of the path between the trees. One of the stray beams illuminated the signpost as they passed.

 

“The signpost be sayin’ there be a town two mile away, Cap’n” said the First Mate. “Mayhap we should ride there. Start lookin’ for Peter again at daybreak. Rested, like.”

 

The Captain stopped. “That is a pleasant idea, but we do not know yet what devilment Peter has conjured up in these parts, and we are his friends and we are pirates. It may be for the best if we do not draw attention to ourselves. What town was it, anyway?”

 

“The signpost said ‘Salem’, Cap’n. ‘Salem two mile’ it said.”

 

“Well, in that case we are still lost, for that is not a place that I have ever heard of. Let us investigate your ‘light in the trees’. It may be woodsmen or travellers, and we may share the warmth of their fire until dawn at the cost of sharing Bill’s rum, for I am sure he has another bottle or two.”

 

“What if it be injuns?” said Bill, offering the bottle. The Captain took a reflective sip.

 

“I am sure indians are fine fellows, and are as partial as any other men to a nip o’ rum on a cold dark night. They shall see that we are armed, too, which will surely make them at least pretend to be friendly. But first let us find out whose fire it is, shipmates, then we may decide what we shall do.” The Captain passed the rum bottle to Israel Feet, and strode off down the path, cursing in an undertone as he stumbled over a pothole.

 

“As you said, Izzy, the light of a fire deep in the bosky grove, ho-ho! That is cheering, for it is growing chill,” Captain Greybagges said softly. The three buccaneers walked into the woods in single file, treading carefully. No twigs snapped under their boots. Israel Feet took the lead, Captain Greybagges next. Bulbous Bill Bucephalus followed. His bulk made passage through the undergrowth a slow business, but he made no sound. The fire-glow through the trees became brighter as they crept towards it. At last the First Mate stopped, crouched down and peered through the leaves. He stayed still for a while, then gestured for the others to come. Captain Greybagges dropped to his knees and edged next to the First Mate, Bill lowered himself to his belly and wriggled forwards on the other side, the branches rustling slightly.

 

“I thought it be best you be a-seein’ this for yerselves, belike,” whispered the First Mate, and the three looked through the leaves.

 

Three women dressed only in their undergarments stood around a small fire of logs. A cauldron was suspended from a tripod above the flames, steaming and bubbling. One of the women, a tall slim figure with a mop of black curls, was reading aloud from a book:

 

“……. rua yed sith suh vig neveh ni si za thre ni nud eeb liw eyth muck modngik eyth main eyth eeb dwohlah nevah ni tra chioo retharf rua!” She paused and looked around. “Hmm, nothing. Nothing at all. This is plainly tedious.”

 

“Are you sure you’re chanting the right piece, dear?” said the very fat woman in a sour tone of voice.

 

“Of course I am! It’s the Lord’s Prayer backwards. I may not be pronouncing it correct, but how do you pronounce gibberish correct, tell me that?”

 

“I tole yah we should be nekkid,” said the third, a small skinny black woman, “an’ we prolly shoulda kilt summat. Summat instead o’ that chook, I means. Summat bigger, mebbe a dog. Chooks get kilt alla time. It don’t mean much, killin’ a chook, f’it did debbil be appearin’ in kitchens all over d’place.”

 

“Well, we’ve done most exactly what it says in your stupid cousin’s book,” said the tall woman, “excepting the naked business. Sky-clad, or whatever it said.”

 

“I was sure that wouldn’t be necessary,” said the fat woman. “It seems in poor taste, and we aren’t wearing very much except our stays and smalls anyway. Try another incantation, please, dear.”

 

The tall woman gave her a withering glance and riffled through the pages of the book.

 

In the bushes the three pirates stared open-mouthed. The First Mate nudged the Captain and passed him the rum-bottle. The Captain took a swallow and passed it to Bill, without taking his eyes from the women.

 

“Alright, let’s try this one then … in girum imus nocte et consumimur igni!” the tall woman paused, looked around.

 

“No, nothing with that one either.”

 

“Perhaps you have to say it backwards?” said the fat woman. The tall woman gave her an amused look, shaking her head slightly.

 

“What it mean?” said the small black woman.

 

“It means ‘we spin in the darkness and are consumed by fire’. It’s Latin. Oh, here’s a good one …” the tall woman drew herself up and spoke in a commanding voice. “Emperor Lucifer, prince and master of the rebel spirits, I implore you to abandon your dwelling, in whatever part of the world it should be, and come and speak to me. I command and entreat you by the authority of the great living God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, to come noiselessly and without giving off any offensive scents, to answer me in a loud and intelligible voice, article by article, everything that I ask you, otherwise you will be obliged by the power of the great Adonay, Elohim, Ariel, Jehovah, Tagla and Mathon, and all of the other superior spirits who will compel you against your will. Come! Come! Submiritillor Lucifuge, or go and be eternally tormented by the power of the blasting rod!” She waved a twig. The three women stood in silence, looking around hopefully.

 

“Ain’t nuffin comin’,” said the small black woman sadly, “an’ I’da liked to see that ole debbil, wit his hooves an’ horns an’ such. We could eat the chook. It must be boiled to soup b’now.”

 

In the bushes Israel Feet cast a glance sideways at Captain Greybagges; he had a look of boyish mischievousness on his face, his lips drawn back in a grin. The Captain suddenly stood up and pushed through the leaves into the clearing. The women stared at him open-mouthed, the fat woman gave a small shriek.

 

“Ladies! You have summoned Lucifer, and here he is!” he said cheerfully.

 

“You doan look like no debbil to me,” said the small black woman after a pause. “You looks like you some kinda ole sailorman or summat.”

 

Captain Greybagges swept off his black tricorne hat and bowed deeply. He gave the hat to Israel Feet, who was emerging from the bushes behind him, then took off his black justaucorps coat and threw it to one side, then, fixing the ladies with the gaze of his gray eyes and grinning, he pulled his black shirt over his head and threw it aside too.

 

“Behold, ladies!” he cried. He turned his back to them and spread his arms wide. The three women gasped as by the light of the fire they saw the great tattoo on his broad back, the tattoo of Satan sitting upon his dark throne, shaded by his black bat’s wings, staring down upon the Earth. “Behold, dear ladies, here is Lucifer!”
Behind him Bulbous Bill Bucephalus struggled cursing from the undergrowth, clutching the rum-bottle to his chest.

 

 

Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges awakened slowly as the first rays of the rising sun fell upon his face. He felt thirsty and hungover, but a comfortable feeling of satiated lust pervaded his being. He could smell the fragrance of the woods; the earthy smell of the grass; the clean scent of the pines. He could feel the silk lining of his coat against his chest, the heavy coat that was a blanket over his naked torso, and he could feel the roughness of the springy turf against his back, the dry forest-meadow that had been his bed for that night. He luxuriated in the warmth for a while, even though his lower legs and feet were chilled. Finally he yawned deeply and stretched his arms above his head. He noticed the absence of a slim female body beside him and opened his eyes. Stern faces looked down at him. He was surrounded by men, colonials in their grubby patched tan coats and breeches, several of them pointing muskets.

 

“I pronounce this Court of Oyer and Terminer to be in session!” the fat man at the lectern banged his gavel on the wood, his wig wobbling on his head. “Magistrate Algernon Chumbley presiding,” he added, then pounded his gavel again, although nobody was speaking except him. “We are here to try a witch! An evil witch! An abomination in the sight of God and a disgrace to the eyes of God-fearing men! Let the proceedings begin! Bring forth the accused!”

 

Strong arms thrust Captain Greybagges forward before the bench, and the spectators in the small courtroom muttered and hissed.

 

“Silence!” roared Magistrate Chumbley, pounding his gavel again. He addressed Captain Greybagges; “You, who have given your name as John Smith, are hereby accused of having made unlawful covenant with the Devil, of having been complicit with the Devil, of having afflicted persons or persons with witchcraft, and, in short, of being a witch. How do you plead, you scoundrel?”

 

“If it pleases your eminence,” lisped the Captain through split lips, “a witch is surely a woman by definition, and I am not a woman, so I cannot be a witch. I plead my innocence of these ridiculous and unsubstantiated charges!”

 

“Don’t bandy words with me, you dog!” roared the Magistrate. “Whether you are a woman, a man or a eunuch you have surely engaged in witchcraft and consorted with Satan, and that makes you a witch, damn you!”
Captain Greybagges went to reply, but a stout man, one of his captors, stepped up to the bench and whispered in the Magistrate’s ear.

 

“What?” grumbled the Magistrate. “Is that so? Show me!” the stout man handed him a book, pointing to a page.

 

“Ah! Well, it says here in the Reverend Cotton Mather’s exegesis of witchery that a male witch is called a warlock. Ha! Only a vile person engaged in the black arts would be cognisant of such a fine distinction! Are you then a warlock, you knave!”

 

“The Reverend Cotton Mather himself is aware of the difference, surely. Is he therefore a practicioner of witchcraft?” said the Captain. The crowd tittered its appreciation. “I repeat, I am innocent of these trumped-up and nonsensical accusations!”

 

“Damn you, you insolent hound! The Reverend Mather is a cousin of my own wife. It is his book, The Wonders of the Invisible World, that has opened our eyes to the evil that lurks in our midst! How dare you impugn him with your  … your … impugnings! Shut up, you rabble!” Magistrate Chumbley pounded his gavel savagely until the audience ceased sniggering.

 

“Any fool may write a book, your magnificence,” said the Captain reasonably, “but that does not make its contents true. I go further; I am not a witch, or a warlock, and there is no such thing as witchcraft! There is only the babblings of poor deluded souls, and the tales of old wives tattling gossip around the well!”

 

“You blackguard! Your serpent’s tongue will not save you! The book of my wife’s cousin is a work of great learning, and a fine example of the most modern philosophical thinking!” Magistrate Chumbley brandished the book at Captain Greybagges as though he wished to ram it down his throat. The Captain noticed, with surprise, that the book appeared to be the same one that his partner of the night before had been reciting from over the cauldron, not merely the same edition but exactly the same volume, with identical scuffs and stains on its calfskin binding. The realisation made him smile, then wince as his split lips stretched.

 

“You whoreson villain!” screamed Magistrate Chumbley, his face purpling. “How dare you smirk in my court!”

 

“I merely try to ease my lips, your vastness, which have been bruised by the fists and boots of your beadles…” said the Captain soothingly. A mumble went through the crowd, revealing that the beadles were perhaps not well-liked in the town.

 

“And how right they were to chastise you thus, since you now insult their esteemed elder brother, for here are Linen Mather and Grogram Mather, officers of this court!” The two burly men nodded to the Captain, smiling grimly.

 

“The Reverend Cotton Mather may well be esteemed by his brothers and by his relatives by marriage,” said the Captain, “but one book does not make a fact, but merely an opinion expressed upon a printed page, that much must be obvious, surely, your worshipfulness?”

 

“You curséd miscreant! Some wise cove once said ‘Satan’s greatest triumph was to convince men that he does not exist’ and that must be obvious, surely, or there would be no evil in the world! All learned men agree upon the reality of sorcery!” Magistrate Chumbley scabbled among the papers on the lectern. “Aha! Listen to this, you viper!” He read from another book; “'How so many learned heads should so far forget their metaphysicks, and destroy the ladder and scale of creatures, as to question the existence of spirits. For my part, I have ever believed, and do now know, that there are witches!' So you see, the great savant Sir Thomas Brown is also of the opinion that witchcraft is not mere tittle-tattle by old wives! How say you now, you slubberdegullion?”

 

"I stand second to no man in my admiration of the excellent Thomas Brown!" said the Captain stoutly, "and yet even he is not an infallible paragon of veracity in all things, because no man can be! I note that you quote his comments upon the Bury St Edmunds witch trial from Religio Medici, which is a most estimable book, and yet he also says in that work, and I quote from memory: 'I have often admired the mystical way of Pythagoras and the secret magicke of numbers.' By your way of thinking that would also cause the good Sir Thomas Brown to be suspected of being a witch!" The spectators laughed and clapped at this sally, and the Captain turned to them and winked. "Religio Medici, meaning 'the religion of the doctors'. A book which the infallible Pope himself has banned as wicked!"

 

"You can twist and turn, you slippery rogue, but we have ways of finding the truth!" shouted Magistrate Chumbley. "Bring me the witch cake!"

 

Grogram Mather scuttled from the chamber and returned with a soggy-looking pudding upon a wooden trencher.

 

"Here it is, Magistrate Chumbley!"

 

"This smells … odd, Grogram. Did you follow the instructions I gave you?"

 

"Indeed, Magistrate Chumbley, but we had the greatest difficulty getting the dog to piddle into a bucket. It is not in their nature to do so."

 

"You fool! Can you do nothing a-right! The witch cake is to be made from rye meal and the urine of the witch’s victims and then fed to the dog, not the other way about!"

 

"But we could find none who would admit to being afflicted by the witch's sorceries, Magistrate, so we thought it must be that way!"

 

Magistrate Chumbley covered his face with his hands and groaned. The spectators howled with laughter.

 

"We could find none who would admit to being afflicted by the witch's sorceries!" repeated Captain Greybagges, turning to the spectators and shaking his head sadly.

 

"You have tested the patience of this court too far, you scurvy rapscallion!" shouted Magistrate Chumbley. "We shall discover the truth! Then we shall find you guilty! Then we shall hang you like a dog, you dog! Bring the stones and the board! We shall resort to peine forte et dure, as is required by the law!"

 

"That torture has been banned by act of Parliament these twenty years past!" shouted Captain Greybagges as the beadles grabbed him.

 

"We care but little in these parts for the vaporings of weaklings who sit upon velvet cushions!" snarled Magistrate Chumbley. "Here in Salem we follow the law of God! Take off his shirt!"

 

The beadles ripped Captain Greybagges's black shirt from his back. There was a gasp from the spectators, then a mutter of admiration. "Nice tattoo!" someone called out.

 

"Your guilt is writ upon your own skin, you sorcerous … you sorcerous … you sorcerous … scamp!" crowed Magistrate Chumbley.

 

"You fat fool! That was a costly shirt! If every sailor with a tattoo was to be tried as a witch there wouldn't be enough of them left to crew a jolly-boat!" cried the Captain.

 

"Throw him down!" roared Magistrate Chumbley. The beadles grappled with the Captain. He was a large and powerful man, and might have prevailed, but his wrists were tied before him, and they tripped him lay him on the wooden floor, one sitting upon his legs. "Arrgh! I've got a splinter!" the Captain shouted.

 

"Hah! You won't notice that in a minute, I promise you!" snarled Magistrate Chumbley. "Pile on the stones!"

 

The beadles put the wooden board upon the Captain's chest and loaded the stones – great slabs of granite – upon the board. They stood back, and watched as his face turned slowly purple. The courtroom was silent, all that could be heard was the Captain's laboured wheezing gasps as he strained against the crushing weight forcing the breath from his lungs.

 

The door was flung open with a crash, and a striking figure stood in the doorway. It was a man of unusual height, a tall angular man in a long black cloak and a battered black slouch hat, his eyes hidden in the shadow of the hat-brim. His big dusty square-toed boots clumped loudly on the wooden floor as he strode into the chamber.
"What? In the name of all that's sacred!" he growled in a harsh deep voice. He shouldered the beadles roughly aside, reached down, and with a huge hand, the knuckles the size of walnuts, he hurled the board and the granite slabs from Captain Greybagges's chest with a clatter. The Captain took a vast gulping breath, and another, and struggled to sit up. The tall man helped him with an arm around his shoulders. He turned to the bench;

 

"You tomfools! This is an honest seaman and no sorcerer or witch! What species of preposterous hare-brained caper is this?"

 

"He is a witch!" Magistrate Chumbley insisted querulously, his eyes flickering nervously round the courtroom for support.

 

"And you, Master Chumbley, are a jackass!" The tall man, squatted down by Captain Greybagges, who was wheezing and coughing, his eyes red and watering.

 

"Are you alright, Sylvestre?" the tall man murmurred.

 

"John … Smith …" whispered Captain Greybagges to him, in between gulps of air. The tall man winked a clear blue eye at the Captain and helped him to his feet and onto a courtroom settle, roughly shoving aside several spectators who were not quick enough to move from it.

 

"I know this man  … John Smith … of old!" thundered the tall man. "He is a stout-hearted mariner, and a God-fearing man! This is disgraceful clownish monkey-trick!"

 

He untied the rope from the Captain's bound wrists. A plump man with a cheerful red face and a stained apron appeared in the courtroom doorway, a look of bovine surprise on his face, and a wooden tray piled with tarred-leather jacks in his hands. The tall man spotted him, grabbed a jack – "my thanks, innkeeper!" – and gently placed it in the Captain's hands. The Captain waited until his wheezings lessened, then gratefully took a sip of the ale. The tall man patted him on the shoulder and turned to the bench.

 

"You are an imbecile, Master Chumbley! Witch-finding is not work for the ignorant! If this fine man had been in truth a warlock, and not an honest sailor, why! he could have ensorcelled you and glamoured you such that you would have imagined your own fat fingers to be pork sausages, and you would have bitten them off one by one and eaten them, smacking your lips with relish as you did so! I repeat; witch-finding is a task for those who know the ways and wiles of witches, not for fat bumpkins like yourself!"

 

"He has a great tattoo of the Devil himself upon his back …" muttered Magistrate Chumbley sullenly.

 

"And examine it closely!" cried the tall man. The spectators clustered to look at the Captain's back as he sat hunched upon the settle. "There is Lucifer gazing down upon the Earth with an expression of the profoundest disgust upon his face! He knows the evil that men do, and even he is perturbed by it! That is hardly the sentiment of a witch! And everybody knows that rough sailors oft-times have tattoos in, shall we say, dubious taste!" The spectators chuckled. "That is hardly a reason to try to crush him to death by piling great heavy stones upon him!" The tall man looked around and saw the innkeeper, his tray now empty, his ale distributed among the crowd and their coins in the pocket of his apron. "Landlord! have you a room for the night, so this poor abused fellow may recover himself? I shall stay, too." The innkeeper nodded nervously, and slipped out of the door.

 

"Now where is poor Mr Smith's coat, and his purse and possessions?" called out the tall man. The beadles rushed to obey, their delving into their pockets making it obvious to the crowd that they had divided the Captain's money and valuables amongst themselves.

 

"Why, here is a fine thing!" cried the tall man. "The very officers of this trumpery court are thieves! For shame! For shame!" The crowd echoed him, shouting "For shame, you dogs! For shame!" with apparent keen enjoyment. The beadles' faces burned red and they kept their eyes cast down as they restored the Captain's things to him and helped him into his coat.

 

" Master Chumbley!" said the tall man, pointing his finger at the dumb-struck magistrate. "It seems to me that your devotion to your religion is far less than your devotion to causing pain to your fellow men! You freely torment and mistreat your slaves, and wish to torment and mistreat free men, too, if you may find the least excuse! God watches us all, and we will all stand before Him in our time and be judged! Mend your ways ere it is too late!" Then the tall man stepped forward, knocked away the magistrate's wig with a slap of his hand, and up-ended the trencher of soggy witch-cake on the revealed bald pate. "There, you jackass!"

 

And with that he escorted Captain Greybagges from the courtroom, supporting him tenderly with an arm at his waist and a hand at his elbow. The crowd gave an appreciative cheer, but whether it was for the tall man's performance or for his righteousness was not entirely clear.

 

Captain Greybagges chewed on a chicken leg, then shifted uncomfortably. "I have a splinter in my arse from that damned courtroom floor," he explained. He and the tall man were sitting at a table in an upper room of the inn. The picked-clean bones of the roast fowl lay on a pewter platter between them, and a basket of bread. The Captain tossed the chicken bone onto the platter, squeaked the cork out of the rum bottle and refilled their glasses.

 

“Master Chumbley is an odious man, Sol, and I have met a few choice bastards in my time,” continued the Captain. “One wonders how they get to be that way.”

 

“Well, owning slaves is destructive of a man’s soul, surely, Sylvestre, and should to be abolished on that basis alone. It weakens the spirit of these colonials, who are sturdy pioneers for the most part, and in many ways very admirable fellows. I do not ignore the effects of slavery on the enslaved, of course, but to discourse upon their hardships attracts only puzzlement and derision in these parts, such as might arise from objecting to the flogging of mules or the gelding of harness-bulls.”

 

“Slavery is indeed a factor, Sol, but I have encountered plenty of vile men who have never owned slaves, not even indentured labourers in tied cottages, who are, after all, slaves in all but name. I suspect that it is rather a failure of perception.”

 

“How so?” The tall man cleaned his platter with a hunk of bread and pushed it aside with a satisfied belch.

 

“Well, Sol, imagine a competition to find the fastest of two horses. One might race them together around a course to see which arrived first at the finish, or one might set them off around the course one-by-one and time each horse with one of these new pocket-watches, the ones with a little dial to count the seconds, such as this fine Breguet Perpétuelle which I nearly lost today.” The Captain produced the watch from his coat pocket. “Using the watch one makes reference to a standard of absolute measurement, but in the case of the horse-race the competition is relative, for one horse is compared directly to the other and the actual time taken is not known, so in the horse-race there is a temptation to cheat. One jockey may strike the other in the face with his crop, or lean his horse into the other at a corner, or some other unsportsmanlike caper. It seems to me that happiness is an absolute quantity – the Hindoo holy man, they say, posesses only a loincloth and a begging-bowl, and yet knows great rapture from his solitary meditations upon the nature of the sublime – yet many people mistake happiness for a relative quantity, believing that if they can make those around them unhappy then they will be all the more happy by contrast, much as the cheating jockey imagines his horse to be the faster, despite having stooped to wicked underhanded tricks to win his race.”

 

The tall man sipped his rum, a thoughtful expression upon his long face. “You may have an insight there, Sylvestre. Master Chumbley is a very stupid man, and all the more stupid because none around him may tell him that he is, except his fat wife, and he pays little attention to her, I’m sure. This witch-finding obsession of his, for an example. He knows nothing about it except for the idiotic opinions of his wife’s cousin, and yet he fancies himself a great warrior against ghoulies and ghosties and tommy-knockers and things that go ‘bump’ in the night. I have told him before to leave it to experts like me, but he hasn’t taken much notice, apparently.”

 

“How did you become a witch-finder, Sol?”

 

“Well, as you know, I used to be something of a coffee-house wheeler-dealer.”

 

“Yes, indeed. Specialising in stocks made of horse-feathers, shares in companies that were incorporated to mine the Moon for green cheese. Getting you off those charges took all my arts as a lawyer.”

 

“I think this day I have repaid you with interest, Sylvestre!”

 

“Yes, you have, and I thank you.” The Captain raised his glass in salute.

 

“Anyway, I felt it might be wise to avoid my usual haunts for a time, so I took a passage here to the colonies. There was little opportunity for selling stocks, for the bedriegers of New Amsterdam had the market sewn up tight, catching gullible fools by chalking the prices of their worthless investments up on the wall down by the waterfront. Then there was an outbreak of ghostly manifestations down in Yonkers, accompanied by all sorts of horripilation and collywobbles, so I set myself up as an exorcist! With the last of my money I bought myself a big black bible, a brass hand-bell and a candlestick of German-silver, and set about casting out demons, haints and grafschenderen wherever somebody would pay me. It was all great fun, I must say, and I used to put on a good show, rolling my eyes and thundering blood-curdling stuff in Latin, mostly quotations from Caesar’s Commentaries which I remembered from school. Gave ‘em their money’s worth, you may be sure. Then there was the witch-panic down here, and I was so well known by that time that they sent for me in person!”

 

“You, Solomon, are incorrigible! Have you no shame at all!” laughed Captain Greybagges.

 

“You may mock me, Sylvestre, but I did a necessary job. The people of these parts were in a mortal terror, imagining spells and sorcery lurking in every nook and cranny, and I calmed their fears and brought peace and tranquillity back to the land. Not only that, I was able to save a number of harmless old ladies from being burned at the stake by the likes of Master Chumbley, poor white-haired old darlings whose only fault was to have sold love-potions – flasks of sugar-water and pepper mostly – to keep a little food on their tables and a few sticks of firewood in their grates. I am sure that the good Lord will view my activities in a kindly light when the Day of Judgement do come.”

 

“I am sure that you are a great benefactor to all mankind,” said Captain Greybagges with a grin.

 

“There is more,” said the tall man quietly. “When I heard reports of monsters lurking in the pine-barrens, I went a-hunting them, light-heartedly thinking I would do a little rough shooting and return with a hair-raising yarn or two, but I did find monsters! Monsters resembling giant man-like toads! Luckily I had gone equipped to hunt ducks, with a kind of a long-barrelled great arquebus mounted like a bow-chaser on a shallow-draught punt. It fired about a half-pound of small bird-shot, and it discouraged the toad-men quite efficiently, taking down a swathe of pine-saplings, too, and I was able to escape by paddling furiously through the swampy creeks as fast as I was ever able. At which point things became more serious.”

 

The Captain had ceased grinning now, and he nodded to indicate that the tall man should continue.

 

“I returned to the pine-barrens several times, hunting the toad-men, and winged several of them, but they are fearful hard to kill. I was intent on trying to get a skin or a head for a trophy to prove the truth of my tale, and I did not realise that I had become the hunted, and I was caught.”

 

The Captain held the tall man’s gaze. “Little grey men with big black eyes,” he said slowly. The tall man nodded, then dipped his finger in his glass of rum and rubbed his eyebrow. He leaned forward into the candle-light and Captain Greybagges could see that the hair of the eyebrow was green. He suddenly looked afraid and went to rise from his seat.

 

“No, Sylvestre!” said the tall man. “She sent me here! She sent me here to watch your back!”

 

Captain Greybagges rubbed his face with his hands, exhaling noisily. “For a moment …” he said.

 

“It nearly was that way. You are not missed yet, but there is a vague suspicion of something awry. They manufactured a copy of me, a copy with a scrambled soul, and sent him to make enquiries among men. I was to be fed to the toad-men, but she somehow had me smuggled onto the transport as well as my copy, and I dogged his steps all the way here. Maybe I would not have found you by myself, for I am a swindler and a liar, not a human bloodhound, as they had made him. He was easy to follow, though, as all I had to ask was ‘has my twin brother been this way?’ My twin lies in a shallow grave two miles from here. It gave me a very strange feeling to murder myself and bury my own corpse at midnight, but not a guilty feeling at all.” He smiled a grim and unsettling smile, and took a gulp of rum. “He was surprisingly easy to kill. In making him so completely their creature they had erased much of his human cunning and suspicion. Fortunately for me, I must say, for I am no assassin either.”

 

“How is she?” asked Captain Greybagges earnestly.

 

“She is well, but she urges you not to delay any more than you must.”

 

“Why does my beard not detect your eyebrows? I would have thought that it would.”

 

“She has somehow arranged that such things are muffled, confused. The little grey men are afraid to tell him about that, and hope to find out what is wrong before they have to admit their failure, for then his wrath may be awesome. There is still some contact, as you will know, but it is sporadic. They will not notice the demise of their creature, my twin, as I am here in his place and, with luck and the muffling, they will not detect the difference. But tell me, why are you here in Salem?”

 

Captain Greybagges explained about Blue Peter, concluding; “I was surprised to see Master Chumbley. I would have expected to find him, his house and his whole household as smoking ashes. I fear for my friend, and wonder what has befallen him since he has not been seen here, but now I must press on without him. Need we anticipate any repercussions from Master Chumbley?”

 

“I think not. He is cowed and uncertain now, and I have warned him not to meddle, so he will do nothing tonight. Tomorrow is another matter. He may recover his courage with the morning’s light, and seek to do you harm for his humiliation at my hands. His is stupid, and vindictive in the way of stupid men when thwarted, so we must leave early tomorrow, before dawn. I have had your horse brought here to the stables. I will wake you. Sleep now for a while and refresh your spirits. I will keep a watch at the window this night, with my pistol ready to my hand. Keep your own pistols and cutlass by your cot, just in case.”

 

As the sky lightened with the first flush of dawn Captain Greybagges and the tall man came to the signpost at the cross roads. The Captain had pointed out the forest clearing where the witches’ sabbath had occurred as they passed it, causing the tall man much amusement.

 

“It has been a great pleasure to meet you again, Sol,” said the Captain. “You have saved me from the odious Chumbley and from an extramundane copy of yourself, too. I’m glad that I kept you out of the chokey that time, and I forgive you for not paying me my fees for that service.” The tall man laughed. “It’s also been pleasant to talk to someone who has shared my experiences of the extramundanes,” continued the Captain. “It is a burden not to be able to talk about it, for fear of being thought stark-mad … but I must not tell you any more, especially of my plans.”

 

“Because of my green eyebrows?”

 

“Yes. You say that I am still not missed by him, or by the little grey buggers, and that you will be mistaken for your manufactured twin in their present confusion, but if they should manage to break through the muffling of their communications they may be able to hear some of your thoughts, so I must tell you nothing, and so we must part company. I would gladly invite you to come along with me, Sol, but I cannot. What will you do now?”

 

“I will continue with the witch-finding. I find that I have discovered my true vocation, and somebody must prevent Master Chumbley and his ilk from murdering all the harmless old women in these colonies in the name of their malevolent and un-Christian conception of God. I used to swindle people and laugh at their pain and loss, but in many ways that was worse than being a highwayman or a footpad. A man looks so wretched after he has been rooked, for then he must blame his own stupidity and greed, and cannot see himself merely as a victim of bad luck. I may tell a few tall tales these days, it’s true, but there are monsters and ghouls loose in the land. So many in the pine-barrens, in fact, that they must be up to something wicked there, and who will stop them if not I? People respect me, too, and I must say I like that! Why, some scribbler even penned a ghastly piece of doggerel in my honour!” The tall man struck a pose and declaimed as follows:

“Solomon Pole’s Homecoming!

The ravens croaked on London’s Tower, soot stained the cold wind black,
The bitter rain fell in slanting sheets when Solomon Pole came back,
An ancient lurking street-hawker sold him an ancient mutton pie,
And when he bit into its rancid meat a tear came to his eye.

Street-urchins followed him, wagering whether he would finish that meal,
When he swallowed it to the very last crumb they knew he was a man of steel,
He trod a tavern’s sawdusted floor and bought a pint of bitter ale,
And drank it down to the very last drop, even though it was flat and stale.

‘There once sat Spring-heeled Jack, on that very tavern stool,
‘He had an idiot’s leer and cross-ed eyes, but he was nobody’s fool,
‘The Bow-Street Runners came for him, well I remember that day,
‘He spotted them despite his squint, and so he bravely ran away.’

‘Where is Bess?’ said Solomon Pole, ‘she still owes me thirty bob.’
‘The landlord barred her years ago, for she would never shut her gob.’
The soot-black wind battered at the panes and Solomon shook his head,
‘She always had that mouth on her,’ Solomon sadly said.

‘I once knew a Pearly Queen in the street that is called Lime,
‘She had a face just like a leather bag and eyes as old as time,
‘She was only twenty years old, but she’d drunk a lot of gin,
‘She used to beg just around the corner, rattling a rusty tin.’

‘And I have seen a vampire mouse in a city made of cheese…..”

 

“Stop! Stop!” cried the Captain, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “That was a poem in your honour, you say?”

 

“Well, Sylvestre,” said Solomon Pole, “the scribbler’s ode contained a number of egregious errors of fact! He said my birthplace was some horrid little fishing-village in the West Country, and that I had sailed with Hawkins and Grenville, which would make me the oldest man alive and not the clean-limbed laughing lad whom you see before you. It was a humourless glum piece of work, too. He even got my name wrong, the hound! So I composed my own version. Ain’t it grand?”

 

“It is, Sol, it is! I must go now, friend, for time presses greatly upon me!”
“Go! I will delay and misdirect any pursuit by Chumbley’s men. May your path be always downhill, and may the good Lord crown your endeavours with success! Adieu, Sylvestre de Greybagges!”

 

They shook hands, the Captain’s large hand almost lost in the grasp of the tall man’s huge knobbly fingers, and they parted there at the crossroads.

 

Captain Greybagges spurred his horse along the dusty road back to Jamestown, trying to make as much speed as possible without tiring his mount. His horse was eager, the air was crisp on his face, the day bright with a few clouds in a blue sky, but he felt no joy and his worries oppressed him terribly. Extramundane creatures ‘up to something’ in the nearby wilderness, Solomon Pole had said, but he could not spare the time to ponder upon that. He had lost his master gunner, and perhaps his sailing-master and First Mate as well, for he had not seen Bulbous Bill Bucephalus or Israel Feet since the night of the witches. That was a catastrophe, and he cursed himself for going ashore and drinking in the tavern called Wahunsunacock’s Mantle. When he had learned that the Dutchman whom he sought was not yet there he should have gone back out to sea, or he should have anchored in a quiet cove away from the temptations of civilisation, even such poor temptations as Jamestown had to offer. Frank Benjamin would not then have thought of taking shore-leave, and Blue Peter would have seen no opportunity to vent his long-nursed rage upon his erstwhile owner. Captain Greybagges cursed himself again. I relaxed my vigilance, he thought, and firstly I relaxed my vigilance upon myself, and all else that followed grew from that base dereliction. I shall probably find the remainder of my crew laid ashore as drunk as Davy’s sow, and my ship boarded and stolen away by sneering French privateers.

 

Beset by these dismal speculations he galloped around a bend in the road and let the horse have its head as the road straightened. Ahead in the distance he could see another traveller on a horse. As he came closer he could see the hunched rider was enveloped in a loose brown cloak and a big wide-brimmed floppy hat, so he resembled a large sack of turnips. He pulled his horse to the right to gallop past the slow-moving traveller on the narrow lane, as he did so he caught a glimpse of a dark eye peering at him from under the brim of the hat, and felt an immediate surge of recognition.

 

“Peter!” he roared in delight, pulling on the reins hard so that his horse whinnied and bucked. The face of Blue Peter peered at him from under the hat, with an oddly rueful grin. Captain Greybagges trotted back and turned his horse to ride alongside, feeling a contradictory whirl of emotions; joy, irritation, relief, anger.

 

“Peter, you bloody … you! … you! … vexacious nincompoop! You great insufferable jackanapes! How immensely pleased I am to see you! Why! I wish to embrace you and punch you on the nose at one and the same time! I an near lost for words! … ‘Pon my life, I cannot … Good Lord! Do you have someone else with you inside that great tent of a cloak?”

 

The folds of the cloak parted, and a face peered out. A very pretty face, pink and heart-shaped, with large wide-set blue eyes and full red lips. There was a look of slight apprehension on the delicate features, but the blue eyes regarded him with an intelligent directness, and the coral-lipped mouth had a determined set to it.

 

“Captain, allow me to introduce Miss Miriam Andromeda Chumbley. My dear, this is Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges, commander of the ship, and my friend.”

 

Captain Greybagges swept off his black tricorne hat and bowed his head; “Miss Chumbley, your servant!” He was then too taken aback to say more. Miss Chumbley pushed aside the folds and emerged from under the cloak, revealing a mass of blonde hair in sausage-curls, tied with blue ribbons of silk.

 

“Captain Greybagges, I am so pleased to meet you! My Peter speaks of you with such great regard, and with such fond affection!”

 

Miss Chumbley smiled at him, revealing small white teeth, perfect and even. The smile held  genuine warmth, her eyes crinkled with pleasure, but deep in those blue depths there was a palpable sense of dispassionate assessment, as though she was measuring him and recording everything for later analysis. This made the Captain uncharacteristically diffident, and he glanced at Blue Peter, whose face had the stunned expression of a man who has just been struck smartly on the head with a belaying-pin, and whose knees are on the point of buckling under him. There was a shout from back down the lane, which saved the Captain from giggling impolitely.

 

“Why, look! It is Izzy!” the Captain cried. “Excuse me, dear lady, I must take his report! Peter, pray continue! We will catch up with you presently.”

 

Captain Greybagges galloped back, the First Mate galloping towards him on his skeletal steed, waving his arm.

 

“Arrr! There you be, Cap’n! I bin keepin’ watch on that Salem place from them woods, but I didn’t see yuz leave there. Saw the tall bugger arguing with the fat bugger an’ his mates at the crossroads, an’ I guessed yer musta scarpered, belike. Bill, he went orf back to ship to get a shore-party to come for yez. We should meet him on his way a-comin’ ‘ere, I do reckon. Skin me wi’ a soupspoon, else!”

 

“What happened to you on that morning, Izzy?”

 

“The women cleared orf in the night sometime. Did’n sees ‘em go. Me and Bill wuz having a dump in the woods that mornin’, wi’ our britches round our ankles and thick heads, too. Heard a commotion, belike, then saw ‘em takin’ yuz away. There wuz too many of ‘em for us to stop ‘em, and we figured yer weren’t doing nuffin wrong, cept sleeping in the woods, so yer’d be back soon enough. When yer wasn’t back by midday we crep around a bit, sees what’s up. Well, I did, ‘cos Bill ain’t zackly built for creepin’, so he watched the road. Didn’t see anyfing until that tall feller took yer t’the tavern, then I saw yer did’n have no shirt on and yer looked a bit banged about, like. So Bill went orf ta get help. I stayed ta keep a watch. Have yer seen hide nor hair o’ Peter?”

 

“That’s him up ahead on the horse, Izzy.”

 

“Nah! Reely? Woz he bin up ta?” The First Mate went to spur his horse to catch up with Blue Peter, but the Captain put a hand on his arm.

 

“Hold up a minute, Izzy, me old cock! He has a young lady with him.”

 

“Naah! Yer jests, yer does! The sly old dog! Scuttle me bathtub with a pickaxe if that ain’t rare!”

 

“Ah, Izzy! Before you go a-haring off I must caution you to be discreet, to be careful what you say.”

 

“Discreet? What about?”

 

“Well, Izzy,” said Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges, with a broad grin forming on his face, “the, ah, large lady that you were pleasuring in the woods the night before last, if you recall?”

 

“I does, Cap’n, I does! Hur-hur-hur!”

 

“I do believe that she is the young lady’s mother.”