Greenbeard (9781935259220) Read Online Free
Author: Richard James Bentley
stone-built mole and across Rum Bay to Sruudta Point. There he hove-to, enjoying the sun on his bald head, the skiff bobbing in the slight swell. He reached under his yellow beard and removed his black silk cravat, unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up the sleeves. He folded the cravat carefully, for it was from Saville Row, London, and had cost as much as a case of decent claret. Nobody could see it under his beard, of course, but he knew it was there. He sniffed the air and looked at the little puffy clouds on the horizon. The dead calm would end soon, he was sure.
He spun the skiff with a single pull of an oar and rowed back to the harbour, slower now, with easy strokes of the oars. Heâd seen Calico Jack Rackham in Y e Petty Mountmartree Froggie Wyneshoppe And Grille earlier, and clanked tankards with him. Heâd always been plain Jack Rackham before. Was every freebooter adopting a nom de guerre ? Perhaps nom de pillage would be more accurate. Jack Rackham had got his nickname from the haberdashery stall heâd used to run in Petticoat Lane market, Captain Greybagges recalled, but he supposed that made it easier to remember, and not many would recall him from those days. It would be a shame if one forgot oneâs pseudonym: âHar! Shit yer britches ye weevils, for I am ⦠oh! A pox onât! What was it now? ⦠Ah! That be it! ⦠For I be Cutthroat Cecil Cholmondleigh!â Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges shook his head and grinned. That ass Billy Bones had tried to call himself The Pirate With No Name, but, never the brightest of buccaneers, he had spoiled it by roaring âHear my name and shiver, ye swabs! For I be Billy Bones, The Pirate With No Name!â just as he was boarding a prize. The defending crew had been sore a-feared, but when they heard that theyâd all howled with laughter and Bonesâs boarding-party had retreated in confusion, followed by jeers and hoots. The silly sod had been forced to skewer his quartermaster and two foremast jacks to restore discipline, and by then the prize had made sail and cleared off, of course.
Mind you, thought the Captain, this fashion for bloodthirsty nicknames might not go away. If it did not heâd have a problem, for one could never buck a
well-established trend. He couldnât call himself Yellowbeard, for that would seem like he was aping Eddie Teach, and he was damned if heâd call himself Yellow Whiskers, as that just sounded silly. And yet his trademark was his long yellow beard, and all the more apparent in contrast to his all-black apparel. He would have to think about this some more, maybe.
He tied up the skiff and clambered up the tumblehome onto the deck. While rowing back heâd noticed that the ebb and flood of the tide had left the harbour with clean clear blue water, and that the bottom was visible. He was also sweaty from rowing.
âSee yez any sharks?â he shouted to the look-out up in the cross-trees.
âNary a one, Capân!â The look-out waved his hand from side to side and shook his head to emphasise the absence of sharks. Pirates feared sharks, for they believed that sharks could be spookily possessed by the souls of those they had eaten. Given the number of people who had been fed to sharks by pirates there was a worrying possibility that a possessed shark might well recognise a jolly buccaneer as the one who had encouraged his human incarnation to step out along the plank by jabbing a rapier in his bottom, should they happen to meet whilst swimming in the sea. It was also said by some that sharks would never attack lawyers out of professional courtesy, but Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges had no notion to put that to a practical test. The harbour was clear, though, so the Captain stripped off, clambered onto the rail and dived into the blue water. He swam along the length of the frigate and back, the great tattoo on his back visible to the crew in the rigging; a depiction of Old
He spun the skiff with a single pull of an oar and rowed back to the harbour, slower now, with easy strokes of the oars. Heâd seen Calico Jack Rackham in Y e Petty Mountmartree Froggie Wyneshoppe And Grille earlier, and clanked tankards with him. Heâd always been plain Jack Rackham before. Was every freebooter adopting a nom de guerre ? Perhaps nom de pillage would be more accurate. Jack Rackham had got his nickname from the haberdashery stall heâd used to run in Petticoat Lane market, Captain Greybagges recalled, but he supposed that made it easier to remember, and not many would recall him from those days. It would be a shame if one forgot oneâs pseudonym: âHar! Shit yer britches ye weevils, for I am ⦠oh! A pox onât! What was it now? ⦠Ah! That be it! ⦠For I be Cutthroat Cecil Cholmondleigh!â Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges shook his head and grinned. That ass Billy Bones had tried to call himself The Pirate With No Name, but, never the brightest of buccaneers, he had spoiled it by roaring âHear my name and shiver, ye swabs! For I be Billy Bones, The Pirate With No Name!â just as he was boarding a prize. The defending crew had been sore a-feared, but when they heard that theyâd all howled with laughter and Bonesâs boarding-party had retreated in confusion, followed by jeers and hoots. The silly sod had been forced to skewer his quartermaster and two foremast jacks to restore discipline, and by then the prize had made sail and cleared off, of course.
Mind you, thought the Captain, this fashion for bloodthirsty nicknames might not go away. If it did not heâd have a problem, for one could never buck a
well-established trend. He couldnât call himself Yellowbeard, for that would seem like he was aping Eddie Teach, and he was damned if heâd call himself Yellow Whiskers, as that just sounded silly. And yet his trademark was his long yellow beard, and all the more apparent in contrast to his all-black apparel. He would have to think about this some more, maybe.
He tied up the skiff and clambered up the tumblehome onto the deck. While rowing back heâd noticed that the ebb and flood of the tide had left the harbour with clean clear blue water, and that the bottom was visible. He was also sweaty from rowing.
âSee yez any sharks?â he shouted to the look-out up in the cross-trees.
âNary a one, Capân!â The look-out waved his hand from side to side and shook his head to emphasise the absence of sharks. Pirates feared sharks, for they believed that sharks could be spookily possessed by the souls of those they had eaten. Given the number of people who had been fed to sharks by pirates there was a worrying possibility that a possessed shark might well recognise a jolly buccaneer as the one who had encouraged his human incarnation to step out along the plank by jabbing a rapier in his bottom, should they happen to meet whilst swimming in the sea. It was also said by some that sharks would never attack lawyers out of professional courtesy, but Captain Sylvestre de Greybagges had no notion to put that to a practical test. The harbour was clear, though, so the Captain stripped off, clambered onto the rail and dived into the blue water. He swam along the length of the frigate and back, the great tattoo on his back visible to the crew in the rigging; a depiction of Old