A Seagoing Adventure Part 1

by Peter Gifford

Despite my adventurous nature, I never thought to become a pirate. I’m far too respectable. On a that blustery November day at Crab Key I was certainly in the wrong company however, drowning my sorrows with the help of a few pints of Old Black Special Ale at the Jolly Pillager. It was all about some girl, I vaguely remember; what her name was I can’t quite recall, but I was young then, and only one voyage into my career as midshipman extraordinaire, newly enlisted by the Royal Navy.

A Pig Woman by the name of Meg was keeping me well supplied with ale. I do believe she had a bit of crush on me, poor dear, but unfortunately her snuffling ugliness only served to bring the pretty face of my recently lost love back to me more vividly. Like most Beast Folk she was somewhat simple minded, but fortunately smart enough to regularly appear at my elbow with a fresh pot of ale.

I was slumped at the bar and slinging them back because I had less than an hour of sorrow-drowning to get on with before I was due back on Her Majesty’s Frigate ‘The Lord Dudley’ for the next part of its dull-as-dishwater voyage. Drinking fast was of course my downfall, and giving Meg the cold shoulder probably didn’t help either. I found myself accepting drinks from a rather shady looking character who seemed to know Meg well and was uncommonly interested in my state of inebriation. Of course I know his face in unpleasant detail now, so I can give you the benefit of descriptive powers that were not quite at my disposal at the time. His name is Jimmy the Slig. He affects a black eyepatch—though in fact the eye under it is whole and unharmed, as I’ve seen him push the eyepatch up and put an eyepiece to it—a red headscarf, and his ugly face is covered with a truly memorable case of acne scarring. True man, ay, but hardly a much prettier picture than poor Meg.

“That’s it me boy, drink up. I know what it’s like, when some wench ups and takes her favours elsewhere, nothing for it but to have a few drinks and move onto the next one ay matey? Here, let me fill up that tankard for ye …”

... And so forth. Needless to say after half an hour of this constant attention I was feeling somewhat expansive, and had turned in my chair to the entire room—a likely bunch of good-hearted lads, they seemed to me, fine examples of the advantages of the sea-faring life, wholesome salt-scars of experience etched on every upturned face—and was waving my tankard to take in the whole lot of them while I detailed my spellbinding adventures upon the high seas.

I believe then I must have fallen off my chair.

There followed one of those long moments of complete blackness. Then I was thinking “my Lord, I wonder if I’m dead?” just before I creaked painfully into life and found myself squinting at an unrecognisable blur. Add some creaking noises, a rather overwhelming odour of piss and damp fur, a blinding pain at the base of the skull, and you pretty much have the whole picture. My first thought of course, once my brain had adjusted to this whole horrible business of being conscious, was that I’d been shanghaied. Wrapped in a sail and thrown in the bilge, as it were. You see, young men with ‘adventure’ stamped on their life’s scroll in large letters often start their story in an ignoble fashion in just such a way, the practice of drumming up men into a crew without the inconvenience of actually asking them being quite common in these parts. Much to my misfortune, on first examination this seemed to be exactly what had happened to me, and the reality was certainly far less adventurous than I had been led to believe. As I’ve mentioned, it smelled like a zoo, for one thing; far worse than the quite smelly Lord Dudley below decks (there’s the first clue I thought: the Royal Navy don’t take on Beast Men). And I certainly didn’t recognise as faithful shipmate the leering face that had just swam into focus directly in front of me. No King’s man this. It was my erstwhile friend Jimmy the Slig, and mighty pleased with himself he was too.

“Well, lookee here, our young gentlemen’s seeing fit to join us on this fine day at sea. What will ye be having for breakfast young sir? Will it be kippers and toast then? Perhaps some fried whelk and onions would be more to ye taste then?”

I believe I’d managed to raise my head from the damp floorboards by this juncture. “Just a pot of coffee, thank you.” I managed to cough.

Much to my surprise this simple request was greeted with a gale of uncouth laughter, and I found myself unprepared for the rough treatment that immediately followed. Mr Slig pulled me unceremoniously to my feet, laughing all the while, and pushed me towards the stairs that led upward, presumably, to the deck. Of course I was hardly in the condition to walk, but my tender condition seemed to be of little interest to one such as Mr Slig. I was dragged almost bodily up the stairs and thrust into blinding sunlight and merciless noise.

Suddenly I found my mind surprisingly clear, and cunningly decided to feign disorientation while I got my bearings and formulated a plan as to my next course of action. Obviously I was in what my dear black nanny would have referred to as “a spilled bucket o’ oiled eels worth o’ trouble”, but that was no reason to start losing my head. For indeed, I reminded myself shakily, many great adventures had begun in such a fashion. Surely it would be no time at all before I had won the respect of the crew through some timely and courageous action; and soon after the existing captain, insalubrious, corrupt and no doubt bad-smelling fellow that he was, would be cast off in the ship’s boat and I would be elevated to commander by mutual consent of the crusty but basically goodhearted men. Follow that up with a few years of daring coastal raids, a pile of glittering treasure and no doubt a stunningly attractive and pliable consort (a Governor’s daughter perhaps, rescued from a life of embroidery and drawing-room tedium?), and my place in the two-penny novels would be assured.

Much to my surprise, it didn’t quite begin to work out that way. In fact, it seemed I hardly warranted a second glance from the men – and Beast Men, I confirmed – above decks, much less the captain, who was nowhere to be seen. Instead Mr Slig thrust a scrubbing brush into my hand, indicated a nearby bucket and shouted in my face “now get to scrubbing ye lily-livered bastard or I’ll you’ll be shark bait before ye can say—” Words seem to fail him at this point. He contented himself with a back handed clout across the my face that sent me reeling to the deck again, and stalked off aft.

I would be less than honest of me not to admit that I was feeling somewhat discouraged at this point. In fact I found myself almost wishing I was back at my father’s house, and certainly that is a true indication of the depths of despair in which I wallowed. There was nothing for it, I decided, than to lay low for a few days, and consolidate my position before making any further plans. I dunked my brush in the bucket of dirty, soapy water and set to with somewhat less than a will.

In this fashion, several weeks passed. I won’t bore you with the details, and to be completely honest I seem to have blocked out some of the less pleasant incidents during that time. Suffice it to say that if one is sequested against one’s will aboard what is obviously a ship full of pirates, the only thing worse than a pirate taking a dislike to you is a pirate taking a liking to you.

Regardless of the details, I survived to hear, one bright morning the like of which you only see in the latitudes around the Equator, the hoarse cry of “sail ho!” from the Ape Man in the crow’s nest. “Thank the Lord above” I thought to myself, “rescue upon the horizon!” and risking a drubbing from the likes of Mr Slig and his numerous lackies I rushed to the gunwales. Of course there was nothing to see from my low vantage point, but the lookout’s word was well trusted, and all around me the crew were rushing to their tasks. The topsails, fore main and mizzen, were unfurled with an almighty snap, but whether to pursue or outrun our ocean company was yet to be seen. The first mate, an unsavoury, thick-necked man who went by the name of Moist Jack for inexplicable reasons, stood by the mast and bellowed orders like a ringmaster. He showed few outward signs of being among the Beast Folk, but surely some bull blood flowed in the veins of that man.

Since my duties had extended, to this point, little beyond scrubbing the deck, ladling gruel and warming hammocks, I found myself somewhat at a loss in such a situation. My confusion was quickly seized upon; the deck of a ship at sea is a poor place on which to remain inconspicuous, after all.

“You there, boy, move your laggardly arse up here and help me with this!” came a commanding voice from the forecastle. Hell’s Bells, I’ve been spotted, I thought (a month at sea had introduced several such course expressions to my vocabulary). I squinted into the sun which at that moment was blinding my view of the source of the voice. “Coming sir!” I shouted and headed for the ladder double-quick. A rather imposing figure greeted me as I reached the upper deck. He wore a thigh-length coast of red embroidered material and was struggling with a knotted swordbelt to which was attached a wicked-looking cutlass. As I reached the deck his feline face rose to stare at me, blocking out the sun. My God, this is the Captain, I thought to myself; and more shockingly he was a Beast Man himself, some hybrid of leopard and man I guessed. If I had not already become numb with the events of the past weeks I would have fallen over in surprise, for never, as you know, does one see a Beast Man in a position of responsibility. Of course they are exclusively charged with menial tasks, their intelligence being not much greater than that of the base beasts of which they are part, despite the original efforts of Dr Moreau.

I fumbled to untangle the scabbard, stumbling at the Captain’s heels as he strode to and fro yelling orders. As I did so I frantically examined the possibilities—perhaps I could clout him over the head in the confusion of battle and jump ship as its command structure collapsed around me? At the very least I was now on the forecastle, an off-limits area reserved for the formerly reclusive captain and occasionally the first mate. Obviously, my entire time aboard ship I had not set eyes on the Captain, who had stayed in his cabin as a rule, no doubt pouring over ancient maps on which X marked the spot and communing with his parrot. Again I risked a glance up at him as I finally got the recalcitrant belt unknotted; indeterminate age, perhaps in his forties, a bit weighty around the middle, with a full head of black hair pulled back from a sharply sloping forehead that ended in thick brows over piercing green cat’s eyes. His hairless snout was grey-black, and as he shouted at the crew small, wicked teeth flashed in the sunlight. He certainly avoided socialising with his crew; perhaps a good policy in this particular case, I thought ruefully, but certainly not condusive to loyalty unto death from one’s subordinates. A leader of men must observe a certain distance, and yet be capable of understanding the little troubles and concerns of his crew; it was a tricky balance, and not a delicacy common between beast and man.

Not that he didn’t seem to be doing a good job at that moment. I was shoved out of the way as he relayed another order to the first mate and walked to the rail gazing out at our quarry, the three stubby digits of his right hand resting on the hilt of his cutlass. A sail had appeared surprisingly close, and rising to my feet and shading my eyes I could make out the insignia.

Oh Hell’s Bells, I thought (again). Swine pirates! My fine white flesh is cooked!