Cutthroats of the Coast

Chapter 2 - A Buccaneers' Bacchanalia

The Dolphin and Dragon (or the Fish and Lizard to its regular patrons) was at that time a dangerous place for the unwary to enter. A haunt of buccaneers, highwaymen, cutpurses, footpads, whores and the occasional parson, the Old Fish was the one tavern by the docks that a particular type of ship's captain might look for crew. It was a place that good, God-fearing folk would not be found, and in case they were, they could expect to be carried out of the back and quietly disposed of.

Being unaware of the Old Fish's reputation, as well as being under the emboldening influence of my last penny's worth of ale, I crossed the threshold unsteadily in search of the advertised Captain Bartholomew Morgan and his rum. My bowels were still griping me and I was most anxious to acquire a measure of that steadying draught.

Now taverns are rowdy places but in those days there was no place quite like the Fish and Lizard. On stepping past the threshold, my delicate state of being was threatened with further upset by a wall of noise that seemed to have actual substance to it. Head swimming, ears throbbing under the assault of the riot within, I stood dazed and confounded whilst what appeared to be a vision of one of Signor Dante's circles of Hell was played out before me.

I do not readily judge my fellow man but the parade of depravity that appeared to circumnavigate one particular table did not steady my opinion of the lower sorts. There was such a ranting, drinking and drumming - with one fellow enthusiastically blasting tunelessly upon what appeared to be a trumpet - that I barely noticed the dishevelled or even unclad state of many of the revellers. What caught my attention were the figures on the other side of the crowd who were bent over a ledger. Either the Dolphin's landlord was going through his account books (if he had any letters, which I doubted) or the sour-faced gentleman was Captain Morgan.

I staggered down in to the swirling tumult and was immediately beset by this jostling mass of God's creatures, who were so brazenly flaunting their nakedness. As I wrestled my way through, assaulted by the stench of stale beer and unwashed humanity, one man leapt to a table in one mighty bound and stood there, naked as the day he was born, holding a stone bottle in one hand.

"Sing one for us!!" some wag in the crowd roared.

Our Adam smiled upon his congregation and launched into a ballad that I seem to remember was popular at the time. He sang lustily enough, but I cannot think that he would have suited the choir at Magdalen College.

"A ship must have a buntlin to haul up her bunt,

And a maid must have a young man to tickle her..." he roared.

To which, his admirers responded with, "Away oh!" then howled with laughter.

He continued, conducting with his bottle,

"Top and top gallant a ship she sails trimly,

Maids, if they be not pleased they'll frown and look grimly.

A ship must have a mast: a long, strong, and straight stick,

And a maid must have a young man with a lusty long..."

Finally, I emerged from the throng, sweating from the effort. I found myself stood before the sour-faced gentleman, who was pouring over his ledger with his assistant. Perhaps it was my shadow falling across the book, or perhaps the lingering fragrance of bile that had spattered my shoes, but something prompted him to look up.

"Yes?" he sneered, his thin mouth twisting around a wicked scar that cut down from the corner of his bottom lip and sliced along his chin. "What do you want here?" Hard eyes glared at me like lead musket balls. He had a north country voice and the flat vowels of his words only added to his air of discourtesy and hostility.

"Captain Morgan?" I stammered, reaching out a hand to steady myself at the table. "Captain Morgan, he said you'd have ale. He said you'd have ale for those willing to sign up! He said you'd have rum!"

The sour-faced man looked me up and down and even in my semi-drunken state I could surmise that the gentleman was not impressed with my appearance. "Ale? Rum?" he said. "Ale for sailormen, not landsmen. Rum for men, not dogs!" With that he stepped forward and struck a blow across my face with his stick.

Now I have few talents, not least of which is a fantastic capacity for drink, but if I have one that helped me over the next several months, it was my ability to stand a blow. I know not why this is but I had always been able to take a beating. My father could testify to that. There was nothing that infuriated him more than my silence whenever he took his belt to me. At Oxford, before I unleashed the demon of my prodigious thirst, boxing had been a sport that I seemed well suited for. I could walk into a series of blows that fell upon my numb face and chest, confusing my opponent with my lack of concern, then land my own punches before I succumbed to the shock.

The blow knocked me back a step but I was able to withstand it, steady myself again, then face the sour-faced gentleman.

"I think rum will do me fine," I spat sending red globs across the table, some spattering the ledger.

The sour-faced gentleman looked at me with surprise, then smiled, "You'll do." He dipped his quill into an ink-pot that sat beside the ledger and asked, "Name?"

I paused. There was no way back if I put my name to the roll. Even I could see that in my drink befuddled condition. Taking a deep breath, I prayed to the Lord that my actions would not prove unwise as they so often had in the past.

"West. Matthew West ," I blurted out in a rush.

"Occupation?"

"S...scholar."

He raised an eyebrow but continued to write without a pause, the quill scratching away on the ledger.

"Make your mark," the sour-faced gentleman ordered.

I took the quill, rolling it between my fingers in my customary way and then scratched my name into the ledger in a shaky hand.

The sour-faced gentleman pursed his lips, looked past me and called out, "Cap'n! We have one more and the roll's full!"

"You're not Captain Morgan?" I said, wiping the blood away from my mouth.

"No, that's the Cap'n," and he pointed at the naked man who still sang his ballad atop the tavern's table, thrusting his hips lewdly in time to his song.

"When a ship is under sail, we do wish her good luck,

And a maid under a young man, we wish her a good..."

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