Cutthroats of the Coast

Chapter 1 - Face Down on the Floor

Piracy is a way of life, not an occupation.

I wish someone had told me that when I had answered Captain Morgan's call for hands at the rather rustic hostelry, where I had been resting - face down on the floor, licking at a pool of spilled ale like a cat at a dish of cream, I might have saved myself a considerable amount of inconvenience that has dogged my footsteps for many a year now.

Blearily, I had looked up from my rather recumbent position and focused on the flamboyant, stout and thunderously loud gentleman bellowing in the centre of the alehouse's tap room. An oversized, unfashionable and gaudy coat replete with tarnished brass buttons did little to conceal my fine friend's considerable belly, which strained at the threadbare waistcoat that barely contained it. Every time this man bellowed out his call, his stomach undulated in a most alarming manner and buttons threatened to fly off in all directions. It positively required the scarlet sash wrapped round coat and waistcoat to maintain some degree of modesty, retaining the man's stomach behind a thin veneer of cloth. Fascinated by this exhibition of the rewards of excess - and not a little charmed by the continuing oscillations - I staggered to my feet, steadied myself with a hand upon some poor sot's head, belched, and weaved my way to make a closer inspection of the magnificent creature.

"All hands! All hands!" the large gentleman trumpeted. "The Betsy, a fine, seaworthy vessel of thirty guns, late of His Spanish Majesty's service..." This was interrupted by a rousing cheer from the patrons of the bar, at which the large gentleman made an extravagant bow and continued, "Late of His Spanish Majesty's service, commanded by Captain Bartholomew Morgan - a fine upstanding and sober seaman..." More cheers erupted. More bowing ensued. Everyone smiled at everyone else. It was a most congenial scene.

"The Betsy is taking on new volunteers who wish to acquire wealth and fame on a voyage to the Gold Coast. Able bodied landsmen or experienced sailormen may repair to the Dolphin and Dragon where they will be invited to make their marks on the ship's roll and enjoy a flagon of ale as guests of Captain Morgan."

The large gentleman took it upon himself to pause at this moment and glared at me with flinty, piggy, little eyes. He swept off his wig and dabbed at his florid cheeks with it in an attempt to mop up the beads of perspiration that had sprung up as he had made his announcement in the stuffy tavern. "Does my belly interest you, sir? Or is there another matter I may assist you with?" he rumbled.

Alehouses always puzzled me. Why did I always end up bent over like an octogenarian? Realising that it could not be considered polite to make a first acquaintance with someone by addressing their stomach, I looked up. "Not belly. No' intrested in belly," I hiccoughed. Something about what the large gentleman had announced was very important but I was having problems remembering exactly what it was. Swaying, feeling a little nauseous, I decided to enquire further, "Wassat you say? What is it, eh?"

He took one long look at me, which I perceived to be little less than sympathetic, and then shrugged, saying, "Captain Morgan will be signing new hands at the Dolphin and Dragon. He will be there every night for the next four days. If you fancy a life of honest work..."

"You tell 'im, Dick" a hard voice jeered.

Dick inclined his head in the direction of the voice and continued, "If you fancy a life of honest work with great reward then go there tonight. Captain Morgan has need of good, strong hands to haul on a rope and heave a gun. He needs stout Englishmen who'll show those Dutch buggers the way to go."

"Away and away-oh!" a chorus from the bar offered. Feet stamped, there were more cheers and there was a drumming of hands on the grimy tables. Dust was raised from tables and floor, only adding to the blue haze of tobacco smoke illuminated by the weak sunlight clawing its way through the thick windows of the tavern.

"Aye, heave away all!" Dick shouted, raising his wig to the clientele of the bar and performing a slow pirouette. He snatched a jack of ale from the table beside him and drained it in one, golden beads streaming past his mouth and jowls, adding to the stains that flecked his shirt. Slamming the jack down, he wiped his mouth with his wig and turned to face me again, "Heave away, mate. Head to the Dolphin and Dragon."

"Will there be ale?" I slurred. "Y' said there'd be ale."

"Ale? Aye, there'll be ale. There'll be wine too, if you like that fancy foreign muck. If Morgan takes a shine to you there may even be rum, mate."

"Rum? Rum!" I gasped. Such ambrosia! How could it hurt to find out more about Captain Morgan's proposal? He sounded a fine fellow. Licking my lips in anticipation of my forthcoming appointment I made my farewells to the good gentlemen of the taproom and collected my belongings from under the table where I had spent the night.

Hat in one hand, journal in the other, I emerged from my snug shelter into the fetid dirt of the streets around Bristol's docks. I took a deep breath of the morning air, gagged as I choked on the thick taste of human excrement that infused it, and promptly vomited onto my shoes. Oh, good Lord, I thought as I clutched my throbbing head, hat and book discarded in the filth of the narrow lane, guide me away from the temptations of gluttony. Render these rough and boisterous seas calm and pleasant for this humble sinner.

My stomach heaved again and I restrained an urge to lose what little was left within. I leaned against the tavern and considered my position. Being as I was penniless, in thrall to the evils of drink and curious to the point of recklessness, it appeared to me that there was only one sensible course to set in a trading town like Bristol. I might also be able to confound my father's men and lead them on a merry little chase. Not only that, I desperately needed something to settle my recalcitrant guts. The Dolphin and Dragon beckoned like some siren from Odysseus' travails.

Feeling weak but a little clearer in my head, I picked up my hat and journal, scraped the worst of the street from them, and made my way to meet Captain Morgan.  

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