The north wind doth blow

So there we had it – phase 1 of the recruitment drive was, in a manner of speaking, over. That is to say, my crew wasn’t going to get any bigger if I just sat here supping my ale and scratching my bedsores. For enlistment to begin in earnest, I really needed to get out of my comfy chair and onto the road.

But where to start?

“Arrr”, said the first mate – prefacing a nugget of her cruel wisdom – “this place be full of cissy stock. A hive of scum and villainy is what you’ll be needin’, and none more wretched than the one I knows no man knows not says I,” she said.

(I record her words verbatim to maintain her central thesis, since, aside from its lack of pluperfect tense, I am still not au fait with the intricacies of pirate grammar.)

I asked her to clarify.

“Doncaster.”

Heavens to Betsy! Of course! The Gateway to the North! From time immemorial the town has been a hotbed of felony, and if anyone knew anything about anybody around that way, I knew just the woman: Peg-Leg Lynn – fighter, biter, and all-round gossip.


Human resources manager:
Peg-Leg Lynn "The Lyncher"
Likes: Norse gods
Dislikes: Morse code

What to do with the drunken sailors

Below Bertie’s private squall, an eerie hush prevailed. Her presence had turned the band of fearsome hearties into a rabble of fearful land-lubbers. The only sound below deck was that of the crew checking their contracts – having signed up for high-jinx on the high seas, the prospect of confining themselves to quarters was understandably unappealing.

We were minutes from mutiny.

Fortunately, pirates are a simple bunch and easily distracted – the mind of the rank and file brigand contains little beyond shanties, pieces of eight, and wondering where the next weevil is coming from.

Thus, for the yang to offset Bertie’s yin, it was necessary to find some bawdy amusement. After the manner of the royal court, this would historically have taken the form of the ship’s fool. Political correctness has since proscribed such demeaning nomenclature, and we ended up with a light entertainer: Jolly Roger.

By the close of the night he had furnished everyone with balloon animals and treated us all to his full repertoire of guild-approved jokes. For the ladies there was a special treat in store – a whole hour of Brian May impressions, sporting naught but a pair of Speedos and an air guitar.


The Jolly Roger
Jester-in-Chief
Likes: barnacles
Dislikes: icicles

The filthy corsair

Hellknuckles didn’t come on board quietly. That wasn’t entirely her fault – due to her present incapacity she’d press-ganged her mother into carrying her personal possessions.

The old gorgon was a high seas veteran with an array of oaths to make fishwives swoon. Moreover, her profound blasphemy was documented as having a distinctly negative impact on the life expectancy of the clergy.

The source of the daughter’s vicious streak was immediately apparent – Cussin’ Bertie, otherwise known as the Cannonball Dwarf on account of her two peg-legs, was not only the patron saint of volcanic rage, but also the dirtiest scrapper in the shire, with a reputation for coshing bar staff with the aforementioned prostheses.

Once on board there was no removing her. She set up a rude camp in the crow’s nest, snapping at the fingers of those imprudent enough to attempt parley with her.

I threw her a raw steak to calm her blood lust and let me get in the odd word while she tore at the flesh. In between the champing and snarling, I’d like to think she accepted the role of watchperson. Not that it mattered – the prospect of any other cove getting a look-in was now largely academic.

Lookout
Cussin' Bertie the Profane

Likes: bitin' and scratchin'

Dislikes: Queensbury Rules