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Rascals and curs they may have been, but depriving these swabs of their liberty and forcing them to live cheek by jowl was both cruel and unusual. To subsequently set them adrift the Alley-alley-oo, bobbing, for all intents and purposes, towards who knows where, thus fell somewhere between inhumane and frankly not cricket. The squall, therefore, was inevitable.
Breaking rank, the first mate stepped forward and uttered those words I had for so long been dreading:
“We wants a training day!”
Mutinous this may have seemed, but I had to concede that the team dynamic had been somewhat fraught of late. Furthermore, they numbered sixteen and there was but one of me.
It also happened that through previous networking I knew of the godfather of one of London’s most respected criminal syndicates. He could also conduct a mean business needs analysis – if anyone could identify our onboard skills gaps, it was he.
We arrived at his country retreat to find him barking orders at anyone in earshot, including his neighbours, passing vessels and a knob of quarrelsome widgeon. He eyed me from top to toe, greeting me warmly, “Ahoy there Sally!” This failed to buoy the crew’s confidence. 
The Godfather"The Admiral" Al Slasher
Likes: tavern wenches
Dislikes: Diet Coke
Finally, and with great reluctance, came Francisco’s wench – Cilla the South Sea Stealer. This maiden of mischief, born of sheep thieves and common thugs, Francisco had found while traversing the distant hemisphere, his lecherous smirk causing her heart to melt. And, to be sure, the amour was reciprocal, as her light and quick-witted fingers and deft stiletto technique were to be much admired.
Nonetheless, things were not all rum and ginger, for the bilge master had neglected to account for one key detail: for all her criminal pedigree, she was no pirate born. Green around the gills before reaching the gangplank, the smoky stink of the hearties’ pipes brought to her cheeks vibrant new shades of ailment. For medicinal purposes, the mates offered her a swig of nutmeg liquor. The linctus proved less than successful – the bouquet alone elicited first ague and secondly her breakfast.
We hoped she would be fortified by the forthcoming banquets of fresh mackerel, lumpsuckers and sabre-toothed blenny. However, the prospect of nightly fish suppers she considered no better than cold poison luncheons. Thus, she resigned herself to a diet of biscuits and weevils in return for labouring only when we were firmly secured to land. 
Stevedore
Cilla the South Sea Stealer
Likes: three-piece suits
Dislikes: three-piece suites
As Pitbull composed haikus out of pennants, we watched the next rogue swagger onboard. The wiry cur leered at me, boasting how he had conquered the brethren of the Caribbean, armed with but a rusty cutlass and a blunderbuss. Over said cutlass did he then leer at the other hearties, bragging of how he had slain the skeletal warriors of the Amazon, the dog-apes of Allansia and the ape-dogs of Khul. Finally, from his pocket he drew forth a small mirror into which he leered at himself until the urge abated, some five minutes later.
Taking a moment, he then surveyed the crew, snorted “Jackals!” and returned to his looking-glass.
The interminable self-satisfied sneering was eventually broken by the thundering of the man’s belly. Pursuant to this din, he pulled a chicken leg from his breeches, removed its claws with his teeth and began to gnaw, declining all offers to cook the pullet first.
Following this impromptu repast, the heathen expressed some wind of contentment and explained his vision for the future. Key points included teaching toddlers to skin cats, painting all fish black, and changing the number eight to “biscuit”. Such claptrap was best kept as far below deck as possible.
Master of the Bilge
Francisco the Kitten Eater
Likes: harpoons
Dislikes: buskers
