The whine of the latest mariner

So completed was this hellish thing, that caused us all such woe: for all averred they’d heard the word that gave us leave to go. We grabbed our kit, and that was it, the mates yelled ‘Westward Ho!’

To those ashore, we waved some more while sailing from the fen. Then all averred they were deterred from coming back again. ‘Twas right, said they, that come what may, we’d ne’er consult these men.

We flew with haste to prior place, as it was told to me, that our quick pace had left in place a water rat – a she.

Beyond Whitehall and further west, she waited all alone; she’d walked herself to Aylesbury – some four-score leagues from home.

Under a freezing winter’s sky, we met her there at noon. As we arrived, she wiped her eyes, and cursed us all quite soon.

Hour after hour, hour after hour, we paused for her to cease, like waiting for immortal wars to reach eternal peace.

Bawling, bawling, all the while, and all our ears did ache. Bawling, bawling, all the while, until our knees did quake.

My very soul did rot with guilt that ever this should be. She stormed onboard our slimy deck and left her bags with me.

Pressgang Officer
Jane Doe
Likes: monkey business
Dislikes: shenanigans

**Intermission**

Detained in brig. Release date scheduled for mid-July. See you land-lubbers soon...

Lawrence of Melancholia

Matters sartorial now shipshape we proceeded to the business of buccanerial discord. As part of a results-driven hardball programme to get our ducks in a row, the crew was broken into numerous focus groups. Over a moveable feast of low-hanging fruit we then netted out our goalposts while the Admiral kept his balls in the air. Finally, having strategically fit our ticks in the blue-sky boxes, we were ready to put our game plan to bed and concentrate on actioning our no-brainers and fast-tracking our big-ticket items.

Naturally, before we could discuss the lessons learned, we needed someone to benchmark our metrics. Key to this process was Mr Sad, a fellow of infinite gloom whose dejected aura caused the ambience such injury as to make an undertakers’ convention a more likely source of merriment.

With our notes and a heavy sigh, he retired to his murky corner, the sole ornament of which was a faded print of notable storms. Like broken convicts en route to the Gulag we attended our fate in mute anticipation.

Only when our hearts were fit to explode did he finally decide our fate and, in his hushed tones, solemnly deliver his decision: “Your team dynamic, sir, is OK”.

Grand Inquisitor
Larry Sad
Likes: nothing
Dislikes: everything

Where’s Wally?

Keen to reassure my good fellows that everything was proceeding *exactly* according to plan, I bade him desist with his tomfoolery, and shifted his patch so it no longer obscured his good eye.

“What miracle is this?!” he begged. “For five years have I seen naught, but now thou hast my sight restored!” He embraced me like a long-lost son, and told of how he had awoken one morning, blind as the proverbial. Ever the sage, he had attributed this novel handicap to the questionable moonshine he’d knocked back after a particularly hard night of dice and wenching.

With the benefit of hindsight, he now realised that said impediment was more likely due to his wayward valet, who on finding the opportunity for mischief had evidently seized it with both hands before scarpering toot-suite to the ale house.

With great fury and oaths he strode to the door and bellowed for his manservant. The rascal appeared directly and, without missing a beat, asked whether the admiral should care to have his breeches fetched before or after the imminent disciplinary hearing.

And so, gaze averted, we waited for the gentleman’s gentleman to confine the admiral’s gentleman to quarters more befitting the occasion.


Gentleman’s gentleman
Wally Wallace, The Plunderer of Penzance
Likes: electricity
Dislikes: icebergs

Cabin fever

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

Queen of the South

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

The Barbary Butcher

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