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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
Creeping in next came Brawlin’ Matt Pitbull – sneak, skulk and general malingerer. This idler and ne’er-do-well’s love of plunder was second only to his love for himself. How he had latched himself onto this party was a mystery – his infamy was such that most freebooters considered him the basest of scoundrels and gave him sufficient berth in which to swing a bargepole.
A narcissistic dandy with a ken for skiving, the Pitbull had never worked a day in his life. Through his pretty-boy features and copious preening and fawning, however, he had had great success in ingratiating himself with the aristocracy. The countless ensuing affairs and subsequent blackmail had secured him a not inconsiderable stipend.
However, since he was prone to blowing his doubloons on fancy rags and cheap harlots, he found himself in need of an alternative revenue stream. To this end he was now using forged articles to claim looting shares on passing vessels engaged in the sweet trade. The anecdotal honour among thieves clearly did not extend to this blackguard.
Thus, in recognition of the reprobate’s silver tongue, we left him in charge of the communication flags. Surely there was a limit to how much damage he could do there?
Bunting tosser
Brawlin’ Matt Pitbull
Likes: voodoo Dislikes: embroidery
Having balanced the demands of the helm with the joys of chronic substance abuse for so long, the fact that Captain Dirty was not yet in some watery grave was a sure sign of outrageous fortune. Indeed, except by Neptune’s whim, how else was he still on the drink and not in it?
The masses say that behind every great man, there has to be a great woman. Of what is found behind the irretrievable souse, however, the great unwashed seldom speak.
And yet it was no surprise that in the squalid drunk’s wake bobbed a once-great woman so bent, broken and beat by her husband’s ignominy that she was but a fraction of her former self. Plainly, keeping the soap-dodger on the deck and out of the blue had reduced the mighty marchioness of Rockingham to the miniature malefactor of Ramsgate.
As taming his vice was as futile as taming the tide, she fostered his oblivion by topping up his grog, snatching respite while he was out cold. In these lulls she entertained herself by taking candy from babies and devising her own shanties. Her latest ditty, ‘Who wants to skewer the hog-tied coastguard?’ would prove a most excellent ship’s anthem.
BardLady Gordon, Fugitive Marchioness
Likes: maulin'
Dislikes: musicals
Like moths to a lantern, the other brigands dumbly stumbled after the rotgut. Leading the party was Captain Buck Dirty, the grizzly, weather-beaten skipper of many a craft now languishing in Davy Jones’ locker. His shaking hands guarded his rum, as he fixed his glassy eyes on the mid-distance and his concentration on not collapsing on deck.
He cussed by way of introduction, coughed rapturously by way of emphasis, and let cigarette ash fall onto his belly as an encore. More accomplished soak than able seaman, it was hard to imagine him successfully navigate his way to the toilet, never mind the high seas.
His irregular rise to captaincy began with his receipt of a commodore’s outfit, a twenty-first birthday gift from his doting parents. After donning said costume, he marched brazenly onto the Ark Royal and began barking orders at the bridge crew. Crying mutiny as he was dragged to the brig, his subterfuge was sufficiently audacious that instead of keelhauling him there and then, the Admiral of the Fleet mistook him for the Lord Lieutenant of Monmouthshire and had him demoted to captain of HMS Quorn. The rest, he said, was history.
Coxswain
Captain Buck Dirty
Likes: Pot Noodle
Dislikes: alarm call
Over a mug of caramel, Wangford introduced me to his wench: Tarbox Annie, erstwhile scholar, chorister and lady of *good* standing. When he first met Little Annie, as she was then known, she was the vicar’s darling, a vice-free cherub, lionised by squire and villager alike.
Crafty Wangford, however, had other plans for her. Sure enough, with his bon-bons and pictures of puppies, he did lead her into temptation. Nonetheless, by the time her corruption was absolute the poor sweet angel did not, as such, find herself delivered unto Evil – possibly because she was a reckless inebriate and worth less to Evil than a tinker’s cuss.
The Tarbox cast a slender silhouette, a fact she proudly attributed to her strict regimen of steak and gin. On close inspection, however, her sunken eyes and bleeding gums were a clear indication of scurvy, for the only fruit she’d touch was the occasional margarita.
Together, Annie and Wangford had become the Bonnie and Clyde of liquor-store hold-ups. Their unconventional technique of leaving the cash and making off with the Blue Nun had earned them notoriety, if not respect. Wangford clanked her boozy stash onboard and informed me there was a new sommelier in town. 
Sommelier
Tarbox Annie
Likes: grog
Dislikes: fruit
