Cap'n Jethro

by Lee Reynoldson

  Cap’n Jethro

  A rip roaring pirate tale otherwise known as . . .

  This Being the Tale of Cap’n Jethro ‘Fair-cut’ Henderson, Mutinous Matthews, the Thief, the Whore, the French Fop and the Treasure of Freeport.

  by

  Lee Reynoldson

  Cap’n Jethro

  Copyright © 2009 by Lee Reynoldson

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This Being the Tale of Cap’n Jethro ‘Fair-cut’ Henderson, Mutinous Matthews, the Thief, the Whore, the French Fop and the Treasure of Freeport

  By

  Lee Reynoldson

  The boy known in Freeport as Piss-Pike sat on the edge of the quay looking out to sea. He tried not think about food, but his stomach groaned like a hull fit to burst. He knew Sharkey would be grilling mackerel right about now. Without coin, it was knowledge he could do without. So, instead, he concentrated on the row boat headed for the wharf.

  Two men sat at the oars, pulling hearty, a third stood aft, braced and upright, hands behind his back. There was something about the man that nagged at Piss-Pike. He squinted into the morning mist, stared hard, forgot about his hunger for a moment.

  The passenger looked, at first glance, like any other wharf-rat or jack-tar. His hair, black as a Clergyman’s breeches, was tied back in a pig-tail. He wore knee-length trews of the sort popular with any good rope-monkey. Underneath his gentleman’s greatcoat he was bare-chested. Even from a distance he oozed the sort of command Piss-Pike expected from a captain not a crewman.

  It couldn’t be him could it?

  No, he wouldn’t be fool enough to come back to Freeport. Would he? Even if the story of his treasure were true, he’d never live to claim it. Excited, Piss-Pike jumped to his feet.

  * * * * *

  Jethro stood aft, easy as a lubber might stand on land. The two oarsman looked at each other, in a way that he didn’t appreciate, and shipped their oars. The row boat rocked to a halt. He took his hands from behind his back and thrust them into the pockets of his greatcoat.

  “Tired lads?”

  The oarsman, called Fat Thomas, trailed a pudgy hand over his greasy hair. He sneered at Jethro. “Not so much tired as feeling undervalued.”

  His associate, a nervy looking stick of a man by the name of Rat Thatcher, grinned at Jethro.

  Jethro nodded to himself. “Like that is it?”

  “Aye, that be about the way of it friend,” Rat Thatcher said.

  Jethro noted how the man’s hand rested inside his jacket, knew he was meant to.

  “Before I boarded your . . . vessel,” Jethro said, “we agreed on a fair price in front of a witness.”

  “I don’t see no witness.” Fat Thomas made a mock of casting about, hand over his brow, as if on lookout. He laughed and slapped Rat Thatcher on the back, then stood. He too seemed perfectly at home standing in the boat, hands on hips, fat gut rippling as he chuckled at his own wit. “Besides, that price don’t seem so fair now.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Jethro said. “Perhaps it should cost me more if I want you to row me all the way to the shore.”

  “Now yer talking sense,” Fat Thomas said.

  “I’ll swim the rest of the way.” Jethro put one foot on the edge of the boat.

  “Not so fast.” Fat Thomas slipped a small flintlock pistol from his sleeve to his palm. “Would be difficult to swim if you sprung a leak friend. Now ease yer hands out and nothing tricksy mind. I can empty pockets just as easy with you dead as alive.”

  Jethro nodded. “Unless I’m mistaken this is what you’re after.” From his left pocket he pulled the fattest purse any pirate was like to see.

  “Well I’ll be a whore’s bedpan!” Rat Thatcher said. “Will you look it the size of that purse.”

  Jethro tossed the purse up. It fell into his palm with a satisfying thump and a musical jingle. “Here,” he said, and threw it to Fat Thomas.

  The purse arced through the air. Both oarsmen watched it fly. Fat Thomas grabbed for it.

  It was all the time Jethro needed.

  He reached his right hand through a hole in his pocket and grasped the French naval blunderbuss pistol that hung from a rope round his shoulder. He swung the gun up. No time to clear the greatcoat. He fired through it. The pistol thundered and belched foul smoke. The sound of flesh shredding was followed by an inhuman screech.

  A blunderbuss is a terrible weapon — more so when loaded with nails and fired at close range. Most of Fat Thomas slopped into the boat, but bits of him rained down into the sea.

  Rat squealed in fear. The cloud of smoke cleared. Jethro saw some of the shot had scraped across Rat’s shoulder and face. Just scratches. Rat held two pistols. He aimed the first at Jethro and fired. The crack and wisp of smoke were pitiful after the blunderbuss, but equally deadly.

  A sting like a whip lash cut across his cheek. Jethro felt blood ooze from the graze.

  Rat levelled his second pistol, but not fast enough. The belaying pin that Jethro hurled, underarm and left handed, twirled into Rat’s wrist and knocked the pistol from his hand. The axe, he threw over-arm. It spun through the air and buried itself into Rat Thatcher’s forehead with a soft thunk.

  Cross-eyed Rat tried to look at the axe until a slew of blood filled his eyes. “Well I’ll be a bedpan’s whore,” he whispered, then slumped back into the boat.

  Jethro stepped over Fat Thomas and pulled his axe from Rat’s head. “That be a fair cut,” he said, then eased Rat’s body over the side into the sea. He scooped up his belaying pin and stowed it in his belt along with the axe.

  Jethro stood in the middle of the row boat. When it was steady he surveyed the carnage. What was left of Fat Thomas lay in a pool of blood and worse in the bottom of the boat. One pudgy hand grasped the purse that contained nothing more than nails for the blunderbuss.

  He’d leave Fat Thomas where he was. Jethro had no mind to cover himself in gore on the man’s account. Instead he took off his shredded greatcoat and threw it over the man, as was decent. Then he unlooped the blunderbuss pistol and threw that down. His powder wouldn’t survive the swim. He’d rely on the belaying pin and axe. They’d served him well enough through his navy days and just as good when he was at his smuggling and pirating.

  The scratch on his cheek was sore, but he’d rather the scratch than a hole in his face and lead in his brain.

  “Well, Jethro,” he said. “Time for a nice little mornin’ swim I reckons.” He dived into the water, broke the surface with hardly a ripple, resurfaced, breathed, cursed the cold and the salt sting on his wound, then pulled for the shore with strong, steady strokes.

  Piss-Pike watched Jethro swim. It was him. It was Cap’n Jethro ‘Fair-cut’ Henderson out of Plymouth Port. Returned to Freeport. Brave or mad, Piss-Pike didn’t know or care which. This news was worth coin. He’d be feasting at Sharkey’s within the hour.

  He ran from the quay to The Red Lantern and Slattern. Inside, the small common room was shuttered against the light. Piss-Pike made his way over the slumped
bodies of sleeping whores and the snoring drunks wrapped around them. He skipped up the stairs and slid the latch to a sturdy oak door.

  A four poster bed dominated the extravagantly adorned room. On it sat Imelda, queen whore of Freeport. Despite the hour, despite her profession, to Piss-Pike she looked immaculate, beautiful. Her skin a lush unblemished brown, her hair ebony bright and black, the delicate little mole above her upper lip, her perfectly proportioned chin, the delicate nose, fiery hazel eyes, the cute knife with a ruby pommel and razor-sharp blade that she held at Piss-Pike’s throat.

  Knife?

  “Piss-Pike you rancid little sneak-thief. I told you what would happen if I ever caught you in my inner sanctum.”

  “Meldie,” Piss-Pike said in a sing-song baby voice. “Meldie. I’d never touch your inner sanctum . . . least not without paying first.”

  “You invite death, wretch.” The knife tip pricked his skin.

  “Wait, news, it’s news I brings.”

  Imelda withdrew the blade and tilted her head. “Go on.”

  There was movement beside her. A wraithlike figure, pale and wan, sat up in the bed. A foppish looking man, fully dressed, his clothes rich, fine, and clean. His wig fell over his gaunt face. He pulled the wig back to reveal grey, dour eyes and a hooked nose. “Merde! My head.”

  Piss-Pike recognised him. Everyone in Freeport called him Frenchie.

  Frenchie looked at Imelda. He grimaced. “I do no think I should haz to pay if I did no sheath my sword, non?” He folded his arms.

  “Sword? Stiletto more like Frenchie and you needs a bit of steel in your blade before it can be sheathed. Besides, you paid last night.”

  “My name is not Frenchie,” Frenchie said. “My name is Diddier De La Man—”

  “No time for that Frenchie. The boy has news, or he better have.” She waved her knife at Piss-Pike.

  Nervous, Piss-Pike blurted out his tale. He watched surprise then excitement flit across their faces. Imelda drew her purse from its hiding place in the crevasse between her more than ample bosom. She took a silver coin and tossed it to Piss-Pike. From her bedside cabinet, she produced an ornate box. It contained a set of exquisite matched duelling pistols. She began to load them.

  “Boy.” It was Frenchie. He climbed out of the bed. “Your news, it please me.” He reached into his own purse. In disbelief, Piss-Pike watched a coin spin towards him. It was gold. He snatched it out of the air. A Spanish Doubloon. More money than he’d ever held. The French fop stood. One hand rested on the ornate hilt of his rapier, the other clasped a pair of silk gentleman’s gloves. He winked at Piss-Pike.

  “God bless you, Frenchie. God bless you.”

  “My name is no—”

  But Piss-Pike was long gone. He raced down the stairs, picked his way through the mess of sleepers, burst out the door, tore along the street and dodged down an alley and into The Black Hearted Salt.

  It was a dingy tavern that stank of sour wine and worse. Three rough-looking sorts, the sorts you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, or it seemed in a dim tavern, were going through the pockets of a dead man. The tavern’s proprietor, Mr Grimm, sneered at Piss-Pike and licked blood from the edge of his dagger.

  In Piss-Pike’s mind he was Mr ‘Terrifyingly’ Grimm. One good eye, one dead milky white eye, face covered in native tattoos and scars. Grimm turned his one good eye on Piss-Pike. For the first time in a long while Piss-Pike felt something other than hunger assault his guts.

  “Piss-Pike you little rat’s shit. Didn’t I tell yer I’d cut yer, gut yer and put yer in one me pies.”

  The crewmen leered at Piss-Pike.

  “News,” Piss-Pike said, his voice a squeak. “I gots news, begging yer pardon sir, news.”

  “Here Lads, I reckon the boy’s got news.”

  Grimm’s men sniggered. He silenced them with a look, then stabbed his bloody dagger into the table. It thrummed and quivered. When it came to a stop, he stared at Piss-Pike.

  “Well boy, it best be news worth hearing.” He narrowed his one good eye at the boy over the dagger.

  Piss-Pike took a deep breath and told him what he’d seen. When he mentioned Jethro, Grimm’s men whispered the name amongst themselves.

  “He must be here for his treasure,” one of them said — a feral fellow in a grease-stained sailors smock.

  Grimm looked at him with disdain. “Oh you’re a sharp one, Shagnasty. No doubting that.” He scratched his chin. “What do you reckon, Jacky Boy?”

  Jacky Boy was slim, neatly turned out, handsome. But there was a sparkle in his eyes that made goosebumps dance across Piss-Pike’s flesh.

  “Didn’t he have a whore here?” Jacky Boy said.

  Grimm’s third man, square-jawed, muscle-bound, crook-nosed, shook his head. “Not his whore, his wife.

  “Whore, wife they all bleed when you stick ‘em,” Jacky Boy said, his gaze distant and unfocussed.

  “Zachariah,” Grimm said to the muscle-bound pirate. “Is the wife still in Freeport?”

  “No, died in childbirth year afore we mutinied.”

  Jacky Boy looked disappointed. Piss-Pike shivered.

  “Never mind, never mind,” Grimm said and fixed his singular gaze on Piss-Pike. He pulled his dagger from the table and put it in his belt. “You’ll live a while longer boy.” He threw Piss-Pike his third coin of the day. A copper penny.

  Piss-Pike didn’t care. He’d sold his news for all it was worth and more. So he headed for Sharkey’s and thought of nothing more than the simple pleasures of good food.

  * * * * *

  Grimm knew exactly what to do.

  “Listen up lads! Zachariah, follow the boy see if he’s blabbed to anyone else then end him. Jacky Boy, get to the wharf, trail Jethro. Shagnasty, let Matthews know his old friend is back in town.”

  Zachariah and Jacky Boy put knuckle to brow and left. Shagnasty hesitated. Grimm drew steel and growled. Shagnasty ran.

  * * * * *

  Seawater dripped from Jethro as he loped along, axe in one hand belaying pin in the other. His feet slapped the cobbles. The sound echoed through the maze of Freeport’s alleyways. Drunks stumbled out of his way and none of the cut-throats that lurked in the shadows dared waylay him.

  Jethro headed for Sharkey’s. Most of Freeport thought of Sharkey as a fish- frying fool, but to Jethro he was a guardian. A guardian of a secret even Jethro himself did not know. The whereabouts of his treasure. He wondered if that was a precaution he’d regret — a train of thought he abandoned when he ran round a street corner and almost impaled himself on a Rapier.

  Ready to fight, Jethro leapt back into a crouch. In front of him stood a man both strangely familiar and strangely clean. Dressed in finery, gaunt faced and looking none too pleased. The stranger raised his rapier in ‘salute’ then settled in to the guard position.

  “I don’t know who you be matey, but—”

  “My name is Diddier De La Man—”

  “Oh.” Jethro relaxed. “It’s you Frenchie. What do you want? Time is something I can’t give you.”

  “What I want is satisfaction, monsieur.”

  “Sorry, I don’t hold with them sort a ways. Not even in me Navy days.”

  “You test my patience I think.”

  Frenchie peeled off a pristine glove and threw it at Jethro’s feet. He looked somewhat perturbed when it sank into the mud.

  “Like I said, sweet of you, but no time to dance.” Jethro made to step around the indignant Frenchman, but stopped when the rapier’s needle- sharp tip hovered at his Adam’s apple.

  “This is about the ship, ain’t it Frenchie. Look, it were a long time ago, sleeping chiens and all that.”

  “About ze ship! About ze ship! Of course zis is about ze ship! I was the most promising captain in the Emperor’s Navy until I lost my ship to you. You, a common seaman. You, you stealer of ships. You breaker of hearts. You have ruined me and I will have my revenge.”

  Frenchie dropped into the en-guard stanc
e. His lip quivered with passion.

  “Look, Frenchie—”

  Outraged, Frenchie came out of the guard stance yet again. He stood in front of Jethro one hand on his hip.

  “How many times must I tell you? Is no Frenchie. My name is—”

  Jethro kicked him. Between the legs. Hard.

  “Merde!” Frenchie said, more a gasp than a word and fell to his knees. His powdered white wig flopped forward into a muddy puddle. Frenchie followed it face first.

  “Sorry I had to cannon ball you. Low trick, as you would expect of me no doubt, but needs must. And sorry about your ship Frenchie, t’wer a good un.”

  “My name is . . .oh merde ze pain.”

  Jethro trotted down the alley. He hoped he hadn’t lost too much time. He ran round another corner only to find himself face to face with the barrel of a pistol. The pistol, like its owner, was exquisite. Beautiful to look at and, as Jethro knew all to well, deadly.

  Imelda flashed him a winsome smile as she let the barrel kiss Jethro’s forehead. The other pistol she pointed at his crotch.

  “Now, Imelda you don’t want to shoot that off,” he said, looking down. “You know that’s me best bit.”

  “Hmm.” She looked wistful. “True.” She raised the second dueling pistol and pressed its barrel over his heart. “I’m not one for the mincing and mangling of words Jethro. It does a whore no good so I’ll speak plain. I know you’ve come back for your treasure and I figure you owe me.”

  “Owe you? Imelda, darling, my sweet—”

  “Knock off the sweet talk, cur.” She tapped his head with her pistol. “Your crew went through my girls like a dose and through my rum like the Royal Navy and what did I see for my troubles? Not a single coin and you gone in the night like the thief you are.”

  “That’s not fair, Imelda. You know they mutinied. I was gagged, hog-tied and dragged off. I barely got away with me life otherwise—”

  “Otherwise you’d have made a wealthy woman of me? I think not.” She lowered the pistol that was at his chest and pointed it at his groin again.