* * *
Five…
Interminable…
Tormented…
Soul-sapping…
Hours…
Jake was surprised it had taken The Crooked Contessa’s hapless pirate band that long to start grumbling and demand to go home.
A ragbag collection of old men, rejects from other ships, wide-eyed shop boys, simpletons, braggarts and drunks, the Contessa’s crew were, he conceded, not so much a complement as a calculated insult. Only two factors united them – their seasickness and their cowardice, an alliance of yellow spines and churning stomachs.
“C’mon lads, we can’t turn back now,” Jake told them, when they assembled outside his cabin. “The ship is barely out of sight of port. Where’s ye sense of adventure?”
“Back on the dockside,” Tom, the cabin boy replied, to nods from the rest of the bedraggled delegation.
“And we wants to make its acquaintance again as soon as possible,” the ship’s one-legged cook agreed, leaning on the wooden crutch that kept him vertical. “Turn around, Captain. Take us home. No good can come of this foolishness.”
Foolishness? Getting their filthy hands on enough booty to last a lifetime? Plundering and carousing their way into the history books? Staying up past midnight and singing shanties with rude words?
“We’re pleading with ye,” young Tom added, with an apologetic shrug.
Jake curled his lip. They were a load of pleaders, all right. He promised himself that one day he’d make them walk the plank – if he ever got round to buying one.
For now, however, he had an idea. “Tell you what, boys. I can tell yer obviously not up for a cruise, so why don’t we head back to land…”
The company cheered.
“…and see if we can slip past Mad Morgan’s hound and pinch all his loot.”
The company groaned.
They stepped back one pace, shaking their heads in trembling protest.
Every man had heard the stories – that Morgan, the most feared privateer on the entire Spanish Main had a dog, even more barking than him, even more bloodcurdling, aggressive and ugly than his crossed-eyed, tobacco-chewing, cannon-fisted wife. It was said to guard the caves at the foot of Smashed Skull Cliffs; caves that were used as the depository for Morgan’s trove of tantalising treasure.
Many had tried to steal the riches. None had succeeded. Chillingly, not a single man had ever returned to say why.
“Look, it’s just a dog,” Jake said, bringing both hands closer together to help conjure an image of a small, endearing terrier.
The crew wasn’t having it. They spread their hands at arm’s length, conjuring up a picture of a large, snarling, entrails-ripping terror.
Jake sighed. There was nothing for it. He’d have to rely on his charisma and charm to win them round.
Two minutes later, his charisma had predictably failed, but the charm proved a winner. It should be, he reminded himself, it was the most powerful and expensive hex he’d ever stolen.
Swigging from a bottle of brandy, and noting that he was keeling over alarmingly from its brain-numbing effects, he beamed at the spell-bound crew and waved the yellowing parchment that revealed the location of the swag.
“I have a map and a list,” he enthused, woozily. “What can possibly go wrong?”
An Ugly Way To Go - and other Quintessentially Quirky Tales Page 12
