Occupation Of Port Ryffe

Two years had passed since we last berthed at Port Ryffe, there to take on victuals, but before we had set sail again on that occasion, chance brought our captain into close contact with her deadliest rival and twin, Katherine. The encounter had left a scar on the captain's hand and the taste of gall on her tongue, a rancor directed as much at the port's government as at her sister for the matter of having harboured her. The captain had sworn vengeance, exacting it upon her sibling when another circumstance brought the two together, yet the score had not been settled with the official bodies at Port Ryffe to the captain's satisfaction. Thus each man of the Winged Adventure's crew knew that salt meat and dried fruits were not Capt. Corbye's sole interests when she laid the chart and ordered all hands to make sail toward that shore.

Coincidence is a tool in the Devil's hand. None would have thought that Morgan Corbye's plan to relieve the port of its rum stores and to lighten the government coffer-chest would bring her to a tete-a-tete with yet another old foe, Harbourmaster Franklin Beale. Engaged at a gaming table in the local pub, Beale was observed exchanging the publican's dice for his own shaved pair from behind a dusty curtain. Stifling the sneeze she felt building when she let the draperies fall, Capt. Corbye slipped into the darkened alley behind the tavern and brought her men together in conference.

"We've a change o' plans, lads. We're takin' Port Ryffe. Back t' th' ship right quick, an' bring th' irons. That cheatin' scoundrel Beale wants some teachin' in th' way o' 'onesty. You," and she addressed Robin Penn, our one-legged bursar, as she threw a purse of coins to him, "see to it 'e stays at table. Lose, but lose wisely. Keep th' sums in 'is favour, but just. You," she said, motioning to your narrator, the sorriest excuse for a pirate of the lot, "bait that mealy codfish they calls guv'nor down here, an' I don't care how but do ye no' force it! Tell 'im 'is auld mither is sickenin' t' die or summat. Nae, tell 'im th' bloody truth o' it! Tell 'im auld Beale's been cheatin' at dice an' someone's lookin' t' 'ave a piece o' is 'ide fer it. Beale's 'is pet, is Beale. That'll bring 'im. Get on! Go!" I sped off on foot and was not privy to the remainder of the Captain's outline.

Port Ryffe is not sizeable and therefore is managed exclusively by the Governor, an aide who is little more than a secretary, and two constables. Each, save the innocent and rather naive aide, has a personal method for lining his pockets with an undue portion of the common man's wages. It was the captain's surmise that Harbourmaster Beale had devised the means to serve his own interests at the cost of the local government and, knowing this, the Governor and his allies would undoubtedly treat any proof of disreputable dealings as an opportunity to discredit the very man who sought to profit at their expense.

It was quite easy to convince the Governor that he should be witness to such a criminal act, and that he should bring both constables to the pub to support the accusation it was his intention to make. All three men came along nicely, followed by the aide who was anxious to see how the due process of the law would be effected. When all had arrived and were grouped around the tables, Robin Penn, upon a signal from Captain Corbye again at her station behind the velvet, rose upon his good leg and knocked over his stool with his peg. "Ye bloody b-----d!" he swore. "Cheat a one-legged man outer 'is pittance? Ye're a rascal wot deserves throwin' t' th' 'ogs wi' th' rest o' th' swill!"

At that moment, seven members of the Winged Adventure's crew and the Captain herself sprang from the shadows and, two to a man, pinned them to the ground where they were shackled. Only the aide was spared. Justice was indeed served as all four agents of the goverment were frog-marched to the piggery, there to be rolled in the mud and subsequently put on public display through a hot September afternoon, the mix of earth and pig-soil hardening in the sun as rum and ale were served to all comers. The young aide was heard to plead with Capt. Corbye, "Oh, please! Take me to be a pirate!" but the good Captain refused, saying, "Ye'll make a better guv'nor when yer time comes, lad. Much better by far."

Cutlass

Day 109: "There's t' be no killin,' an' any man wot does will answer t' me, by Gawd! Ye'll lay 'em out in any way ye can, make 'em fast t' summat, an' ye'll leave 'erself t' me!" The fire in Morgan Corbye's eyes glittered with reflection of stars. The winds had borne us to a chance encounter with the Captain's oldest rival, neatly berthed on the opposite side of a small island. The keen eyes of the dog watch had caught the flicker of a lantern in the dark, too high above the water to be coming from a shack or other habitation, and by maneuvering the Winged Adventure so that the faint moonlight favoured us, the Captain picked out the definitive silhouette of a ketch drawn close to shore. We were near enough to her to know that we had not been seen, for had her crew been alert to our presence, a hue and cry would have arisen immediately as the ship so berthed was none other than the Grey Raven and the foe the Captain's own sister Katherine, known also as Kat.

We dropped anchor in the protection of a small bay, lowered the jollyboats alongside and the men slid silently into them, the Captain in the foremost. Neither splash of water nor clatter of arms broke the crystalline bowl of night as the oars slipped into the waves and moved us forward. We hugged the shadows until we were nearly upon her, trusting luck to cover us as we crossed through exposed water. Our agile bo'sun clambered aboard the ketch by the stern, and dropped lines for the remaining men who followed, but before our party had got themselves all up, the shifting of weight brought us unwanted attention. As the crews laid about with whatever weaponry they had to hand, Morgan Corbye cleaved a swath through the melee to face her sister at the helm. Kat Corbye met her twin's dagger with a cutlass, but was taken down by our Captain's nimble swiftness and skill with the knife and was assured a sound sleep of a few hours by a belaying pin applied with force against the side of her head.

Demoralized by the fall of their captain, the Grey Raven's crew surrendered and were bound according to plan. In the light of day, Morgan Corbye stripped to her shirt and leapt overboard, and not an eye failed to follow her lithe form. She swam thrice around the ketch and climbed back aboard, the sea-washed muslin transparent and clinging to her skin. When I questioned her later in regard to the plunge, "T'was fer luck," she told me, adding, "Ed'ard Teach done it wi'out 'is 'ead, they says."

Morgan Corbye claimed nothing but her sister's cutlass from this raid, though blood was spilt on both sides, albeit without any serious injury. "Me prize is wot I done t' 'erself's dignity. Aye, she'll be smartin' frae that 'til we meets again."

A Leg Up

Day 40: "She'll be readin' th' weather." Robin Penn's remark was spoken softly despite the fact that his approach was clearly announced by the sound of his wooden leg punctuating every other step along the dock's planking. "An' I be thinkin' she's not a bit 'appy wi' it. Wants 'eavy fog, she does."

Robin served as our ship's bursar, cabin boy despite his age, and more importantly, ship's carpenter though his duties in that regard were limited by his infirmity. I had wondered at his service in the crew and made bold to ask him directly how he came not to be pensioned off under the Articles which provided more generously than most for loss of a limb. I found him willing to discuss the matter openly without taking offense at my curiosity; thus I learned that the very thing he warned so often against became his own undoing, but as a matter of choice, not chance.

"'Twas th' foggy season, like now," he told me. "We'd boarded bloody parish-rigged brig, see, carryin' a load o' victuals wot we sorely wanted, an' I were layin' about wi' me cutlass amongst 'er crew when I spied our powder monkey, young chap an' green, lookin' t' 'ave 'is 'ead split by a rogue wi' a belayin' pin. Oh, them were th' days! Well, th' anchor chain, it were a'tween me an' th' blighter wi' the belayin' pin. I made a leap t'save th' laddie...took that bleeder's arm off, I did...but somewheres one o' th' mates fired a keg o' powder an' th' brig, she 'eeled over fast. Got me leg in th' blasted chain, an' off she come in th' backlash. Carpenter...'im wot was our surgeon, too...tol' me, 'We'll 'ave ye right as rain, lad,' an' pared off th' tatty bits an' set me up wi' this 'ere peg." Penn paused for a noisy drencher from a flask of rum, his voice gone raspy with the telling of the tale while I stood speechless at how casually he could relate it, as if it were all in a day's work in the trade of piracy.

"Now Cap'n," he continued, "she seen wot I done fer th' young feller, an' she come by to see me in me bunk. 'Ye're a guid man, Robin, me lad, but tell me this: did ye no' consider wot might 'appen when ye went over th' chain?' I told 'er straight, 'That I did, but Jack Tar were about t' 'ave 'is brains spilt, an' I were thinkin' 'e's far too young t' die just yet. I took me chance an' lost th' roll.' Then she looks me str'ight in th' eye an' says, 'Then I gives ye a choice, fer that's wot I suspected. Ye can do one o' eether. Fer savin' a man's life, I'll gi'e ye double wot's laid out in Articles an' pension ye off, or ye can stay aboard an' be 'prenticed t' carpenter. But I'll no' be 'avin' ye monkeyin' about in th' riggin', mind. Ye're a deck 'and an' at lower pay if ye wants t' stay on.'" Penn took another pull at his flask, but it had gone dry. I offered my own, for my taste for rum is limited. He accepted it with but a nod in thanks, draining half the contents before lowering it to his knee.

"She give me two days t' think it over, an' I mean t' tell ye, it weren't a easy choice. But 'ere I be. 'Tis in me blood, piratin', an' wi' a Cap'n like Morgan Corbye, well, she ain't so mean as some. Wi' bein' full carpenter now an' bursar besides, me pay's almost as good as ever it were as bo'sun."

There was one more question I wanted to ask, and Robin anticipated it. "Young Jackie Tar, wot become o' 'im, ye wonder? Next time we put into port, 'e drew 'is pay an' married th' parson's daughter. I 'ear 'e's a clark at th' clothier's. 'ad all 'e wanted o' piratin', that one, an' Cap'n let 'im go wi' her blessin'."

Perhaps the sound of her name fell upon the Captain's ear, for at that moment she rounded on us sharply and said, "Ready th' lads an' get 'em aboard. We're sailin' on th' mornin' tide. Shift it, ye bloodless curs! We've piratin' t' do."

*****

Footnote: A little less than a year ago, a friend lost his leg in an industrial accident. He asked me to consider writing him into Morgan Corbye's saga. Given the circumstances, I have done so. This one's for you, Rob.

Waiting On The Tide

Day 352 (International Talk Like A Pirate Day):

The fair weather of summer brought a surprising change in the demeanor and appearance of the Winged Adventure's crew. If they did not become precisely what one might describe as "model citizens" when they went ashore to obtain supplies, they at least avoided any serious confrontations with members of the constabulary. They cleaned up their salty language as much as any sailor could be expected to do, and their bodies likewise; then they emerged one by one from below decks into the sunlight in spanking-clean sailcloth and colorful silks to walk among the populace with the romance of distant ports surrounding them as much as did the scent of exotic spices. Piracy, for the moment, seemed but a pale penumbral shadow at their backs.

Admittedly, we stayed no longer than a fortnight in any one port, and seldom that; there is only so much good behaviour a proper pirate can be expected to exhibit, and the coincidence of slit purses, missing pocket watches and a sleek barque in the harbour may register slowly in the minds of the official body, but it does inevitably signify. In any event, it was thought that the Winged Adventure was due for a good careening, so we sailed forth and put into a tight cove on a tiny uncharted island for the duration of the season where the graceful ship was brought out of her element and laid over on her side, an inelegant position for a lady of her standing. All hands turned to, the Captain included, for Morgan Corbye is not one to ask of a man that which she would not do herself.

It was of an evening whilst seated by a fire of driftwood enjoying a savoury stew of mussels and wild pork that the subject of the seasonal nature of professional piracy was brought into perspective for this biographer. I had risked giving affront by suggesting that we had been idling under sunny skies for almost three months of the year without so much as a minor raiding party being raised and wondered at the logic, hoping that the innocence and ignorance of my inquiry might temper the Captain's response. Indeed it did. With a laugh which crackled like a lightning strike, she spat a leathery bit of shellfish into the fire. As we watched it sizzle and bubble into greasy ash, she said, "Aye, ye're as green as a little gourd upon th' vine, an't ye? Think ye we'd be showin' o' ourse'fs t' th' 'ole wide 'orizon, sailin' there on calm sea flat as glass, bold as pimple on 'is Lordship's nose? Ye'd no' last long in th' trade wi' that strategy. 'Tis cunnin' wot keeps us alive, weather cunnin'."

My raised eyebrow encouraged her to continue the explanation. "D'ye no' feel it? There's a damp in th' air an' th' breeze 'as shifted direction. A week, ten days, fust rains come in, nought but pissin' rains at fust. We bides a bit then, an' when th' fog rises thick o' mornin's, then's when we puts out, an' no man's eye upon our sails. Slick as oil, we tucks away ag'in, an' when storm comes, why, then ye'd best 'ave yer sea-legs quick as Johnny, fer 'idin' a-hind swells is wot this ol' gal does best." A nod in the direction of her ship told me that Captain Corbye was not referring to herself, although she could have fallen within the compass of the statement with equal ease. "'Tis th' autumn wot's piratin' weather. Did ye no' know that?" As she dipped the ladle into the stew and refilled her bowl, I began to suspect then that the next few months of my life would be divided between boisterous, extravagant enterprises and the gut-wrenching despair of seasickness with our Captain driving the Winged Adventure into the heart of the storms. Morgan Corbye is waiting on the mists, waiting on the tide.