"Fire again!"
Who will be aboard this vessel which is now within cannon-shot? wonders Captain Blood. Rich people, I hope, with pretty gold and silver things aplenty.
An amusing incident: Captain Blood has overhauled a naval vessel, has caused her to drop anchor (on this particular voyage he is sailing with three other ships under his command and a total enlistment of nearly one thousand men) and is now interviewing the arrested captain in his cabin full of marmalade jars and new perukes.
When Captain Blood, at sea, discovers that he is pursued by the Dutch Admiral Van Tromp, he considers throwing the women overboard. So that they will drift, like so many giant lotuses in their green, lavender, purple and blue gowns, across Van Tromps path, and he will have to stop and pick them up. Blood will have the women fitted with life jackets under their dresses. They will hardly be in much danger at all. But what about the jaws of sea turtles? No, the women cannot be thrown overboard. Vile, vile! What an idiotic idea! What could he have been thinking of? Of the patterns they would have made floating on the surface of the water, in the moonlight, a cerise gown, a silver gown. . .
"Fire!"
BAM!
"Sir, I have not yet begun to fight."
"Hes lowering sail!"
"Bon Homme Richard? What has that to do with Benjamin or Franklin?"
"I know weve had rather a thin time of it these last few months."
"Hes ignoring us!"
Blood at dawn, a solitary figure pacing the foredeck.
BAM!
"Very well, Peter."
"No, its American, sir."
"Hes dropped anchor!"
"We knew youd turn up something, Peter."
"Hes not heaving to!"
"Ive not heard of it. Where is it?"
"Captain, this is madness. We have you completely surrounded. Furthermore there is a great hole in your hull below the waterline where our warning shot, which was slightly miscalculated, bashed in your timbers. You are taking water at a fearsome rate. And still you wish to fight?"
"America is a new nation among the nations of the world."
"Well, bless my soul. Jones, you are the damnedest goatsucker I ever did see. Stab me if I am not tempted to let you go scot-free, just because of your amazing pluck."
"Jones, even in America, wherever it is, you must have encountered the word ninny. "
"You weary me, sir. You are captured, American or no, so tell me -- do you surrender, with all your men, fittings, cargo and whatever?"
"Very well, Mr. Oglethorpe. You may prepare to board."
"Just tell them for me, will you?"
"Oh. I see. Well then. I think well be weighing anchor, Captain, with your permission."
"It is the pluck of us Americans, sir. We are just that way. Our tiny nation has to be pluckier than most if it is to survive among the bigger, older nations of the world."
"Well, before we board, Id like you to convey to the men my appreciation for their patience. Patience and, I may say, tact."
When Captain Blood, at sea, paces the deck, he usually paces the foredeck rather than the afterdeck -- a matter of personal preference. He keeps marmalade and a spider monkey in his cabin, and four perukes on stands.
"What kind of a name is that? English, I take it?"
When Captain Blood goes to sea, he locks the doors and windows of his house on Cow Island personally. One never knows what sort of person might chance by, while one is away.
"Sorry, John. Has Mr. Oglethorpe carried out my instructions?"
"American? What is an American?"
"Well it hasnt been so bad, Peter. A little slow, perhaps --"
"Jones, return to your vessel and be off."
No other sail in sight. He reaches into the pocket of his blue velvet jacket trimmed with silver lace. His hand closes over three round, white objects: mothballs. In disgust, he throws them over the side. One makes ones luck, he thinks. Reaching into another pocket, he withdraws a folded parchment tied with ribbon. Unwrapping the little packet, he finds that it is a memo that he wrote to himself ten months earlier. "Dolphin, Captain Darbraunce, 120 tons, cargo silver, paprika, bananas, sailing Mar. 10 Havana. Be there!" Chuckling, Blood goes off to seek his mate, Oglethorpe -- that laughing blond giant of a man.
"I am not Short John, sir. I am John-of-Orkney."
Always a wonderful moment, thinks Captain Blood. Preparing to board. Pistol in one hand, naked cutlass in the other. Dropping lightly to the deck of the engrappled vessel, backed by ones grinning, leering, disorderly, rapacious crew who are nevertheless under the strictest buccaneer discipline. There toconfront the little band of fear-crazed victims shrinking from the entirely possible carnage. Among them, several beautiful women, but one really spectacular beautiful woman who stands a bit apart from her sisters, clutching a machete with which she intends, against all reason, to --
"Yes, Peter?"
"But the name of your ship is French."
"North of here,north and west. Its a very small nation, at present, and has only been a nation for about two years."
When he is on land, Blood is confused and troubled by the life of cities, where every passing stranger may, for no reason, assault him, if the stranger so chooses. And indeed, the strangers mere presence, multiplied many times over, is a kind of assault. Merely having to take into account all these hurrying others is a blistering occupation. This does not happen on a ship, or on a sea.
Blood, at dawn, a solitary figure pacing the fore-deck. The world of piracy is wide, and at the same time, narrow. One can be gallant all day long, and still end up with a spider monkey for a wife. And what does his mother think of him?
When Captain Blood retires for the night (leaving orders that he be called instantly if something comes up) he reads, usually. Or smokes, thinking calmly of last things.
"Well, fire then."
The true buccaneer is not persuaded that God is not on his side, too -- especially if, as is often the case, he turned pirate after some monstrously unjust thing was done to him, such as being press-ganged into one or another of the Royal Navies when he was merely innocently having a drink at a waterfront tavern, or having been confined to the stinking dungeons of the Inquisition just for making some idle, thoughtless, light remark. Therefore, Blood feels himself to be devout in his own way, and has endowed candles burning in churches in most of the great cities of the New World. Although not under his own name.
"No, sir, I will fight to the last shred of canvas, for the honor of America."
"That did it!"
"Well its an allusion to an almanac Dr. Franklin published called --"
"The other captain doesnt understand what is happening to him!"
The favorite dance of Captain Blood is the grave and haunting Catalonian sardana, in which the participants join hands facing each other to form a ring which gradually becomes larger, then smaller, then larger again. It is danced without smiling, for the most part. He frequently dances this with his men, in the middle of the ocean, after lunch, to the music of a single silver trumpet.
His hideous reputation should not, strictly speaking, be painted in the horrible colors customarily employed. Many a man walks the streets of Panama City, or Port Royal, or San Lorenzo, alive and well, who would have been stuck through the gizzard with a rapier, or smashed in the brain with a boarding pike, had it not been for Bloods swift, cheerful intervention. Of course, there are times when severe measures are unavoidable. At these times he does not flinch, but takes appropriate action with admirable steadiness. There are no two ways about it: when one looses a seventy-four-gun broadside against the fragile hull of another vessel, one gets carnage.
"Hes turning into the wind!"
Captain Blood presents a fa?ade of steely imperturbability.
"Short John, where is Mr. Oglethorpe?"
"No sir, I insist on fighting. As founder of the American naval tradition, I must set a good example."
When Captain Blood celebrates the acquisition of a rich prize, he goes down to the galley himself and cooks tallarines a la Catalana (noodles, spare ribs, almonds, pine nuts) for all hands. The name of the captured vessel is entered in a little book along with the names of all the others he has captured in a long career. Here are some of them: the Oxford, the Luis, the Fortune, the Lambe, the Jamaica Merchant, the Betty, the Prosperous, the Endeavor, the Falcon, the Bonadventure, the Constant Thomas, the Marquesa, the Se?ora del Carmen, the Recovery, the Maria Gloriosa, the Virgin Queen, the Esmerelda, the Havana, the San Felipe, the Steadfast. . .
"Yes it is. It is named in honor of Benjamin Franklin, one of our American heroes."
"The dolt!"
"Choose your occasions, Captain. And God be with you."
"Jones, sir."
He is poring over his charts, promising everyone that things will get better. There has not been one bit of booty in the last eight months. Should he try another course? Another ocean? The men have been quite decent about the situation. Nothing has been said. Still, its nerve-racking.
"Yes, sir. He is forward, crouching over the bombard, lit cheroot in hand, ready to fire."
Captain Blood roams ceaselessly, making daring raids. The average raid yields something like 20,000 pieces-of-eight, which is apportioned fairly among the crew, with wounded men getting more according to the gravity of their wounds. A cut ear is worth two pieces, a cut-off ear worth ten to twelve. The scale of payments for injuries is posted in the forecastle.
"And Jeremy --"
"And what may your name be, sir? If I may ask?"
