Laureate Of The Spanish Main
It was open poetry reading night at the Skull and Artichoke, a mangy tavern near the wharf in Marcus Hook in the colony of Pennsylvania. Many unsavory seamen were in there, draining tankards and sipping from cups with little paper umbrellas.
It was nearing intermission. Sigmund Sigmundson was finishing a recitation of his latest epic about catching and eating cod. He was given polite applause when he was done.
By chance two strangers were sharing a table. One was in his forties. In other worlds, an old man. He was large, hairy, and battle scarred. The other gentleman at the table was young, thin, and relatively clean shaven. Both stank like outhouses.
With the poetry on pause, the two fell into polite banter, in between attempts at groping the pock marked ladies serving drinks and whatnot.
The older man introduced himself.
“Aargh. I be pirate. Hurting from arthritis and scurvy from sailing the seven seas. But I am also a poet known in all the ocean lanes and in many lands I raided. I rob, rape, burn, and kill. Pillaging you could say is one of my skills. In my down time as Captain, when I an in my cabin, I compose verses as true to life as all the blood I’ve spilled. I always give the crew of a vessel I encounter a choice. Painful death, or surrender of their ship and booty, plus purchase of a hundred copies of my books, and mandatory attendance at a reading by yours truly. I offer the same terms to any town or city I attack, although I increase the number of copies of my books that are required to be purchased. In this way I have earned dual fame throughout the world as a dreaded cutthroat and as a more dreaded versifier.”
The young man’s eyes brightens. He asked, “Would you be Captain Fergus McDougall, author of “Fourteen Months Of Butchery Under The Southern Cross”?
The captain puffed out his chest.
“I be the same my lad. What be your name and how did you come by my book?”
“My parents named me Hector Johnson, but my friends call me Rutabaga Johnson.”
“What a terrible nickname. If you join my crew I could give you a better one quick.”
“Like what?”
“I’d have to think about it. How is Rutabaga the Bloody, or Scurvy Johnson, or One Eyed Johnson – of course you would have to lose an eye to earn that name.”
“I don’t know,” the young man said. “I am not sure any of those names would suit me. I am not sure I want to be a pirate either. I get seasick easily. I see myself more as a highwayman in the future. Sort of a land pirate.”
“Not a bad trade,” Captain McDougall replied. “I will give you that. Now tell me how you came across my book.”
“One morning I rowed out to a sandbar with a friend to dig for clams. We found a man there buried up to his neck. Crabs had eaten part of his nose and a little from one of his ears when we found him. We chased off the crabs, dug him up, and found he was naked. The only thing on him was your book, hanging from his neck on a rope.”
“Hhm. Where would this sandbar be?”
“Off the coast of Harmer’s Town in the colony of Maryland,” said Hector.
“When abouts did you find him?” the captain asked.
“It was sometime in June, around 1703.”
McDougall nodded.
“Ah, that must have been Edwin Cliveden Watts. He wrote a terrible review of my book in a journal. Tracked him down I did. Gave him the punishment he deserved. Too bad he survived.”
“Not for long,” Hector assured him. “He caught smallpox a few weeks later.”
The captain laughed.
“As the Bard said, all is well that ends well. Now tell me what you thought of my book, assuming you read it.”
“Of course I read it,” said Hector. “I loved it. But you have to understand that the only other books I had read for comparison beforehand were the Bible, a book of sermons, and a book on basic math.”
McDougall scratched he beard.
“I can see why you loved my book. Poetry by a real pirate must have been much more interesting than your previous reading material.”
“You are right Captain McDougall. Nothing I had ever read compared to your blood thirsty and lecherous verses.”
McDougall smiled.
“I write it like it is. No flowery lies. No Greek or Roman gods. No morals getting in the way of what I need to say. Have you read any poems by other writers since then?”
“I have,” Hector told him. “They all seem rather dull after reading your work. The all sounded like ffete upper class school boys.”
“That’s what most of them are. Do you have a favorite poem of mine?”
“The one about the noble woman that you carried off from Peru.”
The captain closed his eyes. A huge grin formed on his lips.
“That was a wild month or so at sea. A series of escapades worth remembering. Want me to sign my book to you?”
“I wish you could,” the youth explained. “The problem is I don’t know have it anymore.”
“What happened to it?”
“The first time I tried being a highwayman it got stolen from. You see I carried it with me everywhere. I chose an itinerant preacher as my first target. I had heard how much he pocketed from passing a collection basket when he was in my town. Turned out he was a bit of a highwayman himself. Quick with pistol and sword. I had to give him everything I had to keep my life. Your book, my purse, my boots, my coat, my pistol, my horse… It took me a long while to make up for my losses.”
The captain shook his head. He let of a sigh.
“It is a sad tale, young Rutabaga. I only hope that rascal of a minister did not burn my book. Ministers tend to do so. It hurts me to the quick. Only so many copies were printed.”
“I share your hope,” Hector aka Rutabaga said. “I had vowed there and then, after my disgrace, to one day track him down, avenge my honor, and reclaim your book.”
The captain slammed a fist on the table.
“To hell with your honor. Honor does not matter much in the real world. Think of it as optional. Focus on getting the book back. No need to kill or be killed if you can avoid it.”
“I will take your advice to heart, Captain. I swear to follow your advice.”
Captain McDougall liked the sound of the lad’s response. He leaned forward.
“Now, here’s a question for you. Do you write any poetry?”
“Sorry, no sir. I have thought about it, but I haven’t picked up a pen. I don’t think my ideas are good enough. Especially after having read your collection.”
The captain gave his table mate a gentle punch in the arm.
“All you need is more life in ya. Then you will have plenty to write. Good or bad it will flow from you. Same as your water does in a privy.”
“Do you really think so?”
Captain McDougall tapped his temple with a finger.
“Hector the Bloody Rudabega, I know so.”
That was all the time they had to chatter before the second part of the evening’s program began.
Midway through the second half of the program, Captain McDougall excused himself. He winked towards Hector of the Unfortunate Nickname, and said, “I need to fill the ocean.”
On his way to find a comfortable wall outside, he signaled to one of his crew who was there listening in awe to a sonnet about growing potatoes. The crew member followed his captain outside.
Banana Charlie was a tall man with a broad chest and muscular arms. He whispered to his captain, “Are we aiming to set sail now?”
McDougall replied in a low voice, “Not yet Banana Charlie. I have a task for you.”
“What is it?”
Captain McDougall rested his arm around Banana Charlie’s shoulders. He whispered in his ear, “After this reading is over, I want you to follow the lad that has been sitting at my table. When you have a chance to get the jump on him, clunk him on the head. Once he is out cold, gag him, tie him up, carry him to the dinghy, and wait for me.”
“Did he offend you?” asked Banana Charlie. “What do you want us to do to him?”
“Calm down Banana. He has done nothing bad. Even praised my poetry. Read one of my books he did. Been a highwayman too, or tried to be. So, I offered him a chance to join the crew. Turned me down. Well, he is going to join anyway. For his own good.”
“Ya think he’ll make a good pirate?”
“Maybe,” said Captain McDougall. “I can’t be sure of that. But I know he’ll never become a poet worth his salt if he stays on land. There might be hope for him if he turns pirate, even of that happens under threat of death.”
“What if he still refuses to be part of your crew?”
“Hah,” scoffed the captain. “He will won’t say no. I’ll ply him with rum and books of my poetry. That will change his perspective of life for the better.”
Banana Charlie agreed, “You do know how to lead wayward youths farther astray.”
The captain chuckled. “You could say it is one of my talents. I believe in this fellow. He’ll come around to our way of thinking. When he does, he’ll become someone I can talk to during those long nights at sea. He read my poems, under no threat of death. And he liked them. God damn it. He liked them. It will all work out. Wait and see.”
