Swabs, Knaves and Cutthroats

Cap’n Haystax Hashgate Cerberus Premature KnackerCatcher OldFart Spot Dwight Centaur TA Zebedee Florence TT7a(ii) (it’s an in-joke – ask him) Dribbler Butterfly and dog Paddy Cloggs BGB Gutbucket Tony Karen Baldrick Iceman James Foghorn

A Stormy Voyage

The rain crashed down. The wind fair cracked it’s cheeks from blowing so hard. I eased my old sloop through the billows and into the safe harbour by The Bull’s Head tavern, tying up by a bollard. It was a fair bit of a typhoon that was raging out there. Me and my shipmates were due to board the good ship BH³ and sail through uncharted wilderness to God knows where. Cap’n Haystax greeted us under the lee’ard covers of the tavern. He’s a fine shipmate who always leads from behind. We waited for the new ensign, Mr. Hotlegs and our navigator Midshipman ShutupWally. We had hoped for Midshipman Hornblower but young Tweenie had obviously been shipwrecked by the storm. The crew stood to on the deck. They were generally a scurvy lot with old hands such as C5, (Black)Spot and Motox standing in the lashing rain, gently tossing at anchor. There was talk of grog at PotKiln island and rumours of women on the voyage. And, by George, it was true. One, Mrs. Butterfly dragged her old sea-dog, Paddy, on board just as another, Mistress Cerberus, bent over to tie up her sea-boots. “Avast behind!” went up the cry. Just before we set sail we performed the old Naval good luck tradition of ‘dousing the git’ during which ShutupWally was soaked merrily with flour and beer. The old salt took it well and we loosed anchor, set the sails and headed out of the harbour into the teeth of the gale.

Dwight, Cloggs and OldFart took up position for’ard as we crashed through the spume. We headed off the main sea lane early and I found myself next to young Cloggs the cabin boy (very shapely, young Cloggs, for a lad) but we had to come about and run before the storm when the for’ard lookouts spotted a reef. Back we came, dripping wet, and took another bearing off into uncharted waters. We rolled into the sea of green and had to navigate around a hawser, placed to stop the sea-horses from straying. Well, there was quite a current running through it and Mrs. Butterfly took her time straddling the thing. I could swear there was a smile on her face.

The torrents of rain got so bad we could barely see the deck. Luckily we had our Foghorn with us to lead the way so when Centaur nearly sent us on the wrong course he called us back on the right way. Unfortunately, Dwight, (Black)Spot and I headed for a (sand) bar and had to head astern and take a course up the rolling wet hill. We found ourselves on a well-known and long sea-lane and ran fast before the wind, old salt C5 whingeing like a sea-wife about the weight of his sodden clothes. Young James didn’t seem to mind and ploughed on through the troughs and peaks. We sailed upwards into the forest of the night and heard an almighty crash. Another sloop had stopped just as a wave of rain had dumped on old tree in front of her. It had just missed the fortunate lugger. We came about and lifted the bits out of the way, keeping one to use as the ship’s log later… (Black)Spot and I took the bow position since we knew we were hard by PotKiln island. “Land ahoy!” We yelled and BH³ hove into port ready for grog. We disembarked to tankards of ale and a fine guided tour of our worthy landlord’s little brewery. Steam rose from our oily skins, the beer got through and we began to lose our sea-legs – stiffening up in the warm, friendly atmosphere. It was time to board again and head off into the night. We thanked the good landlord and rolled poor Dribbler back on board. The poor fool had drunk a pint of the grog and was singing like a loon. He was lucky Ms. Whiplash was not here tonight or he might have got a lick o’ the cat. But then he might have like it, especially with a bit o’ salt rubbed in.

We shoved off smartish. A bit too smart for some. That old swashbuckler TA tripped over a rat and plunged headfirst. He was lucky the seahorses were not about or he would have landed in the poop deck. After a bit of verbal abuse the tough old swab was all right and we lurched on. We must have been hallucinating by this time for I swear we sailed through a plantation of baby Christmas trees. Gutbucket and Cerberus took port and starboard lookout. Lord knows who took bow position; we could hardly see at all. Suddenly we came across a mermaid, Karen, who was idling by a buoy. In fact, the boy turned out to be Hotlegs who had been lured to her side by her blonde tresses and no doubt plaintive singing. We could do nothing for the lad and left him to his fate. He didn’t seem to mind too much.

Through rolling fronds of sea grass we churned, sometimes led by Master KnackerCatcher, sometimes our Dutch seaman, Zebedee. The one old sea dog we did not see all evening was Admiral Premature who, it turned out, had decided to paddle his own canoe through uncharted waters. At least he got back safe and sound. And so did we, in the end. I came upon TT2 hurtling down the On-Inn sea lane in his own inimitable bilge-pumping fashion, legs going like the pistons on a steamship, sweating Lascar stokers shovelling in the coal for all they were worth, vast clouds of steam rising from his overheated boilers. In the end his screw came loose and he limped in to The Bull Inn barbour with his rudder sticking out at an odd angle.

The good ship BH³, battered and storm scarred, finally sailed into the calmer waters and dropped anchor. A rousing cheer echoed from the crew as the tavern was sighted. Well done Ensign Hotlegs and Midhsipman ShutupWally for bringing us safely home. The last word goes to Able Seaman Iceman who, on leaving PotKiln island, said, “At least we now know ShutupWally can organise a piss-up in a brewery!” I’ll drink to that. Yo, ho, ho and a wobble o’ bum ( I think that’s how it goes).

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Motox presented the following :-

Up and Coming