Chaptliptz, the First!

Darkness lies over the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel. Along the coast, a thin mist hangs in the blackness, lending to everything a soft ethereal glow. In front of us, a small peasant house stands silent. The occupant, a peasant farmer named Horst Hedlessmann, opens the door cautiously. A brooding dread has been forming in his heart all day, interrupting his rest; a dark foreboding; a dire trepidation that could only signal the return of his wife, Agatha, from her regular visit to her mothers. As he looks out into the night, shadows move in the blackness, and the garden gate seems to open of its own accord. Terror washes over him. Standing at the threshold of the hovel trembling, Horst quails and hurriedly shuts the door, locking it. There is the soft sound of feet moving stealthily. Inky shadows swarm forwards towards the little house. For a moment they wait under the eaves: there is a moment of silence; then the crowing of a cock indicates dawn. Suddenly, there is a rasp of drawn weapons and a heavy strike against the door.

'Open in the name of Rotenburg!' cries a voice.

'Er ... there's no one here', replies Horst tremulously, 'no one at all. Except a cat. Er ... meow!' he adds.

Horst can hear muffled voices on the other side of the door.

'Well, sir', says one, 'this house is empty. There's only a cat - and she won't be able to tell us the whereabouts of Herr Agorn'.

'Why not?' replies another voice, clearly that of an officer. 'I mean it's not often one finds a cat that can talk'.

There is a pause. The first voice then says 'I see your point, sir'.

Sudden blows rain upon the door and it gives way. Figures rush swiftly in, flooding the house. But it is already empty. Cold air drifts through the open shutters of the rear window. Out in the night a horn begins to blow, and a voice shouts out the traditional alarm of Bachscuttel: 'Run! The enemy are here! They'll kill us all! Flee! Hide! Piddle your britches!'

Inside the house, the Rotenburg commander kicks a chair in disgust. 'Dammit!' he says, 'where else could that blasted pretender be?'

'Well, sir', replies his sergeant. 'There's another small bay a little way on, apparently. The beach isn't as nice, by all accounts, but he might be there'.

'Fine! Fine!' says the officer, who goes by the name of Major Nicklaus-Maria von Richter-Mortis. 'Order the men to form up! March! March! We must have that damnable Agorn fellow in our clutches before the local militia gets itself organised!'

The sun rises over the horizon, bathing the coast of Saukopf-Bachscuttel in morning light. Most would agree that this is a bad thing. There are few places in Bachscuttel that can't improved in their looks by a bit more darkness, and perhaps also by closing one's eyes and slipping a bag over one's head. Generally, dawn in a place like Mittelheim is rather like opening the curtain's of one's bedroom after a heavy night of frolicking whilst one's parents are away: the feelings of apprehension that the scene revealed might be every bit as bad as one feared the night before when one spotted various guests spilling red wine on the carpets, vomiting in the cupboards, or setting fire to the servants; worry at who might be responsible for tidying things up; relief when one remembers that it's the servants; concern at how many of the servants might have survived the evening's immolation; weary lassitude and the strong feeling that conditions might be improved if one just skipped the coming day and moved straight on to going back to bed.

(Above) One fellow, though, who seems not be suffering from this bleak pessimism is Herr Michael Agorn, pretender to the Vulgarian throne, and latest pawn in the dirty years war. Agorn has shed his worn clothing and is now dressed as befits a man whose claim to fame is that he is more of pretender than the man currently pretending to be the Voivode of Vulgaria. In addition to an ensemble of white silk and a gold-laced tricorne, Agorn has dispensed with his sword, "The Sword That Was Broken and Was Reforged But Then Got Broken Again", and replaced it with a brace of pistols, on the basis that ancient heirlooms, honour, and ancient prophecy were all very well, but nothing says "get dead" like shooting someone in the face.

(Above) Agorn stands upon a small hill above a little bay. This part of Bachscuttel lies to the east of the small fishing port of Chaptliptz. By fishing village, of course, one means that the men occasionally go to sea, mostly in the hope of being carried off by pirates. Usually disappointed by this, they then have to stop off in the local market in order to buy fish in order not to make their wives suspicious. Surrounding the position is a company of the palatinate's troops, led by Colonel Amadeus von Goethe-Nockenshoppes. Dragged from the warm clutches of his winsome Kurlandian mistress, Lady Claudia Pantzov, Nockenshoppes is under strict orders to wait here for the arrival of a force of ships that will take Agorn by sea and river to Vulgaria.

Nockenshoppes will not be unhappy to see the back of Agorn. In the march to this secret rendezvous with the fleet, Agorn had argued that his long years in the wilderness had given him a range of skills that would help the troops along the way. Claiming to have 'some skill at hunting and foraging for food', Agorn had insisted that the column could dispense with supply wagons. Though Nockenshoppes was willing to accept that Bachscuttel was not, perhaps, the easiest place in which to live off the land, he was still of the impression that the activities of hunting and trapping connoted the provision of provender rather more tasty than the plates of leaves and dung beetles that Agorn provided. It also turned out that Agorn was rather unwilling himself to eat the supplies that he was providing, some of his 'hunting expeditions' comprising of excursions to local taverns in which the 'terrible privations' that he described suffering mainly comprised of him skipping the cheese course. After spending even this short time with Agorn, Nockeshoppes could well understand why it was that the Vulgarian pretender needed protection, his list of enemies, Nockenshoppes guessed, probably exhibiting a remarkably high degree of similarity to the list of people that had ever met him.

Nockenshoppes mood is not improved one whit by a sudden commotion that indicates the arrival of a dishevelled peasant. This fellow has disturbing but utterly predictable news: a band of Rotenburg troops, somehow deposited onto the coast of Bachscuttel, is on its way! (Above, top right) As the light improves, the enemy become apparent: three platoons of Rotenburg infantry. Clearly this is a mission of some import for the landgravate of Rotenburg, for the shambling, ragged formations, and the bovine, blank-faced apathy of the musketeers indicates something of an elite force by the landgravate's usual standards. Nockenshoppe grabs the peasant.

'Go at once to Chaplitz and rouse the militia. Only energy, rapidity, and celerity will suffice: go now, and waste no time!'

'Yes, sir - celery, sir: you can rely on me, sir'.

The fellow heads off at a run.

Nockenshoppe watches him for a minute. 'Hmmm', he says to a subaltern. 'Isn't Chaplitz the other way?'

'Yes, sir'.

'What's that way, then?'

'A tavern'.

'So we're going to be waiting for a while for those reinforcements aren't we?'

'Yes sir'.

'About the time the tavern closes tonight'.

'Yes sir. Perhaps a little after if he stops for a pie'.

The situation is worse than the colonel supposes. From the south arrive three more platoons of Rotenburgers. These aren't even regulars: they are light troops, and as desperate a band of thugs, cut-throats, and goat-fondlers as ever pulled on a uniform and tried to pass themselves off as fit for duty.

Nockenshoppe curses - where is the fleet? Ordering his troops to prepare themselves, he declares that they must defend the hill with their lives. 

'Sir, the enemy are approaching for their first attack!' cries the subaltern.

'The men seem quite cheerful, under the circumstances', notes the colonel.

'Yes, sir, but I think most of them misheard you. I suspect that they are over-estimating their own chances of surviving this battle because they think that they will be defending the hill with their wives'.

'Their wives might well make better soldiers', comments the colonel, 'They've certainly got more impressive facial hair. Steady men', admonishes Nockenshoppes, 'prepare to fire on my command .....'

Fifteen Men in a Dead Man's Vest!

Captain Hans Hohenlohe whoops with delight as he stands upon the after-deck of the newly re-christened sloop the Centennial Sparrow. (Below) Salt spray blows across his face and the wind whistles through his wig. The maritime vicissitudes of the last few days have been forgotten in the excitement of a voyage in a marvellously uncrowded ship that goes decisively forwards in the water and not downwards in ways that make his toes all wrinkled. The voyage thus far has been relatively uneventful, the encounters including only a fishing vessel and a small basket of very sea-sick rats.

Quartermaster Crispin Drei joins Hohenlohe and first mate Lars Yerda on the after-deck. 'You called for me, sir. Aaaar!' he says above the sound of the wind. 

'Indeed! Indeed!' says Hohenlohe. 'It is time herr gentlemen to reveal to you our mission!' Yerda and Drei lean in.

'It would seem, apparently, that the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel intends to destabilise Vulgaria. They have their hands on a Vulgarian pretender!'

'A pretender?' asks Drei quizzically. 'Why on earth would they be needing a mime artist?'

'No', interjects Yerda, 'a pretender to the throne he is'.
Drei frowns. 'Oh. Aaaaar! But don't the prince of Vulgaria already be a pretender? Dimitri, he seems certainly only to pretend to be a decent ruler'.

'That is as may be, mister Drei', replies the captain, 'but we are tasked with interfering with this Bachscuttel plan. The Bachscuttelers have the pretender  in a small bay on their coast. He will soon be taken by sea, and then the river Strudel, to Vulgaria itself. We are to sail to Rotenburg; pick up landgravial troops awaiting there; and then land them  near to where the pretender is being held. Once these troops have seized the fellow, we shall sail him off to a future comprising of imprisonment, poor cuisine, and an unwelcome introduction to metal implements that are sharp, hot, heavy, or some uncomfortable combination of the three!'

'Aaaar!', replies Drei reflectively, 'but should we be doing that cap'n? I mean to say, sir, Dimitri - he ain't a good ruler. I'd like to think that a ruler had the best interests of his people at heart. It be important to do what's right'.

Hohenlohe raises his eyebrows. 'Do what's ...? But you're a pirate! Scourge of the seas!  Blood, plunder, "yo-ho-ho and a bottle of some readily available alcoholic beverage!"'

Drei shrugs. 'Well, in my time as a vicar ...'

'You were a vicar before you joined the ship?' asks Hohenlohe incredulously.

'Worked in a church you did?' adds Yerda questioningly.

'But', adds the captain, 'you don't seem very, you know ... religious'.

'Well cap'n - I wasn't a very good vicar. I couldn't get the hang of the tricky bits'.

'The tricky bits?'

'Aaaar, yes. You know: being meek; turning the other cheek, especially to meek people; helping others; believing in God'.

'So ... so ... what did you spend your time doing?'

'Aaaar, well: you know, the other things that priests be doing'.

'What?'

'Eating and drinking, sir; sleeping, of course. Collecting tithes. Inappropriate touching; more drinking. Sermons, hypocrisy, that sort of thing. But mainly drinking. Or at least, that's what I mainly remembers doing. Aaaar!'

'Oh'.

'Yes, but the touching - it was all taken out of context, sir. And I like to think that some of it rubbed off.'

'What, when you were touching?'

'No, sir. I means the general vicar atmosphere of being supposed to be doing good things and wanting life to be, well nice. For poor people, sir. And, er, the meek. And samaritans. The good ones. Aaaar!'

'No! No! No!' replies Hohenlohe adamantly. 'We complete our mission. Damn it, Drei - you're a pirate now and not a vicar: a life of carefree violence and alcoholism, unfettered by such petty concerns as laws and morals'.
'There be more overlap with a vicar's life than yer might think, cap'n. Aaaar!'
Bemused, Hohenlohe orders the crew to set a course for Rotenburg!

'Good progress, we're making, captain', says Yerda later, as Hohenlohe scans the coast.
'Yes indeed', he replies. But the captain's concentration is broken by a terrible cacophonous noise emanating from the ship: a sound that seems to comprise of a blend simultaneously of a tedious drone, the sound made by nails being drawn down some form of chalkboard, an ex-wife or elderly relative asking loudly and repeatedly for some form of extended financial support, and a group of parrots singing their favourite selection of Welsh folk songs.
'Mister Drei', shouts Hohenlohe. 'Mister Drei, what in the name of Beelzebub is that terrible noise!'
Drei returns to the after-deck. 'The men be amusing themselves with a song, sir. Aaaar!'

Yerda nods in agreement. 'Singing sea shities they are'.

'Shanties, mister Yerda', corrects Drei. 'They be sea shanties'.

Hohenlohe grimaces. 'No, I think mister Yerda has it right'.
'15 men on a dead man's chest', says Drei. 'It be traditional'.
'Is it traditional to sing it so badly?' asks Hohenohe morosely. 'And anyway, it seems an odd song'.
'Why be that, sir?'
'Well, it seems quite specific. Why 15? I mean, I think having about three men on my chest would probably kill me. The other 12 seems quite unnecessary.
'Perhaps, they just all be needing a hug, sir. Aaaar! Pirating can be quite stressful. Or, perhaps it's not "on his chest". Perhaps it's "in a dead man's vest"'. 

'"15 men in a dead man's vest"? That doesn't seem practical. It would be too crowded, surely'.

Drei contemplates this. 'Perhaps, sir, they wears it one after another?'

(Below) 'Bring her about, mister Yerda!' shouts Hohenlohe as dusk begins to arrive.
'Sir, aye, aye!' says the first mate.

As the Centennial Sparrow wears, the captain and quartermaster look down at the plates of food that both hold, carefully trying to avoid spilling the contents as the deck shifts beneath them. They both stare at their dinner. The cook has tried some innovative approaches to cooking the salt pork.
'You haven't eaten your supper, sir. Aaaar!' says Drei.
Hohenlohe pulls a face. 'In truth mister Drei, I cannot. It's awful. I love a good weevil as much as the next man, but the cook's ruined them too. Look at them'.
'What be those weevils doing, sir?'
Hohenlohe peers at his plate. 'I think, Drei, that they're trying to surrender. It's no surprise to me that the cook also doubles as the carpenter. This doesn't taste very nice at all'.

'Arrr! No, sir, but the pork does have a lovely set of dovetail joints'.

'We should just throw it overboard: perhaps the dolphins would like it'.
'No, sir - I be thinking that the pork ain't even good enough for them. In fact, you might say that it's just "not fit for porpoise"'.
Hohenlohe looks at Drei. Drie shrugs and mimes a small drum roll.

Suddenly, from above comes a loud cry of 'Ship ho!'
Hohenlohe quickly has his spyglass to his eye, searching the horizon.
Behind them there is a curse and then a terrible splintering sound. Looking around, Yerda seems to have in his hands a length of broken wood that looks depressingly like the tiller.
'Just came off in my hands, it did' cries Yerda.
'No tiller! We can't turn!' cries Drei. 'We be fine, though', he says, recovering his equilibrium. 'I'll have the men do some repairs. That ship'll be able to turn and avoid us!'
Hohenlohe turns wearily. 'I think, gentlemen, that that ship is going to cause us more trouble than you think'.
'Aaaar! Why sir - has the other ship got a pirate flag on it?'
'No Drei, the other "ship" has a lighthouse on it'.
There is a moment of silence.
'Shafted we are', says Yerda.

Bloke on the Water!

'Aagh! A whale! A whale!' screams Captain Hans Hohenlohe pointing wildly from his position at the stern of the newly re-christened Centennial Sparrow.
'No sir', interjects the ship's freshly appointed quartermaster, Crispin Drei. 'That'd be a boat'. He pauses, and then, since he is now a pirate, adds an 'Aaaar!' to create the right sort of ambience.
'A boat? A boat?' says Hohenlohe looking confused.
'A pirate boat it is', says Lars Yerda, the first mate, in his appalling German.
'How do you know that it's a pirate boat?' asks Hohenlohe.
'Because, sir, it be our boat. Aaaar!' comments the quartermaster.
'Ooooh' says Hohenlohe peering ahead. 'So it is. How did I make such a silly mistake?'
'Well, sir', says Drei, 'I'm thinking that yer consumption of two bottles of rum might have been at least loosely connected to yer error'.
Yerda nods. 'Tipped to the rits you are', he comments with his garbled vocabulary.
'And also', continues Drei, 'it's quite difficult to see ahead given how crowded our ship be. Aaaaar!'

(Below) And in truth, the boat is indeed quite crowded. Hohenlohe's choice of such a diminutive vessel had at its core a perfectly reasonable supposition: that, for a crew whose lives had been spent as vagrants, vagabonds, draft animals, or professional spitoons, the intricacies of sailing a sea vessel were likely to be skills best developed from practice on a simpler ship. In actuality, the ship's rats were professionally more qualified for a life at sea than his crew, and they certainly had better table manners. Alas, Hohenlohe had neglected to consider some of the practical implications of trying to squeeze a crew suitable for a sloop or brigantine onto a boat so small that the only reason it can't be labelled a bath tub is that no one in it has any soap.

The rather overloaded condition of the vessel was one of the early problems discovered on this maiden voyage. But other unwelcome discoveries soon followed. The command 'Hoist the main sail', for example, proved difficult to execute when it was concluded that there was in fact no main sail. Or top sail. Or indeed any sail. Or, on that theme, a mast. Morale lowered further when, after spending a short time watching the crew at work, the small family of rats that lived in one corner of the vessel were seen constructing from a fruit basket, stick and handkerchief, a small life boat, which they then launched, in a commendably calm and disciplined process of abandoning ship. Even what should have been the fairly reasonable order, in what was after all basically a large rowing boat, to 'row the boat', foundered like an ill-manned and ill-equipped Vulgarian war boat, on the sharp rocks of the problem that no oars could be found. In addition, it turned out that one of the crew was actually Fenwickian, so that Hohenlohe's command that the crew should 'find some oars and damn well use them' resulted in the crewman fnarring himself overboard.

'Motive power there seems no obvious means to be', comments Yerda.
'What?' replies Hohenlohe.
'Boat not move', says Drei.
'Well, this seems like it is going to be a long voyage', says the captain, gloomily. 'How are we doing?'
'I think', says Drei, 'there be a reason, sir, why row boats use oars and not, as we be doing, spoons'.
'Desert spoons?' asks Hohenlohe hopefully.
'Arrrr, tea spoons they be, sir...'
'Of course. Of bloody course'. The captain pauses. 'Now, I need to bring something up', he continues.
'Our orders and plan this might be?' enquires Yerda with interest.
'No', replies Hohenlohe, 'it's the rum'. He heaves loudly over the side of the ship. In between chunders, he orders everyone below except Yerda.

(Below) 'Thank goodness', says Hohenlohe. 'A bit of space at last. Now, mister Yerda, I can reveal our orders ...'

'Hmmm', interjects Yerda. 'Wet my stockings are'.
'What?' says the captain with cold alarm. 'Have we sprung a leak? Call the men!'
'Below you sent the men', points out Yerda reasonably.
'Yes, I told the men to go below'.
'On this reflecting I am. Boat this is and not a ship. A below I don't think we have'.
'Oh', says Hohenlohe wearily. 'Which, on reflection would explain why they had to saw through the deck ...'
Yerda shrugs. 'Moving we are now'.
'Yes', the captain, 'but I can't help noticing that it's not the required direction'.
'What?' asks Yerda, over the lazy gurgle of water.
'We're moving downwards instead of along'.
'What?'
'Well, Yerda, applying my accumulated experience as a sea captain, I must conclude that, since the boat is getting lower in the water and the water is getting higher, then technically at least, our condition could be coded most accurately as "sinking"'.
'What?'
'Boat sink'.
Yerda lifts one sodden leg, before plunking it back into the water and examining the other. He looks at Hohenlohe and shrugs. 'Soup?'
Hohenlohe rubs his eyes, looking very tired. 'Yes mister Yerda. Let's get the sloop. Break out the spoons and head for the coast ...'

The Pitter Patter of Tiny Fleets!

The Freistadt of Bestwestung - a modest port at the mouth of the River Strudel, whose fortunes rely primarily on fishing and shipbuilding. It is Mittelheim's nearest equivalent to the thievery, filth and inequity that marks out a pirate den: if the pirate den had really let itself go, that is. In Bestwestung, such traditional piratical activities as smuggling, fighting, swearing, drinking, and the wearing of parrots and wooden prosthetics are usually reserved for the quiet of an after-church Sunday. For the remainder of the week, the population really let it all hang out.

(Below) At the docks, the usual hustle and bustle is interrupted by the raucous arrival of a ripe band of cut-throats. These seem to be actual pirates, as can be determined by the quantities of  rum being consumed and the numbers of 'Aaars!' being uttered. At their head is a tall fellow, flamboyantly dressed, with a large gold-laced hat. This is none other than the sailor of fortune Captain Hans Hohenlohe, one time captain of the Centennial Sparrow but now, after his costly exploits in pursuit of the lovely Princess Freya, in need of a new ship and crew. The urgency with which he has sought to procure a new source of both is explained by the fact that he has lately been issued with letters of marque by Prince Dimitri of Vulgaria. An extended rummage through the dingy dockland dives of Bestwestung has turned up a collection of likely lads eager for adventure, plunder, and an opportunity to escape being chastised by their mothers for failing to tidy their rooms. Next to the captain stands his first mate, the Swedishman Lars Yerda. Nature has prepared Yerda well for his new role, the first mate having eyes like a ferret, a nose like a weasel, and knees shaped like an amusingly formed Welshman.

(Above) 'What about dis vessel, sir - just the ticket it looks!', says Yerda to Hohenlohe in his abominable German, pointing at a ship in front of them.
'Hmm, no', replies Hohenlohe. He points to his left. 'This is the vessel that we need!'
'But sir - perfect this one seems!' insists the first mate.
(Below) And indeed, it does seem to be exactly the sort of vessel that any self-respecting maritime cut-throat would like to have: a compact but roomy ship; fast; manoeuverable; and with adequate armament comprising of both light cannon and swivel guns.
'Most useful a soup would be, sir', insists Yerda.
'It's a sloop, herr first mate: S-L-O-O-P. Sloop. And I'm not convinced that we do need it', says the captain. 'Unless, of course, you actually meant "soup", in which case, given my hunger, I could be tempted'.
'Sloop schmoop, I'm thinking. Spelling overrated he is', retorts the first mate snappily.
Hohenlohe sighs. 'You are too dismissive of the importance of good grammar and spelling, herr Yerda. For example, recent rumours tell of a nasty incident resulting from King Wilhelm of Gelderland's attempt to write a message to his servants declaring that he was thirsty and ordering that he be sent a large quantity of beers'.
Yerda shrugs. 'A problem that is?'
'Well, herr Yerda - yes it is, if you're a king in an autocratic political system and you spell beer "B-E-A-R"'.
'Oh dear', admits Yerda. 'Fat problem'.
'Yes', says Hohenlohe ruefully, 'a very big problem indeed. Apparently they were washing honey out of the palace carpets for weeks'.
Yerda nods.
'And not just honey', continues the captain. 'You know, it turns out that they don't just go in the woods.'

Hohenlohe turns to his crew.
'Men, I have chosen our ship! I shall purchase it at once. Soon, your next stop will be a life of furious adventure!' he cries.
'Oooh, lovely!', shouts one. 'I'm looking forward to some healthy exercise'.
'Exercise?' replies the captain suspiciously. 'What is it that you think that you have signed up for, my man? You are now all pirates!' Hohenlohe takes from inside his coat one of the recruitment posters that he has had distributed around the town. 'Pirates!' he repeats, pointing to the word "pirates" laid out in large, bold letters at the top of the missive.
'Ahhhh, I see', replies the recruit. 'I been and misread it, sir. I mistook the "R" for an "L". Still, my mistake. I expects there'll still be plenty of healthful aerobic activity to be had on the high seas'.
As the men break out into a sustained barrage of 'Aaars!', the Captain winces, but then perseveres, shouting 'Glory awaits, my men. We have merely to creep up on it when its asleep and grab it! It's time to terrify our foes!'
There are cheers.
'It's time to shiver their timbers!'
'Aaaar!' and more cheers
'Splice their mainbraces!'
Wild cheering, and a barrage of 'Aaars!'
'Poop their decks!'
Sudden silence.
One voice pipes up. 'We gets paid extra for that, right sir?'

'I'm not sure about this new crew, herr Yerda', says Hohenlohe quietly, turning to his first mate. 'Are you sure they have the right qualities for a short and brutal life on the ocean? I asked you to get for me men of the right calibre: by which I meant, of course, men that would be of the wrong calibre for just about every other activity.'
'Scurvy dogs you asked me to get', says Yerda.
'Yes, herr Yerda. I thought we'd cleared that up. I think we lost something in the translation. You got me an actual dog - with rickets' replies the captain. 'I meant the men themselves. Being a pirate requires certain qualities. A certain ... outlook on life. For example, last night the whole lot of them got wasted on rum and port. One might expect that any self-respecting pirate crew might use that condition as the useful foundation for some riot and arson'.
'A bit naughty they jolly well were', says Yerda defensively.
'"Naughty" isn't a quality I'm trying to develop in them. Last night's antics were less a riot and more a sort of frolic'.

'The difference is what?' asks Yerda.

'Well, I suppose that one would expect more violence and less accordion music'.

The first mate shrugs. 'Off they can bugger'. He then turns back to the ship directly in front. 'Soup?'

(Above) 'No', says Hohenlohe, decisively pointing to the left - that's the ship we're going to take! It's smaller and more easy to handle with inexperienced sailors.' He turns again to his assembled crew.

'Prepare yourselves, my hearties!' he bellows. 'For you are about to leave behind your old lives!'
The men cheer.
'Yes', continues the captain. 'It is time to wave farewell to your sweethearts', he looks at the dirty, foul-smelling specimens in front of him, 'or possibly more likely, say goodbye to your collection of bodily parasites, and prepare yourselves for a pirate life of adventure!'
'To the Caribbean, sir? To the Spanish Main?' they shout.
'Well', says Hohenlohe, 'let's work up to that, eh? First stop - the coast of Rotenburg!'
'Is that near the Caribbean, sir?' ask the men.
Hohenlohe pauses for a moment, reflecting, and then says 'Yes! Why not!' He continues: 'We sail at the turn of the tide!' cries the captain.
'Ham the beach is!' says Yerda loudly.
'That's easy for you to say', replies Hohenlohe.