The Shrimp's crew pile onto the Maverick, and a vicious fight ensues: pistols are discharged; lunges made with cutlasses; wooden legs are torn off and shoved painfully into places where they can't reasonably be made to fit. Truthfully though, for all its violence this is not a combat likely to be much remembered in song or legend - there is rather too much eye-gouging and hair pulling for it to be classified strictly as an heroic encounter. Any budding minstrel or wandering musician is likely to have ready access to tales embodying a range of much more heroic activities than this melee: an encounter with some fractious ducks, for example; or a difficult conversation with a combative purveyor of pies. (Below) Slowly, though, the Bachscuttel sailors gain the advantage, the commitment of the Maverick's crew undermined by their growing casualties, and the loud weeping from their captain behind his locked door.
The 'No Quarter' flag upon the Centennial Sparrow flaps vigorously in the wind, imbuing the untrousered caricature of the pirate upon it with an alarming energy in his interaction with the socket of the skull. True to the spirit of this signal, the Bachscuttlers demonstrate more even than the usual lack of empathy for enemy wounded and prisoners. Some are killed out of hand. Others are thrown overboard having been first weighted with cannon balls, large pies, and any kittens that can be found to hand.
(Below) Soon the Maverick's crew are completely subdued. Wugposch addresses his men triumphantly.
'A splendid victory, men! A splendid and, given my low expectations regarding your competence, rather surprising success! If I had known that you weren't quite as bad as I expected, I would have confided more trust in you! Well done!'
'A moving speech sir', replies his first mate, drying his eyes with his neckerchief. 'If a trifle insulting'.
'Now, bring me the enemy captain!' cries Wugposch happily.
'Well, sir - there isn't one', replies the first mate. 'He's quite adamant that he isn't here'.
Wugposch narrows his eyes. 'So, he is here, then'.
The first mate shakes his head, 'But he says he isn't.
'Is it not possible that he's lying?' asks the captain.
'It would be a crap lie, though' says the mate.
'He's a pirate' says Wugposch drily.
Physical attempts to winkle Miguel out from his cabin fail. However, he is finally tempted out by the news that he has won a parrot in a competition. Which, if there were one for gullible pirate captains, he certainly would have done.
'I was expecting someone taller', says Wugposch, as Miguel is tied up and forced to walk the plank. This isn't as dangerous as it might be in the Caribbean, since the inexperienced sailors of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel have yet to realise that the plank should be balanced over the side of the ship. After Miguel has fallen off the plank a couple of times onto the deck, Wugposch gets bored, and orders a prize crew left upon the Maverick as he returns to his own ship.
'Hurrah!' says Wugposch. 'What a splendid victory. Nothing at all could possibly interrupt my positive feeling about the signal success that we have achieved in this mighty maritime melee!' .
His first mate winces. 'There is, sir, one fly in our ointment; one grain of grit in our oyster; one catholic bishop in our Orangeman parade.
'What could this be?' says the captain sourly. 'Who would ruin the fruits of our fabulous floating fisticuffs?'
'Help!' cries Admiral Doenutz plaintively, 'Help!' (Below) On the deck of the Sausage, it is evident that the fight has not gone so well here for Bachscuttel as it has on the Maverick. The bodies of the admiral's sailors lie strewn across the deck, along with quantities of blood, gore, and mashed banana; the last the result of a futile effort by Clive to intervene in events.
(Below) Upon the rear deck of the Sausage, only the admiral and his first mate remain. They confront a horde of leering, vicious Vulgarian pirates, whose faces gurn like especially uncomely bulldogs licking thistles.
The admiral sighs. He understands that fate has marked this point in time; that destiny demands that he fight the enemy captain in hand to hand combat in a disputation unto death. Doenutz breathes deeply to calm himself for the coming exertions, before addressing his companion. 'Well, my fellow, this is a terrible situation. But in situations like this, men of quality must make the final sacrifice without complaint'.
'Yes, sir'.
'Bring me my sword'.
'Here it is sir: the sword of your father and your grandfather before him; carried by them with honour in a hundred duels'.
'Marvellous', says Doenutz, bracing himself. 'Now you take it and go and fight the enemy while I jump over the side'. Doenutz jumps.
As the admiral begins a weak breast stroke towards the shore, the fight for the Sausage ends swiftly. The first mate is barely able to cry out 'but this isn't my swor ...' before he is brutally cut down.
The ship, and so also Herr Agorn the pretend pretender, are in Vulgarian hands!
(Below) A prize crew is left upon the Sausage. Sails are quickly raised, and the two sloops begin to head for the Rotenburg coast.
'Aaaar, sir!', cries Hohenlohe's quartermaster, herr Crispin Drei, 'but we be leaving the Maverick behind sir! Miguel will be captured!'
'Yes, it's a terrible shame', says Hohenlohe smiling broadly, 'a terrible, terrible shame', he repeats, breaking out into a jig.
As the Maverick and Shrimp begin to disappear into the horizon, Hohenlohe orders rum all round and then commands that Agorn be found and bound.
The first mate, Lars Yerda, shrugs. 'Find him I cannot' he says in his execrable German. 'Hid in the hold somewhere he is; a shrub he is pretending to be'.
'You can't find him?' asks the captain, much displeased. 'He's pretending to be a shrub. In a ship's hold. It's not ...', the captain searches for a parallel, 'hot air balloon science'.
'Good with plants I'm not', says Yerda defensively. 'That shrubs don't grow in ships' holds, how was I expected to guess?'
'Aaaar, he might be pretending to be Lonicera nitida', says Drei helpfully. '"Baggesen's Gold" - that's a shrub that be liking some shade'.
'But he is not Baggesen's Gold' says the captain.
'Or Prunus Laurocerasus - "Otto Luyken"', adds Drei, 'they like shade too'.
'Drei', says Hohenlohe firmly, 'Agorn's relative proclivity for shade may be a matter of debate: what is not such a matter, however, is that he is not in fact a shrub: he is a sad, middle-aged fantasist. On that basis, a key clue that might help you to see through his attempt to pretend to be a shrub is that he is not, in fact, a shrub. Now find him, lash him to any conveniently heavy object, and let us be on our way!'
Suitably alerted, Hohenlohe's crew quickly find Agorn, and before one can say "Ooooh, that's a bit tight", the pretender to the pretender of the Vulgarian throne is securely strapped to a barrel.
'What about the wounded, sir - aaar, they be in a pickle!'
'Diced and sliced they are!' adds Yerda. 'Or they be. Or whatever.'
Hohenlohe looks troubled. 'You've pickled the wounded?'
'Aaaar, no cap'n. I means we've a fair few of the lads who're a bit poorly'. He points to body lying slumped. 'Like this fellow - a nasty wound, what with it bleeding and all'.
Hohenlohe seems unmoved. 'Just amputate and then cauterise the stump'.
'Aaaar, but it's his head'.
'I'm not saying he won't suffer some complications, Drei'.
'Without his head, sir?'
'But you know, they can carve some marvellous prosthetics these days from new materials - balsa, for example'.
'But sir, isn't having a wooden head likely to be ... I be searching for the right word ...'
'"Life-limiting"?'
'No, cap'n ... "terminal"; "terminal" be the word I'm looking for'.
'Look, Drei, with the right care I don't see that he won't be able to live a rewarding and fruitful pirate life, given some substantial help for the rest of his days'.
'Substantial help for the rest of his days?' asks the quartermaster.
'Yes'. Hohenlohe then stops and considers this for a moment. 'Fair enough. You, sailor. Help this wounded man to get up'.
'Yes sir'.
'And then push him over the side', adds the captain.
Drei seems about to say something.
The captain raises a quizzical, and yet still vaguely threatening eyebrow. 'Any additional medical advice, herr Drei?' he asks.
The quartermaster shrugs and then points to some floats. 'Aaaar, sir - I recommend he takes two of these immediately and then comes back tomorrow if things haven't improved'.
'Excellent advice, I'm sure', nods Hohenlohe, approvingly. 'Now - full sails, mister Drei: herr Agorn has a date in Rotenburg with destiny: or rather, with a pool of hungry terrapins!'
Ah! The Shrimp May be small but she has proved handy in combat.... but now, what will become of Herr Agorn?
ReplyDeleteHerr Agorn, no doubt, will be hoping that he avoids any ring-related difficulties. The likeliest outcome is that he is savaged in Rotenburg by a horde of Choldwig's hungry terrapins: if horde, that is, is the right collective name for six of them.
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