"Why, in the name of The Bishop of Bath & Wells did we burn the thrice-cursed thing in the first place?", I wondered, as I peered into the gloom from the prow of our little Jolly boat at the looming form of the 23 gun frigate. Alone, boarding the slumbering ship would've been child's play; with the crew around me I was less at ease. What courage I gained from the presence of such hardened killers in case of a pitched battle, I lost in the knowledge that the noise of a single doubloon hitting the deck could be our downfall, and none of us was short of a few sheckles, curse me for a lilly-livered serpent if it ain't the truth. Fer once, though, we weren't here for the money.
A slight creak from the muffled rollocks
Five men visible on the deck, all nodding in their cups from what Lambkin's bring-'em-near had brought near from our vantage on the headand. Probably loads more neat and tidy in their hammocks below. Swarming the sides, crouching beneath the gunwhales, squinting against the lanthorns' light seeking the hundled forms of freebooters all around the deck, Bilge-Rat to larboard, slingshot half-cocked, knife in his teeth, Eldred to starboard, an evil glint in his eye, anticipating the carnage to come. A slight creak from the muffled rollocks of the abandoned boat below raising the watchman's brow and my heart rate for a moment, and then silence. Waiting, tense for any further disturbance. Snoring, muttering in sleep, the last words of an incompetent watch-master lost on the midnight breeze. Hurridly passed signals, a nod and a wink, and silent mayhem unleashed. Long knives flashing, throats cut and bodies limp before wakefulness allowed for defense to be given or alarm to be raised. The ship, and everything aboard, was ours in minutes.
It was a fancy sea-chest, and no mistake. Stout iron-bound oak such as this wasn't cheap, and the lavish oppulence of the cabin in which it lay had me fair salivating at the prospect of jewels and fine gold within. I eased the door shut quietly behind me - no need to bother the rest of the crew with this little find. I checked it over, and I checked it over quick. My eyes passed over the gem-studded sword-hilt and pearl-inlaid brace of pistols on the cabin's desk as I crouched to peer along seams and probe into hinges in search of the poisoned barbs and black-magic penny-charms so popular with them that think a chest a worthy keep-safe. Bury it, stick it up a tree, chuck it in the bilges... do what you like with your ill-begotten gains, but if you wrap it all up easy-to-cary-like, and advertise it's worth with bindings, traps and locks, you're as good as asking for a fellow to come and take it off your hands.
I was humming myself a little ditty of self-congratulation as I slid the simple bolt, not questioning the lack of even a simple padlock, when the cabin door slammed open. "I wouldn't do that if I were you".
Bollocks.
He had the look of a drow, and a posh one at that. His noble bearing of arrogance, self-importance and downright vanity was only slightly marred by the ugly bruise on his forehead and the muzzle of Lambkin's pistol rammed and twisted into his throat. I could see Not-Half-Bad Bob F'Rapples hopping from one foot to another behind the Drow, eager to give our captive some personal attention of his own. "Let me 'ave him", begged Bob at Lambkin's side, "Go on. I ain't never 'ad a drow before". Hogtied and pistol-whipped a few minutes later, even a pistol-shot through each kneecap hadn't loosened the drow's tongue any further as to the contents of the chest.
even a pistol-shot through each kneecap hadn't loosened the drow's tongue
I rigged a pully line with which to spring the chest from a safe distance, unnerved by the eagerness of the unlocked box to reveal its bounty, while Lambkin's knife explored the tattered remnants of the drow's knees. "I don't like it. 'Ee seems more scared of what's in that there chest than 'ee does of me!" Lambkin seemed genuinely surprised at this revalation, and dragged the drow to the brig, with Bad Bob in hot pursuit, bell-bottoms already at half-mast in anticipation.
bell-bottoms already at half-mast in anticipation
Smalltrousers the Cook wandered in, benign stupidity and goodnatured clumsiness accompanying him like a bellyfull of barnacles. I couldn't believe my luck. "Oh look everyone, a chest", he declared to no-one in particular, "Aye, open it", says I, and swings out the window and up to the foc'sle, keen to be well out of the way of any ensuing chaos.
The pearl handles of Bosun De Bone's new pistols glinted in the moonlight. Screams of pain and whoops of pleasure lilted up from the brig.
You can't trust some folk, y'know?
I risked a glimpse back into the cabin, thinkin' that if Smalltrousers has got the chest open safe and sound, I want to be sure that he's not stashing any of the contents away for himself. You can't trust some folk, y'know? I had to revise my opinion of him (which had been at an all time low since supper two nights ago) when I saw that caution had got the better of him, and the chest lay, still, sullenly shut.
And that was the way it stayed. Even Bad Bob's most enthusiastic romantic attentions failed to persuade the drow to talk, though they certainly put a spring in Bob's step and a twinkle in his eye. The chest would have to wait. We had a burnt book to find. We resolved to make landfall at first light.
Gussett