The Maracaibo Caper: The Third 'Festering Boil' Adventure

By Mark 'Cap'n Slappy' Summers and John 'Ol' Chumbucket' Baur

The third in the "Festering Boil" caper series, by the creators of International Talk Like a Pirate Day and authors of "Pirattitude!" and "A Pirate's Life for Me." When the crew of the Festering Boil return to the Caribbean, they are confronted by an old nemesis with an evil plan. But things take a strange and dangerous turn in the depths of the South American jungle. The crew meets old friends in new places, new friends in old places, there's danger, laughs, swashbuckling and even a little sex.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257327379

Book preview

Caribbean.

Chapter 1

The deck of The Festering Boil was abuzz with activity, so it was completely understandable that the crew had some new faces and was missing some old ones. Don Taco, his ever present Los Mariachi, and the notable pirate Sir Nigel, who had accompanied the crew of the Boil for so many months of adventure, had gone heir separate ways.

Now, three days out and bound for the Caribbean, Cap’n Slappy and his comrades were still sorting out the crew manifest that had gotten so scrambled in the confusion that attended two-dozen pirate ships making sail and escaping Sao Paolo in such a short time,

George the Greek and Slappy had just assigned one of the newcomers, Saucy Jenny Morgan, to the team of topmast jacks who worked the upper rigging, and to Cementhand’s gun crew during fighting, when they saw Chumbucket approaching.

I thought you were asleep on the fo’c’sle, Slappy said.

I was, and enjoying myself, too, he said. But I heard one of the new fellows talking, here Chumbucket indicated the open-faced young man accompanying him, And thought you ought to hear about it.

Step forward lad, Slappy said. The man did, knuckling his brow.

Now, we’ll have none of that British Navy obedience aboard this ship, Slappy said. Just tell me your name.

Oscar, sir. He replied.

Oscar what?

Just Oscar. Don’t have no other name but Oscar.

How long have you been at sea, Just Oscar?

It’s been, what, three days now, hasn’t it? the young man asked, looking puzzled. Couldn’t this guy tell how long they’d been at sea?

No, I mean you. When did you first sail, and how long have you been a sailor?

A light broke over Oscar’s face. Oh, you mean altogether? Well, it’s been three days now, and almost 30 to get to Sao Paolo, so I’d say I’ve been a sailor now for more than a whole month.

George and Slappy looked at each other.

Well, what can you do aboard a ship? George asked him.

Pretty much anything. I worked on a farm in Carolina before getting on that boat, and I’m a pretty fair hand at making or mending just about anything you need made or mended, from a ruffled shirt to a blacksmith’s forge.

Sounds like you’ll be a right useful fellow to have on board, if what you say is true, George said. Oscar looked offended.

Why would I lie about a thing like that? he asked. Another thing is I allus tell the truth and I’m not gonna stop now.

Well, you may find there are times when the truth doesn’t exactly serve, but you’re right, aboard ship with yer mates and especially to yer captain, honesty is the not only the best policy, it’s the best way to keep from getting keelhauled, Slappy said.

Yessir.

So, Chumbucket, why did you think it so important that we hear this fine jack-of-all-trades? George asked.

It’s not what he had to say, it’s what he was wearing. This. Chumbucket took out a straw hat he’d been holding behind his back and tossed it to the table. It was nothing unusual, a typical sailor’s wide-brimmed straw hat. What caught Slappy’s eye was the faded blue band around the crown, on which could still be read the words, HMS Tigershark.

For those readers who have just joined us or who have lost the thread because it’s been a while since they read the first two stories in this series, the Tigershark was the English war ship that carried Mandrake Bulwer Pondicherry Tharp, Slappy’s nephew and the son of Admiral Tharp. Of course, the young Tharp knows nothing about his black sheep uncle. While we’re at it, Tharp also has an illegitimate son he does not keep in touch with. If he did, he’d know that that offspring is now a crewmember of the Festering Boil, although neither is aware of the connection. Meanwhile the legitimate Tharp, the heir to the family fortune and title – much to Slappy’s annoyance – had sailed with the HMS Tigershark under the command of Captain Toasty, and the ship was lost somewhere in the Caribbean. Tharp had made his brother promise that he’d look for the lad, a promise Slappy agreed to in order to get supplies from the navy but which he had no intention of honoring. Anyway, that’s the background. We’ve probably forgotten to mention something important, but that should do for now. Everyone up to speed? Good.

The Tigershark? Slappy said, scratching his head. Why is that name familiar?

Oh for God’s sake, George said. You too? Read the last paragraph.

Slappy did, then slapped his forehead. Of course, the nephew. Well, that’s interesting. How did you come by this Oscar?

I got it from one of the sailors on the ship that took me down to Brazil, he said.

What ship was that? And did the sailor say where he’d gotten it?

I sailed on the Bloody Scupper, which I thought was a passenger ship that would take me to the West Indies to seek my fame and fortune but which turned out to be a pirate ship. Then, after the games, which were right interesting, I got confused when everybody was running for the docks. I got lost from the Scuppers crew and ended up here, and I’m right glad cuz I don’t think a pirate’s life is for me.

George, Chumbucket and Slappy all exchanged looks, then, after unsuccessfully pressing Oscar for further details about the hat, they dismissed him.

Well, for what it’s worth, it verifies the report that the admiral’s son really was in the Caribbean, George said.

We knew that, or at least we were pretty sure of it, Slappy said with a frown of annoyance. That damn kid. Always too snotty by half. A right spoiled little brat.

And now we have to go looking for him? Chumbucket asked.

Oh, I wouldn’t say that. If he’s alive, he’s somewhere in the Caribbean. That’s where we’re headed. We’ll keep our eyes open. If he’s dead, then I think I move up in line for the family title. Either way, it’s not too likely we’ll stumble across him.

The ship sailed swiftly on.

Chapter 2

Two Bells into the Middle Watch

It was two bells of the middle watch (one o’clock in the morning as the land lubber sleeps) when a weary Leftenant Keeling noticed a shadowy figure skulking across the empty deck. He could almost hear an orchestra’s violin section plucking out the staccato footsteps of the mysterious person as they seemed to prance from barrel to mast – seeking cover beyond that of the darkness.

Keeling nudged the sleeping Spencer by his side – the cabin boy was trying to earn his keep as a full member of the crew by accompanying the leftenant on the watch.

What? the boy said, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Are we under attack?

Shhhh. Keeling whispered, No, somebody is skulking – and for no good reason as far as I can tell.

Why are they skulking? Spencer asked – his head still groggy from his awakening, but he caught the stupidity of his own question and answered it along with Keeling as he repeated, … for no good reason as far as I can tell.

Should we investigate? Spencer asked – this time more intelligently.

That’s what the watch does. Keeling said as he rose to his feet – the young man followed suit and the two of them made their way carefully to intercept the figure as it moved toward the starboard rail. The two moved stealthily themselves as they kept pace with the shadow.

Spencer tugged at Keeling’s coat sleeves, Why are we sneaking? he whispered. Shouldn’t we just take out your pistol and say something like, ‘Stand and Deliver!’

That’s Highwayman talk, lad! Keeling whispered sharply back. Do I look like a highwayman to you?

In fact, in his black great coat, black leather riding boots, tan britches, blousy white shirt and tri-corn hat, that was precisely what Leftenant Keeling looked like – but Spencer gave the correct answer, No, leftenant – you look like the ship’s leftenant.

Despite his choice of nautical careers, Leftenant Keeling never seemed to wear the title of pirate very comfortably. Clearly, he was a misplaced naval lieutenant aboard a pirate ship – no doubt the result of a clerical error at the Acme Seafarer’s Job Placement Agency.

That’s right lad! Keeling whispered affirming both his rank and appearance then, stopping short – There he goes again!

With mysterious violin plucking accompaniment the mysterious figure bounded for the rails edge and launched a shiny projectile into the air out toward the sea.

Keeling and Spencer sprang into action – they were too late to prevent the tossing of the object, but by God, they would get to the bottom of this!

As he ran toward the shadowy figure, Keeling reached for his pistol and drew it on the run. Arriving at the scene, he tossed his flapping greatcoat aside, leveled the pistol at the mysterious person and spoke with his strongest command voice,

STAND AND DELIVER!

Both Spencer and the mysterious figure – who happened to be the new shipmate, Oscar – stood with mouths agape and questioned Leftenant Keeling’s use of the phrase.

What? they said in unison.

I mean, ‘Hold it right there!’ Keeling was always quick in self-correction.

I’M NOT A REPORTER! Oscar blurted nervously staring down the barrel of Keeling’s pistol.

Stand and deliver? Spencer couldn’t take his disbelieving eyes off of Keeling.

Shut up. Keeling said matter-of-factly to his young companion.

I’M NOT A REPORTER! Oscar repeated desperate to have to gun moved away from his face.

Who are you not a reporter for? Keeling asked pointedly, gesturing with the gun for additional pointedness.

"Pirattitude Monthly Magazine! the words had barely escaped Oscar’s lips when he followed them up with, DAMN IT!" He then covered his mouth in order to keep himself from blurting anything else out.

Keeling kept sharply on the line of questioning. So, that was a bottle you tossed overboard with a message – who is it going to and what does it say?

Keeling pushed Oscar’s hand away from his mouth with the barrel of his pistol adding, It will get harder to talk with this in your mouth – I suggest you employ your communication skills immediately. Feeling very good about his interrogation skills so far, Keeling looked over at Spencer with a smile on his face. The boy simply shook his head and in a questioning tone said, Stand and deliver?

Keeling rolled his eyes and re-focused his attention on the ongoing investigation.

It was a message … Oscar seemed hesitant and stammered as he appeared to be making things up as he went along. The message is for my mother … yes! It says, ‘Dear Mum! Have fallen in with the nicest chaps – I think they are cartographers – either that or missionaries of some sort – perhaps an up-beat singing group that has a positive message to share with today’s young people. At any rate, doing well and I miss you and Auntie Bess. Love, Oscar. P.S. By the by, I seem to be blurting out, ‘I’m not a reporter’ when I am startled. Not sure why, as I truly am NOT a reporter for Pirattitude Monthly magazine. Perhaps I should go back into therapy. Yours, once again, Oscar.’

Leftenant Keeling sighed heavily and turned to Spencer. Go wake Ol’ Chumbucket and have him wake Cap’n Slappy. Tell them we may have a spy, or a reporter or perhaps just a mama’s boy.

Spencer didn’t question why he should wake Ol’ Chumbucket and have HIM wake the Cap’n – there were only two men aboard the ship who knew how to wake Slappy from a sound sleep without incurring injury and only one of them, Ol’ Chumbucket could be awakened without incurring injury – the other was Cementhands McCormack and one might as well attempt to wake a sleeping crocodile by giving it an enema, if one could figure out where exactly to insert the enema apparatus, as try to wake McCormack when he is soundly sleeping.

A few moments later, Ol’ Chumbucket, George and Cap’n Slappy were all gathered on deck with Leftenant Keeling, Spencer and the prisoner, Oscar.

Cap’n Slappy spoke first. "So, Oscar. Your name is ‘Oscar?’

Aye cap’n, said Oscar – trying to sound calm.

So Oscar, Cap’n Slappy continued. Leftenant Keeling here tells me you’re a spy.

Keeling cut in – I never said he was a …

Shush! Cap’n Slappy ordered and turned back to Oscar. Are you a spy?

Oscar laughed nervously, Heaven’s no! No! He looked crestfallen and confessed. "I’m an investigative reporter! I freelance mostly, but I’m working on a piece for Pirattitude Monthly – ‘Ready to Burst!: Life Aboard The Festering Boil.’ It was going to earn me a "Putzler award but I can kiss that ‘goodbye’ now, can’t I?

"A Pulitzer?" Ol’ Chumbucket asked, correcting the young reporter’s mispronunciation.

Oscar looked at him – puzzled. "No. A PUTZLER. He pronounced it carefully. It’s the annual award given to writers who cover pirate-related topics. What’sa…how did you say it, ‘PULITZER?’"

Everyone looked quizzically at Ol’ Chumbucket who just shook his head and said, Never mind.

"And you were really hoping for that Putzler, weren’t ye, lad?" Cap’n Slappy said sympathetically.

Aye, cap’n. That I was. Oscar replied sadly.

"Well, it’s just us what knows ye’re a reporter – how about we all agree to pretend we don’t know in exchange for free tickets to the Putzler Award ceremony when ye win?" Slappy suggested.

Wouldn’t you rather pretend not to know in exchange for a flattering story, Cap’n? Spencer suggested.

George put his hand on the boy’s shoulder – Lad, real pirates don’t care what anyone writes about them – just so long as they spell their names right … and with that, he glared at Oscar. Ye WILL spell our names right, won’t ye?

Oscar knuckled his forehead in salutation as he had done the day before, but quickly remembered that that was the wrong move aboard this ship and George’s slap his knuckled fist to his forehead emphasized the point. Yes sir! Names all spelled correctly – YES SIR!

We’re agreed then! Slappy said as he, Ol’ Chumbucket and George turned to head back to bed – they were stopped by Leftenant Keeling.

What if … he began as they all rolled their eyes and turned back around, but Keeling continued steadfastly, Just … what if this is a cover story and he is actually a spy?

Slappy’s face turned grim and he turned back to Oscar. Are ye a spy? he asked pointedly.

No. cap’n! I’m not a spy! Oscar replied with more than a little trepidation in his voice.

Slappy looked at Leftenant Keeling as if that was more than enough evidence for anyone. See? He’s not a spy. They turned to leave again.

How do you know he’s not lying? Keeling insisted.

Again, with his sternest face Cap’n Slappy turned back to Oscar. Are you lying? He asked in his gruffest voice.

No, Cap’n Slappy, I am not lying.

Cap’n Slappy lifted his hands in a gesture that said, What other proof do you need? to Leftenant Keeling who felt duty bound to question once more.

What if he is lying about lying?

Slappy face showed his weariness, but he appreciated how thorough his chief of ship’s discipline was being. He put his hand on Keeling’s shoulder and said, Look, we could be at this all night what with all the permutations of ‘Are you lying about not lying about not lying, et cetera, et cetera – but he told me just as recently as yesterday … Then turning to Oscar asked, It WAS yesterday wasn’t it?

Aye, Cap’n Slappy, it was yesterday. Oscar replied.

He told me as recently as yesterday that he would never lie to me – and I figure you’ve got to take a man’s word until he gives you good reason not to.

Keeling nodded in agreement and Cap’n Slappy, Ol’ Chumbucket and George the Greek turned back toward their cabins. After a moment Keeling called after them.

Permission to keep an eye on the ‘reporter,’ Cap’n?

Ol’ Chumbucket turned around smiling – Keep a weather eye on him, Mister Keeling – keep a weather eye.

And with that, the executive council returned to their cabins. Spencer returned to his nap, Oscar returned to his skulking about and Leftenant Keeling kept a weather eye open for the rest of this otherwise uneventful middle watch.

Chapter 3

Keeling was not the only man aboard who was keeping an eye on Oscar, who was not a reporter. Ol’ Chumbucket was also curious.

It should be easy enough to tell if he sailed on the Bloody Scuppers from Carolina to Brazil, as he said, Chumbucket said to Keeling as the two stood on the quarterdeck, watching Oscar and the rest of the crew work. I imagine the next issue of Pirattitude Monthly could be expected to carry a story about Captain O’Toole and his gang. If it doesn’t, that doesn’t prove he’s not a reporter, but it doesn’t help. In the meantime, I’m wondering if we can get more information from him about that hat.

Well, whether he is or isn’t a reporter, he certainly was telling the truth about his skills, Keeling said. He’s obviously not much of a seaman, but he’s some kind of wizard at throwing things together.

So far Oscar had helped Salty Jim replace two of the ship’s futtocks that had shown signs of rot, re-sewn the gold trim on Keeling’s dress uniform, replaced a torn diaphragm on the ship’s pump, and promised Sawbones Burgess he’d help the doc sort and inventory his collection of drugs and leeches. But first he had just finished helping Cementhands McCormack build a scratching post for Miss Fluffy Paws, the kitten the pirate had brought aboard from Sao Paolo. Chumbucket and Keeling were watching the big man playing with the kitten now, dangling a piece of yarn and chortling with glee as the kitten pounced at it. At that moment Cap’n Slappy walked by with Strumpet the Monkey, as usual, perched on his shoulder.

Oh, watch this, cap’n, McCormack called. Miss Fluffy Paws is a killer, aren’t you little sweetie. A killer. Watch her attack this piece of string. Pretend it’s the Spanish navy now, Fluffball.

But the kitten had just noticed Strumpet, and the monkey had noticed her. It was not love at first sight. The cat hissed and raised its hackles. The monkey uttered a shriek and took refuge on higher ground, which unfortunately was the captain’s head. With a feline the size of a fist hissing at his ankles and trying to scramble up his leg, and a capuchin monkey on his head, screeching and jumping up and down, Slappy waved his arms to keep his balance, tottering on one leg.

Be careful of the kitty! McCormack bellowed.

To hell with your kitty, get it off me and get it out of sight! Slappy gasped, groping for something to brace himself on while the monkey leaned forward to scold the cat, covering the captain’s eyes.

Slappy whirled, trying to free himself from the cat that was now at his waist, but missed his footing. He teetered at the edge of the open hold. McCormack’s ham-sized hand shot out and grabbed Slappy’s pants, but all he managed to do was pull them down to the captain’s knees as Strumpet leaped to the safety of the rigging while the cat abandoned ship and dove for the safety of McCormack, who let go of the captain to catch the cat. Slappy, with his pants around his knees and finally able to see, windmilled his arms in the air, then shot over the brink and down into the hold.

Everyone stopped, frozen, as they stared at where the captain had been. Nobody moved. Finally, they heard his voice drifting up.

Don’t mind me! I’m just laying here on the spare canvas. You all go about your work and I’ll just enjoy myself down here.

Captain? McCormack asked timidly. Can I help?

Oh, don’t mind about me. I’m quite comfortable. You might ask Sawbones Burgess if he remembers how to set multiple fractures, but other than that …

A dozen sailors were already descending into the hold, rigging a sling and heaving the captain out. Moments later Slappy stood on the deck as Burgess gave him a quick inspection.

Nothing broken, apparently, but that’s gonna hurt tomorrow, the doctor finally pronounced.

Tomorrow? It hurts like hell now! Slappy said. Are you sure I didn’t break anything? An arm, both my legs? My back?

No fractures, Burgess said firmly. You’ve twisted some things in ways they weren’t meant to be twisted, but you’ll survive. I’m prescribing a liquid analgesic to be taken internally, as needed for pain.

What? Slappy asked.

Rum, the doctor said. In fact, if you’d like to repair to your cabin now, I’ll join you for one, purely as a preventative measure in case I fall down the hold myself.

The two began heading back to Slappy’s cabin, but were arrested by a call from the topmast.

Sail, cried Two Patch. Sail off the starboard beam! Smells like a merchant ship!

Belay that rum for now, doc, Slappy said. Nothing relives sore muscles like a fat merchantman.

Chapter 4

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

Cap’n Slappy held out his hand toward Spencer the cabin boy but kept his eyes fixed firmly on the merchantman.

Spencer looked from man to man as if asking what to do – they all turned away or threw their shoulders up. Finally, not knowing, he went over and put his hand in the Cap’n’s outstretched open palm.

Slappy’s eyes squinted and his gaze slipped slightly off the prey. Every man on deck witnessing this event held their collective breath. At the top of the non-breathers, of course, was young Spencer.

Still, without looking at the cabin boy, Slappy spoke with his somewhat alarming intense calm.

Is that your hand, boy? the Cap’n asked.

Aye, Cap’n. Spencer replied sheepishly.

Slappy kept his somewhat confused face toward the ship. Is there a reason you’re holding my hand, lad?

Spencer’s eyes darted from man to man, but no help was coming. Begging the Cap’n’s pardon, you seemed to ask for it. His eyes shot immediately to his feet but his hand remained in Slappy’s open hand.

Finally, Slappy turned slowly around and looked at the men surrounding them. Every man examined his own footwear.

I called for my spyglass, lad. Not your hand. Slappy said patiently.

Oh! Spencer quickly pulled his hand back and removed the Cap’n’s spyglass from its sack that he kept tied around his neck. Handing it to the Cap’n, he said, Your spyglass, Sir. Sorry sir!

Slappy smiled,