The Diego Garcia Caper: A Tale of the Pirates of the Festering Boil

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

"Cap'n Slappy and Ol' Chumbucket are funny, funny men ..." (The Greenman Review) The authors of "Pirattitude!" are at it again. The guys who invented International Talk Like a Pirate Day bring to life a pirate fantasy - a swashbuckling adventure with action, comedy, romance, feats of derring do, and colorful, larger-than-life characters. Join the crew of The Festering Boil as they careen across the Seven Seas in a madcap race for riches, romance and revenge! As one reader said - "Just wanted to say a big well done to you two on "The Diego Garcia Caper" ... I was delighted, reading the book in about four days. I've never read a book that fast and couldn't put it down. The story was brilliant, absolutely hilarious, and also daft at times!" - Captain Greenbeard

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257191253

Book preview

Slappy

Chapter 1

Where’s my breakfast? the captain roared, reaching for his tankard half-filled with warm ale. Somebody’s moving the deck again!"

Cap’n Slappy’s cabin boy, Spencer le Hammer, ran into the disheveled cabin. The cap‘n’s had another of his ‘nights’, the lad said to himself. Spencer wasn’t a lad to quail in the face of the old seaman’s rages.

If by breakfast ye mean the last of last night’s beer, it’s over in the corner with yer trousers, he called cheerily.

How’d it git there, ya cheeky monkey? the captain said sullenly. Just then the ship heaved, bringing a green tinge to the captain’s complexion and tossing him back into his bunk. Just steady on, lad! he shouted. How’s a man supposed to stand when you keep rolling the floor out from under him?

Don’t know, the lad replied brightly. But yer wanted on deck. Ol’ Chumbucket has something for ye to see.

Well, tell him I’ll be there as soon as I get my pants on. Man can’t parade around in his boxers before the whole crew if he wants to keep their respect, now can he? Get out of here now or I’ll have ya basted in lime and served for supper.

The cabin boy nimbly ducked the ship’s cat, which the captain had heaved at him, and dashed from the cabin to deliver the message. It was close to a quarter of an hour later that the captain emerged, rumpled, a little soiled, but dressed. He glared at the rolling seas, then harrumphed a greeting to the man who awaited him on the quarterdeck.

Morning Chumbucket. What’s up with this typhoon that’s blowin’ us to Davey Jones?

Ah, good morning captain. You look none the worse for wear after last night’s frivolity. Good to see you up. It’s a fair morning with a wind blowing in from the nor’ norwest with a rising glass and the tops’ls in conjunction with the lead. A fair sky and no mistake.

What the hell are ye talkin’ about, the captain grunted.

No idea at all. Just making it up as I go along, as usual, Chumbucket replied. But you might be interested to take a look at the southern horizon. He handed the captain the spyglass. Just about two points left of due south, I think.

The captain took the glass and gave a long look. No, the other left, Chumbucket added helpfully. The captain grunted, shifted his gaze and looked again.

Unless I miss my guess, and that’s entirely possible as usual, I think we’ve started making up distance on those Spaniards, Chumbucket said.

Aye. It might not be them, but I think we’ve guessed right. Another hard day’s sailing and we should be close enough to know, the captain agreed. Crowd on the sails, he bellowed to the crew. Fetch me that ship by tomorrow dawn, or I’ll know the reason why!

Chapter 2

Cap’n Slappy closed the spyglass hard between his hands. The collapsing telescope pinched the fingers on his right hand – as usual, and he cursed, Dit is te stom zelfs voor mijn moeder in wet!

He always cursed in Dutch – nobody ever dared ask why. In fact, he didn’t speak or understand Dutch if he wasn’t enraged and ready to pummel some unsuspecting victim with his savage fists and forehead.

Would you like me to take that for you? Ol’ Chumbucket offered his hand as if taking a sharp object from a child. Cap’n Slappy handed over the spyglass as Ol’ Chumbucket sighed. Have that thing fixed, will ye? It’s a hazard.

Chumbucket rolled his eyes, Aye aye, Cap’n.

Slappy pressed the issue. Now see here, ol’ pal! I’ll brook no sass! That wee inanimate object is out to get me, no doubt some grudge passed on from its former owner, The Marquis d’ Saucypants, who died tragically of mysterious causes.

Ol’ Chumbucket sighed again, You fired a cannon ball into him at point blank range, Cap’n. That’s not a mystery – that’s a fiery combustion and ballistic propulsion coupled with metallurgical breakthroughs in martial sciences.

Cap’n Slappy stared blankly. Ol’ Chumbucket rephrased, Ye made the long nine go ‘BOOM’ and blowed him up real good. Slappy smiled then his face turned suddenly fierce, Vloek het! Chumbucket! Now ye’ve spoilt the mystery!

Just then, Dogwatch Watts came running up, with Lieutenant (pronounced Left Ten Ant) Keeling sharply at his heels. Wrong Way gestured wildly, his hand pointing forty degrees south of the Spanish galleon – Thar be a Spanish frigate on the horizon, Cap’n!

Slappy grabbed Watts’ wrist and re-pointed his finger toward the actual location of the ship.

Well done, Wrong Way! The Cap’n started cheerfully, However there are three near-fatal flaws in your assessment. What do ye think they may be?

Lieutenant Keeling cut in, Begging the Cap’ns pardon, but we no longer call Mr. Watts ‘Wrong Way,’ sir.

Don’t we? inquired Cap’n Slappy, No sir.

Keeling continued formally and at full attention. We call him, ‘Dogwatch’ sir.

Do we, now? Slappy asked as he looked at all three men, for a moment – they all nodded. Well, Mr. Dogwatch, have ye figured out yer three mistakes?

Dogwatch looked crossly at his index finger,

Me pointy thingy is wrong.

Aye! Cap’n Slappy slapped him on the back, Well done! That’s why we call ye, Wron- … uh … Dogwatch! What else? Lieutenant Keeling?

That ship is a galleon, not a frigate, Cap’n.

EXCELLENT! And perhaps me oldest and most trusted chum, Ol’ Chumbucket, can enlighten us on the third flaw in young Dogwatch’s assessment?

Ol’ Chumbucket sighed, We’ve been following her for three days.

PRECISELY! Well done, lads! I knew that if we put our collective brain-boxes together, we’d come up with something close to facts.

Lieutenant Keeling spoke up, Cap’n, do you think the Spaniard in question might be the infamous El hombre que tiene los pescados en sus pantalones y esos pantalones se arde or the ruthless El bamboleo del señor su fondo y lo llama descortés? God forbid it should be La cabra borracha que tiene condiciones interesantes de la piel que hagan al otro enfermo de la gente but it is well known that el pirata que no puede decidir si él desea ser conocido como una brisa apacible suave o la tormenta del fuego sails these waters! So, who do you think it may be?"

Slappy, Chumbucket and Dogwatch stood silently for a moment, their mouths agape at Lieutenant Keeling’s fluency in Spanish and especially his ability to roll his rrrrs with such ease.

I know who it is! Doc Sawbones Burgess stood just a few feet away, blood dripping from his bone-saw. He was tying line to the instrument so that he could dip it into the ocean – his version of the sterilization process. Are you going to tell them, Cap’n Slappy, or shall I?

Slappy glanced across the deck where he saw Cementhands McCormack holding two puking sailors over the side of the ship and commenting that he, would be damned if he let a couple of lightweight drinkers vomit on his freshly swabbed deck.

Cementhands! The Cap’n called, Drop what ye’re doin’ and assemble the men on deck! I have an announcement!

Chapter 3

Cementhands turned to round up the crew, his bellow of All hands on deck covering the splash as the two puking pirates fell simultaneously into the water – thereby increasing slightly the remaining pirates’ share of the booty while at the same time neatly proving Gallileo’s theory that objects (including pirates) of different weights fall at the same rate of speed.

As the crew assembled, their expectant faces turned up towards their leader who, unfortunately, was standing with his back to the rising sun so that the crew had to blink and squint. That made the captain nervous.

Why are they so shifty eyed? he muttered to Ol’ Chumbucket. They always look like they’re up to something they don’t want me to find out about.

It’s your fierce piratical visage I’m sure, nothing to be alarmed about, Chumbucket replied. So exactly how much are you planning to tell them about this mission? The WHOLE story?

Of course. The crew has a right to know what we’re getting into.

Very democratic, I’m sure, Chumbucket said, But I’d be careful about mentioning the young you-know-whats. The lads have been at sea for three months, and it might create an . . . unhealthy stir, if you know what I mean.

Don’t worry, Cap’n Slappy assured his friend. An unhealthy stir is just what we want from the lads today. Lieutenant (pronounced LEF-TEN-ANT) Keeling, call the men to order.

Aye aye sir. Avast, all hands. The captain wants a word with ye. But first, a quick review of the minutes of our last shipwide meeting.

I think we can dispense with the reading of the minutes, Slappy said, hoping to head off his punctilious junior officer before he got lost in Roberts Rules again.

But sir, the bylaws of the ship, not to mention the union manual, clearly calls for . . .

Not now, Keeling! We’ve got business . . .

Business more important than following the strict (he lingered over the word strict, his fingers caressing his favorite cat o’ nine tails, which swung from his belt) Er, strict procedures laid down for the safe operation of the ship? What could be more important than maintaining the discipline (if he had lingered over the word strict, he positively fondled discipline) of the ship? As shop steward, I really must pro . . .

No, Keeling! Slappy shouted.

Ah, Captain, Chumbucket smoothly interposed. I move we declare this gathering a committee of the whole, thereby dispensing with the need to read minutes or follow established procedure.

Keeling’s eyes registered disappointment, but he knew he’d been outmaneuvered. The captain faced the crowded deck of pirates.

"All right lads. Ye’ve all seen those sails on the horizon. We’ve been chasing those blasted Spaniards since they flew out of Tortuga under our very noses, and by nightfall we should know whether that’s them. I’ve no doubt it is, but we probably should make sure before we sink ’em. In any case, it’s time ye knew what this is all about.

The captain of that ship is none other than Don Juan Diego de la Mercada y Slappista con Carne.

A murmur ran through the crew.

Yes, I said Slappista. It’s me own cousin, a distant relation on my father’s mother’s side, fourth cousin twice removed, and my sworn enemy. We’ve been at each other’s throats since the family reunion when I was six and he tripped me during the three-legged race. Made no sense, since he was my partner in the race and it cost us the trophy, but that’s a different problem for a different time. In the last two years he’s sunk more of our pirate brethren than the rest of the Spanish and English navy combined . . .

I’m sorry sir, but the Spanish and English navy have never combined, pointed out Keeling, thoughtfully.

Blast it Lieutenant! shouted Slappy, so cross that he forgot to pronounce it LEF-ten-ant and used the more prosaic ‟LOO-ten-ant, causing Keeling to whimper. I’m speaking metaphorically."

Sorry, sir. Carry on."

‟Thank you. The captain paused, his eyes misting. Think of the many friends he’s sent to Davey Jones and the evil way he’s tormented them and the crimp he’s put in our own marauding, lads! And the worst was last month. Remember when we sailed into Tortuga? The death and destruction he’d left in his wake? The ruined town, the stench of smoke and death, the fact that he’d taken all the rum and ale!"

The crew’s angry mutter showed they did indeed remember.

What you might not know is the most despicable thing he did. I have made it a point to maintain a small boarding school in Tortuga, a charity I privately fund out of the goodness of me heart. Lady Fanny’s Home for Wayward Young Lasses of Good Breeding Who Have Fallen on Hard Times and Soda Emporium. Just my own way of giving back something of the debt I owe to the many fine women who have befriended me over the years.

At the words Young Lasses a few of the crew looked up, a gleam in their eyes, but the captain was still backlit by the bright sunshine, so they turned their faces down again.

None of that shifty eyed plotting of yours, damn your deadlights! the captain roared. These are fine young ladies who shouldn’t consort with the likes of us. At least, not for free. And that’s my point. Spanish Slappy, as the family calls him, has burned the school to the ground and taken everyone of the lasses prisoner, even the headmistresses, Lady Fanny, and her gym teacher, Mad Sally. And those young ladies, I believe, are on that ship on the horizon. And we’re going to get them back!

To your posts, men! We must save the young lasses from the depredations of that sadistic Spaniard!!!

The crew roared assent, drowning out Keeling’s protest that the word sadistic had not yet been coined as the Marquis de Sade hadn’t been born yet.

Chapter 4

Where’s that Powder Monkey!? Cap’n Slappy’s voice shattered the din of men preparing for battle.

I’m down here. Young Gabriel DePaul, a wee orphaned lad of some eight years, said patiently. He was used to being overlooked.

Well, blow me down! Thar ye be, ye wee midget!

I’m not a midget, I’m just a kid. Gabriel replied with a sigh. They had this same conversation every time they talked.

Then how’d ye get so short? Cap’n Slappy inquired.

I didn’t GET short – I’m short because I’m eight freakin’ years old, dammit!

Don’t cuss, midgets shouldn’t cuss, it’s unseemly.

Gabriel lost his patience at this point of the conversation every time. I’m not a midget! I’m a kid! A child! A REAL LIVE BOY!

Cap’n Slappy brightened, Like Pinocchio?

Gabriel sighed deeply. We were almost to the end of this ridiculous ritual. Yes, like Pinocchio.

But he was a puppet, not a midget. Are you a puppet, Powder Monkey?

No.

So what does that leave us? Gabriel looked down at his feet; he knew this wouldn’t end until he was as big and tall as Cementhands McCormack.

A midget.

Cap’n Slappy patted him on the head, "Exactly. Well done, lad. Now, powder monkey, let’s inspect these cannons.

As Cap’n Slappy and Gabriel went about the business of inspecting the cannons, Dogwatch had some questions for Ol’ Chumbucket on the quarterdeck.

You know, Dogwatch began, The famous Chinese general, Feng Shui wrote in his book, ‘The Arts and Crafts of War,’ that a soldier should, ‘know thou your enemy as thou knowest thyself.’ And Cap’n Slappy would do well to study this Spanish fellow.

Don Juan Diego de la Mercada y Slappista con Carne is his cousin. Ol’ Chumbucket replied curtly.

Yes, Dogwatch agreed, but have they ever met?

Ol’ Chumbucket looked at him with that, where were you three minutes ago when we talked about this, look and asked, Where were you three minutes ago when we talked about this? They were in a three-legged-race together as children – have you ever been in a three-legged race?

Dogwatch looked down at his leg and his wooden peg – Ol’ Chumbucket looked as well, and softened his tone.

Yes, well, that is … of course, you …my point is, when you are, you really, um … get to – well …know somebody. Then he sighed deeply.

Dogwatch pressed onward.

But do we know what Don Juan Diego de la Mercada y Slappista con Carne is like now? Apart from being a dreadful three-legged race partner, what do we know of him?

Chumbucket looked down on the deck where Cap’n Slappy and Powder Monkey Gabriel were ‘racing’ cannons – like horses pushed by four sailors each – down the port side of the ship. Think Slappy, only Spanish.

Dogwatch shook his head – There will be no survivors.

Both men nodded as they watched the race.

Meanwhile, in the Doctor’s quarters below, Sawbones Burgess was removing a sliver from Cementhands McCormack’s right foot.

It is my medical opinion that you wouldn’t get so many slivers if you would wear shoes.

McCormack laughed,

Your medical opinion, eh? And this would be from the school of medical science that you went to in Oklahoma? Or would your desire to confine my feet to footwear rather than letting them go free, the way Nature intended, have more to do with the fact that you are also the ship’s cobbler?

One hand washes the other. Burgess replied wryly.

McCormack shot back, Not at the Oklahoma School of Medicine and Fashion.

Just then, Lieutenant Keeling (pronounced LEF-ten-ant) burst in, "Gentlemen, come quickly! Something’s happening!

When the three of them arrived on deck, they saw a group gathered around Cap’n Slappy as he looked through the spyglass that was being held by Spencer the cabin boy. He turned and called up to the crow’s nest,

Good job, Two Patch!

The pirate in the crow’s nest, wearing eye patches over both eyes saluted, in the wrong direction. The Cap’n addressed the crew.

Well, lads, our confrontation will be sooner than we had planned, Don Juan Diego de la Mercada y Slappista con Carne has turned his ship toward us and I can only assume he doesn’t want to catch up on family news since I haven’t received a Christmas card from him in three years – and before that, it was always that long, form-letter note that told boring stories of what the kids are doing and their new cat, ‘Senor Fluffy.’ You know the kind of note I’m talking about don’t ye? - Annoying!

The men grumbled their agreement and disgruntlement about the Christmas holiday and its commercialization – one final voice in the cacophony was heard to exclaim, I’m Jewish! Good for you! said the Cap’n, supportively.

Music swelled as Cap’n Slappy warmed to his theme.

For ye see, me lads, it matters not if ye be from France or England or Timbuktu! DuVanna Mutahtu chimed in, I’m from Timbuktu – AND Jewish!

EXCELLENT! Cap’n Slappy emphasized his enthusiasm by giving the air in front of him a sharp uppercut punch.

You see, lads! The main thing is that we are all bound together in a common cause! No matter what part of the planet you are from, I think we can all agree that getting filthy rich is our aim!

The crowd let out a shout of hurrah! One guy yelled, Huzzah! but he got dirty looks from the others. Cementhands said, That’s so – Ren-Faire! There was a singled muffled, sorry, from the group, Slappy continued,

And whoopin’ the Spanish is our game! Another hurrah went up from the assemblage, followed by, No, wait, I’m Spanish, and So am I, from Ramon Martinez and Pedro Guttierez. And I’m half Spanish! added Karl-Heinz Dominguez. Cap’n Slappy paused for a moment. Right! The men watched him think for a long moment. Then it came to him.

Of course, we love our Spanish brethren. And we love our Chinese and Irish brethren! Wu Chang and Seamus O’Malley yelled, Woo Hoo!

But our argument is not with ‘The Spaniards!’ it’s with the RICH Spaniards – like my cousin, who exploits the workers and – wait a minute, is anyone here rich?

Cap’n Slappy waited, Viscount Lowell P. Abecrombe and Lord Patsy Fitch sheepishly raised their hands, Yes, Slappy continued, but you’ve both been disinherited, haven’t you!? They nodded that they had, then held each others’ hands for comfort. Right, I’m getting an idea of how that happened now. Anyway, barring any objections, and if it’s alright with all of you, I’d like to suggest that we kill all of these people who are attacking us and take their money.

Someone in the crowd yelled, And jewels! Yes, AND JEWELS! Can I get an Aye-Aye!? The men yelled, Aye-Aye!

Then man your battle stations!

Not all of us are men! a feminine voice lifted over the crowd. It belonged to Anne Beaumont, but her coming out moment inspired about a half dozen other women to reveal that they were not alone.

An exasperated Cap’n Slappy exclaimed, Oh, now, come on!

Seriously, Cap’n, Greta Olsen interrupted gently. You do need some sensitivity training. Your language is pockmarked with masculicentric heterosexist terminology that bespeaks a lack of evolution on your part.

Slappy took in a deep breath. Look, if I promise to work on it very hard starting tomorrow, can we please all work together and kill my cousin today? He waited as the crew talked amongst themselves – first harrumphing then, nodding, finally in full accord, AYE-AYE, Cap’n!

Forty seconds to firing range! Two Patch called from the crows nest.

PERSON your battle stations! Cap’n Slappy called out – then muttered to himself. This is going to take some getting used to.

Chapter 5

The bow of The Festering Boil cut through the clean waters of the Caribbean, bound for its rendezvous with destiny. The crew crouched tensely over their guns, matches ready, cutlasses and grappling hooks laid nearby, poised for action.

Suddenly a calm voice broke the expectant stillness.

Captain, a word?

Not now, Chumbucket. We’re ten seconds from firing range, Slappy replied crossly.

No we’re not, Chumbucket said.

Yes we are.

A word here on the poopdeck, please?

The captain uncrouched, looking angry, but he strode quickly back to where Chumbucket awaited him.

What is it? We’re ready to spring into action!

It will be rather a long spring, I’m afraid, Chumbucket explained quietly. Think. That ship was hull-down on the horizon 15 minutes ago. That’s, what, fifty miles or more? You said yourself, it will take a full day of hard sailing to draw close enough to tell if it even IS your relative. Even if she turned toward us and sailed as fast as we’re sailing – impossible as we have the wind of her and she’d be tacking into the breeze, we’re on sailboats, remember? – but even if it was possible it would still take hours to get close enough even to see if it was the right ship.

The captain’s brow furrowed and his lips moved silently as he calculated. Carry the one, he muttered, Subtract three knots for ... four quarts of rum in a gallon . . . OK, what’s your point?

My point is that the crew are poised over dangerously overloaded cannons in postures that are sure to cause stiffness and aches and pains long before we’re actually ready to fight, which with a great deal of luck will be sometime late tomorrow.

But, the captain spluttered, what about the report from the top rigging?

From Two Patch? Need I say more?

But I saw through the spyglass . . .

Which was held by young Spencer, who enjoys a practical joke as much as any rapscallion I know, Chumbucket observed. He reached for Cap’n Slappy’s spyglass and found, sure enough, attached to the front glass was a crude drawing of a ship with an arrow pointing from the stick figure of a pirate on deck to the words SPAINISH PYRIT written in a childish hand.

I’ll have the lad whipped! Slappy roared.

Perhaps, and I’m sure Lieutenant Keeling will have a jolly good time playing ‘flog the cabin boy,’ but right now you might suggest to the men – and women, I was following your St. Crispin’s Day speech down there and quite inspirational it was, too – that this was a drill and they should stand down.

Very good, Slappy agreed. Turning to the crew he bellowed, All hands! Stand down. This has been a test of the Emergency Cannonading System. If it had been a real attack, we’d have blown the blighters to smithereens.

The crew rose from their tense positions, obviously disappointed. A smile broke out on the face of Cap’n Slappy, who enjoyed a good loud cannon blast as much as any man who ever lived. He shouted, Oh, what the hell! You’ve got ‘em loaded, fire away!!!

The delighted crew yelled. Twenty-four matches touched 24 firing holes, and the ensuing explosions and billows of smoke transformed the quiet midmorning air into a hellish cacaphony of death. The loudest sound of all was the captain’s manaical laughter as 24 cannonballs punched 24 ragged holes in wildly separate spots on the ocean.

Ah, when we catch that Spanish bastard will send him to the bottom with a single broadside, Slappy chortled.

That might not be a good idea, old friend, Chumbucket said.

For the love of dancing monkeys! Slappy bellowed. You are the biggest spoilsport who ever sailed! What’s the problem now?

Well sir, let’s think this through, Chumbucket said, drawing another scowl from the captain. Our goal is to rescue the kidnapped young ladies and their boarding-school superiors, correct?

Yes, yes, go on.

And the ladies in question – how many did you say there were?

Counting Lady Fanny and Mad Sally, at least 50, the captain said."

Fine, 50 young ladies of gentle breeding, and they’re all aboard that ship, am I right?

That’s what we’ve been assuming, Slappy said.

So if we sink the ship before we rescue the ladies, they’ll all . . .?

A light of comprehension spread across Slappy’s broad forehead like the noxious slick that spread over the water when Cementhands relieved himself over the rail of the ship.

They’ll all be dead! By God, Chumbucket! That was a close one! Good thinking!

Even if we don’t sink her, if there’s a major battle many of them may be injured, or at least vexed, their delicate dispositions unalterably disturbed. I don’t think we’d care to risk that, Chumbucket concluded.

The captain’s face clouded. Then how are we to rescue the ladies AND deal once and for all with my disreputable relation AND pillage enough gold and jewels to please the crew? It’s a puzzler, that’s what it is.

A plan, Chumbucket said quietly.

Really? Oh good, I knew I could count on you. What is it?

No. A plan is what we need. I’d suggest a meeting of the ship’s officers to consider things.

That lot? Slappy said with scorn. Do you really think that’ll help?

It’d better, Chumbucket said, Because it’s all we’ve got.

A short time later, the officers were seated around the captain’s cabin. At the table were Cap’n Slappy himself and Ol’ Chumbucket, as ever at his right hand, where he could keep the captain from hurting himself in his excitement. Also present were Lieutenant Keeling (pronounced KEELING,) Sawbones Burgess, First Mate George the Greek, and Dogwatch Watts as a representative of the crew. Asleep in the corner atop a pile of dirty laundry was able seaman Cementhands McCormack, whose bulk made him inconvenient to move. Cabin boy Spencer, moving gingerly in deference to his recent lashing, served drinks to the assembled brain trust.

Here ya go, leftenant, he said, passing a mug of rum to Keeling.

No thank you, the ship’s disciplanarian said. As you may recall, I don’t imbibe spiritous liquors or potent potables of any sort.

I’ll take his, Cap’n Slappy said.

And lad, Keeling added, I trust there are no hard feelings?

None at all, sir, the cabin boy replied. You were just doing your job, and I’m sure I’ll be right as rain by tomorrow. Think nothing of it.

There’s a good fellow! Now, cap’n, what is the purpose of this conclave?

We’ve got a pretty problem on our hands, and no mistake. Chumbucket, why don’t you explain things?

Chumbucket laid out the situation as he had earlier to the captain. At the end of his brief recitation there was a moment’s pause while the officers considered the matter. Finally, the ship’s doctor, Sawbones Burgess, broke the silence.

We’re screwed, he said.

True enough, George the Greek agreed. We’ve got to defeat the Spaniard and his crew to rescue the ladies, and to do that we’d normally sink ‘em, but if we do then we risk blowing up or drowning or at least annoying the young ladies. I don’t see any way out of it.

It’s hopeless, Dogwatch concluded.

Cap’n Slappy hit the table with his fist. Just as I thought, he declared. Well, I guess the meeting’s over. More rum, everyone!

That still leaves the problem of rescuing the young maidens from your diabolical distant relative, Chumbucket observed.

A cloud crossed Slappy’s immense brow. But how? he said.

If I may sir, Keeling ventured, Perhaps if we review the ship’s mission statement we might find a clue.

Not the mission statement, Slappy groaned.

Why not, Chumbucket interjected. You didn’t let him report the minutes this morning. It’s the least we can do. And it might even help.

Satisfied, Keeling withdrew a carefully creased parchment from his immaculate waistcoat. Unfolding it, he read aloud: "Mission statement of The Festering Boil and her crew. In order to most satisfactorily accomplish the goals and objectives of this ship and to have a rollicking good time in doing so, the crew agree to the following principles as their guides in all action. 1 – Pillage. 2 – Meet new and exciting people. 3 – Take all the gold we can find. 4 – Never let a chance for adventure and derring-do pass us by. 5 – Add jewels to number three. 6 – Cheat, steal and generally pilfer our weasley way across the seven seas. And to this document every member of the crew has affixed his mark." Keeling showed the gathering the columns of Xs and the occasional smiley face that filled the rest of the page and most of the back.

Well, that does put things in the proper light, doesn’t it, Chumbucket said. Good work, Keeling.

How does that help? Slappy asked.

You’ll notice that it says nothing about attacking an equally armed opponent in a fair fight? That’s not our style at all. So we don’t do it. It’s right off the board. But it does say something about adventure, about meeting new people, about cheating and having a ‘rollicking good time.’ All of which should help us formulate a plan. And I’m beginning to see how we might pull this off, with the help of our snoozing friend in the corner there.

Seven pairs of eyes turned to the fragrant heap of dirty laundry where Cementhands McCormack snored away in blissful ignorance.

Chapter 6

Brilliant! Cap’n Slappy exclaimed. Ol’ Chumbucket, ye’ve done it again! – Cementhands McCormack is just the man to tell us what the plan is! He’s a qualified and gifted tactician of the first order!

Ol’ Chumbucket tried to interject, Beggin’ the Cap’n’s pardon … but Cap’n Slappy soldiered on, I remember the time … with this, he began stroking his beard near the chin and glancing upward.

Cap’n Slappy, may I have a word …? Chumbucket tried again to interrupt.

What am I doing? Cap’n Slappy spoke to his good friend as if speaking to a child.

But sir! Ol’ Chumbucket gave one last half-hearted attempt to intervene. He knew where this was going and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Cap’n Slappy’s kindergarten teacher voice became even more patient and condescending, What am I doing, everybody?

You’re having a flashback, all responded in unison – including Ol’ Chumbucket.

That’s right, and when Cap’n Slappy strokes his beard at his chin and looks upward what do we all do?

The chorus answered, We all do the same.

Exactly! Excellent! Shall we continue?

Chumbucket sheepishly raised his finger, but Cap’n Slappy raised his eyebrows, and that was the end of the discussion.

But what if you don’t have a beard? Spencer asked, innocently enough.

Cap’n Slappy grabbed a bilge rat that was sleeping on top of Cementhands’ head and handed it to the boy. Here, hold this by your chin and stroke it – and don’t forget to look upward! Now, where was I? Ah, yes – I remember it as if it were only yesterday …

Ouch! It bit me! Spencer was bleeding from the chin and held the rat at arms length.

Oh, don’t be such a baby! Lef-ten-ant Keeling admonished.

Well I don’t see a beard on your chin, Lef-ten-ant! Perhaps you should have to hold ol’ squeaky here up to your chin! the boy spoke through pain.

ENOUGH! Cap’n Slappy bellowed through the fracas. He moved quickly to the table where they had been dining earlier and removed two sprigs of parsley from two plates and handed them to Spencer and Lef-ten-ant Keeling.

Here. Beards. Stroke.

He wheeled around and returned to his story-telling stance next to the sleeping McCormack. He raised his eyebrows again with a questioning dare to the assemblage.

Is everybody comfortable? Are there any noses I need to blow before we proceed with the flashback? Anything?

Chumbucket began to raise his hand again, but Slappy nipped it in the bud. Not you.

Alright. If I may proceed…I remember it as if it were only yesterday …

Everyone in the room looked up and stroked either their beards or their parsley – Cap’n Slappy dropped his eyes for a moment to make sure that they were of one accord. Then, he continued.

We were performing a rescue mission. My good friend and drinking buddy, Sir Nigel Blackheart, had been reported to be captured by the evil Sir Jasper de Gastard and held against his will; tied desperately to a beautiful young woman of questionable reputation. Due to the distractive nature of flying fish and some questionable navigation skills on the part of our navigator – Mr. ‘Dogwatch’ Watts – formerly known as ‘Wrong Way,’ we ended up off the French coast at a fort near Cherbourg. Our ‘Plan’ was to attack forts, one by one at random, until we discovered which one held Sir Nigel and the girl and we figured that this one was as good a place to start as any.

As it turned out, this fort was defended by some particularly ruthless Frogs who used an ancient catapult to fling our spies – as human projectiles – toward our line of assault. This incident lead to the brilliant policy change that forbade spies from wearing the whimsical I (heart) Spying t-shirts and pins. The siege was going poorly until Cementhands, this brave, heroic man you see – and hear – sleeping before you, decided that enough was truly enough and he attacked the fort armed with naught but his intestinal fortitude and his soup spoon. As he charged, cannon balls exploded to his left and right – one man even swears he saw Cementhands swat a cannon ball away like a fly! He crashed through the gate alone – as we all stood dumbfounded. We were unable to move as the sounds of men in agony wafted over the field toward our lines. Wounded French soldiers drifted out of the fort waving white flags and holding their genitals, crying, ‘Ah, non ! Pas la cuillère de potage !’ and ‘Le géant avec la cuillère nous détruira tous !’ others could only utter a single word, ‘Cuillère !’ Normally, we just kill all the prisoners, but these men truly had had enough. Our victory that day was due to the brilliant plan of Cementhands McCormack – and now, I think we should wake him and ask what our next move should be.

Cap’n Slappy looked at his officers – all of whom were still stroking their beards and/or parsley and looking upward. Alright, men, the flashback is over. It’s time to wakey, wakey our sleeping giant.

But sir, Dogwatch intervened, Cementhands didn’t plan the attack on the French fort. He got stung by a bee and went straight into Berserker mode.

It wasn’t a bee, it was a wasp. Lef-ten-ant Keeling offered his correction.

I heard it was a scorpion. Spencer noted.

There are no scorpions on the French coastline. – Sawbones Burgess noted for the record.

Look! George the Greek interrupted – the point is that responding violently to a stinging insect OR arachnid (his self-correction cutting Sawbones Burgess off) is not a sound substitute for a plan. We all love Cementhands for being the violent, impulsive yet lovable and surprisingly graceful lug that he is, but who in the name of eternal gaseous combustible hell-fire thought he would be the one to come up with The Plan?!

All eyes re-fixed on Ol’ Chumbucket.

Oh, is it my turn? May I speak now?

Cap’n Slappy’s eyebrows were in the fully upright position. I think you’d better.

When I pointed out that we would need the help of our snoozing friend, here, now Chumbucket spoke – as if to mentally retarded children, I meant that we would need to wake him in order to gain access to his comfortable seat cushion.

The Cap’n and his officers squatted down as one to see what object Cementhands McCormack had chosen for his comfortable perch. They all recognized it immediately.

It was a book – but not just any book. It was the only book ever written that came bound as a floatation device. They spoke in amazement as one.

The Big Book of Brilliant Plans (With Colourful Illustrations for Children)’ by Lord Sir Admiral Percival Winthorpe Mandrake Tharp.

It’s got pictures and everything! Dogwatch observed with near holy reverence.

Aye lads. It’s a book as well as a life ring. A brilliant bit of marketing for the sea-faring demographic. Cap’n Slappy spoke in a hushed tone. Only one problem remains.

That’s right, Ol’ Chumbucket picked up the stream of consciousness and continued with it – and we can’t even use the book for this one.

"How do we wake Cementhands McCormack without incurring