T-Bull and the Lost Men

By Paul Moser

Have you heard the one about the lesbian pixie called Tinker Bull, who takes on a shipload of Roman Catholic pirates without the help of her old friend Peter Plan, who has become an investment banker? Or the one about the Crocodazzi, an insatiable investigative journalist who happens to be a crocodile? The punch lines are all in the story called "

• Language: English
• Publisher: Currach Press
• Release date: Dec 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9780984794133

Paul Moser

Paul Moser is a writer who has spent 30 years as a winemaker in Napa Valley, California. He is boring but articulate, with terrible taste in music and academic degrees he has never used.

Book preview

I. The Sacrament of Prudence

Now, me lad, whatever you does, don’t make a sound.  Brightly looked comical, barely moving his lips as he whispered to Wiggs.  And when the time comes, be sure to join in the applause, real happy like.  Whatever happens.

Being the new man, Wiggs was grateful for advice, even from someone as far down the totem pole as Brightly clearly was.  After a full week aboard this strange new ship, the Babylon, he still felt dazed, lost.  As a seasoned foretopman who in the past had heard all about press-ganged sailors, his predicament was not a complete shock; and it was reassuring to see that his seamanship was easily the equal of any of this sorry lot of freebooters.  What he couldn’t get used to was being made a Roman Catholic.  It was a requirement for each member of the Babylon’s complement, one made clear to him from the moment he came to, lying belowdecks with a throbbing headache and a couple of jowly, unfriendly faces hovering over him, waving rusty crucifixes uncomfortably close to his eyes.  The captain himself set a stern example, and the consequences of a misstep were dire.  As Wiggs would shortly discover.

"Avast there, you dogs!  Oremus!  We gather here today to apply the rod of justice to one of the Lord’s miserable, errant creatures.  Now, all of you whoresons know this scum called Little Benjy, and how he has abused God’s patience with his stubborn refusal to learn from the Book.  Damn my eyes, I have keel-hauled men for less, as the Lord is my witness.  But then I am nothing if not the soul of compassion."

From the rail of the quarterdeck, the captain’s eye swept the upturned faces below, searching for some hint of dissent or sly irony, some roll of the eye or fleeting grimace that would allow him to pounce on yet another crewman.  A few throats were cleared, feet shuffled.

So in perfect imitation of the God we worship, I am opening my heart to offer this Little Benjy, this unworthy sack of rot, yet another opportunity to prove his love of the Lord.  Do you hear me, you fat sows?  Tell me then:  how many times are we to forgive our neighbor?

An unintelligible mumble rose from the men.

God’s Blood, but I’ll have a real response and a zealous one too from you stinking codfish, or I will know why!

Seventy times seven! they shouted, anxious yet irritated.

"Precisely, and may it please the Lord.  Now.  Dominus vobiscum, Little Benjy.  And will you then recite for us the Five Glorious Mysteries of the Holy Rosary, if you please?  And crisply."

Wiggs could just catch a glimpse of poor Benjy over the heads of the crewmen: a big, ungainly lump of flesh who wore only a pair of undersized filthy green knee-breeches as he stood looking mournfully up at the captain.  His shackles rattled on the deck as he gestured in helpless silence.

It did not go well.  And when Benjy was gone, tumbled off the plank amidships and into the deep waters of Pirate Cove with a couple of rounds of eighteen-pound shot hanging from his waist in a canvas sack, Wiggs, though horrified, managed to applaud enthusiastically along with the others.  There were cries of Amen! and "Deo Gratias!" as the captain spread his arms and offered a magnanimous smile.

Now, you sea scum, shall you not please the Lord by offering Him a round of the Ten Commandments Song, then?  Mister Domino, would you be so good as to get us launched?

Even after a week on board, Wiggs found Alfresco Domino, the slump-shouldered first mate, hard to countenance.  His long pale face was made paler still by a dark, patchy beard and large, ink-black eyes that were most often eerily mild, but in a moment might flare with demonic fire.

"You jackals heard His Holiness!  Let us raise our voices in song, then!  In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti!  All together!"

To Wiggs’s amazement, to a man the crew not only knew the tune and astonishing lyrics, but put the song forward in a reasonable three part harmony:

First I must honor God

Second honor His name

Third on His day keep holy

This will be my aim

Fourth I must be obedient

Fifth be kind and true

Sixth be pure in all I say and see and hear and do

Seventh I must be honest

Eighth be truthful in each thing I say

Ninth be pure in mind and heart, in all I think and desire each day

Tenth I must be satisfied, not be jealous come what may

These are God’s Ten Commandments

These I must obey

These are Goooood’s Ten Cooomandmeeeents

These I must obeeeeeey!

Too late, Wiggs realized he had made no effort even to feign singing, and that Captain Book’s disapproving eye was upon him.  As the singing died away, he felt the powerful menace in that glance. Wiggs no longer noticed the captain’s strange dress—what looked like a bishop’s burgundy cassock, skirted to the ground, cinched at the waist with a broad black sash holding two flintlock pistols and from which dangled a rosary made of what appeared to be large raisins, but which were rumored to be the testes of his vanquished enemies.  His broad-brimmed velvet hat held not just a tired ostrich plume, but a strange kind of triple tiara—three crowns mounted one on another–with a cross on the topmost.

And then there was the strangest feature of the captain’s appearance, the one that gave him his name: the absence of his left hand and, in its place, affixed to a metal plate protruding from his sleeve, a hardbound copy of the Saint Joseph Catechism.

Refusing to sing the Lord’s praises, are we?  What are you called, you bilge rat?  And how dare you assemble with us and not pray?

Wiggs, Your, er, Holiness.  Name is Wiggs.  I’m new on board, if it pleases Your Holiness.  No offense meant, no disrespect.

The captain roared at him.  I don’t care a mackerel’s tooth about you, and I care nothing about respect for myself!  But in your silence you disrespect God and His TRUTH!  Are you such a dog, such a heathen that that means nothing to you?  He gestured toward Wiggs with the Book, slapping it with his right hand.  Say nothing, you sea cow!  Nothing!  You’ll only offend the Lord further.  But be warned, Biggs, or Piggs or whatever your name: if I discover that you have neglected your duty in memorizing the Book, there will be a painful reckoning.  Do you hear, you filth?

In that moment, Wiggs surprised even himself.   Badly-timed temerity is what it was, and as he spoke he sensed it would not serve him.  Yet he could not stop himself.  Yes, Your Holiness, right.  But I do have a question to ask, begging your leave?

"Believe me, you swab, if this is anything other than liturgical or doctrinal, you should shut your stinking face right now."

Though his heart was racing and his Adam’s apple seemed frozen in place, Wiggs continued.  "Well.  I should say…I think it’s doctrinal.  In a manner of speaking, Your Holiness.  It’s just that I can’t help but wonder about all the Ten Commandments and gorgeous mysteries and things.  That’s to say, the bits about being kind and pure and everything.  I mean, they don’t really stop us, do they?  We’re still going to be pirates, aren’t we?  By your gracious leave, of course: but it seems like a bit of a waste."

The captain squinted for a moment, silent, then offered a tight smile. Oh, excellently done, Figgs!  You with so much knowledge of the Book, he said caustically, pausing to tap again the