A Brush with the Authorities

Another Port Royal Anecdote:

by Alan Grebunski (Shawn Neibaur)

Being an excerpt from the memoirs of S. R. Gyll, esq., a planter of Virginia and sometime privateer, gentleman of fortune, &c.

Foreword

Ever since reading the “Port Royal Anecdote” short stories written by Steve Argyle (Fine pieces of literature if ever there were any) I have been intrigued by the possibility of writing one of my own. For quite some time I gave it only a passing thought, until my muse struck me (rather harder then necessary, I may add) and I was given a fine ending to my non-existent story. For a few days I ran ideas through my head, but very few held the stupendous wit and charm that filled the previously mentioned works. In the end I appealed to the older generation, and received a fine premise for my joke in return. I give both original author and fatherly inspirer full credit for making this story what it is, should it please the reader, and take full blame for making this story what it is, should the result be otherwise. I also apologize to and thank Steve in advance for the use of his fantastic characters, without whom this tribute would be much poorer. And so, without further adieu…

Colonel Redwall was a crook if ever there was one. When not drinking himself into a stupor or associating himself with the wenches of Port Royal, he was finding ways to squeeze every ounce of gold he could from the honest, hardworking privateers housed on his docks. This latter pastime seemed his personal favorite, and he had tucked away no small amount of gold for himself as a result. Having lost his left leg in a brush with the dons, the Colonel stomped around on a splintery wooden stump, although it was rumored that he owned a fine ivory limb that he used only on the most special of occasions. ‘Twas my misfortune one sweltering June to land upon the docks of this selfsame scoundrel, and after refitting and supplying, discovered my fees so high that I was unable to set sail again. A week went by, as did several fine traveling winds, when finally I had reached the end of my patience.

“A curse upon Redwall!” I spat out the window of my room in the Drunken Mermaid and looked across the favorable waters towards what should have been my free, fine ship. “How dare he swindle me like this! The crew’s gnawing at the bits, and I cannot even begin the race.”

“May the termites devour his leg and the poxes take the rest of him,” Blackthorne agreed. “But the fact is he has our ship, and we can’t leave without paying him. Leastwise unless we want to find another port of origin.”

“Tis true, but I’d much rather find a simpler course. He is well-liked by the governor, damn him, and I have grown somewhat fond of this flea-ridden port.”

We shot suggestions, most of them involving the “unfortunate” demise of the good Colonel Redwall, between ourselves for the better part of an hour without any progress towards our goal at all. Finally Marcus strode through the door, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Blast if I see what you have to smile about,” Blackthorne shot towards the purser, “We’re stuck in port, and you walk around like a fool with his head askew.”

“The wind’s changed this morning, and it’s new direction likes me.” Marcus smirked cryptically and refused to say more.

That was the end of the matter until later that night when Redwall burst through the door of the Drunken Mermaid's common room. He was sweating as though he'd been run down by the hounds of hell, and he stumped straight to my table.

“Where have you put it?” he screamed into the suddenly silent tavern. “I know you have it, knave, so I’ll be taking it back or you’ll see no more of your precious boat!”

I rose slowly and deliberately. “I know not of what you speak, but I like not your tone.” I intended to accentuated my point with a calm hand on my rapier, but was intercepted by Marcus before I could deflate the blubbering cur.

Marcus glanced up towards the purple-faced docks master, nothing but the purest innocence in his eyes, and asked, “Prithee, what have you lost, good colonel?” And though it was there but an instant, I swear I saw an impish twinge of the corners of his mouth.

“Me Iv’ry leg!” the “good” colonel roared. “And I lost it not. This… this…” His mind seemed unable to grasp precisely what I was, and so he simply gestured, “stole it!”

My rapier was half-cleared of its hanger when Marcus again restrained me and stepped between us. Strangely, Marcus looked as though the Spanish treasure fleet had just surrendered to him. “How fortuitous! I have recently acquired an ivory leg in a game of chance against a rather inebriated fellow, and I would be happy to trade it to you in exchange for the dock fees of the fine vessel Megaera, which you await from my friend here.” He indicated me, rather unnecessarily.

The Colonel’s eyes widened and it seemed as though the flames of hell licked within those pupils. He continued to angrily bluster and gesticulate, but it was to the merriment of the surrounding crowd. Several half-drunk sailors roared confirmation of Marcus' tale of dice in the common room earlier that afternoon, though none could name the scruffy rogue he'd gamed against. The colonel stomped and swore, but the louder he became the more the room turned against him.

“Dam’ee,” the lout finally conceded, “hand over and begone, then. But I never want to see your barnacle-ridden hulk in my portion of the docks ‘gain, hear?” Marcus sent the serving wench upstairs to retrieve the ivory peg, and Redwall snatched it from her laughing hands the instant she reappeared. Finally he rid us of his company and skulked out of the tavern, muttering all the while.

The next morn as we prepared the Megaera to sail I pulled my enterprising purser aside. “Marcus,” I grinned, “You never fail to leave me dumbfounded.”

“It was nothing,” he modestly bowed. “I simply took the rogue’s less-traveled thigh, and that has made all the difference.”