A Port Royal Anecdote

by Sandy Robb Gyll (Steve Argyle)

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

It was a boisterous evening at the Drunken Mermaid, but then it always was in those days. I sat at table with Jason Blackthorne, Jack-in-Irons, and Marcus Scrivener. Blackthorne, a romantic young fellow, liked to think of himself as my first officer, which I allowed as he was the only other member of the crew who had the art of navigation. Jack, our giant quartermaster, got his name from the iron souvenir wrapped around his massive left forearm. He had elected to keep the manacle and stub of chain with which he had slain the captain of the Spanish galley when he escaped the Dons. Marcus, our lank beanpole of a purser, had once been a law clerk in Boston town. We were enjoying a fulsome round of punch when she hove into view.

“Now there’s a sightly vessel,” commented Blackthorne.

“I’ve not seen lines that trim since the Each Uisage was last in port,” Marcus quipped.

“Her stuns’ls ‘re set an’ she’s in full chase,” mumbled Jack.

Indeed, it was apparent that she was moving purposefully toward our table, her eyes fixed speculatively on mine. She sat on the stool next to me, laid a dainty hand on my arm and said, “Bon soir, mon Capitaine. You are a capitaine, no?” She leaned forward, straining against the flat stomacher of her gown.

“No…er…Aye. I am. Of the brig Megaera.” I hate being tongue-tied, and this wench had me in hitches up the halyard. The heavy gold cross she wore ‘round her neck stood impertinently erect from her bosom, its nether end caught in compressed cleavage. “You’re new here.” Sometimes my eloquence astonishes me.

“Oui! How sweet of you to notice! I am Isabelle, but everyone here calls me simply ‘La Belle.’ And you are Capitaine…?” She had a black beauty spot pasted to her left breast, and another on her chin. Her breath smelled of rum and cloves, with a hint of rotten tooth.

“Gyll. Robert Gyll.”

“But no! Those men over there said you are called ‘Sandy’.”

“Aye,” growled Jack, “Sandy Rob. That’s ‘im.”

“I will call you Sandy! It is so sweet, no?”

“No.” I glared at Jack, who drained his bumper and ignored me. Blackthorne laughed.

“Come Captain,” he chortled, “buy the lady a stoup of punch.”

And so it went. We imbibed and the baggage fawned on me. Jack grew sullen and silent in drink, as he often did, and Marcus left early to pursue his own business. One of the other wenches joined us and attached herself to Blackthorne. Alas! Although she was a fair addition to Mother Rackett’s stable, I just did not fancy La Belle as she seemed to fancy me. Something about her forwardness perhaps. Or maybe it was because I was sharp set for a redhead and La Belle’s mouse-brown tresses were like a draught of tepid water when a man thirsts for grog. I am perverse that way, betimes. In the end, to her great disappointment, I left and woke a fruit peddler to take me out to the Megaera in his pirogue.

The next morning I was still vexed by my inexplicable aversion to an undeniably comely piece. Mayhap, I thought to myself, I prefer being predator to prey. At any rate, I steered clear of the Drunken Mermaid, but La Belle slipped her cable and walked the streets looking for me. She found me at the warehouse of Longbottom & Smythe, haggling over a bale of Spanish taffeta I had for sale. Old skinflint Longbottom just wouldn’t give me a fair price for what he called “salvaged goods.” La Belle, perceiving the difficulty, hung upon his arm and coaxed him into getting the price up, among other things. I thanked the lady as gold changed hands, then retreated in a prickly humor back to my brig, leaving the lady vexed and Longbottom hungry.

In the heat of the afternoon I was roused from a fitful nap by noises on deck. The few hung-over lads on board were hooting and hollering at something. I went above to see what the commotion was. I joined Marcus at the larboard quarter rail and gazed across the water.

There was La Belle, perched prettily in the stern sheets of a bumboat. She was wearing a straw hat the size of a barrel-end and was trailing what appeared to be a fishing line in the water. After glancing up once to ascertain that I was on deck and watching, she seemed absorbed in her fishing as her boatman, his dark, bald pate shining in the sun like a well-oiled 24-pound shot, pulled her in a slow circle around the Megaera.

“Chase me with a thousand screaming devils!” I growled. “What game does she play at now?”

“Ask not for whom La Belle trolls,” Marcus counseled sardonically, “She trolls for thee…”

[Published in the March 2003 issue of No Quarter Given]