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Port Royal Anecdotes #3:
A Rivalry Between Shipmates
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.
Benedictus Christophe Jean Marie Bayard was a prodigious fighter, a superb seaman, an indefatigable wencher, and a mediocre cook. True, he could do some amazing things with boucanned flesh, but the best thing about his cooking was that everyone else’s efforts were less appetizing.
Benč’s one other remarkable quality accounted for his nickname aboard ship, “Benny the Goat”. To say that Benč was hirsute was a deplorable understatement. In addition to an elaborately braided coiffure, Benč wore a thick mat of curly black hair from the crests of his cheekbones to the tops of his toes, both fore and aft. He was inordinately proud of his virile hairiness, and at least one of Mother Rackett’s girls found his wool to her liking. Sweet, blonde Bess would ignore all the other men when her “Benny the Lamb” was in port. Benč had disemboweled the one man pot-valiant enough to use that name on him.
John Crakes, our master gunner, hungered for Bess with a fervor that was almost pathetic to behold. Each time the lads descended on the Drunken Mermaid he would watch Bess hold her arms out in welcome to Benč. When Bess and her “Lambkin” went upstairs, John would gnaw his knuckles and curse. Crakes was no coward, nor was he an ineffective combatant. Had Bess shown the least interest in him, cutlasses would swing and blood would have been spilt between he and Benč. But Crakes was wise and respected the item in the articles that forbade contention among the hands while at sea. In port, his efforts to win the notice of pretty Bess were completely ineffectual.
One October we dared the hurricane season, cruising the Windward Passage looking for late strays headed back to Spain before winter. We got lucky and caught a fat Spanish merchant ship off a tiny, unnamed island. We hoisted the jolly roger and she struck, her captain squawking like a plucked parrot for mercy. Unfortunately, she carried no passengers worth ransoming. After we set course for the downhill run to Jamaica, Jack-in-Irons opened the treasure chest and auctioned the booty around the mainmast.
I noticed that Crakes bid most sharply for the Spanish captain’s toilet box. Among other things it contained a fine razor, the keen sliver of damascened steel inlaid with gold filigree. He cradled the box lovingly in his hands the whole rest of the night as the division of spoils ended and the Spaniard’s wine casks were broached. Jimmy Tholepin fiddled for the dancing , thumping his peg leg on the hatch coaming to keep time.
Sometime past the second watch, as the drunken uproar dwindled to nothing, I saw an oddly sober-looking Crakes carrying a sodden and senseless Benč below to his berth. It seemed to me that Crakes was crooning a lullaby as he muscled his burden down the hatch. My own condition was not conducive to further thought on the strange scene at the time.
My surly, hung-over crew managed to drop anchor in Port Royal harbor before sundown the next day, but only just. No sooner was the Megaera secure than the lads had the boats over the side and the exodus to the Drunken Mermaid commenced. Marcus, Jack, Jason, and I were soon at our accustomed table, slavering over a haunch of mutton smoking-fresh from the spit.
“Lambkin!” called Bess from the top of the stairs.
“Ma Bessie!” came the bass reply from Benč, as he tossed a bone to the floor, took one last pull at his cup, and took the stairs three at a time. Marcus gave me an elbow and nodded wordlessly at John Crakes.
Crakes was not cursing. He watched Benč ascend to his angel with an oddly beatific smile upon his lips, his hand idly stroking his breast. Then I looked closer and perceived that he was actually stropping his fine Spanish razor on his baldric. He evidently hadn’t screwed up his courage enough to use it yet, for his beard was still full.
Just then an enormous, outraged bellow stunned the crowd into silence. Someone upstairs was roaring incoherently, and the sound of raucous female laughter seeped through when the male voice paused for breath. A door banged, and Benč came flying down the stairs clutching his untrussed slops about his waist. His eyes bulged from their sockets. His mouth gaped in a desperate and unceasing yowl. He fled through the common room and out the door as though the devil himself were on his heels.
At the top of the stairs, Bess stood in her shift, howling with laughter. Well, she barely stood, her shapely shanks nigh unpinned with the throes of her gasping hilarity. And then Crakes bounded up the stairs, swept Bess from her feet, and carried her giggling down the hall. The rest of us sat unmoving, awed by the bizarre event.
“’Tis a sad thing, but true,” quipped Marcus into the silence, “that a Benč shaved is a Benč spurned.”