The Tavern

As told by Bosun Greybeard at Deadmen Tales. 

The year was 1690, a rather uneventful year unless you were King James II, sometimes known to the Irish unflatteringly as Seamus a' Chaca.

Nestled close to the harbor was an ancient building known simply as The Tavern. Built of cheap whitewashed brick and salvaged wood from shipwrecks, tiny opaque windows letting in just enough light to cast shadows across the creaky wooden planked floor.

Inside, the air was thick and heavy of cigar smoke, spilt rum, and unwashed bodies, dimly lit by a few flickering candles placed on the worn tables. Casks of wine and ale were stacked behind the bar, along with bottles of rum and whiskey.

Just before dusk the crew of the 100 gun 1st rate ship of the line HMS Royal James began arriving, pushing and shoving their way inside the small tavern, eager for drinking, glad to be off the ship for a while. They had been out to sea for nearly a year, and had been successful in capturing or sinking several pirate vessels.

Everyone’s pockets were full, but moods were dark, as the captain had announced only a short shore leave before they were underway again. Apparently the ship was about to get renamed HMS Victory.

‘Twas nigh ten o’clock in the evening when the old pirate known simply as “the Bosun” hobbled into the room and sat down on a wooden stool in a darkened corner. His days of sailing had been long over after a cannonball had struck the gunnel he had been using for cover.

It had exploded on impact and had thrown shards of splintered wood and iron in every direction. One large piece had torn the young man next to him in two.

Bosun was lucky though, if you call getting his leg mangled fortunate. The ship’s surgeon had tried his best to repair his leg, but in the end all he could do was set it and wait till they got back to land which they wouldn't see for another month and by then the damage was permanent.

He could only walk with a crutch now, and could not manage the rolling of a ship in heavy seas. So, for a time, he wandered the ports, looking for work before finally stumbling into the Tavern one night and found the barkeep, a huge portly man with a weathered leathery face and kind blue eyes who let him sit in a corner playing his vihuela in return for a meal and whatever tips would get thrown his way.

By this time, the room was crowded and noisy, the navy men getting drunker and feeling mean.

One had already had his hand stabbed into a table by a dagger from a shipmate accusing him of cheating at cards. Tankards of ale were getting thrown, and the drunken sailors inside the old tavern were about to get to brawling. The barkeep was used to the behavior of seamen, and began slowly and systematically putting away the good glasses.

As the brigand took his seat on the stool, someone noticed him and flipped the butt of a cigar in his direction, cackling loudly. “Aye mates look at the old cripple!”

The grizzled buccaneer said nothing but began to play, softly. At first, all you could hear was the loud guffaws of the men as they pointed at the hobbled old seafarer.

One of them even threw a poignard at him, narrowly missing him as it stuck in the wall behind him. Ignoring them, he kept picking the strings of the lute-like instrument.

Seeing that they weren’t going to get any reaction, the men of the Navy Royal turned away and went back to drinking.

“I’ll see ye all to Davy,” he muttered to himself, as he began to pluck the strings of the vihuela angrily. The ancient mariner’s fingers strummed the instrument expertly, and what was once a soft melody became a soulful cry of the sea.

One by one, each of the men grew quiet as they heard the strings gently humming and they turned back to listen to the tune being played by the antiquated seaman.

As the tavern stilled, the music filled the room. The notes were passionate and angry, hopeful and despairing. Each man felt something different, some remembering long lost loves, others missing new love, all transformed from drunken wretches to only men with memories, eyes glistening with tears. “Curse this foul dusty air,” someone said, as another snorted and blew his nose on his sleeve.

The cutthroat turned minstrel kept playing through the night, smiling to himself as his skillful strumming turned into sea shanties. A jig competition broke out and soon everyone was merrily dancing, the foul mood broken at least temporarily for one night.

Soon enough, they would be back out at sea, but for now, they were all peaceful sheep, content in rum-soaked bliss.

One by one each sailor slowly nodded off in a drunken stupor. The barkeep tossed Bosun a little grin and jerked his thumb to the tavern window. Peering through the dimly lit window was Beatrix, a petite freckle-faced girl of eight years with auburn hair, braided in pigtails, dressed in hand me down clothes and wearing a tricorn two sizes too big.

The little street urchin had a very sweet disposition, one could say almost innocent, but it was all deception, for she was a deadly and lethal bandit through to her bones.

Bosun continued his slow hypnotic thrumming and gave her a nod and a wink. She casually strolled inside and began expertly picking each man’s pockets.

Quickly dividing the spoils between the barkeep and Bosun, she tossed a wave and slipped back into the night as quietly as she had come.

Not one man would remember why he was suddenly penniless, each one thinking he must have spent it all on rum the night before. Unbeknownst to them, they were all very fortunate to still be alive.
The free-booting musician jangled the coins in his pocket and chuckled to himself as he too made his exit into the night.

The words of an old shipmate rang out in his mind: “Never trust a pirate, ever.”