Chapter
5
Pieces of Eight
Bob telephoned his brother that
night to tell him of our change of plan. A full
crew, he decided, was more important than a call
on the American cousins. Besides, he said afterwards
to my mother – I heard them speaking. There’s
no such thing as a private conversation on a boat
– the cousin had relayed his plans to Mary,
Bob’s former wife. There was a chance she
would be preparing some kind of reception committee.
“That’s all I need,”
he said.
Prospero had the for’ard
cabin in front of the heads. It wasn’t until
we were a day out to sea that he suddenly produced
two wooden cages with Caliban and Dr Faustus inside.
Mum’s face was blazing when she saw them
on deck.
“What’s this all
about? We can’t have them on the boat,”
she said.
“What you going to do Mrs
Joy. Throw them overboard?”
“Bugger off,” said
the parrot on its perch.
Vince doubled up giggling in
the gangway. He loved animals. “This is
fantastic. We’re like a real pirate ship
now. All we need is a skull and cross bones.”
“Pieces of eight,”
said Faustus.
Prospero was my new best friend.
Badger still felt awkward about him for some reason
so kept out of his way. Prospero seemed to know
everything about the sea, teaching me all kinds
of new knots and weather lore. He wore a tatty
pair of navy canvas trousers, the dirty vest with
holes in it and a spotted red neckerchief most
days and walked around the deck in bare feet.
Fastened to his vest with a safety pin and a piece
of string was an eye glass – mum said it
was a monocle – which he would screw into
his eye sometimes when he wanted to look at something
closely. He held it out to me when I noticed some
faint inky marks on his shoulder. I looked through
the lens. It was some sort of tattoo. “What’s
that?” I asked.
“Oh that’s just symbols.
They been there all my life. Never knew how they
got there but I knows what they are. That figure
there,” he said, pointing to what looked
like a stick man, “Is a skeleton with little
horns growing out of its head. It’s holding
an hour glass in one hand and a spear in the other.
That blob there is a heart and those three spots
beneath it are drops of blood. I expect you wonder
what they mean.” I nodded.
“Well, see, its others
that have said what they wuz. Some of the people
on this island are superstitious and they calls
them dark marks. An old sailor once told me they
wuz pirate marks. They’re so faded now mostly
people don’t see them and that suits. I
don’t want people calling me no pirate now.
I’m a sail-maker. That’s what I do.”
Whatever he was, he was no respecter of authority.
Mum had outlined the safety rules but he didn’t
take much notice. I never saw him hanked on or
wearing a lifejacket. Bob should have said something,
perhaps, but chose not to.
Tell us that story about the
whale again Prospero,” said Vince one calm
afternoon. “The one that took your finger.”
Prospero was on the helm and had just shouted
“Thar she blows!” when he saw the
tell-tale white spume of a far off whale. We’d
seen a few of them over the past day or so.
“Nothing to tell really
Mr Vince. I shot the harpoon from the gun and
the rope got wrapped round my finger. Soon as
it rammed home the whale went down and there went
my finger. End of story.”
“But you said you were
taken down by the whale,” said Vince.
“Did I? Must have been
mistaken young Mr Vince or maybe that was another
time.”
It wasn’t the first time
that one of us had caught him out over one of
his yarns. “They’re not true,”
said Pat later. “I don’t think he’s
ever been to sea much, never mind crewing a whaler.”
I told Prospero about the museum
story of the man who had been swallowed by a whale.
I mentioned Scar too and wondered if there was
any kind of connection. Prospero shrugged at the
notion, but he seemed fascinated when I mentioned
old Bert, as if he knew him. Then he looked me
in the eye.
“These things happen. It
happened to one of my mess mates once,”
he said. “Only he weren’t alive when
they caught the same whale two days later and
cut it open. He was almost dissolved with skin
like soft soap. That stomach acid’s so strong
y’know.”
Pat overheard him. “Look
Prospero,” he said: “I just don’t
believe it. You make up these stories don’t
you.” Caliban was sitting on Pat’s
shoulder, nodding his head as if he was agreeing
with Pat’s scepticism.
Prospero looked a little sheepish.
I hadn’t seen that look before. “Some
stories maybe I embellish a bit to make them interesting
Mr Pat,” he said. “But that one’s
true as I’m standing here. You ask old Timor.
He saw it too.”
“Who’s Timor?”
I asked.
“A rum fellow if ever there
was one,” said Prospero “I’m
hoping we’ll see him in Nantucket. He was
with me that day. He saw the body in the whale.
He saw a lot of things, old Timor. Every captain
wanted him on board. A better harpooneer you’ll
never see. He didn’t use the gun. Preferred
to get up close and spike it the old way. Then
one day after taking a great blue whale that had
been in calf, I saw him break his harpoon over
his knee and say ‘that’s the end of
it,’ and it was. Never spiked another whale.
Shut himself up in a Nantucket cabin and wouldn’t
have anything to do with anyone. That was many
years ago. The last time I saw him….”
His voice trailed away. Prospero
had a yonderly look, as if he was speaking to
himself. “I’d like to see old Timor
again but I don’t know whether he’d
like to see me. We weresn’t best mates when
we parted. Not my fault about the treasure…”
“Treasure?” said
Vince. “Did you say treasure?
Instinctively I moved my hand
to my pocket and felt for the map I had drawn.
I had pulled it out of the notebook and now I
carried with me all the time, a folded piece of
paper. It was still there. But I said nothing.
I hadn’t told anyone about that, not even
Badger.
“Pieces of eight, pieces
of eight” said Faustus.
“That’s right old
Faustus, pieces of eight, shiny pearls and gold
doubloons, hundreds of them just lying there,
under the ground on an island we knows. All we
had to do was dig around a bit but Timor, he wasn’t
having any of it. “There’s a curse
on that treasure,” he said so he wouldn’t
give me his bit of the map. We fell out over that.
I couldn’t pin point it without his scrap
of paper so it’s still there as far as I
know.”
Even Badger was on deck now,
listening. “Are you telling us that you
have a treasure map?” he said.
Prospero’s face changed,
another look I hadn’t seen before. His eyes
had narrowed and he didn’t look so friendly
any more. “I ain’t saying I have.
I ain’t saying I ain’t. That’s
my business, now scram all of yis.”
“I’m telling dad
about you,” said Vince as we went below.
Uncle Bob was sleeping in his bunk. A few minutes
later he was talking to Prospero on deck. “I
hope you haven’t been scaring the children
with your stories Prospero,” he said.
Prospero seemed his old self.
“Oh it was stuff and nonsense Mr Grant.
They wuz egging me on. I’m sorry if I chided
‘em.”
I had to admit, I had never met
anyone quite like Prospero. It was difficult to
guess his age but I’d say he would be in
his early thirties, maybe younger. His scruffiness
made it difficult to guess. I liked him a lot.
He did funny things like the way he put the stump
of his finger in his nose as if he was poking
the whole finger up there; that had Vince in stitches.
But I think there was a side to him he was keeping
hidden. Maybe that was what Badger had spotted.
I would have asked Badger about it but he was
still smarting over the fight. His first black
eye and a girl had done it. Could he get over
it? It was hard enough for him with Pat and Vince
making comments. At least he didn’t have
to explain himself at school.
Talking about school, I should
say here that we didn’t abandon lessons
at sea. Mum was a stickler and held “classes”
every day in the galley. She would sit at one
end of the table and write things on large pieces
of paper which she fixed to the wall with Blue
Tack. Her “class” would copy the lessons
in to their notebooks. Even Prospero came along
although he was usually “expelled”
before the end for disrupting things with silly
questions such as “How many beans make five?”
“Well how many do make
five?” asked Vince.
“Two and three,”
said Prospero. “I thought everybody knew
that.”
“Now that’s enough,”
said mum. “Prospero you’re wanted
on the foredeck. Pay attention the rest of you.”
Mum taught us English and maths.
She also spoke French and Spanish so gave us language
lessons too. Uncle Bob knew lots about history
and dad was good at Geography. I knew I wasn’t
learning the same things as my old girlfriends
but I wondered how many of them would be able
to plot a course in to Nantucket, taking account
of tides and sand banks.
Our bearing on the global positioning
system, a tracking device linked to a satellite,
said we were getting close and I could hear seagulls
but I couldn’t see much through a thick
sea mist. We could hear a foghorn. Bob had the
engine going and we were motoring dead slow. Suddenly
there was a patch of blue sky above us and the
sun broke through, lending the mist an almost
magical luminescence .
“When there’s enough
blue there to make an elephant’s waistcoat,
we’re in business,” said Prospero.
Within minutes the mist had melted away and there,
shimmering in the sunshine, a few hundred yards
in front of us, was the prettiest harbour town
with pale blue-grey clapperboard buildings and
neatly painted white window frames and doors.
It looked like something off a chocolate box,
and, because of the fading fringes of mist, like
one of those pictures where the focus looses its
sharpness at the edges or where, I suspect, the
artist can’t be bothered to paint in to
the corners.
Uncle Bob reversed in to a mooring
among the jumble of yachts, ketches and motor
launches and asked permission to tie up. The harbourmaster,
a rolly poly man in a navy uniform, was standing
on the planked pontoon as if he’d been expecting
us. I suppose he had since dad had radioed ahead.
Dad was worried about the monkey and the parrot.
The Americans, he said, were very fussy about
livestock. He decided to keep the animals hidden
away. “Let’s hope they don’t
come on board,” he said.
The harbourmaster proffered his
hand and the boat lurched slightly as Bob pulled
his heavy frame aboard. He told Bob he wanted
to check our log book and papers but he didn’t
seem to want to look around. Prospero was keeping
out of sight. He had told Bob only the previous
evening that he didn’t have a passport.
Bob had braced himself for an international incident.
Instead the harbourmaster took our passports and
returned them freshly stamped once we had filled
out our visa forms. He ruffled Vince’s hair
and passed him a stick of chewing gum. “Sorry
kids,” he said to the rest of us, “It’s
the only one I have.”
Mum looked nervous until the
harbourmaster had taken his leave with a brisk
salute, wishing us an enjoyable stay. “I
like Nantucket,” said Vince, his jaws working
overtime on the chewing gum. So did I. In fact
we all did. “Let’s find some good
steaks,” said Pat. Uncle Bob stayed with
the boat while the rest of us went in to the town
to find some food. Most of the shopwindows were
cluttered with fancy goods like model lighthouses
painted in pastel shades of blue and pink, and
wooden seagulls and sailing boats. Everything
was made of wood and raffia and linen. There were
shelves lined with every kind of “olde”
preserve. There were captains’ caps, ships
in bottles and barometers and compasses and jumpers
with anchor motifs and, this being America, there
were hundreds of fridge magnets. The book shops
were packed with books about the sea and the sea
shore. “Aren’t you just sick of the
sea?” I said to Badger. “Suppose so,”
he said, grudgingly.
“Look,” I said. “I’m
sorry about your eye. Can we just be friends now?”
He gave a shrug as if to say
yes. “Suppose so,” he said.
“Men,” said mum to
me, quietly, “They’re not worth it.”
I heard dogs barking behind us
and turned to see Prospero walking up the street,
grinning as if he owned the place. He looked fitter,
stronger, somehow, with not a care in the world.
On his head he was wearing a top hat and he carried
a walking stick. Neither item had we seen before.
Neither had we seen the pristine white gloves
he wore on both hands. The empty finger hole on
his right hand flapped vacantly. He seemed to
be whistling through his teeth but I couldn’t
hear anything. Was that what was upsetting the
dogs?
“Prospero,” hissed
dad. “What are you doing here? You could
get us all arrested.”
“No chance of that Mr Johnson.
No-one’s interested in old Prospero ‘cept
these dogs maybe. Come with me now, I want to
find old Timor. I wants you to meet him.”
We followed him up the street, keeping about twenty
yards behind. Dad was still worried that someone
would arrest Prospero and didn’t want anyone
to link him with us.
We walked past some large clapper-board
houses with roses around their doors. They all
had verandas with rocking chairs and some had
weathervanes in the shape of whales or sailing
ships on their roofs. These were houses built
for the old whaling captains, said dad. Suddenly
Prospero turned to his right down a cobbled side
street and we followed. The street was narrowing.
It was not quite so tidy as the other part of
town. The houses were smaller too and some were
no bigger than cabins. One of them was painted
rust red as if its owner did not want to conform
with the blue grey rule. The assumption was correct.
Prospero strode up to the gmarled
wooden door of the red cabin, rapped on it three
times with the end of his cane and leaned back
on his heal, twisting his body sideways while
looking at us in a pompous kind of way. He screwed
his monocle into his eye and scrutinised us carefully
as if he was inspecting soldiers on parade. The
door opened partly and we heard a deep, clear,
somewhat neutral voice from within.
“Oh it’s you,”
said the voice. “I thought you’d turn
up some day. You always do. Who did you con this
time? Well the answer is still no.”
Prospero burst into a grin. The
monocle popped from his eye and dangled from the
safety pin on his vest. He placed both his hands
on the head of the cane, curled a little finger
upwards and swayed theatrically. “Timor,
Timor mon ami, that’s no way to greet your
old Prospero. Let byegones be byegones. Look,
I want you to meet my friends.” He reached
his arm through the door and seemed to be tugging
on something but no-one appeared. By this time
we were up alongside Prospero and could see into
the room. A tall, powerful figure in buckskin
trousers, moccasins and denim shirt was standing
in the doorway. He had a clean shaven face with
youthful, chiselled features, a deep bronzed,
shiny complexion and pale green eyes. His most
striking feature was a band of grey-blond hair
streaming from a top-knot on his otherwise shaven
head. It was a proud, confident face, but gentle
too, like that of a favourite uncle. Only he didn’t
sound gentle.
“I want to be alone,”
he said and closed the door.
“How rude,” said
mum.
“Oh don’t mind Timor.
You’ll like him when you get to know him,”
said Prospero. He’s a loner really. He’s
used more to the company of animals than people.
Around here they call him Timor the Hunter. He
doesn’t make friends easily but once you
have Timor for a friend he’s a friend for
life.”
“He doesn’t sound
like he’s your friend Prospero,” said
dad. “Has he got some kind of beef with
you?”
“Is it about the treasure?”
asked Pat.
“What treasure?”
said dad who had ignored Vince’s brief and
garbled version of the earlier conversation at
sea. Prospero scowled. “Maybe, maybe not,”
he said.
The door opened quickly again
and Timor reappeared. “I’m sorry,”
he said, gesturing with his hand. “This
is no way to treat guests. Come inside, all of
you. Welcome to my home.”
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