We played the show under the moniker, the Chic Sheiks and Superman. We were dressed like rajas, except for our drummer: he wore a cape and tights. Our front man, for the day, was one of Young Living’s own employees and presenters.

It was a lot of fun.

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To purchase the official soundtrack to this story, visit this link: pirate music.

Chapter 6

The early full moon cast a sheen of light over the Kattegat. Flecks of it danced off the near calm water like a million diamonds winking in rhythmic patterns. Stark stood on the bridge of The Black Betty, squinting, trying to get a read on the bay. The land, thick with foliage, blended into the night, camouflage, almost part of the sky. A dense, almost impregnable forest of deciduous trees clogged his view to Halmstad; yet he knew the town must be close. Stark imagined her residents tucked in for the night, their fires cold, their oil lamps long extinguished. They undoubtedly slept. Unquestionably their guard would be down. But Stark still reasoned that any fight with Halmstad would not be met without resistance. The Danes had been at long war with the Swiss. Only lately had an uneasy peace been reached between the two reckonable forces.

“Depth, Mr. Scree?” Stark asked his navigator.

Scree checked the rope he had lowered into the inky brine to get a read on the bay’s depth. “Seven  fathoms, Captain.”

“Excellent. I believe we are close enough to deploy. Drop anchor if you please, Mr. Jax.”

Jax turned to shout the order. Stark raised one hand to silence him. “Steady, Mr. Jax. Tonight promises to be most unpleasant to the good folk of Halmstad; best not warn them that we are in the offing.”

Jax nodded once and pointed to a quartet of crew who stood around the capstan. The men understood. They put their backs to the wheel and slowly lowered the anchor.

“Where’s my cockswain?” Stark asked, glancing around the quarterdeck.

“Here, Captain.” A burley man with stringy hair and only four fingers on his right hand climbed the short ladder that led up to the quarterdeck.

“How many working transports have we?”

“Eight, sir.”

“Enough for a hundred men if we pack light.”

“Yes, sir; if we pack light.”

“Very good. Jax, enlist  one-hundred men.  Tell them they will need small casks of powder, guns, balls and shanks. I think I know exactly how to spend this picturesque night, and they will be in charge of leading the festivities.”

“Yes sir,” Jax said with a nod and descended the short ladder to the spar deck.

***

Five hours later, under the blanket of night, The Black Betty skirted the edge of the Kattegat and cut towards the outlet of the Nissan river, only her gallant sails bent, the rest had been furled and tied. Scree clutched white knuckled on the wheel, his palms slick with sweat. He glanced over his shoulder at Rhett, his first mate, whom he had set to monitor the depth. The Black Betty hadn’t been built to travel rivers. This was a task better suited to galleys, not a fully square rigged sailor. Stark had stones, that much couldn’t be argued.

“Three fathoms.” Rhett said, trying his best to stay calm.

“Keep a steady eye, we don’t want to run her aground.” Stark said, keeping his eyes forward, scanning for any sign of civilization.

“What are you doing?” Ian peeled out of the dark, climbing up onto the quarterdeck.

“Greetings, old friend.” Stark said with a smile. “Where have you been?”

“You plan to navigate the river?”

“T’is already set in motion.” Ian seemed to be crawling under his skin in either fear or rage; Stark relished it either way.

“You’ll run us aground.”

“I know this ship from bow to stern. Any captain worth his stripes would do the same.”

“Two and a half fathoms.” Rhett said.

Scree looked up at Stark, his eyes wide. “Captain?”

“Steady, Mr. Scree.” Stark kept his eyes on Ian and wore a smug smile.

Scree swallowed and nodded.

Stark turned to his lieutenant. “Mr. Jax, have five men man the gallants. Make ready to furl the sheets.”

Jax nodded, leaned over the rails, and gave the orders to one of his mates. Five men leapt into action, climbing the rat-lines like monkeys, making their way to the bending gallants.

“If you ground this ship, we will be taken and hanged as pirates.” Ian spat.

“And what a glorious night to die.” Just then Stark caught site of lights, winking oil lanterns he reasoned. They hung high above ground, perhaps twenty feet. Stark squinted and caught site of the first buildings of Halmstad, large brick structures, lavish and modern. “It seems Halmstad may be more of a force than we had anticipated.” Stark said, eyeing Ian. “Running aground is not my worry. However, being swarmed the the enemy of your choosing might be.”

Ian scoffed. “You just put me within blade’s length and I will show you what I can do to the enemy of my choice.”

“Hold steady, Ian, you will indeed have your chance.” Stark wheeled around to Scree. “Take us in, Mr. Scree. I want to be within gunning range.”

Scree nodded.

“Mr. Jax, keep an eye out. As soon as we reach gunning range, furl the gallants. In the meantime, fetch the gunner if you please. I would like to have a word with him.”

“Yes, captain.” Jax left the quarterdeck, climbing quickly down the ladder.

***

Henri Raye led one-hundred men through the bush. Each man held a small cask of powder and the weight of a matchlock and cutlass. At several points they stalled, having to bushwhack their way through brambles and thick foliage. Henri thanked the fates for a full moon. In pure pitch, there path would be impossible.

“How much further?” Dex asked.

Henri smiled. He loved the boy, only sixteen, still full of youth’s zeal, although his innocence had been stripped from him since he and Saul Cappa had found him as a near infant in a cardboard box, buried in the trash, deep in the dregs of London’s downs. Dex had been taken aboardship and literally raised by pirates, fed from the milk of goats, stocked on board until he could eat meat. Henri believed in his heart that they had truly shown the boy to a better life, they had rescued him from exposure and death and led him to glory.

“Stark estimated one and a half miles. By my reckoning, we should see cottage lights at any moment.” As if on cue, flashes of lantern illumination peeked through the trees, their red and yellow fire dancing like pixies, winking and taunting. Henri raised a hand and the rest of the company stopped, pushing up behind him for instructions.

“Gentlemen, we are on the edge of either fortune or death. Stark warned that this place is no stranger to hostility and that they no doubt have arms to spare. We must  blend. We must be the shadows. We will divide into groups of four and deploy our tasks in silence and with all speed. Stark awaits our signal.

“If you are seen, first skulk, then run. If you are captured, do not speak. We will find you and free you. They might outnumber us, but we have surprise on our side. And, I would wager, our lust for their lucre is greater than theirs.”

Several of the men laughed. Henri himself smiled, but then he raised a hand to quell the noise. “Move silently and wait for my signal. Gentlemen, tonight we release hell on Halmstad.”

Henri turned back towards the city and moved on. “Stay by me, laddy.” He said to Dex. “You are far too young to fall this night.”

“I won’t fall.”

Henri laughed, deep and guttural. “Saul, are you with me?”

Saul walked only yards behind Henri, his cask of powder getting heavier by the moment. “I is here.” He said.

“Help me keep watch over the boy.”

“I will.”

“You remember how I’m always telling you to control that monster in your head?” Saul had, with his dim mind and almost inhuman strength, nearly killed a mate on more than one occasion. It was Henri who had first told Saul that he had a monster living in him and that he had to control it. Saul had taken Henri’s metaphor at face value and, ever since, thought of himself as a cage for a ferocious beast. Sometimes the beast got out without his permission. Sometimes he controlled it. Saul’s relationship with his inner beast teetered on a tight line. Most of the crew distrusted and even feared Saul. Henri understood him and had become the moron’s friend.

“I am simple, but strong; that’s what you always tell me.” Saul said.

“Tonight, you can let that monster out . You can hurt anyone you want and take anything shiny that you see.”

“For me mum?” Saul asked.

“Yes, for that evil charlatan of a woman you call your mum, may she rot in hell.”

A hundred pirates, let by Henri Raye, passed through the forest to the edge of a clearing. There, standing before them in majesty, was Halmstad, more than a hamlet, a city. They paused a moment to crawl over the establishments, businesses, and homes with lecherous eyes. Halmstad stood vast and daunting, though nestled in sleep. Her streets, wide enough to allow three wagons side by side,  were vacant. Sporadic oil lanterns hung high on posts along some of the main city streets, a probable deterrent for thieves and drunkards. Suddenly the task of sacking Halmstad seemed more difficile than Henri and his large band had expected. Halmstad was no petty village.  The small army of men hesitated at the edge of the clearing, but only for a moment; for, as Henri had said, their lust for lucre outweighed their fear. Group by group they deployed, four in each band, fanning out,  armed with powder, matchlocks, cutlasses, and rage.

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To purchase the official soundtrack to this story, visit this link: pirate music.

Chapter 4

The Black Betty carved through the brine like a shark’s fin, its hull slick and at home in the water. She traveled at a steady 9 knots with the wind at her port beam–perfect conditions for a sailor of any persuasion. The late afternoon sun dipped in the distant, western horizon, its heat igniting the wispy clouds and setting the sky on fire. The conflagration of sky reflected on the choppy water in swelling, orange and read paintbrush strokes, each swell capped with a goodly top of white foam and oceanic mist.

Saul Cappa and Henri Raye leaned against the starboard railings of the spardeck, watching the sun as it began to dip below the distant horizon line.

Saul’s mother had named him after the apostle. She had clutched a bible to her breasts through the pain of his birth, praying that The Lord would spare the boy’s life. He had come from her womb twisted and breached, causing him to suffer a brief depravation of oxygen. Though her praying had seemingly saved the baby from the perils of birth, they hadn’t saved him from a doltish mind and occasional seizures. Saul had spent his teen years and early 20’s  in an institution for the insane where cruel  tortures were used in an attempt to save the boy’s soul. In the end, he had escaped. After living as a vagrant for two years on the streets of West London, he met an old pirate, at port searching for crew, and finally found his place.

For two years Saul had sailed on The Black Betty, working under the authority of two captains; Frankie Drosdan, and Campbell Stark. To Saul, both captains had been equally vicious, but equally fair. Both had captained The Black Betty into adventure and fortune, filling the pockets of her crew.

But Saul had no money of which to speak; like most of the crew, he had  squandered everything he made a port. Never in his dreams had he dared wish for the pleasures he found at port and for the men who acted as his mentors to delight–guides to help  him experience a wide array of sweets and joys–of flesh, food, and violence–sometimes combinations of the three. But pleasures at port and pockets ladened with wealth were not the reasons Saul remained dedicated to The Black Betty.  He had joined the crew for acceptance–admittance into a circle of friends–the crew of The Black Betty was his family.

“Stark has lost his mind if you ask me.” Henri said, taking a bite out of an apple he had taken from the galley.

“We go where Stark wants; we go where Ian wants. The end result  is the same?” Saul said.

“Not this time.” Henri stood from the rail and stretched his back–a volley of pops. “I feel something in the offing; something desperate and evil.”

“You think Stark is evil?”

Henri laughed and looked into his simple friend’s eyes. Henri had seen Saul kill at least 5 men in battle. Saul had a vicious side, that was sure. But there was an innocence about the man. It was as though Saul owned no culpability for his actions. “Little prophet,” Henri rested a hand on Saul’s shoulder, “we are all evil, of that you can be assured. Not one on this ship has a soul. We have all traded them for lucre, women, and the pleasures of the world.”

“So Stark is evil?”

“The worst.” Henri took another bite out of his apple and leaned against the railing. The distant sun had dipped halfway over the horizon, turning the day over to the hands of night. “And he will be our ruin.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because he entertains powers that he does not understand. Ever since he spoke to the man-witch in Barbados, he has brooded and obsessed over what the man told him.”

“What is it that the man told him?”

“Nobody knows. But Stark wants to go back to see the man-witch again, perhaps at all cost.”

“What if Stark is right? What if he can lead us to more treasure than any man can carry?”

“It is best to stay locked to things that are real, and leave myth and legend far behind.” Henri flexed his right bicep. “Feel.”

Saul felt Henri’s muscle–hard and taught.

“Solid, the strength of  man. I use my own power to act according to my will. That is the only thing of which I can be certain. As long as I stay locked to this world of absolutes, I will get along just fine.”

“What about God?” Saul asked.

“God is preoccupied.” Henri took another bite of his apple.

“My mother told me that man can’t live on his own strength, that he must have the strength of God at his side.”

“Your mother was an evil wench who put you in a prison for the insane.”

“I am insane.”

“Aye, little prophet, that you are. But yours is the kind of insanity that we need aboard this ship.”

Saul smiled.

“Your mother was wrong.”

“You don’t believe in God?” Saul asked.

“I do believe in God. I just don’t believe God has any interest in us. If you rely on God for your strength, you give up your power to act on your own.”

A long moment passed as the two men watched the distant sun sink. It burned, hot and vibrant, as if it hoped to expel every ounce of its fiery strength at the last moment before it finally disappeared.
“Tell me about the girl.” Saul said.

Henri closed his eyes and took a deep smell of the brine, which he had long learned to love. He loved to sail. He loved piracy. He never thought anything could take its place; but that had changed two months ago when The Black Betty had ported on Grand Cayman for careening and for the sale of her swag. “She’s a princess–an angel.” Henri said, the corners of his mouth curling up into a slight smile.

“Tell me about her.” Saul asked.

“You should look into her eyes, then you would know the beauty of which I speak. Her eyes are black as isle pearls. We are an unlikely match, I a despot of the sea and she a refined, island girl with olive skin and fine dresses to wear.”
“Tell me her name.”

“I don’t know her name. I only know her by her beauty.” Henri closed his eyes and imagined her standing before him. She wore a white dress, made of fine fabric and lace. Her hair, in dainty curls, fell over her shoulders and cascaded down her back. She wore white cotton gloves and held a parasol to keep the sun from her skin. Mostly he remembered her smile, luscious and full-lipped, her teeth, white and perfect. She was an island girl refined, taken into the care of the Britains. They had shaped her into a lady. Henri had spent two weeks with the girl, holding her hand, walking the beaches with her, kicking foam and laughing. She had tapped into perhaps the last trace of soul, the last spark of humanity  in Henri Raye’s long darkened heart. Somehow the island girl with olive skin had blown on that spark and ignited a fire.

But as quickly has his love for the girl had bloomed, the bos’n had called and Henri had left her. But he had promised that he would return. He kept her memory with him. On cold nights when his hammock swing on the gun deck, his body crammed between two smelly men, listening to the breathing and grunting of the uncouth and begrimed, he thought about her. Her memory brought sojourn to him on those cold nights, and on the hot days when he faced his duty to the ship and crew.

Saul opened his eyes and looked out over the darkening water. The last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon line and winked out. “She is an angel, little prophet.” Saul said almost dreamlike. “And one day, I will return to her.”

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Last Voyage of the Black Betty

by Craig Nybo

Chapter 2

With the wind at her port beam, The Black Betty sliced through the surf, making excellent time, tacking along at an average of 8 knots.  She moved like a native of the water, a fully square rigged frigate, beautiful, with a sleek, shallow hold for speed and mobility.  The sun dipped in the distant, western horizon.  The second dogwatch had taken control of the ship.   A foursome of mid-shipmen played a spontaneous game of dice, wagering with extra shares of rum that the quartermaster had provided.  The men laughed heartily as they drank some and gambled some away, careful to not slog too much down their gullets lest they lose their wits.

Captain Stark stood on the quarter-deck, his prematurely  silver hair blowing in the crisp, sea-air.  He leaned against the port rail and allowed the briny mist to moisten his pale, Scandinavian skin.  As Captain, Stark  was a unusually young, only in his early forties. But as a pirate, he had the right to throw in his lot for captain.  According to the code, the crew decided by lots who would captain and where their ship would take them.

Stark felt comfortable as captain.  But, as of late, he couldn’t help but view piracy as a petty endeavor.  Land-lubbers  believed that pirates amassed large fortunes in Spanish silver and other currencies; Stark had long learned to separate that notion from reality.  Like any path to fortune, pirates worked hard for every shilling.  From most merchant ships, Stark was lucky to loot a stock of precious fabric, beans, tea or grain.  The business of piracy seemed to be just that, more business than adventure, more buying and selling, more diplomacy at port, and much more running and hiding than enjoying one’s profits.  And when his crew had wrested the occasional big haul–pieces of 8, doubloons, gold–inevitably, they squandered it at port on whores and alcohol.

Stark wanted more; and he thought that he had found his path.  He held  a parchment in one weathered hand, rolled and folded once.  A half a year ago, back in Barbados, while his crew  had busied themselves spending their shares, engorged their bodies with runny meats and fats, while they had swilled on the most exorbitant, imported wines, Stark had met an ancient, a man simply known as Ah Kahn.  He had first heard of Ah Kahn from a man he had met in French Guiana. Luca had been the man’s name, an old ex-French patriot, turned prate. Luca had told Stark about Ah Kahn.

“Last of the day-keepers,” Luca had said, “at least that’s what they call themselves in their savage tongue.  A K’in is the official word for it.”

“What’s a day-keeper?” Stark had asked, buying Luca another drink.

Luca had smiled.  The French man’s face had been half spoiled, his right cheek puckered with scar tissu.  The tip of his smile slanded downward in into a harlequin frown.  “He’s a shaman, a kind of priest.  Word around Barbados is that he see’s the future.”

“Nobody can do that.”

“Word is Ah Khan is a man who can.” Luca drained the last of his ale and slammed the glass down on the chipped bar.  “I’ll take another if you please.” He asked the barkeep.

Stark unrolled the parchment and looked it over.  He had studied every inch of the parchment, trying to unlock it’s secrets.  But it had been inked in a dying language; and it’s arcane, sketched diagrams, which Stark guessed made up a map of some sort, could not be deciphered.  But there was more to the map than mere parchment and pen.  The words, made up of crude hooks and daggers, seemed to beckon to Stark, to beseech him to understand them.  The map had become Starks obsession, though he had quelled it.  To bring superstition of any kind aboard The Black Betty could exact terrible consequences.  For each man had his own set of fears, all grounded in the supernatural.  They would gather and kill Stark if they suspected him of cursing the ship.

The mystery in the map, in its diagrams, in its imagery, perplexed Stark.  And there was only one man in the world that Stark knew of who could read it, a man who lived at least a month and a half’s sail from where The Black Betty cut through the open seas.  Stark had to somehow get back to Barbados–back to Ah Kahn.

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If you haven’t heard a Rustmonster album, each recording revolves around a concept. Both Last Voyage of the Black Betty and The Flight of the Filthy Vicar tell stories about pirates in three acts.

I have decided, as a writer, to finally put down the entire story of The Last Voyage of the Black Betty as a, most likely, novel-length tale. I thought it would be fun to publish chapters on this site as they come out. I will post new chapters in the Black Betty Story post category. I will also add these chapters to a new page that contains the entire story in chapter order.

I am going to try to post a new chapter every week. We’ll see how it goes. for now, enjoy the first chapter of The Last Voyage of The Black Betty, printed below. I hope you like it.

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Last Voyage of the Black Betty

Chapter 1
The Boar’s Nest was a dismal tavern with begrimed tables and a miry floor, covered with a paltry scattering of sawdust to hide the tobacco, blood and whiskey. Every seedy, gawk-eyed scamp who ever crawled out from under a West London box eventually made his way to the Nest. Frequenters of the Nest squandered their last shillings for a sip of watered down tipple–a few moments of pleasure in their otherwise sorrow-infested lives. Among the Nest’s habitués were the heartless, the refused and the wicked. There never was a non-culpable man to visit the Nest, the barkeep would often say with a burlesque laugh and a sip of ale.

One balmy June night in the year of our Lord 1618, the good lieutenant of The Black Betty, accompanied by five hands, crunched his boots on the stoop of the Boar’s Nest and slammed the bat-wings wide. His name was Jax, an evil-tempered sailor with no patience for landlubbers. His commission, that humid, London eve, was to impress 20 men into service under The Black Betty’s captain, Stark, the coldest hearted pirate of them all.

There was a quell in the raucous dance and song as all eyes turned and recognized the hard skinned man wearing a black vest, his arms undulating with muscle and sinew.

“I’ll be needing a few volunteers.” Jax said, his voice like a storm.

The Nest exploded as men left their chairs to find quarter; for none desired to sail under Stark with his mane of silver hair and his sunken eyes that could stop a man’s heart with one icy stare. Jax and his hands drew saps and moved into the fray, their teeth barred into maniacal, twisted grins.

Within the hour 20 men had been impressed, their unconscious bodies lying in a line along the waist-deck of The Black Betty. Stark glowered down at his new volunteers from his perch high on the quarterdeck. With the volunteers impressed by Jax, his ship was fully crewed; it was time to make way.

“Make way, Mr. Jax.” Stark gave the order to his bosun as if it was nothing more than a light request.

That night, under the ghostly light of a three-quartered moon, The Black Betty made way on her last voyage.

Come back soon for the next installation of The Last Voyage of the Black Betty

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