Captain Peanut Butter’s Past
Baron Britpop Blastfurnace • Chapter 11
The following evening, as Andelbert and I dined with the Captain, I built up enough courage to ask him about himself.
“Captain, may I ask you a question?”
“You may.” He replied.
“I can tell from your speech that you are an educated man. How did you become a pirate?” I asked.
“Right to the heart of it, eh? Would you prefer my whole life story or just a slice of the pie?”
I didn’t know what to say. Thankfully, the Captain wasn’t expecting a reply and continued.
“You told me how you became a Baron, so turnabout is fair. I am the son of a French missionary. I was educated in France before we left for the New World. My father planned to start a church in Jamaica, which he did in Port Royale. I learned English in preparation for the journey.
“My father was a good man, but missionary work is hard, especially in a town like Port Royale. He had little time for me once we arrived. I spent much of my youth watching ships sail into and out of port, wishing I was onboard. Our ocean crossing was difficult, but it made a strong impression on me, and I longed to be a sailor. Of course, my father was dead set against it. He saw the lives of sailors docked at port, and he wanted better for me. But I would not be swayed.
“When I was fourteen, my father and I were walking down the street and saw a man being beaten savagely by a Spanish sailor. My father ran to stop it. I chased after him, but the Spanish crew grabbed me and held me back. My father got a knife to the stomach for his efforts and died alongside the other man.
“My mother was so heartbroken that not long after, she packed everything up and booked passage to France. On the day of departure, standing at the dock with my younger sister and brother, I told her I was staying. She rightfully got angry and forbade me to stay. But I knew my life would be the sea, not France, so I ran. The passage was booked and paid for. She had no choice but to leave me there.
“I know I only added to her suffering, and it weighed heavily on me for years. I did eventually return to France to visit and begged her forgiveness. Which she undeservedly gave.
“I also stayed behind because I planned on finding that Spanish sailor and exacting revenge. But I never saw him again. My father would be thankful for that, I suppose. Eventually, I turned my thoughts to becoming a sailor. Actually, I turned my thoughts to survival first, for I had no means.
“I tried to get work on merchant ships, but none would have me. Thankfully, the privateers were not so discerning, and finally, I became a sailor. I worked under the Letters of Marque for the English, and for several years, we attacked Spanish and French ships. I learned to sail, to fight, and to be a pirate. For a privateer is nothing more than a pirate with a letter of government authorization.
“Eventually, I grew weary of the violence and horrors of sea battle. I decided I would no longer plunder ships for the English Crown. So I bided my time until we came upon a prize of a ship. The very ship you are standing on now. We came upon her by accident in the night. It was not much of a battle, and we had her quickly.
“By that time, I had a good reputation and was put in charge of sailing the ship back to Jamaica. The following night, I woke the crew and told them I would not be returning the ship to the English. I would be keeping her for myself. I told them I needed a crew to sail with me as pirates and keep the booty we fought so hard for instead of giving it to the King of England.
“It was a rousing speech—if I may boast a little—and necessarily so. For if they had not agreed, I would have certainly been killed. But they all agreed, and so my career as a pirate began.
“Does that answer your question, Baron?”
“Yes, indeed. Thank you.”
I am not sure what I expected, but not the tale I heard. Still, I felt there was more to the Captain than his brief recount provided.
