Strange thing dream's, they seem so real, a sense of "Dajavue" as if i'd been there before......oh ekkk maybe thats why i keep getting sore throats !
WILD HIGHWAY
Being the memoirs of wild hearted Black-Arsed Jack, by himself, in gaol, awaiting the rope at Plymouth, for Mutiny, Piracy and crimes against mankind. As discovered by Mark Manning in a bin in Clerkenwell ….
I make no excuses for my life beneath the Jolly Roger.
Sacking, raping and murdering on the wild highway that is the Spanish main. Piracy, Privateering, call it what you will, to me it was simply freedom and a hazy dream of Libertalia. A land where men were equal in each other’s eyes and the law took care of itself.
Where fortunes were taken by the brave, and the lapdogs of the perfumed and powdered nobility were treated with the contempt that they deserved. At my trial, the judge - that effete, bewigged sodomist - called me a callous, murdering, brutal enemy of mankind. The list of crimes I was accused of meant nothing to me. The Admiralty’s pompous captains and buggerous officers that we fed to Neptune’s handsome guard of black eyed sharks was no crime in our eyes, but sport.
We fed those thrashing beauties one extremity at a time. Revelling in the horror on the faces of these fine Naval officers, as they watched hands that once caressed lovers and feet that carried them through the green fields of childhood feeding the ocean’s most gruesome and efficient predators.
We rovers are not without our own brand of bloody humour and style. In mine and my fellow brothers’ eyes we were above the laws of our European oppressors and their ridiculous circus of judges and powdered clowns. The tide was in their favour this time, but tides turn and in their frightened eyes you could tell that they knew this as well as we.
I laughed loud and hearty as the judge donned his black cap. We gentlemen of fortune understand the symbolism of terror as well ?� if not better ?� than those fools.
A man only has to take a look at laughing King Death, beneath whose bony face we frolic, to see that.
I was sixteen years old when I first became the Captain of a Pirate Ship. I set sail as cabin boy aboard a Merchant trader with the Devil himself for a Captain.
The bugger signed his own death warrant when he anointed my behind with a dollop of Jamaican snake oil and rammed himself into the main brace.
I took the scarred old sodomite’s life with his own cutlass, slid the steel into his lungs like cutting into butter. In an inspired frenzy I hacked off the pig’s head and strode out onto the quarter deck holding my dripping trophy aloft, warm brainblood splashing onto my face. I dare say I cut a Hellish dash, awash in that devil’s blood, my long black hair dressed in tar and whipped by the wild wind. The men, as one, cheered and set about the terrified officers, clapping them in irons. Like their Captain they were a bloody bunch of bastards, all of them far too fond of the Cat and buggery.
The men themselves turned out to be as brave and as wild in the heart as mine own self. We set about the rum and grog immediately, celebrating our liberation and toasting the wind in communion with our fellow outlaws on the high seas. We knew our lives were to be short, but ah, with what sweetness they would be lived.
I helped myself to a bottle of fine Madeira from the Captain’s quarters and shared it with the waves. On that sweet and bloody day, my life truly began.
The only problem now was what to do with the officers. Would it be the plank? A taste of their own beloved Cat? Keelhauling, or death by Sodomy?
Strapped to the mast and buggered all the way to hell. “Death by Sodomy!” I shouted, my arse still smarting from the Captain’s surprise attack from the rear. “Death by Sodomy, Master Jack?!” Shouted Onan Sam. “I reckon those bastards would enjoy that, why they’d probably more’n choose it themselves given half the chance!”
“You’re right there, Sam!” I agreed. w~~~~r Sam was the one-legged ship’s cook, and f~~~~~g useless he was as well. All the best vittles he reserved for his onanistic self and his buggerist Captain, for which he was loathed almost as much as the officers themselves.
“Not with the Sodomising I have in mind,” I said, as slowly as a snake in the slow hours of its venomous morning. “Irons for the w~~~~r Mr Gimpo!” I called to the able-bodied seaman who, grinning like Roger himself, had the unpopular, masturbating, one-legged cook bound and shackled in under a minute.
The most hated of all the officers, Midshipman Hornsmoker, loved the Cat more than any officer I’d ever seen. He always watched with the upmost glee, hands in his pockets up on the quarter deck, pants tented up like a Big Top. He was first to go.
We layed his backbone bare with his beloved cat and then stuffed his arse with enough powder to scupper a Galleon.
The Gimp lit the fuse and we laughed like madmen as his arse exploded all over the main deck.
His fellow officers dripping blood and shite screamed for mercy as they realised the nature of their transportation to Hell. How we laughed at their pleas for mercy.
My God. What sorry cowardly bastards they were, stood there pissing their dainty breeches.
The men were in a riotous mood, stoked up on rum and laughing till their ribs ached as we blew those fuckers’ arses to kingdom come. All of us were drunker than cross-eyed skunks when old Israel Hands called up my name for the post as Captain. The men roared with approval, and carrying me on their shoulders, placed me on the quarter deck and allotted me the Captain’s quarters. Old Grindhorn the sail mender had finished our rough and ready flag, that grinning terror the Jolly Roger. How my heart sang when King Death’s head was hoisted high amongst the sails cracking in the cloudless blue skies. “What now shipmates?” I called to my brave hearties, knowing full well the answer. As one they shouted out “Panama!” Tossing their rum into the air. “Get ourselves fucked up and sh~g those Spanish whores!” Roared Scottish Bill, brandishing his scarred purple reptile like a billy club. “Drink till we’re blind, and kill everyone we see!” Shouted Fat Arsed Pete, not the brightest sailor in the world but with a heart as true and big as a lion. The whole company roared their approval. Sammy the Shagger grabbed his accordion and started squeezing out some ass-kicking sea shanties. We shantied, drank and danced till the stars came out, revelling in our new found freedom. We were playing for high stakes now, but with the rum, the whores and the gold, we didn’t give a flying f~~k at a rolling ship’s biscuit.
Since I was knee high to a cockroach my father, God rest his roving soul, had schooled me not only on getting fucked out of my head on rum but on that occult mariner’s skill, Dead Reckoning. Celestial Navigation. Finding your way round these oceans and wild seas with only the stars and gut instinct for a guide. It’s not as hard as it seems, it’s harder. You must know in your blood, not only how to read the stars, but how to read and understand the different winds and the strange currents that run like invisible highways around our watery world. Dead Reckoning: it ran in my veins, like rum.
We arrived in Panama a week later. We struck old scary bones and hoisted Spanish colours, no point in warning those oil-drinking Papist bastards that early in the game.
Those black-haired sons of Spain were raping the Americas of Aztec gold, and by force of arms and the rights of our balls of steel we planned to take what was ours. Bog-Eyed Frankenstein was the only f~~~~r amongst us that could speak any Spanish, so we loosed a small boat and sent him to check out the lay of the land. There were three ships in the cosy, sheltered harbour, one a Galleon, a square-rigged beauty packing forty two guns. I eyed it jealously through my eyeglass. To take command of a Galleon. One of the most beautiful wooden worlds on earth: now that, shipmates, that would be paradise indeed. Bog-Eyed Frankenstein returned before sunset. “The Galleon is loaded with gold,” he said eagerly. I had half-suspected as much, the ship sat enticingly low in the water. “Her crew are a bunch of hornsmokers,” he added. “We can take them easy.” Of that I had no doubt. “Sails tomorrow, forty two guns.|” We would have to move quickly, under cover of night, when her crew would be drunk and useless. Around midnight, daggers in our teeth, pistols hung around our necks like jewellery, we slid silently across the silver water. A full moon hung high and beautiful, stars like diamonds spattered in their millions across the Prussian blue infinity. Sounds travel quick and far on a calm sea; we held our breath as we slipped alongside the galleon.
Two boats stoked with death and murderous intent we were. Thirty five men, seventy balls as big as Mars. “No fire,” I whispered, as quiet as a rat. “I want this ship.” The watch slid silently to the deck as Gimpo slit his throat. We padded barefoot on to the deck. Like cats we were. Seventy men met their maker that night. Not one man woke as our steel bled their death.
We set sail on a midnight breeze waiting till we were well clear of land before dumping the corpses.
The dawn rose gloriously as able- bodied Gimpo repainted the name of the ship. We called her “The F~~KER” - a jibe at those inbred inbeciles who claimed sovereignty over free men by accident of birth. A righteous name for a righteous ship. This surely had to be the most wonderful morning in the world.
Then it got better.
Bog-Eyed Frankenstein had found a couple of women hiding in the hold. An old hag and a Spanish beauty. She could speak a little English, and pleaded, “Please Captain Black-Arsed Jack, do not rape me, I am with child, the father is Don Assholio, he is very important man in Madrid, he will pay you much money. Please do not rape me.” A ripple of lecherous laughter danced across the decks. “What made you think we would rape you?” I said grinning and undoing my leather belt.
After the last one of us had fucked the Spanish bitch’s brains out, she didn’t look that good anymore. We threw the pair of them overboard, it was bad luck to have women on board, every horny-fisted salt knew that. The sharks who lunched on the officers were still with us. Which was odd indeed, usually it’s those gay porpoise that trail a ships wake. We took it as a good sign. ‘The F~~KER'’ trailed a guard of great whites. We hoisted The Jolly Roger just to see it flapping in the wind.
Ordinarily you don’t fly her until you wish to strike terror and force your adversary to surrender. If the prize ship’s Captain does not strike his colours immediately, the blood flag is hoisted. A flapping sheet of scarlet. It means that no quarter would be given, that every man, woman and infant were to be slaughtered with relish and glee.
‘The F~~KER’ was an awesome vessel. I couldn’t wait to smash the shit out of another ship. Any ship. I didn’t have to wait long. On the horizon was one of John Companies’ ships, slow, loaded with spices and assorted trade goods. Ordinarily we wouldn’t bother with such a vessel, the prizes being of little value to a vessel of our intentions, but I just couldn’t wait to smash the f~~k out of any thing that moved. The ship struck her Portugese colours immediately. We didn’t give a f~~k, up went Laughing King Death as we let fly a massive salvo of cannonfire.
Most of the shot missed of course, we were too far away to cause any real damage, but one lucky piece of flying iron took down the spice trader’s main mast, which meant it hadn’t a snowball in hell’s chance of escaping our satanic intentions. We smashed the living shite out of them with our Spanish guns and boarded an orgy of gore. Decks awash with blood. The crew of the spice trader were a cowardly bunch. Lying in bits all over the ship groaning and blubbing like women. Legs and arms, heads and so much blood, it splashed around our ankles as we leapt aboard. The surviving officers were hiding in the hold, all pleaded for mercy. f~~k that. I beheaded a couple and took the rest aboard for some torture fun on our long journey back to the Caribbean. Now that we were gentlemen of fortune we no longer had the pointless chores most sailors have to put up with, so we had much spare time. There were five of them. We decided that they were to be slaves and treated them accordingly, cursing them and treating them worse than dogs. We slaughtered them one at a time, when we were heavily soaked in rum. After traditionally hacking off a limb at a time and tossing the severed extremities to our loyal troops of sharks we roasted their still living torsos like pigs and ate them.
Cannibalism was an accepted form of nourishment for sailors on long journeys. Even the Queen’s Admiralty were partial to the odd roasted cabin boy with their boiled hams. Mind you, it wasn’t talked about much in front of lubbers, they couldn’t imagine how hungry a man gets sailing these cruel waves.
We arrived at Port Royal, the wickedest place on Earth, early in the morning. News of ‘The F~~KER’ and its boy captain travelled faster than a bosun after cabin boy chutney. The whores greeted us like conquering heroes as we leapt ashore ready to f~~k and drink like madmen, our pockets jangling with bloody doubloons. Gimpo couldn’t wait and payed a cute little Mullato girl to suck his pizzle right there on the street.
I got loaded on fine Jamaican rum and took my turns on the women. One of these predatory slatterns tried to get me to fall in love with her, a dark beauty she was, how she loved her diamonds and French Champagne. ‘Oh, Master Jackie, why do you have to leave so soon?’ She cooed in my ear. I could smell my pubescent nad jam on her breath and stood up quickly. “We’ve been here over two months, the loot’s gone, we have to set sail for Panama again!” I told her. Madame Jean Duvall’s attitude changed from sex kitten to frosty bitch in less than a second, “You are not the only sixteen year old pirate captain in ze world you know!” She hissed, naked apart from the diamonds I had bought for her. We did have quite a stash of gold left, but my roving desire was stronger than all this pointless debauchery. I longed for adventure and violence. I punched the mendacious f~~~a in her face and ripped the diamond necklace from her long neck. She went wild: “Those diamonds are mine!” she screamed, before cursing me in French. The stupid f~~k. I was only sixteen but my father had taught me well about the ways of women. Drain a man of his sperm and money, then make his life a living hell until at last he collapses and gives her everything, just to leave him be.
We caught a good wind and set sail for Panama the following morning. We had to the man fucked, drank and gambled away almost all our booty in just over a month of total and absolute pant-shitting debauchery that would have shamed Caligula. To the man, we longed for high seas and scarlet violence. We were anxious to blood our new cutlasses and pistols.
This time Panama was waiting for us. A Spanish man-of-war with more than eighty guns lurked behind the Mandings Straits as we sailed into Portobello. I was an older, but no wiser, seventeen. We were held in awe by most other pirate captains, mainly because of our unrivalled ferocity and cruelty. Our capacity for debauchery was legendary. Midshipman Gimpo cut a dashing figure in his blood red silk shirt, Scottish Bill was also a handsome figure of a man in his gore stained kilt. And I with no false modesty was a most outstanding and dashing young Captain. Whores all over the Caribbean threw in extra free sex for me because of my big-cocked ability to make those jaded crib kittens come like waterfalls. Of course, news of the theft of one of the Spanish King’s ships was not taken lightly. The Santa Bellender hit us with forty guns, our beloved galleon was fucked, main mast and hull damaged beyond repair. We hoisted the Jolly Roger and sailed to within boarding range of the enemy. Man, was that a sea rumble and a half. The Spaniards were as stoked on rum as we. Swords clashed and bellies spilled open, the decks of the Bellender swilled with blood and rum. We were outnumbered but winning the battle. What we lacked in numbers was made up for by our outstanding savagery. The Spaniards were paid to fight for their King and Country, whereas we fought because we loved violence and bloodshed. Part of the appeal of being a pirate is to spit in the eye of established authority. The rum, rape and pillage came a close second but what any pirate worth his weight in rum and spunk loved more than anything else was the old sea-borne ultra violence. We soon finished our mad slaughter and started hacking into any moaning pieces of Spanish dog shit left alive, throwing pieces of them to the sharks. We kept a couple of cabin boys to sodomise and eat later; their young flesh was as tender and sweet as veal.
Not one of my savage shipmates had fallen. There were plenty of non fatal wounds but the old sawbones in Portobello could cauterize and fix us up. Shitfaced Sam, a good sailor, seemed to have recieved the worst injury, lost his right leg from the hip. Bog-Eyed Frankenstein, as usual, was in a real mess, bleeding from three deep wounds, all about his face. It didn’t bother the old sea dog, he knew that women liked scars on a man. His entire face had been re-arranged by so many cutlasses over the years it looked like a demented child’s jigsaw puzzle. One eye socket beneath a patch was a good four inches above the other one, his nose lost in some low dive, fighting over a woman with a drunken French sailor. To those not accustomed to hand-to-hand combat, to pikes, pistols and swords, it is impossible to convey the sweetness of this close up slaughter, savouring your foe’s last breath upon your face. All of the men seemed to enjoy murder on the high sea as much - if not more than - sport with whores and rum.
I know I certainly did. Before my thirty third summer I had sent over two hundred men, women and whores to lie with the fishes. Black, white, yellow, red - I showed no prejudice and killed the lot of them, regardless of age, colour or creed. Life on the waves was worth swinging for. A gaoler here in Plymouth asked whether I’d do it all again. I smiled contemptuously at the landlubber and laughed. What a stupid question.
I swing tomorrow, I shall meet death with as much courage and defiance I showed in my raging fire of a life.
I am 33 years old, but I tasted more than half of those years far more sweetly than many a landsman has experienced in twice that amount. A priest asked if I wanted confession, I told him I would die as I lived: laughing in the face of the Devil with a request for him to do his worst. Death, gentlemen, as that other famous boy pirate, master Peter Pan himself said, will be an awfully great adventure.
With no regrets, yours in blood
Viva Libertalia!
WILD HEARTED
Black-Arsed JACK
Plymouth 1667
updated by Benny. "hmm my throats better now thanks"
