The Pirate

The tavern had an ill-fitting wooden door for a "drinking establishment", a term possibly too good for the place. The cracks at the bottom of the door had allowed some of the sawdust and spilled ale to spread on the uneven cobblestones of the mediaeval London street. Amidst the clack of the cartwheels and bustle of the grimy street business, one lone peg-leg sailor stumped his way toward the door, his slightly disheveled clothes wrinkled from the recent rain. The hook of his right arm pushed the door ajar, he leaned forwards taking an uncertain step on his good foot.

From inside, his three cornered hat with the bright light of day as background, almost obscured the leather patch over his right eye. The few ruffians, ne'er-do-wells, and the two barmaindens cast glances towards the light that silhouetted the pirate. All went quiet for a moment.

The barman, a man of good intent, turned from the casket of ale and welcomed the man amongst the existing clientele. "Yer" he grunted as he looked at them, "Ain't yer seen no man-o-the-seas recent like" he hesitated to include the pirate in the group, then continued "wot's got a thirst." He turned from his clients to the figure in the doorway, "Make way there for the Cap'n," he gestured to one of the barmaids to move. The door swung shut and the bar tried to re-accustom itself to the meager light that filtered through the two dirty windows. "What'l yer be 'aving" said the barman as the pirate clomped to the bar.

Soon the muttering of the bar returned. The bartender filled a glass-bottomed mug with ale, the wooden tap squeaking as it closed. The barman placed the mug of ale on the counter, wiped his hands on his apron and moved to collect some empties. He turned and spoke, as between two men of good-standing would, in those days; directly but a little quite, to test the waters. "Where yer get yer leg?" he questioned nodding and glancing quickly towards the pirate's lower torso. He imagined this an opener for some adventure of the high seas, maybe even a story about the Portuguese.

The pirate shifted his weight a little. "Ahrr" he said wiping some of the foam from his mouth, "had an argument with a whale" he paused, looking towards the barman "fell overboard trying to pull 'im in. Bugger bit it off, don't yer know matey". The barman stepped back a little, trying not to imagine the situation.

The pirate bought tobacco and soon settled down, inhaling from the stem of the long clay pipe. The barman was curious as he filled his mug with ale the second time.

"The hook" said the barman as he glanced at the dull metal of what was once the pirate's right hand. "Loose it same time?" he was really curious, "always take an interest in your customer" the landlord had said. He turned back from washing an ale mug and placed it in the cupboard and closing the door.

"Ahrr" said the pirate "some young prat thought I were after his wench, had a duel. Swish! Got me didn't he. Right off. Clean as a whistle, gone matey" he put the pipe down and pushed the handle of the ale mug around with his metal hook. He was reaching forwards with his left hand, about to pick up the ale.

The barman pointed to his own eye, kind of nodded to the pirate, the rest left unsaid. He wanted to know about the patch over the pirate's right eye. The pirate turned to him, his left eyebrow raised, his good hand came up, he touched his nose, wiping it lightly, curiously almost.

"Ahrr" said the pirate with a slight cough, "I were looking for high noon and a damn seagull flies by 'n shat in m' eye." He pointed quickly to the patch with his good hand, "gone" he said looking quickly down at his ale.

"Lost yer eye to bird shit?" the barman puzzled. "How that happen?" he stopped reaching for the empty mugs the barmaid had left.

The pirate shifted his weight, obviously embarrassed "just one day after I got me hook, weren't it" he grunted.