Sailors are, as we all know, a superstitious lot. Bankers, as we know, are an avaricious lot.
Sailors and bankers don’t mix, for the sailors desire little save a tot of grog and the company of a fair maid on landfall, while the bankers desire to own thy very soul, me hearty.
And thus it was that Cap’n Clancy presented at the offices of Fitz, Drumm and Shaggett with a view to buying himself a brace of pretty ferries to serve the Western Islandfolk.
I’ll run ’em over an’ I’ll run ’em back, he told Admiral Fitz and Bosun Dave.
A rollicking band of bankers we, retorted Bosun Dave, with cat-like tread, upon our prey we steal.
And so the deal was struck with a little snifter. Pour, oh pour, the pirate sherry, shouted Admiral Fitz and away they hied to a tavern.
But the seas grew rough and the skies dark, and soon Cap’n Clancy found himself on the rocks, along with Admiral Fitz and Bosun Dave.
That was when the Pirate King appeared over the horizon, his foretopgallants flapping in the gale. And he bought — Yes he bought!!! He had bought — Yes he bought!!! For he bought, yes he bought, for he bought, yes he bought ….
… he bought the boats, for almost nothing compared to the sixmillaroonies paid out by Cap’n Clancy, funded by Admiral Fitz with money from a chest of gold on a lost desert island somewhere near Tortuga. A rum business indeed.
What of the privateers on the good ship Pantanal, flying the Antigua and Barbuda flag, that the Pirate King sent from his lair in Mauritius to collect Cap’n Clancy’s little fleet? What of their beaching at Ros a’Mhíl, with 16 souls aboard, running up on the rocks?
I tell ye no word of a lie, my friends, for that is exactly what became of the 16 buccaneers who set out to take the two vessels, Clann na nOileáin and Clan Eagle I.
So much for that, but we’re not yet finished our story yet, maties, for today, during another attempt to get the ferries aboard a freighter and on the high seas to Mauritius, a sling snapped and the good ship Clann na nOileáin fell into the water with three men aboard.
Now, as I said at the start, sailors are superstitious folk, and though I’m neither a sailor nor given to superstition, that is one passage I would not sign up for.
Call me Ishmael. Call me Vanderdecken.
Lat night the moon had a golden ring and tonight no moon we see. Time will tell if the buccaneers make it with their doomed prize all the way to the Indian Ocean. Time will tell, shipmates, but I’ll tell you this : I’ll be booking no passage on that ship.
No berth for me on such a vessel, my friends. I’ll not round the Cape for all eternity on the Ship of the Repossessed.