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First Impressions
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The impress service,
or more commonly called the press gang,
was employed to seize men
for employment at sea
- https://www.royalnavalmuseum.org/info_sheet_impressment.html
Residents of sea ports lived in fear
of the press gangs that patrolled waterfronts
and raided taverns,
pouncing on deserters and idle mariners
- www.pbs.org/opb/history detectives/feature/british-navy-impressment
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The mob of burly sailors squeezed through the doorway of The Rat’s Nest. The ominousness inherent in an event of this magnitude prompted a few of the wiser patrons to scurry stealthily for the waterfront tavern’s "lavatory", which was little more than a backdoor leading to a rancid alleyway. Royal Navy press-gangs were a reality in British Carolina, even here in swampy Bath Towne. But, The Rat’s Nest was a pirate haven; its remaining occupants were all too drunk, too stupid, or too cock-sure of their own fighting ability to even attempt escape. Soon enough, the new arrivals’ jovial demeanor, benign grins, and loud laughter made it obvious they were nothing more than a crew on shore leave – and all but the most hardened blackhearts in the tavern relaxed their grips on their weapons and returned to their drinks and gambling. The crew huddled briefly around the tables nearest the main door before three of the larger sailors headed towards the bar, led by the party's only normal-sized member.
The tavern keeper wiped up a spill on the bar with an old rag. He decided the well-dressed man must be one of their ship's officers, based on the respectful deference shown by the others, but why hadn't he noticed this man when the group first entered? The barkeep's jaw clenched tightly, resolutely. He had developed a sixth sense about this sort of thing over the years. He could always tell when someone was going to die. He could feel something now, something aetherial, something tingling at the edge of his consciousness.
The tavern keeper was safety-conscious. You had to be when you catered to pirates. He knew he was protected behind his armored bar. Its thick cherry wood front and top were reinforced with iron plate. The Rat’s Nest’s bar was capable of stopping a small caliber cannonball. And his trusty blunderbusses were ready, loaded and primed with shot. The twins were old and a bit rusty, but they had always been reliable before now. They peeked out from gun ports hidden in the shadows beneath the overhanging bar top. He reached down and unlatched the safety on the trigger mechanism. If need be, he could fire them both simultaneously with his knee and buy himself enough time to escape through a crawl space. He had been forced to use the deadly contraption a few times over the years. He knew he would be safe, but he hated what came next. He hated to clean up human gore.
Two of the three ogres bearing down on his position peeled away from the group and headed for the “lavatory". The remaining bear-sized man shadowed his smaller companion to the bar. The barkeep welcomed them with a forced smile.
“Ahoy 'n’ Welcome to Ye Rat’s Nest. Whot ken I be doin’ ye fer? Howzabout some grog? Arrrs be ye cheapest and strongest in Carolina.”
The officer had an odd manner of speech… calm and soothing, yet simultaneously jarringly over-the-top.
“Indubitably, bred'ren, we hath heard tell. 'Tis ye reason we hath sought thee out.”
He pressed against the bar and leaned in towards the bartender, lowering his voice as if he were about to share a secret.
“Truth be told, mi Compagnie doth hath a business proposition for ye proprietor o' this fine establishment.”
The bartender’s knee twitched unconsciously towards the twin blunderbusses’ trigger plate. Something seemed fishy to Luke. His reply was terse and curt.
“Ye ken only be lookin’ fer me then. Tell me ‘bout yer bizness perpetration, and be quick ‘bout it."
“Aye, verily. Due to thy proud countenance, I didst knoweth thou mote be ye one we didst seek. And so, without further ado, I shallst be introducin' mi self... I AM Ye Right Honourable Reverend Doctor Heronimus Jones, Captain o' Ye Brew D'Agon."
The Reverend Doctor nodded a bow in greeting.
"& Thou art….”
The tavern-keeper interrupted impatiently, scowling.
“Luke Pratt.”
His name was no secret. He didn't have time for childish games, thieving charlatans, or long-winded speeches. Heronimus flashed a crooked crescent-moon smile.
“Luke Pratt, verily thou doth be a lucky pirate. As Chief Executive Officer o' Brew D’Agon Traiding Compagnie, Incorpirated, I doth be duly authorized to be offerin' thee this nigh-invaluable, once-in-a-lifetime franchise opportunity. Come, Mr. Pratt, join us, & reap a reward far greater than mere gold. D'Agon fhtagn.”
Luke wasn't sure about what he had just heard. He wasn’t even sure it was English. His gut churned uncomfortably, beads of sweat formed on his brow. What Luke did know was this… if you couldn’t see a pirate’s hands, dangerous things could happen. And Luke couldn't see the Reverend Doctor's damned hands. Behind the bar, Luke’s knee inched towards the twin guns' trigger.
“We speak ye King's English in dese 'ere colonies. We don't want no doggone Frenchies.”
The admittedly well-mannered Corpirate representative laughed good-naturedly. Heronimus raised his hands so that they were visible above the bar and shrugged in compliance.
“Aye. Thou proveth thou doth be a cautious & careful man, Mister Pratt. 'Tis a fine trait, proof thou art worth yer salt. Please, remain tranquil. Tharrr be no pressurin' thee to be joinin' us this day. Take yer time contemplatin' arrr generous offer. Iffen thou doth agree, Brew D’Agon Traidin’ Compagnie, Inc. (fer a minimal recurring membership fee) willst be providin' thee with low-cost, high quality, critically acclaimed & consumer-tested products along with all ye tools & resources necessary to survive & thrive in ye cutthroat pirate-hospitality industry. Mi associate here, Bred’ren Arthur, willst be leavin’ thee samples o’ mi very own patented VodouBrew™ & assorted informative literature for thee to peruse at thy leisure.”
The Right Honourable Reverend Doctor turned and gestured toward his far larger, far more menacing companion. The grizzle-bearded man’s swarthy arms rippled with thickly cabled muscles, which bulged intimidatingly out of a sleeveless British Royal Marine’s overcoat. Arthur smiled. Luke could see a few teeth were missing. A flattened, pulpy nose and a network of scars bore testimony to a life spent in pursuits more deadly than dainty.
Luke Pratt dealt with drunken pirates and thugs every day. Heronimus Jones had judged him correctly; Luke was, without a doubt, cautious and careful. He didn’t take chances. He couldn’t afford to in this business. When Arthur crossed his arms and reached inside his overcoat with both hands, the tavern master acted naturally, if a little too hastily.
Luke depressed the hidden trigger mechanism with his knee, and the twin blunderbusses misfired catastrophically. The bar's armor plating, meant to act as a shield for the bartender, instead channeled the force of the blasts backwards into his lower half. Luke’s kneecaps and parts of his thighs and calves became a grisly red mist with occasional spattered chunks. The rest of him toppled backwards, not dead yet but, in shock and dying from the loss of blood gushing from his savagely ruptured femoral arteries.
Arthur pulled his hands from his overcoat. His right hand held sheets of paper and his left held two sample flasks. Arthur’s shoulders slumped as he sighed sadly and shook his head.
“Damn it, man. I'm tired of cleaning up these fools’ blood.”
Heronimus surveyed the scene around them. The explosion had, not unexpectedly, triggered a commotion in the tavern. A few patrons had tried to escape too late, and now stood uncertainly near exits blocked by the dangerous looking giants from The Brew D’Agon. The few dead-drunk slept on, undisturbed. The remainder of the pirate’s waited to see what would happen next, ready to fight for their lives if necessary. Any cornered dog or rat would do the same. The Right Honourable Reverend Doctor held up his cane to focus everyone’s attention. The red gemstone pommel caught the eye of every pirate in the room. Most thought only of the wealth the jewel obviously represented. A hush fell over the crowd. One pirate, sitting alone in a dark corner, thought he heard disembodied whispers of ancient knowledge and ghostly chanting in long-dead tongues — he remained silent. The Reverend Doctor allowed the silence to soak in before breaking it.
“Hear ye! Hear ye! I be most proud to be announcin' this tavern, formerly known as Ye Rat’s Nest, now be operatin' under new & improved management. Free drinks for all in honour o’ ye grand opening o’ ye newest Brew D’Agon Tea, Rum, & Coffee Haus. Come, pirates! Join us & drink hearty! Free drinks for all! D’Agon fhtagn.”
The huzzahs were loudest from The Brew D’Agon’s crew, but everyone in the bar joined in, cheering and raising their hastily refilled mug or flagon. Most of the pirates didn't know what was really happening or why, and they didn't care; they had stopped listening once they heard “free drinks”.
Heronimus turned to Arthur, who had hurried around behind the bar to clean up the dying mess that was (for a few moments more) Luke Pratt.
“'Tis a fine example o' what I hath been pontificatin' to thee about, Bred'ren Arthur. His weapons were woefully neglected. Veritably, they wouldst 'ave eventually misfired o’ their own accord, even iffen I hadst not plugged their gunbarrels with rubber tree gum compound. Mi protective measure merely hastened them along to their eventual demise, albeit in such a manner as to ensure our benefit from this nigh-inevitable outcome. Luke Pratt didst attempt to murder us whilst we didst parley for potential mutual benefit. Forsooth, iffen he hadst properly maintained his weaponry, ye end product wouldst’ve been not his end, but ours. A few o' these innocent patrons might’ve perished as well.”
Arthur chuckled to himself at the thought of any pirate being considered innocent. He realized now, as he knelt beside the dying Luke Pratt, why the Corpiration insisted on conducting in-person, in-depth “market research”. The dying man’s eyes were fearful and pleading. Arthur cupped the back of Luke’s skull gently in his palm.
“Relax, brother. Be still. I am here to help you.”
Luke Pratt’s eyes closed for the last time. Arthur slid his knife from its sheath and stabbed upwards, penetrating the skin behind Luke’s mandible, piercing the brain. Arthur stirred the blade around, scraping the inside of Luke’s skull. Luke died instantly. Arthur whispered the mantra of Brew D’Agon, Inc.
"D'Agon fhtagn."
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