Shark Gotch and the Black Tulip 

  There were about six of ’em. The village nubiles. Polynesian poppettes. Skimpy wee grass skirts revealing more than concealing as they postured, evoking a Gauguin painted tableau of unspoiled beauty and youth. This was before the dour missionaries brought disease, overpopulation, middle class morality and religious madness. 
  Cooing like doves, they smiled and murmured among themselves, coyly, hands over mouths when they giggled at some native witticism, eyes studiously gazing seaward. But really studying the man lounging on the deck of Estaminet de Henrique with a long glass of something cool to hand and a boy languidly disturbing the tropical air with a palm frond. A cheroot lazily sent a tendril of fragrance up from the half pearl shell ashtray, 
  ’Arry also gazed seaward, for it was he indeed, Captain (Sir) ’Arry Driftwood – loved and hated from Kamchatka to Kerguelen. A man heroic of statue and spirit. He stood over two metres in his socks … when he wore ’em. Sinews of steel, eyes that seemed to pierce one through to one’s very soul and the grace of one of the larger felines. All this with the reflexes of a striking Taipan but the compassion to his loved ones of a saint. A Saint I say. Also shapely buttocks. 
  As ’Arry lazily reached for his Cuban cheroot and deeply inhaled; to blow challenging smoke rings towards the ship coming to haven in the lagoon, a spotted mongoose dropped from the thatch above and garrotted a vile fleur de lance about to strike at our lad. Such is Nature’s natural protection. 
  There was some movement out upon the lagoon that took everyone’s attention. Except that the hot-pants nubiles still did not miss a twitch or breath from Sir ’Arry. Not that they wore pants of course. It was not the serenely calm Doreen lying to her anchor that drew their attention but the sinister black-hulled ketch of the vile and notorious Shark Gotch. As she cleared the passage through the reef and into the lagoon one could see the Lascar crew getting the canvas off her and preparing to let go her anchor. 
  The crew of the Black Tulip, for that was the weather beaten name barely discernable at bows and transom, were all signed under a primitive form of AWAs which said that you worked yer guts out for shite or over the side for the sharks. Hence Gotch’s pejorative of ‘Shark’. 
  Sir ’Arry with practised sangfroid, carefully replaced his half-smoked cheroot back in the ashtray and reached into his colourful raffia dilly bag to push aside the huge Le Mat revolver and take out his splendid Karl Zeiss binoculars (gifted to him by the impotent potentate of Simla for procuring several male heirs upon his myriad Harem) … and a chamois bag of priceless black pearls which had cleared his sheep stations of all debts forever, where even now the priceless Roxanne, etc, etc, his faithful wife, more or less, managed it far more competently than Sir ’Arry could; for he was the Adventurer par excellence of the Pacific Ocean. 
  Casually scanning the Black Tulip he could see the vessel was rather battered and rundown, her standing and running rigging jury rigged only. He smiled and veered to glass across to the immaculate three-masted Doreen where he could detect that his loving and conscientious men had the quick-firing Nordenfeldt ready and concealed, for Sir ’Arry and Gotch were implacable and bloody enemies. The beginnings of their bloody feud long forgotten in the natural hatred and envy ’tween a large and successful seaman and a small statued unlucky man, and each was sustained by the frisson of danger when the other was near. 
  Aboard the Black Tulip Shark Gotch snapped out his orders in fluent Malay and the ship’s boat was lowered and crewed by six lithe brown men armed with sharp blades of Jap steel and earrings of Peruvian gold. 
  Gotch, smartly dressed in whites and wearing a solar topee, and royally ensconced in the sternsheets, gave the order to give way and they headed towards the beach. Sir ’Arry watched the Shark land and smiled as he cocked the Le Mat in his raffia dilly bag. A nasty French weapon of eight lead balls and a shot barrel underneath. Shark Gotch was a dapper wee man of ruthless habit. He strolled up and silently reclined in the rattan chair with Sir ’Arry. 
  Silence. Then, “Ow yer goin’ Sharky?” “Aaah, not too bad Drifty!” Silence. Then, from Sir ’Arry … “Bin ’aving a bit of a rough trot then?” “Yairs, a bit up ’n down yer know how it is …” 
  “Could do with a bit of a Sling to get me on me feet again!” “Hmmm? yairs, I suppose we could do yer some good.” Shark slowly raised the Browning and slipped it into his shoulder holster as Sir ’Arry eased the hammer down on the Le Mat. 
  “Oi, Oi, Henrique you lazy toerag, drinks here. Chop! Chop!” 
  He passed over his cigar case and they sighed contentedly and lit up, for it didn’t suit the Captain to see the Shark go under. Where would be the fun in that? 
  The nubiles expecting blood were gobsmacked, but that is the way of real men, men who know when to shoot, and when to smoke and smile.