Yo-Ho-Ho For The Jolly Old Fellow!

When your historian received a summons in the unmistakable handwriting of Capt. Morgan Corbye inviting, nay, demanding that I join her for seasonal libations aboard the Winged Adventure, I thought it best to forward to her a small overture by means of a messenger, our last encounter having left me somewhat in her disfavour. When the boy arrived at my apartments following the delivery with his ears, nose and digits intact, I felt it safe to assume that at least for the nonce, the good Captain had forgiven my transgressions. Not wishing to commit another social faux pas, I had decided (and wisely) to forgo presenting Captain Corbye with a better grade of rum; her preferences in that regard are carved in stone and no man dares offer anything but her usual. I sent along eggnog instead, a beverage for which the Captain has a great fondness (when liberally laced with the aforementioned rum), and one which does not keep well at sea. That I should suspect an ulterior motive never crossed my mind, demonstrating how easily we are lulled into false perceptions.

The Captain met me at the railing, handed me down to the deck with the gracious demeanor of a high-society dame and escorted me to her somewhat inelegantly appointed cabin where a single lantern illuminated the upturned trunk which sufficed as her table. It was then I saw the error in my assumptions, for on the table was the Swear Box. I had last seen it in the hands of our timid village parson.

Now it must be told that Captain Corbye has at her command a wealth of invective the likes of which is not often found even at sea. Her bold language was how she became acquainted with the Swear Box. The clergy had been making the rounds of the pubs whilst several legitimate vessels were in the harbour and the ships' crews taking liberty on shore, for sailors will swear and it was the cleric's purpose to fine them, funds thus raised to benefit the sea-widows of the town. Most sailors obliged him with prodigious and purposeful donations; benevolence is in their nature. Capt. Corbye, on the other hand, refused to pay up a cent for a particularly descriptive oath she had vented upon the innkeeper and all his antecedents. That was the last I had seen of the Swear Box, and now it was resting beside my gift of eggnog and the Captain's diminishing store of rum. I knew that I would be expected to respond in kind to each curse Morgan Corbye uttered, but only I would pay the fines she set. Oh, the parson would get his Swear Box back, no doubt about that, and the widows would eat well over the holidays, but my purse would be a great deal lighter before this night was through. Morgan Corbye had found a means to aid the needy in true piratical style.

Portents

The old gypsy cringed when the curtains of her sitting room were drawn back abruptly and a handful of silver coins were tossed on the wool shawl covering her divining table. The voice was one she remembered all too well, and though the payment was shabby compared to the contributions from her regular clients, she did not argue when she was addressed harshly. "'Tis naught but mumbo-jumbo, ye thievin' witch, though ye put mese'f in th' right quarter fer a tidy bit o' commerce last we met. I be thinkin' ye knows summat wot most ain't privy to, wot wi' cossettin' th' Guv'nor's purty new wife like she were a pet poodle. I thinks them ears o' yourn ain't quite so deaf as ye makes 'em out t' be, an' I'm wantin' t' know wot's afoot. Get on wi' yer hocus-pocus, ye canny ol' charlatan, an' be givin' me th' information 'owever ye wants t' dress it." Morgan Corbye sat down on the stool opposite the fortune-teller with a loud clatter of armaments. From her belt she drew her infamous black-bladed dagger and banged the hilt on the table. "Get on wi' it, I says!"

The gypsy woman drew the Queen of Pentacles from her Tarot deck and said, "Significator, a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman of power." She then passed the deck to Capt. Corbye who shuffled and riffled it until the old woman feared the cards would be damaged. Then the pirate cut the cards into three extravagantly unequal piles and placed them face down, barely within the gypsy's reach. In the manner of hundreds who had gone before her, the fortune-teller dealt the cards into an ancient Celtic pattern, speaking a formula as she did so.

"The Ten of Rods covers you." She paused for effect, as if she thought her divination skills might be able to read a reaction from the pirate. She was awarded a glare which left no doubt that she was to continue and quickly, or be at peril for her life. "The Tower reversed crosses you." Of all her patrons, Morgan Corbye was the one who most frequently had that particular card turn up in that particular position. The gypsy suspected her of having marked the deck. "The Seven of Cups crowns you. The Four of Cups is beneath you. The Six of Swords is behind you." This latter card was reversed, another frequent occurrence when Capt. Corbye sat opposite. So far, there had been no surprises. The gypsy could have told this portion of the Captain's fortune without any cards at all, but now she had to venture onto shaky and dangerous ground. "The Nine of Rods is before you." This was a momentary reprieve. Now she knew that Morgan Corbye's inner strength was not in question. Surely it would carry the day in the remaining cards.

The diviner laid out the final column from bottom to top: Four of Swords, Seven of Rods reversed, the Empress reversed and the Five of Cups. She paused to read the portents for only a moment, but was yanked from her meditation by the Captain's abrupt, "Well?" and the bright sound of silver against silver as a cairngorm brooch was slapped down among the paltry coins. The stone alone was worth half a year's visits from the Governor's wife, and the silver setting would stock the old woman's larder with a plentiful store of dried beef and flour, should she happen to survive her interpretation of the cards. Drawing a deep breath and marshalling all her skills, she read the augury.

"You come to me uncertain, emboldened by some success and yet finding too much opposition in your ventures for your liking. You want to know if you are in a bad patch, if the circumstances which go against you are out of your control. You want to know if you have the strength to endure what is being handed to you. I will tell you what I see.

"You desire change, Morgan Corbye. You are dissatisfied and bored. You want adventure. You have something behind you which is as yet unresolved, something you long to bend to shape by force of action. I tell you now that you have the strength to do this, and it is easily within your grasp. Take action, but be discreet and cautious with your time and resources. Do not expend them hastily or without careful consideration. Indecision is your enemy. It will lead you into the maze of anxiety and confusion which you already know and therefore fear. Do not let fear master you, and do not be distracted by small losses which shall pilot you to greater gains. Do these things, Captain Corbye, and you shall have fair sailing."

The knuckles of the hand gripping the haft of the black dagger whitened, but the point did not move as Capt. Corbye picked up the cairngorm with her other hand. The gypsy's eyes widened at the uncouth retraction of a proffered stipend. The pirate's expression hardened as she brought the dagger to bear on the point of the diviner's nose. "Ye bloody fraud!" she burst out, and gave the gut-shuddering croak which served her as a laugh. "I paid ye fer a dark an' dangerous man in me life, an' all ye've got t' offer is a bit o' me own 'istory recited? Dry up!" With a final gesture, she knocked the table to one side, scattering the cards, dealt and deck alike. Had she looked back, she would have seen the Knight of Swords upright beside her Queen.

"Bring Me That Horizon..."

Shift off'n that keg, ye scurvy sack o' dogmeat. Ye be wantin' words o' me? I'll be a'ter tellin' it damn straight, an' see you takes it down proper. Wot ye've writ on that page, "Bring me that 'orizon!"...well, them words be spoke by many a fine captain afore that young scallywag Jacky Sparrow made 'em known t' all th' world, but 'e gets all th' credit whilst rest o' us gets nary a line in a 'istory book. I be thinkin' ol' Ed'ard Teach prob'ly said 'em fust. 'E was a eddycated bloke an' prone t' turnin' phrases wi' th' tide by wot I 'ears. An' I be tellin' ye now that th' Black Blade (that be mese'f, Morgan Corbye) said 'em when fust she cast off in th' Winged Adventure. 'Twas a few years ago, that, an' I still be lookin' t' reach th' last one. 'Tis no sense in livin' wi'out adventure, no sense a-tall t' be settin' yer hindparts on a cushion fer th' rest o' yer days, not when there's a 'orizon ye've never charted. 'Tis me way o' thinkin' that someday I'll be gettin' but 'alfway there afore I keels over, but by the lord 'Arry, I means to be under full sail when it 'appens.

Now lay down that pen an' get yer sorry shanks topside an' make fast them lines afore I uses yer backbone t' 'olystone th' deck. Bloody 'istorian!

Sister-foe

Of an evening as we sailed clear of Port Ryffe, a tale of long-standing enmity was related to this biographer whilst I dressed a deep cut on Captain Corbye's hand. I provide it in the Captain's own words for my readers as a point of historical interest for, having been forbidden to leave my quarters on board the Winged Adventure, I did not witness the encounter.

*****

Upon this day, 'tis a fact that many a pirate puts t' port an' takes on ship's stores an' pays a visit t' a grog shop or two, but 'tis also a fact that there's many a score t' settle, an' by the lord Harry, there ain't none more fierce than that blood-feud wot lies atween th' Black Blade an' 'er thievin' dastard o' a sister, 'er wot they calls the Dread Pirate Corbye in some quarters. Identical they is, an' were only experience wot made one o' 'em better at th' knife than t'other, made 'er stronger an' quicker an' a dab 'and wi' the lash.

This feud, now...it goes back a long ways t' when these two wuz dressed by they's mum in pink satin and ruffles (wot, y'might imagine, they both despised, a-bein' o' the piratin' nature from early on), fer it was Kat Corbye wot made folk believe she were 'er own sister, an' gettin' blame laid on the backside o' the Black Blade wi' a strop fer the mischief she'd be about. An' the two o' 'em were sich rivals that when Black Blade shipped out in th' cargo 'old o' a vessel bound fer Tortuga at age o' twelve that naught would 'ave it but Kat Corbye follered suit an' weaseled 'er way inter bein' cabin boy fer a cap'n wi' a shady reputation, conked 'im cold an' chucked 'im overboard a fortnight out. Blood were spilled next time th' two met, an' Black Blade 'as sworn she be a-goin' t' flay Kat Corbye alive wi' cat-o-nine-tails afore she keelhauls 'er an' leaves 'er wi' cannibals, 'er wretched ship on th' bottom in some uncharted cove.

Black Blade (for it be she wot's stronger an' quicker) will no' be lettin' Kat Corbye sully 'er name on this day of all days! 'Twas a certain mischance that th' two o' 'em put into same port 'ere, commencin' t' fight t' th' death, I'll warrant, lest that plaguey sister o' mine slinks back t' 'eal 'er wounds in th' bilge where she belongs.

Down Among The Cannibals

It has been said of Morgan Corbye that she went a little mad during the period when she found herself among the peoples of a remote island archipelago, but on this point, the debate is no more clear than that of chicken and egg. Driven to an act of desperation when very young, no doubt her mind was already somewhat unsettled. Her years of service aboard the Compass Rose surely proved difficult as she strove to maintain her masquerade as a common seaman (albeit a young one) while at the same time, her secret adoration of the ship's Captain warred with her emotional control. If aware of her feelings toward him, Capt. Service never sought the advantage a lesser being might have pressed. For all that he was a pirate of the first water, he was a man of honor insofar as widows, orphans and the like were concerned, and although he was hard-tempered with his crew at times, he never punished a man for an honest mistake. The code by which he governed those under his command and his kindness to the disadvantaged also became the signal principle by which Morgan Corbye presides to this day. "I'll be havin' no truck with them as 'urts stray cats an' kiddies," she says with a gesture to the two moggies who share her cabin.

Preface

Little is known about Morgan Corbye's early years other than from the abbreviated log entries of infamous Capt. Edgar Service who discovered a twelve-year old stowaway among his cargo shortly before offloading a freight of illicit goods at Tortuga. Emaciated and filthy, the feisty girl caught his fancy when she nearly succeeded in making good on a threat to "have yer gizzard on a marlinespike" as she took on a man twice her size and five times her age despite her poor physical condition. Service placed her under his protection, garbed her as a common sailor and kept her in his employ for several years aboard the Compass Rose until the ship foundered in an unseasonal storm. Capt. Service went down with his vessel and from various sources, we know that only a few hands made it to shore, Morgan Corbye among them, if not perhaps literally in proximity to them.

Her history again becomes vague at this point with only rumours to describe how she came into possession of the Winged Adventure, stories ranging from the ridiculous (that she was possessed by the spirit of Edward Teach and commanded by enchantments) to the sublime (that she gained the helm upon singlehandedly subduing its crew of a dozen at knife-point). Based upon personal acquaintance with Capt. Corbye, your historian is inclined to believe the latter, although it is impossible to verify with many of the former crew no longer among the living; the Captain herself claims only five put up serious resistance.

It is worth mentioning that Morgan Corbye is a singular individual, although not in a genetic sense. She is the identical twin to notorious scoundrel Kat (Katherine) Corbye, called by some the "Dread Pirate Corbye" just as Morgan is referred to as the "Black Blade." It does not sit well with either woman that there are two "Captains Corbye" on the waves, both of similar infamy and prowess. Indeed, exploits attributed to one sister may be those executed by the other, a factor which contributes to the inaccuracy of the colorful histories which surround both women. It is well documented that Kat Corbye obtained her command of the Grey Raven by dispatching its captain at the same time that her sister was serving her apprenticeship under Capt. Service. Morgan Corbye benefited from the guidance of a superior while Kat Corbye had no such tutor in the ways of command.

Throughout the years of her career, Morgan Corbye has commanded but one ship, the Winged Adventure. A few of her original crew remain staunchly loyal, the remainder having fallen to the various forms of attrition incumbent with acts of piracy. She exhibits a fondness for knives and the lash, but applies neither injudiciously, and may often be found in her cabin, at work with the same marlinespike with which she menaced Capt. Service those many years ago.