Pirates of the Potato Patch (A “Black Wattle the Pirate” Adventure)

Red at night, sailors delight. Red in the morning, sailors take warning.

This had been true ever since chickens first invented the dirt sailing ships, and it was still true today. And, as long as there has been ships, there have been pirates, but pirates were sailors too. The red tinted sky boded ill for the fiercest and cleverest pirate ever to sail the brown dirt seas, Black Wattle. A worried frown creased his beak as he considered this omen.

He thought about his ship, the Dirt Rider. It was the fastest ship to ever sail the potato fields, and it plowed through the furrows like a beak cutting through a plump grub. No, he needn’t worry about this ship.

He then turned his thoughts to his crew. They were hearty lads, with unparalleled experience. Blue beak was a master navigator, and could cross the road with his eyes closed, without even knowing the reason why. Rhode Island Red Beard was the best gunnery sergeant in the entire fleet. There wasn’t a gun or munitions that Red Beard hadn’t been able to master. No, he needn’t worry there either. Even his stores were in good shape. Sure, they had to tap the biscuits to get the weevils out, but every sailor learned to avoid thinking about the biscuit, but instead focused on the tasty weevil.

He was probably worrying about nothing. They had been successful day after day raiding the potato fields for the lucrative wire worm, the delectable Colorado potato beetle, and the delicacy of all delicacies, the tuber flea beetle. Even the minute pirate bugs futilely fled in fear whenever his ship came into view [1]. But maybe that was the problem, it had been almost too easy.

His reverie was broken when he heard the squawking of the alarm, and the dreaded call “Weasel Ho”!

“All wings to the braces!” he clucked instantly. “Hard-a lee!” Maybe he could turn and run before the weasel noticed him. And for a second, he thought he might get away with it. But the sky was not red this morning for nothing, the weasel caught a glimpse of them and the chase was on.

Weasels were the worst fear of every sailing bird. They were natural born killing machines, and the weasels had never lost a battle in a head to head fight. Black Wattle’s only chance was to out- run or out-wit him, and even that was long shot. He would have to pull out every stop, use every trick, and coax every last bit of speed from old Dirt Rider, if he hoped to live to see tomorrow. He sent Hawk Eye up to the crow’s nest to keep him informed on the weasel’s progress.

“Weasel two points off the starboard quarter. Range 10 furrows and closing fast!”, shouted Hawk eye, Over the next hour, Black Wattle tried every trick he knew. He tacked, he jibed, and he put up more sail and tried to out run him. Perhaps with the wind behind him the weasel would lose his scent.

“Weasel dead astern , range 3 furrows and closing!” shouted Hawk eye.

Black Wattle was beginning to lose hope. He urged his crew on even harder .

“Put your backs to it, you gizzard goobers!” he shouted to his crew. “No slacking off or you’ll get a taste of the cat!”

The crew was now straining at its limit. No one wanted to be tasted by a cat. But it appeared to be too little, too late.

“Weasel dead astern, distance one furrow! He’s doing his war dance!”

The crew slumped in defeat, they knew that weasel only did his war dance when he had his prey hopelessly cornered. He was twisting, darting and dancing, all the time with the evil weasel grin showing off his razor sharp teeth [2]. The crew began to despair, and several of his mates fainted from fight. The Fryer went from crew to crew offering last rites. Even Black Wattle began to think he would never make it home to see his hen again.

Just then Red Beard approached tentatively.

“Captain, I may have an idea”, he said. “It sounds kind of crazy, but the mates have been catching the rats on board and feeding them, keeping them as pets”. Red Beard continued to explain his idea, and after more back-and-forth discussion Black Wattle decided they didn’t have anything to lose.

“Hurry and bring up the rats.” Black Wattle shouted. He then loaded the rats into the cannons and aimed them at the weasel. “Don’t fire until I give the signal or I will fricassee your giblets!” he squawked at his crew.

When the crew saw what the captain planned, they despaired even more.

“We’ll be stew meat!” they cried. “Shooting rats at the weasel won’t stop it! We’re only succeeding in giving it an appetizer!”

Time seemed to slow as the weasel began his final charge.

“Fire!” Black wattle bellowed.

The rats shot through the air with a rat-a-tat-tat , and hurtled toward the weasel. All eyes watched as the rats sailed majestically though the air right towards the weasel’s head, and the crew held its breath.

And then, the rats missed, and sailed harmlessly past the weasel’s head. The crew let out a collective moan of despair as their last gamut failed. But there was a grim smile on Captain Wattles beak. He kept watching as the weasel’s eyes tracked the rats as they sailed past. He knew that weasels often attacked any movement by shear instinct [3], and as the rats sailed past, the weasel forgot about the Dirt Rider, and pounced on the rats. He darted right, then left, trying to catch them all before they escaped. In the confusion, the Dirt Rider was able to sneak away to safety.

That night as they feasted on wire worms, and they retold the story over and over again of Captain Black Wattle, and the battle of the weasel. They extolled the wisdom of Rhode Island Red Beard, and his invention of rat chaff, which has been used ever since by friend and fowl alike to evade the fierce weasels.

Now it would be nice if the heroic chickens [4] lived happily ever after. But unfortunately, the law of unintended consequences reared its ugly head, and the weasels soon learned that they could get a free meal of rats by chasing the chicken pirates, and it only increased the weasels attacks, until eventually the chickens ran out of rats. Then the weasels turned on the chicken pirates and ate them all up. That is why you don’t see the chicken pirates and their dirt riding ships any longer.

Footnotes:

[1] Those are all real potato pest names.

[2] Weasels really do perform a war dance when they have their prey cornered, although no one really knows why. There have been observances of the prey dying of fright when this happens, but sometimes the weasel does the war dance by himself for no apparent reason

[3] Also true

[4] A phrase you don’t hear very often