The following tale of Captain Conrad Blackhill's list is intended to be read aloud, rhythmically. At times, because of this, words will occur in orders that may not seem entirely natural, or extended rhyming couplets will accentuate a point. At times, conjunctions are used where they would typically be omitted, in order to maintain the metrical overtones. For instance, when read aloud in its intended meter, the beginning paragraph takes on the following form:

Although such rhythmic prose would probably be unsustainable over many pages (either the author or the reader would fall asleep, lulled by the sirens into the rocks of boredom), I hope you enjoy a brief moment by the ocean as we learn Allen Dorset's secret to success.

The List
by Quinn Tyler Jackson

Conrad Blackhill retired from a long life of romance with the sea, never to forget that he'd captained a clipper as sleek and as fast as the "Molly McTavish." But the "Molly" was gone now, and the years passed away, and good Captain Blackhill could remember the sea, but never again could wash in its spray and its fumes while the men ran the decks to his word and command. So he started to live on the land as he had in the days when the sea was his mistress, and he took to running the Billy Boar Inn, and he ran it with the care and precision he loved.

His guests would arrive from their wandering to a place they could rest and forget all about what it was they wished to forget. The Billy Boar flew from season to season, from guest to guest, and the Captain became a fisher of men. He would tell them his stories of flotsam and jetsam, of storms, and of waves, and they reveled to hear of the "Molly McTavish."

"It's hard to believe," one wanderer once said, "that you ever found the strength to retire."

When he heard this, Conrad went white, whiter than the gray of his full captain's beard. "Indeed I regret," he replied, "that I ever had bones that could not weather the sea just one more year." To this he lifted his mug and saluted the sea and the "Molly" of younger days and sturdier bones.

Good things will pass, and as days turned to years, another man came and opened an inn. Though the Billy Boar was the place to go for stories and beer and tales of the sea, the new Happy Bock was run by a young man with drive, and sooner than not, the crowd at the Billy grew thinner and quieter, like a calm out from shore.

Having commanded, for so many years, the respect of his men, the Captain refused to lose to a man who had never known sea legs, so he took to his den devising a plan to keep the Billy Boar strong. This was how he came up with his list.

The list bore the names of all those who had lodged or had taken their ale at the Billy Boar Inn. Those whose names did not come to his mind he instead described by their dress, or their ways, or their size. He thought on this list and beside those who went for the Bock he put marks.

"What do you know of this man here?" he would ask someone when others could not hear.

"A cooper who married the daughter of Bentwick, the butcher."

"And of the limping fat man who always had bread with his ale?"

"A seafaring man like you, I believe, though never one to command men."

As much as he thought and he pried he could not uncover the type who would leave for the Bock. He felt nonetheless that somewhere in the names and the details was the answer to why the guests slowly made their way away from his inn.

"There's a man missing from your list," an old man once said. He had been with the Boar since it first served an ale.

The Captain approached, with a full mug of ale, set it before him, and waited for words.

"You've got heights and weights, names, and trades, notes and musings, and remembered faces. You've got short ones and tall ones, slender and round ones, but you've not listed the owner of the Happy Bock," the old man finally said, after taking his fill.

"I know nothing of him," Blackhill replied, taking the empty cup.

"And there's what I'm saying."

Not wishing to lose even one more man to the Bock, the Captain decided to visit the place himself. He crossed the road, swung open the door, and entered the place. He saw butchers and coopers, and men who had once all spent time at the Boar. They smiled when they saw him, as if greeting an old friend, lifted their cups and saluted, when he marched past their tables. He saw they were happier, but their smiles were no wider than when they had been at the Boar.

When Allan Dorset, the owner and keeper, saw his new guest, he handed him a full bock, saying, "This is on me, Captain Blackhill."

Conrad Blackhill, never one to have looked at a storm and turned without knowing its force, pulled the bock to his chest. He lifted the drink to his lip, and sipped in a fashion, before putting it down to rest on the bar. He heard laughing and singing, and remembered the days when those voices would fill the walls of the Boar. He stared at this Dorset, a smiling, slight man, and knew in an instant that never had he spent a day in bed with the sea. No tales of the wind or weather torn sails would spring from this man. Blackhill nodded his head, took off his hat, and finished his beer, without a word.

When he had finished, he put on his hat, and walked from the place. The walk home was heavy, but he managed to find his way to the Boar. He sat on his stool, looking over his list, unable to speak. After many long minutes without a word, he returned to the table where the old man was sitting.

"And what did you find, when you faced the man that is bringing the men from the Boar to the Bock?"

"I've captained the best in my day," he began, "and have known my share of the joy and remorse of the sea." He put the list before the old man. "I have taken tea and guano from here to there, and raced my share of clipper ship routes."

"So what's the answer?"

"I have commanded men who could face down a storm with not even a flinch or a cry of fear," Blackhill continued.

"Out with it," the old man demanded.

"It would seem, in this race, on this liquor soaked sea, that it's not about men or a man or command or a tale," Blackhill delayed. "Oh, you can list them and count them and figure their girth, angles, and habits, and even their worth, but it's not about them."

The old man pounded the table with a heavy fist, his eyes wild for an answer.

"It's not about many things," he finally admitted, "but it is about beer. And the Happy Bock ... serves damn mighty fine beer."

Copyright © 2002 Quinn Tyler Jackson
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