Aaarrgh...any idea where he hid his treasure matey...here be a tale from the Far Fetched Archives wot moight give us a clue:
Another tale of ...Capn Cronan's Treasure
YYYAAARRRRRR many's the young pirate what's dreamed of findin Cap'n Cronan's Treasure. The man who came closest however was a young Irish barman at 'The Admiral Benbow'. Night after night he watched Cronan drink his grog and boast of his exploits, telling tales of riches unimaginable.
'YYYYAARRR', growled the fearsome Cronan, 'I've got barrels o Belgian Ale so strong it would souse a Spanish Armada and an Old Nick bottle stuffed to the brim with Capn's Delight vouchers!'
No one believed these far fetched ramblings, especially as Cronan never arrived sober, and left even the worse for wear! But the young Irishman had other ideas, he was sick of Guiness and he dreamed of setting himself up in his own Inn, selling Belgian Beer and Captain's delight by the gallon.
So one night, as Capn Cronan staggered out into the Fog, the Irish barman followed. As the thick fog swirled around them the Irishman could only keep track of Cronan from the clack, clack of his peg leg on the cobbles and from his drunken singing:
"I guess now it's time for me to give up
YAARRR I feel it's time
Got a picture of you beside me
Got you're lipstick mark still on your grog cup
Got a fist of pure emotion
Got a head of shattered dreams
Gotta leave it, gotta leave it all behind now"
The Irishman could barely stand the stultifying noise of Cronan's singing...but his dream of finding the treasure somehow drove him on. Suddenly the footsteps stopped and the sound of Cronan opening a creeking door made the Irishman's heart leap...could this be where the captain kept his treasure? The Irishman slipped inside the door just behind Cronan and found himself in a darkened room and the strange thing was...it was still full of fog!
Suddenly the lights came on and there was Capn Cronan staring straight at the poor Irish fellar from his one terrifying eye!
'YYYYAAARRRR', said Cronan, 'Arter me Treasure were ye, yer swab? Ye'd better have a good excuse why ye was followin me or I'll Keel haul ye, hang ye from the yard arm and slit yer gizzard!'
The Irishman backed against the wall in terror, barely able to think...then it came to him in a flash:
'Sorry Mr Cronan Sir...I thought you was Henry Kelly!'
He was never seen again...
The smoke wafted gently in the breeze across the poop deck and all seemed right in the world.