The Pyrates

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Sheba shook her head, and slithered up sinuously to lean against the bulkhead while Avery looked about her cramped prison. What a filthy hole, he was thinking, even for a wild female blackamoor; why, his gundogs, Buster and Doodles, had better kennels at home. And Sheba, her smoky eyes devouring him, was thinking: what a profile, what class, what style! Even the way he tramped accidentally on her waterdish, and wrinkled his Grecian nostrils in distaste, sent gusts of passion surging up from her ankles. And now those wonderful grey eyes were turned on her as he asked, in his best orderly officer manner: “Any complaints?”

  Any complaints! The words seemed to turn her shapely knees to buttermilk, but all she could do was shake her head again dumbly, at which he nodded in a way which clutched at her heart. As he turned away she found speech, huskily: “Captain Avery?” He paused inquiringly, and the gentle lift of his moulded eyebrows hit her like a battering-ram.

  “I have not been able to thank you,” she breathed, “for saving me from the whip, the day we sailed. Why did you?”

  He frowned. “Didn't like it. Not British. Cruel.”

  Sheba considered him. “Cruelty can have its uses,” she husked, gnawing her lip and smouldering a bit, but Avery didn't notice.

  “Anyway,” he said, fair-mindedly, “that blighter Blood was the first to help you. Just shows, he can't be all cad.”

  Sheba's lovely lips writhed in a sneer. “He had his reason, as you saw just now. Were I old and withered, instead of …” Here she let actions speak louder than words by doing a gentle bump and grind, “… they could ha' flogged me to mincemeat and he'd not have lifted a finger, he.” And she called Blood a horrid name.

  Avery pursed a doubtful lip – after all, Blood did hold the King's commission, and that sort of talk from a person of her class struck him as subversive. But before he could chill her with a mild reproof, Sheba had glided forward as far as her ankle-chain would allow, and repeated in that hot sandalwood voice:

  “I have still not been able to … thank you, captain.” And she made a little helpless gesture with her fetters which would have won her a contract at Minsky's. “These chains …”

  “What about 'em?” said Avery innocently, and stepped closer to look. The great sap couldn't see what was coming; he was all off balance as two slim dusky hands were raised to caress his cheeks, two amber-flecked eyes gazed into his, and two crimson lips were pressed fiercely against his mouth – you wondered for a split second if she was going to strangle him, didn't you? Not Sheba. She was giving that sudden embrace all she had, which was plenty, since she had had lots of practice. Whereas Avery, apart from his brief session with Vanity earlier on, was a total novice. Consequently, the effect on him was electric. For a moment he was petrified, and then jungle drums began to throb in his ears, ritual fires blazed up, fogs of musky incense swirled through his senses, erotic cymbals clashed, and he found himself inexplicably thinking of silk cushions and Turkish Delight, of all things. He drew back in some confusion, disengaged her hands, and automatically adjusted his neckcloth.

  “That,” he said, slightly hoarse, “was not necessary.”

  “That,” panted Sheba, her eyes like open furnace doors, “is what you think.”

  What an odd woman, thought Avery. Barbarian, of course, just expressing thanks in her primitive fashion. Rather touching, and indeed not unpleasant, in a peculiarly disturbing way – just for a moment, there, he'd felt a sort of dizzy, hypnotic attraction … in fact, he still did, even at a range of four feet. Extraordinary … yet how curious that he who had never been kissed before this evening, should be embraced by two women within an hour. Vanity would be vastly amused when he told her … or then again, perhaps she wouldn't. The dear child might not understand that the touch of her sweet lips was utterly different – pure, exquisite, holy bliss, quite unlike this savage creature's crude display of gratitude … yes … very different …

  Now that he looked at her, this black female was quite striking, if not altogether seemly in appearance. Very tall girl – and how oddly she was regarding him, with that intense stare while she licked her lips and growled deep in her throat. Captain Avery swallowed; he was feeling that dizziness again. Very close down here; he needed a breath of air. Abruptly he turned about and left the orlop.

  Black Sheba stared after him hungrily, her eyes heaving and her chest smouldering (just by way of a change). Then she relaxed, a feral, enigmatic smile playing about her chiselled lips as she reclined on her bed of straw. Playing hard to get, eh, she thought… but not for much longer, you gorgeous Greek god, you. Any minute now, buster, any minute.

  Meanwhile the object of her unholy passion was leaning against a bulkhead some way from the orlop, muttering “Phew!” and shaking his head to clear it, when he became aware that Colonel Blood was sitting with folded arms on a nearby cask, head cocked and a dirty look in his eye.

  “Now what,” wondered the Colonel, nodding towards the orlop entrance, “have you got that I haven't?”

  Avery straightened. “Decency, perhaps?” he replied frostily, and his gesture invited the Colonel to precede him up the companion. Blood rose lazily.

  “Faith, is that what ye call it?” he reflected as they went up. “Well, ye didn't take much advantage of it. Ye'll regret it, in your old age, see if you don't.”

  “My only regret,” said Avery, “is that necessity compels me to consort aboard this ship with such lewd scoundrels as you.”

  “You can mend that as soon as you like,” said Blood. “Or does your courage stop short at hitting from behind?”

  Avery was before him in a flash, all icy contempt. “When we touch dry land at the Cape, sir, I shall accommodate you face to face, with what weapons you choose.”

  Blood looked him up and down (and until you've seen Blood's eye travelling north and south you don't know what provocative insolence is.) “The number of times,” he drawled, “that some coxcomb has said to me that he'll meet me next week, or next month, or the first Shrove Tuesday in leap year – and when the time comes, damme if I haven't had the ground all to meself. I see that ye're another lad … of promise.” And he turned on his heel at his cabin door.

  Crimson mantled the flawless cheekbones of our Hero, and his jaw set like frozen yogurt. He spun the Colonel round with steely fingers. “That taunt becomes you, coward,” he grated. “Well you know 'tis impossible we should meet aboard ship. Affairs of honour are not settled so -”

  “Why not?” grinned Blood. “There's a stern gallery yonder where none should hear us – faith, it's familiar ground to you and your paramour – the blonde one, not the darkie -”

  Schooled in imperturbability though he was, it took Avery all his time to suppress a yowl of fury. His eye flamed, and the colour drained from his face to his ankles. “With you on the instant!” he snapped, and strode into his cabin for his rapier.

  Now what, you ask, is crafty Thomas up to? It cannot be that he is intent on repaying the merited buffet bestowed on him by Avery for getting fresh with Captive Africa. No way; Blood is used to chaps taking swings at him. Nay, he is needling Avery in furtherance of some dark design, to wit – if they cross swords on the stern gallery secretly, and Blood can give Avery the mortal stuck-in and heave his corpse into the main, he can then snaffle the Madagascar crown. And next morning, when investigation takes place, who is to point a finger at T.B.? Poor Avery, he must have fallen overboard in the night; too bad – that will be the official version, and if Tom can't keep the crown safely secreted until they reach the Cape, he isn't the man he thinks he is. Thus did the cunning rascal reason as he repaired to the stern gallery with his own rapier, to find his stalwart antagonist awaiting him wi' unbated tuck.

  They faced each other on the narrow gallery in the moonlight, the ship's bright wake creaming beneath them. “When you fall,” said Avery sternly, “I may be hard put to it to explain why we met thus irregularly, but it sorts not with mine honour to let you live who have sullied a fair lady's good name with -”
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br />   “Save it, son,” said Blood coolly. “Any explaining will be in good hands – mine. You can kiss it goodbye.” He was grinning and snaking his blade in and out á la Rathbone, and Avery drew himself up, very academic as you might expect, and slid a foot forward into the attack, his eyes like chips of solid helium.

  Well, you've seen it before – glittering blades rasping, feet slithering, close-ups of Blood's grinning teeth and rumpled curls, and Avery's icy composure as he breathes brilliantly through his nostrils. Gosh, he was good – so was Blood, of course, but bouncing about with cits' plump wives and drinking mulled canary at 4 a.m. had sapped his vigour and slowed him down just that little bit. Avery, by contrast, was trained to a hair and pure of heart, so it was inevitable that after one of those engagements in which the blades whirl too quickly for the eye to follow, Blood should spring back with a curse, a livid cut across his left forearm, and gore dripping on the planks.

  “Lucky bastard!” was all he said, and sprang again to the attack, but with his fertile brain ticking over at speed. This boy was hell on wheels, all right, he was thinking, but he was Olympic gold medal material, no more – wide open to such unorthodox stunts as a good kick in the crotch, for example. Yet how should that profit Blood now? Even if he killed Avery, he had taken a wound and there was blood on the deck – even dimwits like Rooke and Yardley would be bound to connect these facts with the young Captain's disappearance. So … the crown in Avery's cabin must wait for another day. In the meantime, how to emerge from the present hoo-ha with his life – and, if possible, lull Avery's enmity for the nonce, perhaps even win something of his regard? A tall order, but meat and drink to our Irish mountebank.

  So he bore in with all the considerable science at his command, recklessly expending his energy while Avery broke ground with close-playing wrist (whatever that is) and perfect control, husbanding his strength, as prudent heroes always do, until his opponent's fury should have spent itself, which it inevitably does. Blood, lashing away like a carpet-beater gone berserk, bore him back by main force until they were in that well-known close shot, chest to chest, both heaving away like crazy, the baddy fleering and sneering sweatily, the goody keen-eyed and straining manfully, at which psychological moment Blood asked casually:

  “Tell me captain – when I've fed ye to the fish, what becomes o' that precious bauble in your cabin?”

  Since he was almost on his knees with exhaustion, the words came out in a sort of ruined wheeze, but they earned full marks for effect. For a split second Avery's icy composure faltered; to be honest, he gave a passable imitation of a gaffed salmon, and in a trice the crafty Irishman had stamped on his toe, disarmed him by seizure, and whipped his point against Avery's Adam's apple. And there they stood, Avery aghast and biting his lip with vexation, Blood panting asthmatically and trying to hold his sword steady. At last, having regained his wind, he lowered his point and stepped back, looking for somewhere to lean on.

  “Ye know,” he remarked, “you're a mighty pretty swordsman, but ye're not fit to be let out alone, so you're not. An old dodge like that – letting your opponent talk ye into a tangle. Faith, it's as well I'm not the rogue ye think me, or it's dead meat ye'd be by this. And where would your bonny jewelled crown be going then, eh? Not to Madagascar, sonny.”

  Avery, hero though he was, looked (and probably felt) as though he'd been jumped on by the Wigan front row. “The Madagascar crown?” he gasped. “What know ye on't?”

  “Everything,” fibbed Blood smoothly. “What d'ye think I'm here for?”

  “You mean – y'are an agent of Master Pepyseses?” stammered the Captain, his eyes like bewildered gimlets. “But… but he told me none knew of the mission save he and I, his majesty, and my Lord Rooke!”

  “That's the civil service mentality for you,” sighed Blood sympathetically. “Never tell you a damned thing.” He improvised boldly. “I've been privy from the first. They thought the job was too important for just one man.”

  Just one man! The words were a karate chop across the windpipe of Avery's self-esteem. “I could have done it standing on my head!” he snapped.

  “So we've noticed,” said Blood drily, but the Captain wasn't listening. His nostrils flared delicately with mistrust.

  “And you'd have me believe they sent you to guard me?” he cried. “Nay, 'tis thing impossible! Y'are a notorious foul villain of rank repute and noisome infamy, steeped i' knavery and treason, a seasoned rascally cutpurse profligate who tried to nick the Crown Jewels, a foresworn skunk, crud, creep, and renegade -”

  “All right, all right!” Blood interrupted warmly. “Can you think of a better cover?” he asked knowingly.

  “You mean,” whispered Avery incredulously, “that you're not really a notorious foul villain of ill repute -”

  “Rank repute.”

  “ – rank repute and noisome infamy, steeped i' -”

  “If I was, you wouldn't be standing here running off at the mouth, remember?” snapped Blood. “Some of us,” he went on virtuously, “don't mind being given a bad name if it enables us to serve his majesty the better. We don't insist on going poncing about like Sir Walter Raleigh. We are content to wear,” he added bitterly, “dishonour's mask in honour's cause.” Here, that's not bad, he thought; a nifty to remember.

  “But if you're not a seasoned rascally cutpurse profligate,” demanded Avery, “what were you climbing all over that poor defenceless black female for?”

  “Your benefit,” said Blood, and got all austere. “I have observed you, sir, and methinks you spend overmuch time in dalliance wi' my Lady Vanity, to the neglect of your duty. Nay, belt up till I ha' done. Marking this, I provoked you – the black trull means no more to me than a squashed grape; such carnal employs engage not my senses, I thank God – to test me your metal, to recall you to your duty, and to inform you -” and here he laid a hand on Avery's astonished shoulder, “ – that in whate'er perils may lie ahead, y'are not alone.” Rugged nobility was just oozing out of him.

  “Stone me!” was not an expression that Captain Avery ever used, but it was a near thing. For what Blood had told him was flawlessly logical when weighed in an ice-cool brain – he must be a Pepys muscleman, or he'd have used his momentary advantage – a cad's trick, incidentally, stamping on a chap's toes – to kill Avery and trouser the crown. And it was just like those old sneaks at the Admiralty to stick a second man on the job, without telling a fellow. Blinking cheek, thought Avery, and quite unnecessary – and then a flush of shame mantled his fair young brow as he remembered how he'd been canoodling with Lady Vanity and never thinking twice about his precious charge. He let out an anguished woof.

  “And I was found wanting!” His face was pale as a mortified parrot's. “You are right, sir – a fine guardian, I, spooning and duelling to indulge my base appetites!” He ground his flawless molars in remorse, while Blood patted his arm reassuringly.

  “We all make mistakes, lad,” he crooned. “Bedad, on me own first mission, charged wi' letters o' rare import to the Grand Sophy – ye won't believe this – didn't I get so engrossed in ‘Paradise Lost’ that I missed the last caravan to Aleppo … or was it to Damascus … no, t'was there I slew the four Spanish agents, was't not? No matter. Anyway, I nearly blew the whole deal.” He made a deprecating gesture, and blood from his wounded arm splashed on Avery's snowy shirt. The Captain yipped with contrition.

  “And I wounded you!”

  “Pish!” said Blood. “A flea-bite.” For which you'll pay, my smart-assed friend, he thought grimly, while yet smiling so winningly that Avery gulped with emotion. How could he ever have mistrusted this honest, sturdy gentleman?

  “Colonel Blood,” said he, frank and manly, “I ha' done you great wrong. You're all right. One of the lads. My eyes are opened.” He proved this by giving Blood his steady First XI glance, and clasping his hand. “What more's to be said, save that I -” he shrugged modestly, “ – yes, even I, shall sleep sounder o' nights knowing that in you I have a loyal an
d steadfast… ah … assistant.”

  You do that, son, thought Blood, and arm in arm they repaired to the slumbering passenger quarters 'neath the poop, where all was still save for the sweet murmurous breathing from Admiral Rooke's berth, and the thunderous snorting from Lady Vanity's. (Eh?) There they bade each other a comradely good-night, and sought their respective cabins, Avery thinking, what a worthy fellow, and Blood thinking, what an amazing birk.

  Hand it to Blood, he's slicker than wet paint. What next impudent villainy does he intend? And Avery, that honest lad – are his dreams refreshed by pure, blissful visions of Lady Vanity, or do strange phantasms of our Ebony Hebe disturb his repose? Does Vanity really snore? Who's minding the ship? Let's lay aloft, says you, and we'll ascertain.

  *Not safe at Vauxhall, Not safe in sedan chairs, Not safe anywhere.

  CHAPTER

  THE FIFTH

  ilence … as the Twelve Apostles glides on over the dark green sea bounded by distant banks of thin sea-mist. The moon is down, the sky a dark arch overhead, eastward there is still no shimmer of dawn. Upstairs the ship is deserted, save for the yawning lubber propped against the wheel, and the lookout in the crow's-nest who has finished Moll Flanders and is frowning over the crossword in the South Sea Waggoner. One across, “What ships usually sail on”, three letters. Rum? Bog? He peeps down to see what the Twelve Apostles is floating on at the moment. Water? Too many letters. He sighs; another bloody anagram, probably … what kind of nut thinks these things up?

  Below, the crew packed tight in their focsle hammocks have really got their heads down; even the rats and weevils are flat out. Aft, in the First Class, everyone is lapping it up except Captain Yardley, who pores over a chart in his great cabin, scratching grizzled pate and muttering “Belike an' bedamned” as he plots his u-turn round the bottom of Africa. Vanity, beautifully made up even in slumber, sighs gently as the distant tinkle of eight bells is faintly heard. Of course she doesn't snore! It was Rooke all the time, sprawled in his cot across the passage, his stentorian rumblings bulging the ship's timbers and causing his dentures to rattle in their glass. Avery, in his cabin, is kipping away like an advertisement for Dunlopillo, eyes gently closed, hair neatly arranged, mouth perfectly shut and breathing through his nose. A smile plays about his mobile lips: he is dreaming of Vanity darning his socks in a rose-bowered summer-house, you'll be glad to know. Over the way Blood grunts and mutters in his sleep, one hand on the hilt of a dagger 'neath 's pillow – if you've a conscience like his you keep your hardware handy. And deep in the foetid orlop Sheba writhes restlessly on her straw, her fetters clanking dismally.