The Pyrates

by George MacDonald Fraser

  CHAPTER

  THE SIXTH

  t was really rotten down i' the foetid, stinking, dim-lit orlop, where timbers creaked and rats scuttled, etc. Blood and Avery had been fettered wrist and ankle to facing bulkheads, which was uncomfortable enough, but to make matters worse the cleaners hadn't been in, the straw hadn't been made up, or the scuppers hoovered, or the bilges refilled, and there wasn't any Kleenex left. To cap it all, the pirates had taken over the ship's intercom, and instead of the normal hymns and rousing sea shanties, the muzak now consisted entirely of dirty drinking songs illegally taped from Radio Tortuga. Avery bore it all in stoic silence, the chaotic mess of his tortured thoughts concealed 'neath a cold, imperturbable mask, but Blood griped incessantly; it was just like these swindling foreign tour operators, he said, to grab your money and then forget you existed; he should have read the small print when he came aboard, and so on, and so on, until even Avery's icy control snapped in one bitter denunciation of his fellow-captive.

  “Hear ye, fellow,” said he, and each acidic word was like a blade rasping from its sheath, “wouldst be better employed making peace with thy beastly soul, for mark me, when this hand o' mine is free again, its first task will be to wring the putrid life out of thy mangy carcase -”

  “What the hell are you going on about?” demanded Blood. “Is it my fault we're stuck down here?”

  Avery's eyes flamed like 1000-watt icebergs. “Base renegade, fink, and traitor -”

  “Traitor?” exclaimed Blood. “Me? Oh, for God's sake, ye haven't got your galligaskins in a twist over the measly crown, have ye? As if that mattered – they'd ha' found it sooner or later, and if you'd had your way we'd have been nothing but a couple of shark's belches by now. Which,” he added unhappily, “is what we're liable to be anyway, unless you can sweetheart that big spade wench into a happier frame of mind.”

  “D'you think I care a jot for that – or even for the crown?” Avery's voiced quivered like a trampoline with noble indignation. “Aye, though shame, ruin, and disgrace may be my merited portion, forasmuch as I have goofed up my mission and let the side down – what can I think on but my dear Lady Vanity?”

  “Well, if it's any consolation, go ahead,” said Blood. “Although what I always say is, there's a time to fantasize about blondes and a time to think about getting the hell out of the mess we're in, and I'd advise the latter -”

  “I didn't mean think on her in that way, ye carnal muckrake,” snapped Avery, his teeth clenched. “Have you no conception of what her fate will be, in the clutches of yon Moorish hellspite? Of what -” and his voice grew all roopy with apprehension “ – it may already have been? You know what such heathen do with Christian women captives. You've read the colour supplements?”

  “Oh, aye,” said Blood carelessly, “‘Au pair milkmaids trapped in harem hell’, and ‘I was a sex-crazed sultan's plaything’.” He shrugged callously. “When all's said, it's just what happens to any married woman on her honeymoon. I daresay she'll be well looked after … three square meals a day, and that …”

  At this point they were interrupted by the little Welsh pirate who, in his capacity as shop steward of the local branch of the Amalgamated Brotherhood of Piratical Operatives and Filibusters and Allied Trades, was eager to see Avery enrolled in that powerful offshoot of the Coast Brethen. His overtures our intrepid captain received with a befitting silent scorn which the suspicious Taffy immediately misinterpreted.

  “Them other bastards been gettin' at you, isn't it?” he demanded. “Them from the CBI (Co-operative Buccaneers International) an' NUPE (Nautical Union of Piratical Employees), eh? You don't want no truck wi' them, boyo – the CBI's just a neo-fascist gang of boss's blacklegs what'd sell their bourgeois souls for so-called alleged professional status an' a couple of expense-account noshes at the Nombre Dios Hilton. Don't think, comrades,” he went on with fine vehemence, “that we don't know what goes on – back-handers from colonial governors and free week-ends at Defoeland and the Gallows Beach Country Club in return for alleged so-called productivity deals negotiated in direct and flagrant disregard of democratic decisions taken at focsle-floor level an' ratified in congress by card vote. Oh, we know! We may just be ordinary workin' cut-throats, but we're not bloody stupid, look you!” He was really going now, full of pithead passion. “An' the other lot's just a long-haired bunch o' Trotskyite hippies an' so-called alleged students engaged in subversive activities which our union execattive 'as condemned as totally counter-productive at this moment in time an' diametrically opposed an' prejudicial to the basic interests of true loyal grass-roots piratical workers. You got no idea – at the intakin' o' Panama we couldn't get near the Dons' barricades for this unwashed rent-a-mob with their banners: ‘Red Rory Must be Reinstated’ an' ‘Young Socialist Filibusters say No to Inquisition Brutality’. Bleedin' troublemakers – an' half o' them on drugs an' all. Now, brother, if you was to enroll wi' our shop …”

  And such was the magnetic power of this little enthusiast's oratory that Avery and Blood dropped off peacefully in their shackles and slept soundly while he discoursed, all unaware that up on deck big things were happening …

  The pirates were putting Admiral Rooke and the honest men over the side in small boats, to the accompaniment of the gloating jeers and taunts with which they were wont to revile castaways on such occasions: “Captain Rackham and his crew bid you God speed on your journey to the nearest port of call, which is about a thousand leagues off roughly in that direction. We would draw your attention to the safety leaflets pinned to the thwarts, and to the life-jackets under your seats. The emergency exits are located all round the gunwales. For your comfort and safety we advise you to row like hell and keep clear of cannibal-infested islands. Smokers please occupy the seats on the port side …” It was like the knell of doom to those unfortunates as they huddled in their frail craft, clutching their pathetic bundles containing toothbrushes, clean underwear, packed lunches, and Customs forms; Admiral Rooke, his face grey with fatigue and anxiety, shuddered as he gazed down on them as they fought for possession of head-sets. How could he hope to bring this sorry band safe across the trackless waste of sun-scorched tropical ocean on half a pound of yams and a pannikin of water a day, and not so much as a sea-sick pill among them? But he braced himself like the stout old salt he was, and with his foot on the ladder he flung a last defiance at the sneering scoundrels who crowded the rail in the hope of seeing him slip and do a belly-flop into the water.

  “Thou vile pirate out of hell,” growled he to Rackham. “If I have to swim home, yea, through seas o' blood, yet shall I live to see thee swing and rot at Execution Dock. Aye, every foul mother's son of you – and that includes daughters, too”, he added, turning his enflamed eye on Sheba, who lounged, lissom as a great scarlet cat, on the rail, swinging a booted leg and idly tossing up and down in her gloved palm the jewelled cross which was her share of the Madagascar crown. The Admiral's ruddy cheek blenched at sight of it, and his dentures rattled in dismay.

  “What ha' ye there?” gasped he, wi' staring eye.

  “Recognise it?” mocked Sheba. “'Tis from the gewgaw o' price with which your gallant Captain Avery was entrusted. Aye, stare away, dotard – your fine captain was not so brave and loyal after all.” And she bared pearly teeth in railing laugh which curdled with dread the Admiral's circulatory system. “He betrayed it to us -along wi' your daughter's honour – as the price of his life.”

  “My daughter?” exclaimed Lord Rooke. He'd known there was something he'd meant to ask about, but what with one thing and another it had slipped his mind. “What, hell-cat? What o' my daughter? What hast done wi' her? My child, my sweet Vanity – where is she?”

  “Think it over on the long voyage home,” chuckled Sheba spitefully. “It'll help to pass the time.” And with her foot she spurned the Admiral from his hold into the boat, and minced off, well pleased with herself.

  So while the boats pulled away, with the pirates crowing “Bon voyage!”
“Drop us a card from Antananarivo!” and “Give my regards to Broadway!” Sheba slipped the precious cross into her pocket; her exchange with Rooke had been another step in her diabolic plan to enwrap our hero in her unholy toils, and now she was ready to apply the final touch. Pausing only to freshen her lipstick and dab a touch of Prince Matchabelli behind each ear, she made her way down into the bowels of the ship.

  Thus it was that Avery and Blood, snoozing peacefully in their fetters – although the little Welshman had long since departed in a huff – were awakened by the intercom playing a sultry version of “Big Spender” with throbbing bongo accompaniment, and Avery opened his eyes to find Sheba regarding him with hot, smoky orbs, one hand poised on her hip and the other holding a pannikin of water.

  “Thirsty?” she breathed huskily, but though his parched lips yearned for the proffered snifter, pride forbade that he should accept it from this evil virago. He averted his head in a marked manner.

  “The time has come,” continued Sheba in her soul-singer contralto, “for you to choose. Speak – will ye be one of us, a free companion, a liberated spirit o' joy and youth, a hellfire roaring boy owing service to none and duty to naught but your own sweet will, roving as ye list, seeking as ye choose, taking whatsoever ye wish … and, believe me, junior,” she added throatily, swaying closer to give him the full benefit of the Matchabelli and drooping her eyelids in wanton invitation, “I mean whatsoever … Will ye take all this,” she crooned, “or …?” She left it unfinished, her dusky face within an inch of his, lips parted as she awaited his answer with dilated pupils.

  “Not a chance,” said Avery crisply. “I think your proposal is perfectly beastly, and if you had the slightest notion of good taste you wouldn't make it. I can't call you a cad, because you obviously aren't, but whatever the female equivalent is, you are it. Your behaviour to Lady Vanity – an innocent young lady who had done you no harm – puts you quite beyond the pale, and the same goes for your frightful brotherhood. I wish you a very good afternoon.”

  “Can I say a word?” said Blood from the opposite wall. “I'd just like ye to know, miss, that I don't associate meself with—”

  “Hold your tongue!” snarled Sheba, but her eyes never left Avery's face. “Oh, fool and ingrate, what else is left to you? Death – why, even in England they'd hang you – the man who betrayed his mission. That's what they'll believe! Rooke believes it already! You can never return – never!”

  “I don't believe you for a minute,” said Avery icily, his finely-chiselled nostrils flapping in scorn. “And even if I did, it wouldn't make the slightest difference. It would merely add a minor task – that of clearing my good name – to the programme I intend to accomplish as soon as I have won my freedom from this pestilent ship. That is – one, to rescue Lady Vanity; two, to recover all six pieces of the Madagascar crown, stick it together, and see it safely delivered; and three, to arrest you and your associates and turn you over to the authorities. And that, dusky beldame, is that.” And he surveyed her with calm disdain; if he had had a hand free he might have politely stifled a yawn; as it was, he curled his lip just a trifle, and almost burped.

  Sheba felt her knees turn to water. What a man was this, to scorn her in the face of death, and talk as though his escape and vengeance were a mere matter of course! She couldn't let this one off the hook, she just couldn't. And he couldn't be insensible to her allure – no male between fourteen and ninety ever had been, and she wasn't intending to let this one get into the Guinness Book of Records as the first. She heaved her bosom with a passion that almost did Avery an injury, and seized his face in her hands.

  “You big gorgeous dope!” she hissed fiercely. “Don't you understand? It's either join us or pop your clogs! I offer you not only life, but love! Don't you know what that means? Bliss and ecstasy beyond all imagining -wealth, power, infamy, the seas your empire, the world beneath your foot, and me in a leopard-skin track suit! Why, think of the seasons that ye may see, when ye shall sing and swear, drink and delight, sack cities and slaughter men as your cake-makers do flies, revel in the spoil o' nations, have monarchs and governors suing at your knee – and I, ever at your side, to transport you, delight you, attend your every whim, and always, always, love you!” She panted hungrily at him, and Blood made little whimpering noises and jangled his fetters in frustration as he watched and listened. “You shall rule this Brotherhood,” Sheba murmured, “another Morgan, another Drake, another Douglas Fairbanks – yet greater than all these, a king of the world – and I, your queen and slave!”

  And just to make sure he got the idea, she kissed him volcanically, giving it her best shot, and not coming up for air until she felt sure that he must be thoroughly anaesthetised. Then she withdrew, her eyes hopeful behind fluttering lids.

  “You've been eating onions,” said Avery calmly. “I think I shall have that drink of water after all.”

  His disinterest was unmistakeable. In fact, he had found her embrace almost as disturbing as the first time, but now he knew her for the fiend she was, and by concentrating his thoughts on cricket, chamber music, and dill pickles, had again succeeded in remaining immune to her sensual charms. It had been a near thing, but the cold baths he had taken every day since childhood had paid off in the end.

  Sheba was thunderstruck. It couldn't be true – she, the unchallenged sex symbol of the Caribbean and Indian Ocean, who had been offered (and rejected) the loot of an entire plate fleet to pose for the centrefold of Mariners Only, whose likeness adorned every locker-door 'twixt Portobello and the Philippines – she, given the brush by this … this … this … nay, even in her mortification she could not regard him as other than the ultimate dream dragon, rot him. But it was passing strange … could it be that he was bent? Nay, for he had shown the most ardent interest in that pink and white cream-puff Rooke – and on the thought the fierce sea-queen yowled with jealous rage, for here was the explanation of his coldness. She gnashed her perfect teeth in fury, and quivered in such frenzy of hate that her blouse creaked under the strain.

  “Right!” she grated venomously. “Shalt find what it means to spurn me, rash youth! Of all the crust! Oh, but ye shall rue this day, thou insensible pillock! Sheba does not offer twice!”

  And with that she turned on her heel, strode to the door, and there turned for a last gnash at the adored object.

  “Er, miss,” said Blood hopefully, “if ye've a moment, I'd just like to say that I've been listening most carefully to what you were saying to that unnatural an' ungrateful birk of an Englishman, yonder, and if ye'd consider me as a substitute, why, I'd be more than happy to—”

  “One more peep out of you,” said Sheba balefully, “and I shall have you lightly garnished with breadcrumbs and brought to a crispy golden brown in a moderate oven. After which we'll feed you to yourself, and you'll eat up every scrap. You read me, Paddy?” Her basilisk glance strayed from the thoughtfully-frowning Irishman to Avery, lingered on him with a last, passionate yearn, and then froze to cruel implacability. “Ye both go to the Dead Man's Chest in the morning,” she concluded, and stalked out, leaving them to ponder on that enigmatic threat. The Dead Man's Chest, eh? It didn't sound good – but then, as Blood gloomily reflected, it probably wasn't meant to.

  You are probably as mystified as they were. After all, no one who has ever read Treasure Island is quite sure whether the Dead Man's Chest was a seaman's portmanteau or the torso of a corpse (which in the context seems unlikely). In fact, the Dead Man's Chest is an extremely small island, little more than a sandbank i' the limpid tropic ocean, and it was thither that Avery and Blood were taken next day, to be done to doom in fashion curious and lingering. For the pirates of those days were nothing if not spectacular in fatal invention; where you or I, if we wanted to dispose of an enemy, would simply blip him over the head or butter the stairs, the Coast Brethren got up to dodges you would hardly believe, like leaving tarantula eggs to hatch out in his tea cosy, or suspending him face down over the dreaded magu
ay plant, which has a nasty sharp point and grows two feet overnight (eek!), or chaining him in an underground cellar with the tide coming in which slowly raises a burning candle inch by inch until it smoulders through a rope from which dangles a glittering blade which falls to break a phial containing acid which eats through the lock of a boxful of black mambas. (The incoming tide will probably drown the brutes, but it's the thought that counts.)

  Anyway, the pirates had devised an absolutely beezer way of giving people the business on Dead Man's Chest, as witness the crooked, weather-beaten crosses with which the long sandspit was sprinkled, each marking the grave of some unfortunate who had perished there. While their ships rode the gentle swell offshore, the pirate captains lounged around the spit, watching as Blood and Avery were prepared for their demise. All was peaceful save for the lapping of the creamy surf, the cry of seabirds overhead, the squeaking of Bilbo's boots, and the excited chatter of Happy Dan Pew rehearsing his homework: “Ah, we find ourselves au bord de la mer. What jolly! Regardez la plage magnifique, ou Marcel et Denise jouent souvent, avec les buckets and spades, les donkey-rides, et le ice-cream! Oú sont les jolies mam'selles en bikinis formidable, hubba-hubba …?” and so on, what time Black Sheba prowled hard by, hand on hilt, her troubled gaze straying ever and anon to Avery, seeking some last sign that e'en at th'eleventh hour he would weaken and sign on the dotted line. Why, oh why, hadn't she worn her leopard-skin track suit for that last interview in the orlop, instead of just talking about it? That would have reduced him to steaming clay in her hands. Too late now; he might have been made of stone as, calm and resolute, he awaited his fate.

  He and Blood had been brought face to face, each with his left hand bound tightly behind his back. In the free right hand of each a rapier was now placed, hand and hilt being swathed in a tight bandage so that in no way could either drop his weapon. Finally, to each right wrist was secured a hawk-bell, which tinkled musically at the slightest movement. Avery underwent all this with well-bred indifference, but Blood raised the roof with protests and Irish wheedles. All to no avail; the pirates simply grinned and ignored him. And now came Rackham, grim o' visage, a massive figure in his spotless white.