The Pyrates

by George MacDonald Fraser

  But haughty Vanity tossed her golden head. “And I'm to hang about in some dismal two-star flea-pit, probably without air conditioning and heated swimming pool? Not likely. Besides, who shall say where Daddy has got to by now, cast clueless on the cruel deep? Let's face it, he may be an Admiral, but he couldn't navigate across the bath – the old boy's past it; it may be ages before he blows in.”

  “But, angel mine,” protested Avery, “I can't take you with me, can I? Not into dire peril o' bloody battle and fell mayhem, when you could be snug as a bug at the Cape – the inn probably has a suite with a balcony – and I won't be gone long.” Gently he folded her in his arms, her head nestled on his romantically open shirtfront, and gave a confident, ringing laugh which reassured and deafened her simultaneously. “Why, what's to do, when all's said? A mere five stark villains and their few hundred followers to hunt down o'er the trackless waste of ocean, sort them out, collect the loot… two weeks' work, perhaps? … say three, or a month at most, and I shall be hasting back triumphant to thy side. And a sweet little side it is,” he added fondly, giving her bare midriff a chaste and reverent stroke which brought a blush to her maiden cheek and sent goose-pimples rocketing round her shapely frame. What could she do but sigh and submit to his masterful persuasion, and allow him to feed her morsels of corned beef on biscuit. Blood watched them jealously over his dinner; all this Errol-and-Olivia canoodling gave him the pip, and he could guess who was going to get stuck with the washing-up, too. Moodily he listened while Avery outlined his programme.

  “I shall deal first with that hellspite Sheba,” quoth the captain, and his brows were knit like stern cardigans, “since, woman though she be, yet I judge her most dangerous, cruel, and fertile of evil invention among them all—”

  “She's the cutest, too,” remarked Blood, taking an artless swig of Oxo. “Black but comely. Yowser!”

  Avery wrinkled his perfect nostrils. “You spoke, sir?”

  “Oh, I was just after thinking aloud,” said Blood maliciously, “that in starting wi' the Ebony Nemesis ye're on a good thing, since wi' her ye may prevail with gentle rather than warlike arts – why, such is her loving regard for you that she may even prove willing ally 'stead of enemy—”

  “Babble,” said Avery curtly. “Likewise tripe. As I was saying, my adored one, having dealt with the pirate virago I shall next put the mockers on Black Bilbo—”

  “Hold it,” said Vanity, and Blood noted with satisfaction the faint frown clouding her lovely visage. “What was that crack about her loving regard for you?”

  “Pish! I mean, tchah! Sorry about that,” said Avery. He waved a dismissive hand. “Nay, 'tis but that the misguided trull conceived a spark of gratitude for that I stopped them lambasting her wi' cat-o'-nine-tails. Ye remember, lambkin …”

  “I certainly do,” said Vanity coolly. “I also remember that having boned my cosmetics and made free o' my wardrobe, she couldn't get me off the ship fast enough. So-ho!” Frost formed on her velvety lids as she regarded the captain with eyes like blue pickles. “Strange, too, that when she tipped Daddy and the other loyal hearts over the side, she kept you on the shelf. I wonder why?”

  Avery shrugged modestly. “Why, for that wi' my manly address, dauntless bearing, double First, and proved fighting quality, she and her fellows would ha' had me join their company. After all, you don't pick up bargains like me every day. But I am no renegade,” he concluded proudly. “I cast the base offer back in their teeth.”

  “It's a fact,” said Blood unctuously. “Indeed, ma'am, he was proof 'gainst all her wanton arts and wiles – aye, though she cast herself panting on him like one distraught wi' passion, and babbled o' love-nests and leopard-skin track suits, yet he spurned her … sort of …”

  Vanity was too much the high-bred English lady to emit more than a “wowf!” in which dismay and jealous fury were nicely blended, but her feminine instinct reached for the rolling-pin. Avery, frowning at Blood, didn't notice.

  “Give it a rest,” quo' he irritably. “I regarded her not. A poor demented creature—”

  “A poor demented 38-24-36!” cried Vanity hotly, and the tumult of her bosom threatened to capsize the boat. “So! The ebony wanton has been pitching her curves at you, has she? That does it. If you think you're going to dump me at the Cape while you go prancing after that sable sexpot, you can think again. I'm coming with you, junior, and you can stick that in your binnacle and steer it!”

  “But, love-light, what is this?” Avery was astonished. “I pursue her but to mete out merited chastisement—”

  “And don't think she wouldn't love that!” scoffed Vanity.

  “But she is nothing to me,” protested the captain. “I disdain her quite. Her sleek voluptuousness, her steamy sensuality, her hot advances, the way she swings dem hips …” He paused, his pure and serene features wearing a dreamy, puzzled look, and came back to earth with a start. “Where was I? Oh, yes, these fleshly allurements, howsoever they may beguile the lewder sort, are so much cold custard to me, honest. Nay, dear ducks,” he continued in fond reproach, “hast no faith, no loving trust, in this thy devoted Ben—.”

  “Loving trust, phooey, you big idiot!” cried Vanity. “What avails it against sultry bimbos in leopard-skin (or out of it, which she would be with one quick wriggle). That is Competition in big neon lights, and whiles I doubt not thy intended constancy, yet I do know thee for a man, and you're all alike, and it's worse in your case because you're so noble and innocent it hurts. She could twist you round her little black pinkie and you wouldn't even know it was happening!”

  So now ensued a pretty lovers' tiff, Avery all virtuous bewilderment, and Vanity (being female) torn between a desire to fling her arms round him and an urge to belt him with some solid object, while Blood watched sardonically the mischief he had wrought, and hogged the tinned pears and chocolate ripple which completed their simple repast. In her vexation Vanity stamped her dainty foot, forgetting that harem costume doesn't include shoes, and got a splinter in her toe, whereon followed rich hockey-field oaths, with cries of concern from her lover, followed by Savlon and plaster and kissing it better. Which soothed her slightly, but not enough to alter her concrete resolve to stick like glue to her betrothed through whatever perils and temptations (chiefly the latter) might lie ahead.

  And because Avery was so besotted with her that he could deny her nothing (and suspected he would just get a thick ear if he tried), he at length agreed to take her along at least part of the way, and proposed a compromise which, while it was later to become commonplace among romantic heroes with surplus heroines on their hands in pirate waters, was revolutionary in his day: he would bestow her on an uninhabited island paradise safely away from the action, yet close enough that he might nip back between engagements and see her at weekends.

  “I know the very spot,” he assured her. “The Pleasant Isle of Aves – no doubt you learned the poem at school? A very Eden, where once I wooded and watered whilst serving 'gainst the cursed Dons. There, in grotto secure, shall I build thee a two-storey bower all set about wi' fragrant blossoms and stored with jungle delicacies, the booming surf and gentle breezes to lull thy slumbers, mosquito cream by the bucket and only two minutes from the beach. What says my angel?” And I can get on toughing up the Coast Brotherhood without interference, he thought privately.

  It sounded so like a travel brochure that while Vanity pouted instinctively, she decided that this was just the old boot. Four weeks on a desert island with her dream man would have him eating out of her hand, and even if he had to commute to his pirate-hunting between times, he'd hardly be away long enough to get involved with designing pirate queens. And later she would be able to flog her castaway experiences to Master Defoe, which would be useful pin money, and splendid publicity if he could work it into the Spectator, assuming Addison had got it under way by then. Perhaps Lely could be persuaded to paint her in a grass skirt.

  “All right,” she agreed, “we'll give it a whirl. But
only for four weeks, mind, because I don't suppose I'll be able to get a woman in to clean, and Daddy's bound to bump into land somewhere eventually, and the old buffer will go hairless if I'm nowhere to be found …”

  So the two lovers planned and murmured lovingly in the sternsheets, and presently Vanity drowsed off. Avery covered her with a boat-cloak, and having lashed the tiller, furled the gunnles, and done all things needful, d'ye see, to set the seventeenth-century equivalent of the automatic pilot, disposed himself reverently at his loved one's feet and flaked out. Which was careless, as we shall see.

  For in the bows Colonel Blood lay wakeful, by reason of his dark thoughts and his vest riding up uncomfortably in the cramped conditions. He had long since regretted his sentimental decision to throw in his lot with our dauntless hero – the fight on Akbar's galley had scared him witless – and had been looking forward to going ashore at the Cape and trying his caddish luck with Vanity while Avery was away getting cut up God knew where. Now, from what he had overheard, that was out, and desert islands with regular excursions against the likes of Sheba and Firebeard were no adequate substitute. Also he was about brassed off with being left to make the meals and wring out dishcloths while our fond lovers snogged and giggled and generally treated him like Caliban. Not good enough, brooded the Colonel; time something was done about it.

  Thus it haps that as the little craft runs down the night sea to appropriate soft violin music, with the loom of the Madagascar coast faintly abeam (off to one side, that is), there falls a sudden sinister chord of woodwinds to inform us that Villainy is tucking in its shirt, and is about to prowl around working fell design.

  Stealthy movement in the boat, a catlike footfall, tense heavy breathing, the crash of a large body falling over a bucket, a muffled Irish yowl, rustle o' barked shin being rubbed, and then again silence, broken only by a placid sigh from the sleeping Vanity (dreaming about lolling on golden sands while Ben does high dives off a convenient rock) and a soft murmur from Avery (corned beef) followed by subdued swearing and laboured scratching of pen on paper in the dark, while gloom of night gave way to pearly radiance of dawn.

  But what is this? There are now only two in the boat, and pinned to the thwart, where Avery will see it as soon as he wakes, a hastily-scrawled note, as under:

  Hello, sailor,

  Ye mind I warned you I might play false. Well, this is it, ould joy, and if I said it grieved me I'd be a liar, which I am, but that's naught to the matter. The fact is I am up to here, so I am, with a snooty blonde cupcake and a bomb-happy maniac who is so dangerously gungho it makes me faint to think on't (and I mean you, dear Ben, in case you're wondering). So I'm swimming for it, and doubt not I shall win to Libertatia, where fun and frolic rule among rascals o' my own kidney. Which reminds me, there's some corned beef left under a cloth.

  So fare ye well, and that ye keep your head down and have a care o' that big spade lady is the advice of one who knows, and signs himself, as thou usest him,

  Yr obdt servt and whileom messmate,

  Thos Blood, Colonel (cashiered).

  Post-scriptum – to defray expenses, I have taken the crownly gewgaw ye won back from that fearsome wog. Good luck wi' the other five.

  You might have known Blood wouldn't play fair for long, but pinching the piece of crown is a bit thick, even for him, since it puts Avery back to square one as he and Vanity head for the Isle of Aves – which may not be as pleasant as he painted it (it doesn't figure in the colour supplements, does it? Significant, hey?) And while Akbar the Damned has been written off, there remain the Frightful Five to be dealt with, as they gloat over their spoils and plan fresh mischief in the vile hells of Libertatia. Little does Blood know what he's heading into, as he swims his knavish, ungainly breaststroke towards the Madagascar shore, with his ill-gotten swag …

  CHAPTER

  THE EIGHTH

  t was high revelry and steamy debauch in the Keelhaulers' Lounge, the big back room of the Foundered Squid in the pirate hell of Libertatia. Here all that was gaudiest, bawdiest, and most abandoned in the pirate community gathered to riot nightly in the traditional fashion which you've seen scores of times: raffish ruffians staggering about with pint-pots, their hairy arms round bedizened trulls in big earrings and ragged off-the-shoulder finery; a wild gypsy wench with a tambourine dancing a fiery fandango on the table, while roaring bullies pound brawy fists in applause and discriminating diners hurriedly withdraw their plates from beneath her stamping heels; the air is blue with the fumes o' fragrant Sacerdotes tobacco, the smoke of joints, and the reek of Firebeard's whiskers; drink and doubloons are scattered broadcast, drunks litter the floor, bursts of obscene song echo 'gainst blackened rafters, and all in all it's absolute hell to stage and even worse to clean up afterwards.

  In a side-room where only the thunder of celebration and pistol-shots from without, and the occasional body crashing in from the main room disturbed their discussion, the five pirate chiefs sat in council. Days have passed since we saw them abandoning Avery and Blood on the Dead Man's Chest, and in the interval they had dispersed briefly to their private haunts to rest and tidy up before reconvening at the Foundered Squid to plot their next villainy. As Thus:

  Rackham, methodical as always, had parcelled up his calicoes for the dry-cleaners, checked the share prices, paid his subscription to N.U.P.E. (see page 99), and forwarded his piece of the Madagascar crown by registered post to his faithful paramour, Anne Bonney, on their shark-infested island retreat, with instructions to hold on to it carefully until he had made up his mind between the Mosquito Coast Building Society and the Harvest o' the Seas Investment Trust (Cayman Islands) Ltd.

  Bilbo, in his decaying colonial mansion, had removed his beautiful Cordovan boots with the help of Goliath the dwarf, sat wincing with his feet in cold water, worried about his falling hair and the absence of invitations to local social functions, and had his cross from the crown set in his rapier-pommel – by good fortune, it was the black pearl, which matched his sable attire, and Bilbo was rather pleased with the effect, practising lunges in front of the mirror and crying “Sa-ha!” while Goliath stamped his little wooden leg in admiration.

  Firebeard, who had no home of his own and would have forgotten where it was anyway, had stormed ashore bellowing at Libertatia, reduced a couple of taverns to matchwood, been fined for committing a public nuisance (he had assured the magistrate with hideous oaths that he thought he was in the gents and how was he to know it was the dining-room of the Libertatia Inter-continental, them pimpish places all looked alike, anyway, by thunder), and lost his share of the crown playing dice with Happy Dan Pew, who had the advantage of being able to count.

  Happy Dan, with suave French chuckles: “Un, deux, trois, and sept on the autre cube makes dix, mon pauvre baboon barbu, you lose again, eh bien, isn't it, but yes!”, swept in the takings while Firebeard punched holes in the wall and demanded a recount. “Ne tanglez-vous avec Happy Dan Pew,” chortled the lace-bedecked Frog, “not until vous avez learned to count, possibly a l'école de Monsieur Cladel, avec la craie, l'encre, et le tableau noir.” And he minced off in an aroma of pounce and civet, down the street to deposit his own cross and Firebeard's at the establishment of Vladimir Mackintosh-Groonbaum, pawnbroker and agent extraordinary to the filibusters of the settlement (of whom more anon, and ye may lay to that).

  Black Sheba, torn with longing for Avery, had looked in at the Goa slave-market, bought a couple of muscular Swedish galley-slaves on impulse, decided five minutes later that she didn't want them, and gone into a screaming passion when the market manager tactfully pointed out that they were at sale price and couldn't be exchanged. Reducing Goa to a smouldering shambles and staking out the market committee for the giant crabs had barely taken the edge off her temper, and she had retired in a sulk to her ghastly black castle, hung the Swedes up in chains with her other old things, and prowled the echoing stone corridors in a scarlet kimono with ermine trim, smouldering with desire for the English capt
ain, before returning to Libertatia to have her hair done. (Vanity had been quite wrong, you see; there was a perfectly good unisex salon, with tinting, perming, blow-waves, the lot, and a Yoga class in the back.) Sheba had had her cross* converted into a necklace, and now as she presided at the pirate council it shone like a crystal of glittering fire on her tawny bosom, complementing the slinky white caftan number which she wore 'gainst the torpid evening heat.

  She sipped a daiquiri and applied gold polish to her nails as Rackham read the minutes, reported on the state of the roof at the Filibusters' Home of Rest, noted the compensation awards to paid-up Brotherhood members wounded in recent actions, and proposed an interim dividend. All passed, nem. con., whereafter they proceeded to “other business” – i.e. deciding whom they would clobber next. (Just like any other board of directors, really.)

  Various proposals were entertained. Happy Dan, with typical continental lewdness, was for establishing a chain of brothels and leisure centres with machines along the Coromandel Coast, but it was agreed that the market was saturated already. Bilbo's plan for a descent on the plate fleet was greeted with groans, since it came up at every meeting, and was regarded as a last resort; everyone knew that if successful it would just lead to a counterproductive rise in insurance premiums, anyway. Firebeard, who was usually silent at these meetings, save for animal grunts and bellows, and had been moodily breaking bits off his end of the table, suddenly startled them with a proposal.

  “By the powers!” he bawled, crunching his glass ‘tween grinding teeth, “let's sack, plunder, an' burn Tortuga wi' a curse! 'Tis rich wi' booty an' there's females a-plenty for lovin’ sport an' hearty ravishment, sink me if there b'ain't!” He was thinking of that big blonde barmaid at the Bucket of Blood, of course. “Aye, an' a power o' moidores an' chestfuls o' gems o' price – we can rip, tear an' rend it wholesale, wi' hellish slaughter—”