The Pyrates

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “The Pleasant Isle of Aves,” Rackham was murmuring, and his teak-like clock softened in reminiscence. “Aye, I mind the verse … ‘where we listened to the roar, o’ breakers on the reef outside that never touched the shore …' How does it go after that?” He closed his eyes. “… ‘all day we fought like bulldogs, but they broke the booms at night—’”

  “‘Burst the booms at night’,” corrected the little Welsh pirate, who was a know-all.

  “‘Broke’, blast your eyes!” shouted Rackham.

  “‘Burst’,” insisted the smug Taffy, and found himself swung bodily by the shirt-front up before Rackham's steely eyes.

  “I say ‘broke’,” said Rackham softly, “so ‘broke’ it is, ye psalm-singin' Pontypool smart-ass, an' ye may lay to that.”

  “Have it your way, then,” sulked the small Welshman. “But it's still ‘burst’,” he added sotto voce as Rackham tossed him aside and became again the resolute pirate skipper.

  “We must take order instant,” said the big man. “Happy Dan, ye'll lay course for Aves, straight, and pick up the doxy – she may be worth more as hostage than as slave. Then shall you join wi' Bilbo an' Sheba at Cartagena; I'll to Tortuga, t'apprise the Brotherhood that this Avery cull is on the loose and like to work us mischief – he must be bloody Captain Marvel, he must,” added Rackham frowning, and his eye fell on the pinioned Blood, who was trying to look inconspicuous – difficult, when you're trussed to a barber's chair in the middle of a gang of ruffians with guttering torches.

  “As for this muckrake,” continued Rackham. “Shalt along wi' Happy Dan, in irons, so that if so be ye've lied to us, and Vanity wench proves to be otherwhere than Aves, he may dispose o' ye right painful an' slow, wi' Frogsome tricks and torments—”

  But at this his followers cried out. “Nay, cap'n, let's grill him now, tasty-like! See, the brazier gleams white-hot, an' it'd be a shame to waste the coal! An' the knotted cords, an' all, an' bamboo slivers – why, Mike an' Peg-leg has spent half-an-hour sharpenin' 'em, an' the jam-sandwiches gettin' stale an' curly at the crusts …” But Rackham was adamant, and ere night had fallen the Grenouille Frénétique had weighed anchor for distant Aves, Happy Dan reclining on a day-bed on the poop with a yellow-backed novel while his crew chattered excitedly and hoisted the sails in lubberly Frog fashion, emotional tears streaming down their striped jerseys as the ship's orchestra played the “Marseillaise” and “Dance in the old-fashioned way,” and in the perfume-drenched orlop, where even the bilge was by Chanel, Colonel Blood stirred restlessly in his chains and had a screaming visit from the ship's cook who said that prisoners who sent back their frogs'-legs and snails would get them warmed for breakfast, so there.

  Hard on the heels of the Frenchman the Plymouth Corporation's Revenge stood out for Tortuga and Libertatia was left to comparative tranquillity, which pleased the sober citizens (all three of them) but caused great discontent among the rest of the population of drabs, sharps, bawds, trulls, fences, pimps, cutpurses, licensed victuallers, innkeepers, swindlers, and dentists, all of whom agreed that at this rate it would be the lousiest season on record, with bookings down all round and “Vacancies” signs in the windows of every hell and bawdy-house. The chairman of the tourist board explained plaintively to a meeting of infuriated citizens that the cost of holiday fares to Madagascar was prohibitive, and they couldn't expect to attract union conferences while Port Royal had a better beach, at which the mob roared to the hangman to turn him off the ladder, and his tarred corpse swung in chains below high-water mark for months thereafter.

  However, it was about a week after Rackham and Happy Dan Pew had sailed that a skiff put in at the Libertatia mole, and dockside idlers observed a tall, athletic figure, dressed as a boucan-hunter, his skin so bronzed that it might almost have been stained with walnut juice, his face hidden in the shadow of his broad-rimmed palm-leaf hat, step from the boat and stride up the mole with clean-limbed grace. (You think it's Avery, but it's not; it's just another tall, athletic, but perfectly genuine boucan-hunter.) However, if you look over there, along the crowded waterfront street, you will see our gallant captain in person, threading his way with commanding agility through the crowds of hawkers, vendors, fruit-pedlars, pedal-fruiters, and other waterside riff-raff. He pauses outside the premises of Vladimir Mackintosh-Groonbaum, and his keen, level, grey eyes scan the advertisements pinned in the window.

  This must strike a discriminating reader as one beezer of a coincidence, and it is, the author's only excuse being that if Avery were to turn up in Reykjavik or Darwin, Australia, it would cause fearsome logistical problems and play absolute havoc with our plot. No, it has to be Libertatia, but you are entitled to know how and why he got there.

  Simple, really. Having woken in his boat to find that Blood had absconded with Akbar's cross, our hero had lost no time about setting his jaw in lines o' firm resolve, clenching his perfectly-formed teeth, making sure that there was some corned beef left under the cloth, setting a course for Aves, arriving there two days later by dint of masterly seamanship, peerless navigation, dead reckoning, and rowing like blazes from time to time, handing Vanity ashore, running her up the promised two-storey bower, furnishing it and strewing its floor with fragrant herbs, stocking its larder with tropical fruits and fresh-caught fish which he salted with sailorly skill, constructed her a bathing-pool in the nearby stream, building a path to the lagoon, showing her how to load and fire a pistol, rearranging the furniture to her liking, dashing off a quick pencil-sketch of himself, autographing it “To my adored mistress,” biting his lip in doubt, doing another sketch and autographing it “To my adored dear one soon to be officially betrothed”, sticking it over the mantelpiece, pushing back a lock of hair which had fallen over his marble brow, and remarking “Well, that'll do for the moment, I think. Like it, darling?”

  Vanity had clapped her hands with girlish pleasure and cried that it was top-hole, and if he could just arrange on his return to warm the water for the bathing-pool, it would be simply perfect. Avery, for the first time in their acquaintance, had drawn in his breath ever so slightly, but had assured her fondly that it would be his first concern when he got back no later than next Friday evening. Vanity had then shyly presented him with a kerchief which she had worked up from the gauze of her harem-pants, and he had dropped on one knee, his eyes misting with nobility, pressed it to his lips, and said it should be his guerdon. She said, well, actually it was a sweat-rag, and they came jolly useful on hot days, and whenever he wiped his brow or cleaned blood off his rapier, she hoped he would think of her.

  Thereafter they embraced on the edge of the golden sands, the creamy surf lapping at their ankles, the amber sun sinking beyond the turquoise ocean rim, parakeets shrilling 'midst the foliage, coconuts plumping from palms, mosquitoes buzzing in the mangrove, and the roof of the bower caving in where Avery had skimped a bit – oh, it was real Blue Lagoon-stuff, and when presently he shoved off in his frail craft, his last sight of her was the slim, golden-headed figure on the headland, waving a palm-leaf in farewell, or beating off the midges, he wasn't sure which.

  He laid course for Libertatia because (a) it was where Blood had been making for, and it seemed a sound move to repossess himself of Akbar's cross to start with, and (b) it was the most likely place to recruit the kind of following which reflection told him he was going to need. In the intervals of building Vanity's bower, furnishing it, strewing fragrant herbs, etc., the captain's razor-keen mind had been busy, as thus:

  “If I'm going to scupper this Coast Brotherhood, t'were well to furnish myself with vessel more commodious than this rather inferior rowing-boat – something with three masts, a hundred guns, and a sizeable crew for choice. Right. But since, through fell mischance, I am the whiles without the law, and old Rooke will have reward notices in every shipping office by this time, it'll have to be a rented job, and not at a civilised port, either. Libertatia's about as uncivilised as you can get, so ho for't.”

  So now yo
u see why he's pressing his aristocratic nose against Vladimir's window, studying the want ads … “Stately Spanish galleon XKE, 1668, one owner, 50,000 leagues, authentic shot-scars, gilded coachwork, offers over two chests moidores … Experienced buccaneer (v'yages Morgan, Montbars, L'Ollonois) willing exchange Corsair or Coromandel slaver. References, please … LOST – Plate fleet, missing off Florida Keys since July, answers names Santissima Trinidad, Concepcion, Maria Gloriosa, etc., contact owner in confidence: Philip R., Escurial, Madrid, or PO Box Cartagena, reward …” and one real tear-jerker: “Galley-slave, slightly scarred, experienced Barbary, Adriatic, seeks new interests, anything considered.” Avery shook his handsome head, went inside, and called “Shop-ho, within!”

  Vladimir's reaction to this godlike visitor was much what Mr Pepys's had been: you ought to be in pictures, boy, but who'd model for the B.O.P. covers while you were away? Awe and a sense of his own wormlike unworthiness abashed the little shyster, and when Avery demanded a well-found second-hand man-o'-war crewed by two hundred seasoned desperate fellows, he assumed his most ingratiating smirk.

  “Cash or cheque, sir?”

  Avery hesitated. Strapped for ready, he yet scorned to mislead this honest tradesman. “Neither, master pawnbroker,” he replied frankly. “I pledge mine honour to make full payment after my mission is accomplished.”

  “Quite, quite. Yerss …” Vladimir scratched dubious unshaven chin; only respect for the captain's muscular size, and some strange instinct, prevented him from giving this proposal the horse laugh it deserved. “Er … might I 'umbly inquire wot yer honner's mission might be -jus' for me own confidential files, like?”

  “To extirpate utterly,” replied Avery crisply, “and to sweep from the seas as ye might blow froth from a pint, that vile fellowship who do style themselves Brethren o' the Coast.”

  “I see …” Vladimir restrained an urge to call for four strong men and a canvas jacket. “The Coast Bruvver'ood, eh? Jus' so … ah … would yer lordship be a private gentleman, or was you representin' a firm?”

  “A firm, fellow?” Disgust and disdain competed for space on Avery's mobile lips. “D'ye take me for huckster or base commercial monger, I?”

  “Not fer a minnit!” cried Vladimir, fawning. “I see you was a toff first go! It's jus' that wivaht collateral an' ref'rences … I mean, I'd advance yer a man-o'-war meself, no sweat, if I 'ad one 'andy – but as it is, I'd 'ave ter shop arahnd, an' times being wot they are, even the Co-op is askin' cash on the nail… I dunno …” He scratched his matted locks, wondering why he should feel vaguely sympathetic to this superb loonie. “I'm afraid yore goin' to 'ave problems.”

  “But hang it all,” expostulated Avery. “How do chaps get ships, then – chaps without… without oodles of oof, I mean?”

  “Well…” Vladimir considered. “I 'ave 'eard of people pinchin' 'em.” Seeing Avery stiffen indignantly, he added quickly: “I mean, tain't reely pinchin' if it's a foreign ship, is it? No? Oh, well …” He considered again. “I don't suppose you'd feel like shippin' on a King's vessel an' startin' a mutiny? No, I thort not… Or if I was to steer you to a rich widow wiv a merchant fleet – I mean, one look at you an' the ole bag'd fall over 'erself… sorry, sorry, jus' thinkin' aloud … Let's see … difficult… o' course, if you was a plantation slave unjustly condemned an' toilin' under the lash an' the tropic sun, you'd be laughin' …jus' wait fer a pirate attack, lead a slave uprisin', save the settlement, collar a vessel, an' Bob's yer uncle. Takes time to organise, though, an' I 'spect yore in a nurry.” Vladimir sighed, contemplated his slightly crestfallen visitor, and of a sudden his beady eyes squinted and his jaw dropped. “'Ere!” he exclaimed. “Ain't I seen you afore somewheres? Surely … that fearless bearin', eagle eye, an' perfectly-creased profile? That clean-limbed youthful grace blended wiv the air o' one born to command, them faultlessly-manicured nails—”

  Avery sighed impatiently. Not again, he thought. “Naval officers,” he said coldly, “do not give autographs. You may write to the Admiralty for a picture, enclosing postage—”

  “That's it!” cried Vladimir. “Naval orficer! Yore 'im! Yore Long Ben Avery – beg parding, Cap'n Benjamin Avery, R.N.! I seen you in the papers!” He pawed at the rubbish on his counter and produced a crumpled broadsheet. “See, there's a woodcut in column one, but it don't do yer honner justice, if I may make so bold. Well, I never …”

  But Avery had plucked the sheet from his hand; it was the Daily Look'ee, Libertatia's leading quality journal, and our hero's face set pale as drying emulsion paint as he scanned the glaring headlines:

  TWELVE APOSTLES TA'EN. BLACK SHEBA RESCUED AS BROTHERHOOD SCORE AGAIN. VASTY BOOTY, ADMIRAL ADRIFT, KING'S CAP'N TURNS FINK, TRAITOR. By Our Staff Writers.

  Avery's head swam, and he could not repress a ruptured squawk as he conned the lead paragraph: “Buccaneering and official naval circles were rocked from truck to keelson last week by the dastardly defection …” There it was, the lying tale of his supposed betrayal… the loss of the crown, Vanity's abduction, the breakfast menu for the fatal day … but not a word of his own defiance when they fed him to the sharks. “I knowed 'e was yeller fust time I clapped deadlights on 'im,” Captain Firebeard told our reporter … a fictitious interview with Rooke headed WHAT HAVE THEY DONE WITH MY BABY, PLEADS PANIC DAD; an advertisement for a forthcoming series entitled MY CAPTIVITY CAPERS WITH KING CHARLIE: BLACK SHEBA TELLS ALL; a lurid account of the fate awaiting Vanity in the slave-mart, and a letter protesting at the import of “whitey tarts” into Muslim seraglios and demanding a quota, signed “Disgusted Concubine, Baghdad”.

  “It's inna populars, an' all.” Vladimir was holding up a tattered tabloid with the enormous banner: ROOKED!, and a front-page opinion column headed “Har-har!”

  “There was a full frontal o' that Sheba in the Startrull spot on Page 3,” sighed Vladimir. “Cor! But some bleeder tore it aht,” he added bitterly. His little eyes peered at the captain shrewdly. “But this stuff abaht you turnin' traitor – it's a load o' cobblers, innit, yer honner?”

  “Cobblers, sirrah?” Avery shrugged as he dropped the broadsheet. “The public appetite ever did prefer decked gaudy falsehood to plain sober truth.”

  “I thort as much!” Vladimir slapped the broadsheet wi' sweaty palm. “Talk abaht proper gander – these ruddy rags are worse'n Pravda! I knew it must be bleedin' lies abaht you betrayin' this Madagascar crahn thing! Course it is – you wouldn't stoop ter nuffink like that – not you!” His porcine peepers shone with fawning reverence. “Not Death-ter-the-Dutch Avery, voted Most Promisin' 'Ero o' the Year, winner o' the 'Ornblower Award fer Dagobashin' – oh, yes sir, I bin follerin' yore career fer years!”

  Avery was touched by the greaseball's admiration. “Alas, my insanitary friend, thy good opinion shall not mend my credit.”

  “It wouldn't need to, would it – not if you cleaned up this perishin' Bruvver'ood? That's wot yore goin' ter do, innit?” Suddenly the eager note in Vladimir's voice changed to pure Camay; his jowels bristled cunningly. “No problem ter you, cap'n – you'd do it standin' on yer 'ead. Cor, the Admiralty wouldn't 'arf be chuff, never mind the King o' Spain! Never mind credit, there'd be big rewards for you, I dessay, honners an' gravy an'—”

  “Tush! Bagatelles o' no import,” flicked Avery. “My present need is ship and crew, to smite these villains and recover the Madagascar crown.”

  “That's right!” cried Vladimir, eyes agleam with the light of pure cupidity as startling visions of profit revolved in his unkempt head. The moment he had realised who Avery was, something had told him that Opportunity was not merely knocking, it was battering the door down. For here, in the shape of this splendid specimen, was a Winner if ever Vladimir had seen one. True, the Coast Brethren were a profitable connection, as well as being a bunch with whom it was perilous to monkey – but where would the Brethren be when this human dynamo had finished with them? Up the creek, down the stank, that was where. And Avery – he'd be on top of the heap. So
…

  “That's right,” repeated Vladimir, licking blubbery lips. “And when you get this crahn back -” he omitted to mention that three of its crosses were in his safe at that minute “ – you'll collect a power o' prize money on it, ter say nuthin' of all the other ill-got loot the Bruvver'ood 'as stowed away … I mean, the gov'ment would 'ave to give you a percentage – but I'm keeping you standin' my boy – honnered sir, that is. Pray be seated, an' tell me somefink – 'ave you got an agent?”

  Avery smiled in puzzlement, and the oily knave explained.

  “Yer know, like a manager – someone ter take care o' the office work an' business details, fer a modest commision. You 'aven't? Oh, but you'd need one, you reely would. See – if yore goin' arter these pirate bleeders, off yer own 'ook, you'd 'ave ter do it by sorta turnin' pirate yerself, wouldn'tcher – very respectable pirate, o' course, sort o' privateer, like.”

  “You may be right,” conceded Avery. “What then?”

  “My boy,” crooned Vladimir earnestly, “'ave you any notion wot it costs? I mean, the over'eads on a pirate ship is chronic! There's the mortgage, an' interest, an' victuallin', and pahder an' shot, an' ship's tackle, an' you 'aven't even got ter the bloody crew yet!”

  “I thought they were on piece work?” said Avery.

  “An' wot abaht third party cover, an' their stamps, an' sickness benefit? You oughta see what them perishers get fer the loss of a leg, frinstance, yer wouldn't believe it!” Vladimir waved grimy paws. “All them hopalongs on the waterfront like Long John Silver, somebody's payin' fer that, y'know! It'd break yer 'eart. One broadside, off goes the pin, ‘I'm sore stricken, cap'n,’ and next you know the bugger's runnin' a pub on the insurance! You gotta 'ave corporate fundin', I'll tell yer that!”

  Avery was sore amazed; he'd had no idea.

  “Then there's bribes fer port officials, an' the licence fees is cripplin' – I could name you well-established filibusters who've 'ad to take 'arf their ships off the water, never mind the runnin' costs. An' o' course, if yer get a strike – that's it an' wrap up! It was strikes knackered Sharp an' Kidd, yer know. Even 'Enry Bleedin' Morgan, arfway back from Panama wiv a ruddy fortune, an' the idle bastards sat dahn on 'im. Straight up! If 'e 'adn't bin a ex-shop steward 'isself (an' Welsh at that) 'e'd never ha' got back to Chagres! Oh, it's a business, I tell yer!”