The Pyrates

by George MacDonald Fraser

  STRIPLING: 'Ow can I be maidenlee in drag? An' I do not weesh to be conveyed, me! Ah, Capeetan Ben, 'ow can you be so croo-el? Seence I met you, an' lay een your arms, an' felt your keesses on my leeps –

  GRANDEE: No such thing, you kissed me, and I thought it was out of innocent gratitude.

  MELIFLUA: – an' lost my girleesh 'eart, 'ow can I contemplate any othair man – least of all that jeeterbuggeeng jellee Don Lardo – look at 'eem – 'e ees vile, fat, yugghy, an' 'e queevers mos' deezgusteeng!

  GRANDEE: Astaire he's not, yet kindly heart may beat 'neath exterior o' blubber and purple taffeta. Anyway, old girl, he's your parents' choice, and you can't ask fairer than that.

  STRIPLING (pathetically): I can ask for thee man I love – thee 'an'some, nobble, yummy, croo-el Capeetan Ben 'oo spurns me!

  GRANDEE: Oh, come off it, I don't!

  STRIPLING: You do! Spurn, spurn—

  GRANDEE: Oh, Meliflua, we've been through all that, and it boots not, honestly. Your juvenile passion for me, though natural, will pass like measles or acne – and be a sport, thou knowest my affections are bestowed otherwhere—

  STRIPLING (gnashing): Ah, the endemonised Vanitee! You shall nevair 'ave 'er! Eef I denounce you now – cry out that 'ere ees no grandee of Spain, but an 'eretic Eengleesh pirate—

  GRANDEE: I'll pretend I didn't hear that, because I know you'd never do anything so mouldy. I'm trusting you to give me time to get clear before you make yourself known to old Lardo – just wait here after I've gone, and when he's finished dancing with that tall black lady in the silver combinations, you can …

  As he spoke, Avery glanced at the lady in question, saw her clearly for the first time, and ended his sentence with a sharp “gloing!” Where had he seen that queenly chassis before, that feline assembly of whistle-bait? One hand clutched his brow, the other dropped to rapier-hilt – and then as she swung he saw the glittering diamond cross about her neck, and with a curt “Hold it right there, half-pint!” to the astonished Meliflua, he had stepped smartly to the side of a flashing-eyed hidalga who was hanging about spare, bowed with courteous flourish, murmured invitation in fluent Castilian, and borne her in among the dancers, the better to get next to that sinuous silver shape that had driven all other considerations from his mind …

  Sheba, grinding effortlessly to the music, was noting with interest that Don Lardo was obviously a dance freak; the panting Viceroy, wig askew and eyes agog, was jiving it up a storm, his little fat legs going like pistons. “Groove down!” he cried, as he shook revoltingly. “Let eet all hang out-a!” Sheba trucked elegantly clear of his clammy paws as she looked about for Bilbo, and found herself face to face with a cavalier in crimson whose mask seemed riveted feverishly on hers. She gasped: that chin, those magnificent shoulders, that style, those very ear-lobes that shrieked class …

  “You!” she hissed, faltering as she twisted.

  “On the contrary,” said a metallic voice which turned her ankles to jelly. “You!” A steely arm which thrilled her by its very touch encircled her waist and swept her like thistledown into the crowd of dancers, Don Lardo's plaintive cry of “Where she go?” sounding in her ears; then she was frugging as in a dream with this crimson stranger, his eyes gleaming through his mask like iced tonic.

  “You came after me?” Her voice trembled with wonder.

  “Like Nemesis, not Cupid,” was the grim retort. “So we'll have that diamond cross for starters – or shall I inform the Viceroy who is the black velvet Venus who dances masked at his ball?”

  “Rash fool!” hissed Sheba over her shoulder as they freaked out back to back. “Betray me, and ye blow the whistle on yourself. Spain has a long score to settle with Captain Avery of the Navy!”

  “Here is no Avery,” said he, turning to peck either side of her sleek head. “None knows my face, and at need I ha' papers shall prove me Don Espresso, captain of the Santa Cascara. Try that on for size!”

  “The Santa Cascara?” Sheba's head swam. “Why -'tis the argosy shall bring Donna Meliflua from Spain -but she sails not for weeks, when we shall—”

  “Aha!” Avery sank and rose again in elbow-swinging triumph. “So – your foul Brotherhood purposed evil to th'argosy and that tender lady? Too late, duchess. She has sailed, I have her, and Donna Meliflua lies under my protection.”

  To regain her composure, Sheba executed a torrid limbo routine, and when she came up again her voice shook with emotion. “Oh, Long Ben Avery! If this be true, y'are even better than I thought! Sworn enemy ye may count yourself – but congratulations!”

  “Thanks.” Avery samba'd modestly round her, but his voice was rock-hard as ever. “Naytheless, I'll have that cross – and be sure thy doom shall follow another day, at my more leisure.”

  He clasped her close, and they cut a torrid rug the length of the ball-room and back through the frenzied throng. Sheba, her emotions ravished not only by shock but by his presence, found herself slipping the diamond from about her neck. Strutting, she twirled it on its chain, her amber eyes fixed on Avery. “Ye swear not to discover me to the Dons for the nonce?”

  “Is that wet, is that dry?” asked Avery, rattling off a quick tap routine, and as he ended in the hoofer's classic lunge the diamond cross smacked into his palm. With a grim smile he trousered it. “Wisely conceded, Black Sheba. 'Tis but the first trick in the game I play 'gainst thee and thy carrion kin. The dance was a gas, by the way – a pity your last measure shall be trod 'neath the gibbet. So, adieu.”

  He dropped a finger on her head, she whirled automatically – and when she looked again he was gone, leaving her limp. Cospetto, what a man! To have frustrated her Donna Meliflua caper before it was even hatched! To have traced her here – and bearded her in the Viceroy's very palace! Aye, and won back from her the Madagascar gewgaw! And how he danced – and he had chosen to bargain with her rather than turn her in! Was it possible that some tenderness for her lurked beneath that frigid public school frontage? Nay, it must be – and if not, she would yet awake it, somehow, somewhere … But here was Don Lardo coming to claim her; at least she didn't have to butter up the little creep any longer, now that the Meliflua kidnapping was up the spout. Sufficient for her to extract herself in safety; she must warn Bilbo, and Firebeard who lurked somewhere without, guarding the sedan chair.

  “A-ha!” cried Don Lardo roguishly, “'oo ees a teasing leetle temptress? You play 'ard to get, my Passionata, but I 'ave you at last! One more cha-cha, and then I carry you to paradise on the second floor. Keep the show moveeng, Cugat!” And as the orchestra let fly again, he whirled Sheba into the dance with wild cries.

  Avery, having quitted the floor, was pausing to compose his racing thoughts. If Sheba was here, could the other villains be far away? First things first – he must return to the disguised Meliflua and coax her into revealing herself to Don Lardo, while he, Avery, retired discreetly and took order. He glanced towards the great doorway, and saw to his consternation that it was entirely devoid of Melifluas, disguised or otherwise. This was what he had feared, and why he had insisted on bringing her as close to Don Lardo as possible – the tempestuous young snirp had slipped her cable rather than be delivered up to her odious fiancé! Well, he couldn't blame her, but what now? Chin in hand, his shapely calves taut in testimony to his mental tension, our young skipper mounted the marble steps to a secluded verandah giving on to the palace garden, there to plot his next move. With a sigh he decided that Meliflua was now beyond his scope; he'd discharged his responsibility by bringing her to Cartagena. As for the Brotherhood, he would keep a weather eye open, and if none of them seemed to be about, he would retire wi' all speed and secrecy to the Santa Cascara, lying beyond the roads, and seek them elsewhere.

  A muffled yelp reached his keen ears as he paced the verandah, which was screened from the dance floor below by boskage, rammage, and plant-pots. The yelp came from an alcove a little way along, and was followed by a plaintive voice which was strangely familiar.

  �
�Get them off, damned mannikin!” it said. “My feet burn! My bunions are like to burst! 'Twas the conga that did it – and odd's bobs, hammer and tongs, my toupee is coming unstuck! Pull, rot 'ee, thou halfling nit! Pull, I say!”

  All Avery's gentlemanly instincts surfaced at these sounds betokening some cavalier in distress. He turned the corner, and there was a splendid figure in black and silver, sprawled on a marble bench while a red-faced dwarf tried to remove its shoes. For Bilbo's elegant evening footwear had turned traitor at last, and his dogs were barking in protest; Goliath was making heavy weather of de-shoeing him, and Avery, never suspecting who the masked grandee might be, stepped forward and offered to help. (Old ladies with heavy baskets, stray cats, maidens threatened by dragons, or chaps with sore feet, it was all one to Rover Scout Avery, reared in the groat-a-job tradition.) Bilbo, seeing only a blasted interfering masked exquisite in crimson, bit back a blistering oath, and answered as politely as his anguished corns allowed.

  “I thank you, señor, we shall do very well! My cursed shoon, you see … but I would not trouble you.” This in his best Spanish. “Pull, you puny little bastard!” he added to Goliath in English, and Avery started.

  “You are English, sir?”

  “Nay, nay!” cried Bilbo, appalled at almost giving himself away to this damned Don. “But this handless lout – my valet, you see – is an English slave, and I address him according.”

  “Ah,” said Avery. “Permit me, then.” And with two quick flicks he had removed the constricting shoes. “Pooh, gosh! I think,” he added, stepping back hastily, “some cold water, embrocation, and bags o' camphor, should meet your need, sir. As to your wig—”

  “There's nothing wrong with my wig!” cried Bilbo, clutching at it. “I mean, señor,” he added, with an ingratiating grin, “that I would give you no further trouble. I am much indebted, sir. I am now very well… I would not detain you … your servant, sir …” He bowed from his seat, massaging his toes.

  “I understand, señor,” said Avery politely, “yet, if, as I apprehend, your wig will not stay in place—”

  “It stays in place admirably, señor!” cried Bilbo adjusting it feverishly and getting it all askew. “'Tis in perfect nick, I thank you. Pray give it no thought, I beg – and so, good evening to you, sir—”

  “I was about to advise,” added Avery helpfully, “that wigs adhered by gums and goos and suchlike are wont to come adrift i' the heat, and stout strings looped about the ears were better security—”

  “Oh, bugger off, nosey!” shouted Bilbo, his temper exploding. “My wig is no business o' thine, split me—”

  Too late he checked on the English words; too late remembered the part he was trying to play. Instinctively his hand swept to his hilt, and Avery's eyes, following it, widened at the sight of the great black pearl and golden cross glittering in the pommel. Like lightning he twitched aside Bilbo's mask, even as the buccaneer came to his unshod feet.

  “Bilbo!” The captain's voice cracked like a fractured walnut, and he swept off his own mask to let the villain see what he was up against. For a split second they stared, and then the two blades leaped from their scabbards, and Goliath, with a squeal of “Don't hit me, I'm too small!” hopped behind a plant-pot even as the razorish steel grated and rang along the verandah.

  Rash, you think? Precipitate on both sides? Absolutely, the pair of them going off at half-cock like that, in a place where both were imposters and liable to have to do some awkward explaining – aye, but when two such as Black Bilbo and Long Ben Avery cross swords, d'ye see, then sense and reason take wing, wi' a wannion, and naught's to matter save the bright eyes and whirling point o' th'adversary. There isn't an instant to draw breath, or spit a curse (like “Ha, villain!” or “Government ponce!”), or mess about with the furniture, for this is world title stuff, from prime to octave, high lines and low, wi' imbroccata, stoccata, alongez, and all that jazz, the two lithe figures shuffling, gliding and lunging with what looks like a bright buzz-saw flickering and clashing between them, too fast for the eye to follow.

  Any bets on the outcome? Bilbo's fantastically good, and has the advantage of stockinged feet (which not only affords a better grip, but makes Avery keep his distance). Avery, on t'other hand, is a genius, as we know, and younger and fitter – but then again, Bilbo has the experience, and knows lots of tricks – but curiously enough, black scoundrel though he is, the thought of using them never crosses his mind. He's enjoying himself too much, as he feels that electric impulse that surges from body to body along the grating steel to warn him that this time he's fighting for his life, and must fence as he's never fenced before.

  Along the verandah they went, their shadows fighting along the wall beside them like huge grotesque seconds (Michael Curtiz would have loved it), Avery coming within an inch of victory as his point slashed through Bilbo's coat, Bilbo countering with a whirling thrust that Avery only kept from his throat by turning the blade with his left hand. And now came uproar and feminine shrieks from the ballroom, hurrying feet as the dancers suspended their revels in alarm as the sounds of combat reached them, while through the garden little Goliath hopped as fast as his timber leg would permit, looking for Firebeard – which was a waste of time, since the big ape had got thirsty, found a side door to the palace cellar, and was now lying prone in a puddle of yellow Chartreuse, singing “One-Eyed Riley,” tho' sadly off-key. Goliath, finding the sedan chair unattended, wasted five minutes tracking him down, and another five minutes in futile first aid and blasphemy over the sodden giant. Let's leave him to it, and back to the ballroom.

  It was scatter and scream among the dancers as the two figures, black and crimson, fought their way down the steps from the verandah and across the tessellated floor, neither sparing a thought for his surroundings, Bilbo grinning like Rathbone and perspiring in rascally fashion, Avery grim and gorgeous and apparently dusted with talc. The orchestra searched frantically for a Max Steiner score as the blades and feet of the fencers whirled and stamped ever faster, caballeros gasped and señoritas squeaked, every eye on the flashing swords – and none wider than those behind Black Sheba's mask – save perchance those of the pale-faced modish stripling who peeped out anxiously from behind a pillar at the back (no, Meliflua hadn't absconded very far, not yet). This is the way it should be: two of our hero's female admirers watching distraught as he fights for his life. Yes, it was lip-chewing, bosom-heaving, finger-twisting time for the two of them, while the blades rang and the watching crowd gave vent to courtly Castilian exclamations like “Five to two the crimson!” and “Show us your muscles!” and “Who told you two bums you could fence?”, and none applauded more vociferously than the portly Viceroy, which puzzled Sheba, for surely he should have been calling the cops to stop this brawling in his personal ballroom? Something fishy here, thought the pirate queen, but even as some instinct prompted her to flee, Don Lardo's podgy paw seized her wrist, and he was leering at her vindictively, piggy triumph in his chewed-toffee eyes.

  “Goeeng somewhaire, baby? But eet's jus' getteeng to thee exciteeng beet, eh? Stay, my Passionata – or should I say, come back, Leetle Sheba?”

  Rumbled, thought Sheba, and with a desperate warning cry of “Bing avast, Bilbo!” she sank her teeth in Don Lardo's arm. He tasted rotten, like a very old Portuguese hot-water-bottle, and his yowl brought scarlet-clad guards who had Sheba pinioned in no time. But Bilbo, hearing her cry (which is cant for “Run for it!”), acted like quicksilver. Deftly turning an Avery lunge, he bolted at speed for the nearest exit, only to find a dozen guards, rapiers drawn, in his path. With a cry of “West Ham for the Cup!” Bilbo launched himself at them like a tiger, pinking a couple before they grappled him, fell with exultant cries on his stockinged feet, and tickled him into submission before dragging him helpless to where Don Lardo was rubbing his fat paws and gloating over the captive Sheba.

  “So!” he cackled. “W'at 'ave we 'ere? Thee famous Capeetan Beelbo an' thee delectable Capeetan Sheba of thee
Coast Brother'ood, hey? Fools! Deed you theenk to go unrecognised – Donna Passionata Eclaire an' 'er cavalier escort?” He snapped his fat fingers, jeering. “I knew you from thee first, Eengleesh pirate scum! I lured you 'ere, an' played cat an' mouse weeth you, because I'm smart, me, an' now you are een my powair—”

  “Are you trying to steal my thunder again, worm?” lisped an icily musical voice, and a deadly hush fell as the gay throng, with squeaks of apprehension, gave way bowing and scraping before the most terrifying creature Avery had ever seen in his life. Through the parting courtiers he advanced, a huge and utterly repulsive figure, all the worse for being dressed in the height of fashion, scarlet satin from unspeakable head to misshapen foot. Fatter and even more yellow than Don Lardo, his face would have made Guy the Gorilla look like Mr Universe. It was all there – flabby jowls, bulging lips, squashed beak of a nose, and pale, red-rimmed gooseberry eyes which seemed to gleam with a crazy light; he even had yellow, fang-like dentures which slipped out from time to time, to be retrieved and replaced by one of the swarm of lackeys who followed him, bearing a great red throne. He lurched forward, leaning his enormous gaudy bulk on a scarlet cane, and his free hand played with a live black widow spider, raising and lowering it on its thread like a hairy-legged yo-yo. A right charmer, in fact, looming monstrously over the scene, glaring at the hapless Don Lardo, who cringed and dropped to his knees as the liquidly musical voice issued again from those blubbery lips.

  “As I recall,” lisped the newcomer, “'twas I who recognised the descriptions of these pirate vermin, and instructed you to impersonate me for their benefit, to find out their criminal designs. Right, Enchillada?”

  “Sure, boss! Mercy, boss!” babbled the purple-taffeta fatso, and shrieked as the scarlet ogre swung the black widow menacingly in his direction. “Not the spider, boss, please -”