The Pyrates

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “You wanta buy da Eengleeshman?” he croaked. “You crazy, he's a nut. Too much-a class, so who needs heem? It's like-a you try to sell a Gobelin tapestry in South Wales. I only took the bum for da prestige advertising.” He glowered at Vladimir. “Go ahead, rob me. Laugh at my thousan' doubloons, an' offer me six hundred.”

  “Done,” said Vladimir, “but I don't want 'im for meself, see? 'E's a gift, like, fer a lady o' my acquaintance. Nah, this is strickly 'twixt you an' me, see? I want him dolled up real nice, an' took across to Shark Island, wiv this presentation card rahnd 'is neck.” And he scribbled on one of De Souza's labels and passed it across. The slave-trader gave a ghastly leer and chuckled.

  “You weesh heem to be geeft-wrapped, eh? Heh-heh! I like-a your style, fatso. An' the recipient?”

  “'E's to be delivered to Mistress Anne Bonney, from an anonymous admirer. An' mark,” added Vladimir, “not a word to the boy 'imself. I want it to be a surprise to 'im, too.” He smirked and winked, and De Souza bellowed with lewd laughter.

  “Surprise, per Bacco! She will-a devour heem!” he roared. “An' Caleeco Jack ees away in-a Tortuga! When he come home he weel see a new slave on Shark Island, but eet weel be an old, trembling man weeth grey hair! Know what I mean?”

  “I 'ad 'eard she was partial,” murmured Vladimir. “But – mum!”

  So now we see Captain Avery that same evening, clad in a clean ruffled shirt with crimson sash and dark breeches, his hair newly dressed, his chin shaved, his person a-reek with Eau de Portobello (“Morgan took Panama with five hundred men – and the Governor's lady with just a dab of Eau de P. Only five moidores the keg, or in the handy bucket size.”) He is being rowed across the strait to mysterious Shark Island, reflecting that if this is how Vladimir organises escapes, he is indeed an agent beyond price. He breathes the scented night air, drowsing to the regular oar-beats of the silent rowers, nor marks the small boat that dogs their wake, a cable's length behind. At the Shark Island landing-stage, he is delivered into the care of a huge blackamoor in scarlet livery, who wordlessly beckons him to follow to the great white house bright with lights which nestles among dark groves of trees. Wondering, but with every confidence in his agent's arrangements, Avery follows – and beyond sight of the landing-stage the small boat creeps in among the mangroves, and a small fat figure scuttles ashore and is lost in the undergrowth.

  Captain Avery now found himself bidden to wait in the spacious hall of a mansion of notable luxury. Silver candle-branches were reflected in the polished floor, furniture o' Master Gibbons abounded, as did priceless rugs and flying ducks, and on the walls, among the Van Dycks and Arthur Rackhams (work that one out some time) were group paintings of what looked like crews and their commanders, sitting with folded arms and loot piled before them, the frames labelled “Caracas '67” or “Nombre de Dios '71” and the like. On the spinet stood a portrait of a grinning, evil-featured foreigner in a head-scarf, inscribed: “A mon ami Jack, from his best pal at Maracaibo – Nau L'Ollonois,” and signed with a ragged “X.” Avery would have examined it, but just then he caught sight of himself in a mirror, and realised that his boat-cloak was decorated at the nape with a huge pink tinsel bow, from which hung a card. He glanced down to examine it.

  It bore the slogan “Don't be a loser, shop with De Souza,” and the written message: “A Present for a Good Girl – have fun!” The Captain frowned. It must be some code used by those whom Vladimir had employed to assist his escape – and at that moment, from the room into which the black footman had vanished to announce Avery's arrival, was heard a rich, honeyed contralto, laden with boredom and sex-appeal.

  “A personal delivery … at this hour?”, it drawled, sounding like a wanton Lady Bracknell. “Foolish Onslow, 'tis some tedious little salesman's ploy … one is fatigued, and does not wish to know … H'm? From De Souza's, and gift-wrapped? Nay, not another free sample? Heigh-ho, bring it in, then …”

  Curious conversation, thought Avery, as the footman emerged and beckoned him – rather peremptorily, it seemed to the captain, but he strode into the room and found himself bowing before a red-haired Juno, lusciously overweight in a plunging silk gown, who was reclining on a sofa eating marshmallows and moodily studying a calorie chart.

  You may have seen the picture, in Johnson's Historie, which shows Anne Bonney as a strapping virago in deplorable trousers and inadequate blouse, armed with cutlass, battle-axe, and pistols, one of which she is discharging at some unfortunate off camera. But that was ages ago, when she'd been a wild young pirate groupie racketing around with Calico Jack, scuttling ships, slitting throats, ravishing innocent youths, and styling herself “Ms.” Nowadays the bra-burning buccaneerette had become an exquisitely languid young matron who ate far too much creamy food, dieted self-indulgently, read popular novels in bed, crammed herself into fashionable creations, and couldn't have roused herself to scuttle or slit a paper bag, although she remained passionately addicted to young men, innocent or not, because (she maintained) it took her mind off slimming.

  The sudden advent of Avery, bowing his stalwart six feet two in sash and ruffles, caused marshmallow and calorie chart alike to slip limply from her fingers; she swallowed convulsively, and her sleepy green eyes and generous mouth parted in awed astonishment, slowly widening into a smile which, in a public place, would have led to her apprehension by the vice squad. Avery, poor simp, supposing her an accomplice of Vladimir's, took it for a polite welcome, and when she beckoned him closer he remembered his agent's injunction to do whatever he was told, and obeyed. Mistress Bonney, roused from her habitual ennui by this vision of masculine perfection, read the message on the gift card and couldn't believe her luck. Why, it was just what she'd always wanted.

  “Gad's mercy, dahling,” she murmured breathlessly, “and one really means, Gad's mercy! Wherever did they find you?”

  “Lately, madam, in De Souza's barracoon.”

  “But… who sent thee – the dear, thoughtful people?”

  Slightly puzzled, Avery replied guardedly. “One who is known to you, I think, ma'am.”

  “Well,” purred the lady, “whoever he is, this certainly beats the hell out of Milk Tray.” She took his hand caressingly. “And your name, dahling?”

  Extraordinary woman, thought Avery, and hedged again. “Shall we say only that I am your most humble obedient servant, ma'am?”

  “Well, of course you are, silly boy!” Mistress Anne uncoiled her plump stateliness from the sofa, and stood hand on hip, smiling hungrily. “And how obedient you're going to be, baby! Humble, who cares?” And she ran a playful finger down the opening of his shirt-ruffles, causing Avery to jump and go “Yeep!”

  “Madam!” He was scandalised. “That's me in there!”

  “Not madam, dahling … mistress. So hold still, rot thee, when she deigns to tickle. And be suitably grateful, understand?”

  “Why, mistress then, if you like!” Another women's lib freak, evidently. “Indeed, I'll be deeply grateful if you will but give me directions—”

  “Commands, dahling.”

  “Right. Fine. Commands. I'm easy, so we lose no more time in idle cross-talk, for I am all hot impatience to be doing, so for Pete's sake give your footman the gate, and—”

  “What, saucy?” She stared, laughed sharply, and slapped him smartly on the cheek. “Mama gives the orders, dahling – remember?” Then to complete his confusion she slid soft hands about his neck and pouted teasingly. “Nay, look never adown, pretty fool, for I forgive thee, since 'tis a sweet impatience, and I'm all for it. Drift, Onslow,” she added over her shoulder to the footman, who was sulkily reflecting that these honky studs had all the luck. “Oh, and Onslow – open an account with De Souza's for servicing and maintenance. Unless,” she drawled at Avery, “you're under guarantee?”

  Plainly she was off her trolley, unless this was more of their confounded code. “My agent is trustworthy,” he hazarded, and Mistress Anne chuckled wickedly.

  “We'll soon see about
that,” was her cryptic comment, and as Onslow withdrew she seized the captain in a hammer-lock and clamped her mouth on his with volcanic enthusiasm. He heaved manfully, but it was like resisting a rogue barrage balloon, and a strong, experienced one at that. Through his mind flashed a memory of being caught up in a wet mainsail during a hurricane, when he had saved himself by lying still and not panicking; he tried it now as they reeled about, glued together, until she pinned him on the sofa and broke the clinch, breathless but with a steely glint in her green eyes.

  “Dahling,” she panted, “less humility, and considerably more of that hot impatience you were advertising, or mistress is going to be rah-ther displeased—”

  “But madam – I mean, mistress—”

  “Damn your gorgeous hide, dahling, don't interrupt! Now, let's try again, shall we, and this time, obedient servant, one expects your best shot – or else. So …”

  “Hold it!” Avery used his quarterdeck voice, and she quivered in sheer surprise. He struggled up. “Look – what gives? I am told at the barracoon (by one that I trust) that for my salvation I must do as I'm bid, ask no questions, and all will be well. So I look for directions – but am told nothing. I don't understand what you say, even less what you do – and frankly, it's pretty bizarre, if you ask me – or what happens next. Madam,” he cried fervently, “or mistress – what am I meant to do?”

  Anne Bonney's lips were parted in crimson bewilderment, her eyes pools of incredulous Crème de Menthe. She blinked.

  “D'you mean … God help us! … you ha' never …?” She gestured uncertainly with a white hand. “Never … had it… away … before?”

  Had it away? Escaped from slavery, perhaps. Every trade had its cant, he knew.

  “Why, never!” he assured her.

  “But… ye protested all steamy impatience—”

  “Well, dash it, who wouldn't? D'you think I like being bottled up?”

  “… and … you look to mistress for … instruction …”

  “Lady, believe me, 'tis what I yearn for!”

  Anne Bonney's lashes fluttered, and she fetched a slow ecstatic sigh that shook the sofa. She patted her glossy red tresses, and a strange excitement kindled in her wanton eyes.

  “Oh, brother!” she murmured huskily. “One had dreamed o' this, since maidenhood – whenever that was. Talk about bonuses!” She felt delicious goose-pimples at the prospect: this answer to Messalina's prayer panting eagerly – and innocent. And she owned him, and Calico Jack wouldn't be back from Tortuga for ages …

  “Thou sweet, gorgeous ignorance,” she sighed, and fondly pinched his cheek. “Oh, and mistress was cross with thee! Nay, but we shall make all right, and school thee to our heart's content …”

  “Prithee, let's go!”

  “Ah, but softly, for 'tis not so simple.” She gurgled voluptuously and flexed her imagination. “First, sit closer … closer, dahling, one isn't going to bite you … yet. Now, this hand about me, and t'other … so. Are you sitting comfortably? Then we'll begin … just do exactly as I do …”

  Bewildering – but it gave our bemused hero something to cling to, in more ways than one. Obey orders, Vladimir had said, and it was the code by which Avery lived: broadsides or lady wrestlers, you did your duty, however improbable, and trusted Authority. So when Mistress Bonney's sweet lips closed on his, he kissed her back for all he was worth, which wasn't negligible, for he was Vanity-trained, and accidental embraces with Sheba and Meliflua hadn't blunted his technique. And oddly enough, he found it rather pleasant, nay, positively enjoyable – not like Vanity, exactly, and subtly different from Sheba and Meliflua … interesting, that. Of course, this lady was slightly older, with more … what was the word? Proportion? Generosity? What had that cad Blood called it… baaarroomph? Anyway, she was undoubtedly attractive, and most appreciative – tasted delicious, too, like a hungry mango, if one could imagine such a thing, and you felt you could go on eating it all day or all night or whatever time it was … oh, pity, she'd stopped, and was swaying with a slightly glazed expression, holding tightly for support.

  “'Strewth!” gasped Mistress Bonney reverently. “Ah… wow! And thou … a novice? Oh, dahling, thou'rt right, so right! We waste time indeed …” She lunged pneumatically against him. “Reach up behind and undo my top button … quickly, oaf!”

  “But, madam! … to what end?”

  “Dahling, don't tease! Mistress doesn't like it! To what end but to get the dress off, booby? Takes a shoehorn to get into the dam' thing! Oh, come on! … got it? Clever minion!”

  He started back, fearing overspill as she rose abruptly, but to his relief she swayed tempestuously away to her boudoir door, pausing there to smoulder at him. “Mistress is going to slip into something loose, dahling,” she drawled throbbingly. “Leave your things in yonder closet, and when mistress whistles …” she pushed her hair up and munched ardently in his direction “… break all records, is that clear?” She vanished into the boudoir.

  He was nonplussed … ah, she was going to change, plainly so that she could conduct him to safety. And she was right; if stealth was required, he'd be better without this ridiculous cloak. He entered the closet, a small dim chamber off the other side of the drawing-room, and was casting the cloak aside when there came an urgent scrabbling at the shutter. He jerked it open, and the sweating face of Mackintosh-Groonbaum peered furtively in.

  “That you, cap'n? Thank Gawd, I bin creepin' abaht everywhere—”

  “About time!” snapped Avery. “I have been driven nigh hairless by thy female accomplice – couldn't you have found someone in their right mind? The woman's cocoa!”

  “She ain't—”

  “Don't tell me! You haven't had to go three falls with her – has she no sense of haste?”

  “She ain't my accomplice, I mean!” Vladimir struggled over the sill. “Look, there's bin one 'ell of a balls-up”, he lied earnestly. “Afore I could make arrangements to 'ave you enlarged, she bought you … as a slave, I mean. You bein' for sale, an' all. Well, I couldn't foresee that, could I?”

  “Bought me?” Avery was staggered. “Why, a God's name?”

  “I dunno. 'Ad a vacancy, prob'ly. But, cap'n, 'tis prodigious stroke o' fortune! Don'cher know 'oo she is?”

  “Womanhood's answer to Black Kwango, the way she behaves.” Avery was bitter. “Gad, she's got a cheek, buying a chap she doesn't even know! Well, she can forget it – we'll off smartly—”

  “'Old on, cap'n, you don't cotton! She's Anne Bonney – former pirate wench an' paramour to Calico Jack Rackham! Don'cher see? This is 'is place, an' it's a stone ginger cert 'is Madagascar cross is in the 'ouse this minnit! We're in luck, cap'n!”

  “You mean … I might employ the occasion to recover it?”

  “'Ole in one,” smirked Vladimir. “Funny ole world, innit?”

  Avery stroked shaven chin, and got lipstick all over his fingers. “A rare opportunity, truly … but, how to find it?”

  “Easy. Doth not she use it to deck 'er plump an' pleasin' bosom?”

  “No.” Avery gulped heavily. “I can vouch for that.”

  “Well, then, in 'er boo-dwar, among 'er fripperies. As 'er favourite an' pampered slave, you'd 'ave lotsa chances—”

  “Who says I'm her favourite and pampered slave? Hardly met the woman!”

  “Come, come, cap'n,” leered Vladimir. “You'll get to know 'er.”

  “Bah! And how long would that take?”

  “In the Biblical sense, abaht four minutes,” said cynical Vladimir. “That ain't raspberry jam on yer clock, cap'n – she's bin tryin' to 'ave 'er lecherous way wi' you already, 'asn't she?”

  “WHAT?” The scales fell from Avery's eyes, clanging through his brain. “Trying to … you mean, that in there, just now, she was giving rein to …” he quivered with outrage “… mucky passion?”

  “I might ha' known you did biology at school,” nodded Vladimir, and at that moment a soft, sex-laden whistle ululated through the gloom. Avery leaped
like a stung whippet.

  “That's her!” he cried, grammar forgotten, and Vladimir beamed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Go in an' win, my boy,” he chuckled. “An' go through her jool-case arterwards.”

  “Not a chance!” Avery's voice grated like a grounded tanker. “Why, thou smut! Hast no shame? And I affianced to Lady Vanity! Even if I wasn't, I certainly wouldn't …” he blushed furiously “… misbehave … with this awful woman! Far too domineering, and red hair's a sign of bad temper. No, we must get the cross – but that's right out! Forget it! Think of something else.”

  Vladimir hopped in agitation. “Be reasonable, cap'n! Gawd, when I think o' the fellers who'd give up drink for the chance! Lissen – she's whistlin' again!”

  “She can whistle till her toe-nails rattle,” said Avery coldly. “The very idea!”

  “But – she'll 'ave 'er blacks lookin' fer you in a minnit! We'll be nabbed, an' she'll do you over just the same!” Vladimir was almost in tears. “Do it the easy way, cap'n – for me!” And seeing Avery adamant, the little shyster fell to raging, and then hearing a third whistle, distinctly shrill, groaned and dug into his pocket.

  “A 'right then, you win! 'Ere, grab this! I brought it along, just in case.” He thrust a small phial at Avery. “Take it! 'Tis butyl chloride, better known as Master Finn – used to shanghai silly sailormen an' zonk security guards. Slip that in 'er Ribena an' she'll drop like a factory chimney. Go on, cop 'old – find an excuse to ply 'er wi' drink … I'll be 'neath the window, an' when she's flaked aht we'll turn the place over!”

  Avery hesitated. “'Twill not harm her?” His eyes gimleted. “Or … arouse her … dark passions?”

  “Don't be soft! She needs arousin' like I need an honest accountant!” Vladimir scrambled out of the window and Avery hesitated no longer; he shot into the drawing-room, slurped wine into a glass, added the knock-out drops, and paused. How to make her drink it, raging with impatience as she was? A whistle like a factory hooter shrieked from the boudoir. He pounced on the calorie chart and swanned in like a man deep in thought.