The Pyrates

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “'Od's whillikins!” Avery's eyes flashed like police alarms in the dark. “The fiend! Then … our settlements – why, all honest folk, like the Dutch and Scowegians and … yes, even the French – stand in mortal peril!”

  “That's what the wise money says,” agreed Blood. “'Tis a hell of a note, for now that the Brotherhood are off his back, and our King's ships but few, yon bedentured loony may burn and rob, rape and mangle, conquer and enslave any which way he likes. He's got the ships, he's got the men, he's got the money too, to coin a phrase.”

  “Just let him try!” grated Avery, and sparks flew from his clenched incisors. “Nay, though I perish in the attempt, I'll wax his ass! I'll… but continue thy tale, man!”

  “Well, Octopus Rock is where Black Sheba had her dreaded private castle; 'tis strong fortalice and crossroads o' the Caribbean, and might ha' resisted any attack, but when its pirate garrison saw Black Sheba suspended in iron cage from Lardo's bowsprit, and the big ape himself hollerin': ‘Pack it in, or we dunk thy dusky queen!’ they were unmanned and threw in the towel. And Lardo, the hound, put 'em to the sword, every man, includin' even the Swedes and beef-cake boys from Sheba's indoor sports club. So there Lardo sits secure, waiting reinforcements, and Sheba hangs naked in her cage down a great black cliff o'er pool o' ravening octopi—”

  “Not octopi. Sorry to interrupt, but it's Greek, not Latin. Octopods, octopodes, take your pick, but not octopi.”

  “O'er pool o' ravening octopusses, then!” snarled Blood. “And there she swings, mocked by lewd Spanish soldiers takin' pictures and offerin' her bananas through the bars.”

  “Rough,” said Avery grimly. “Mind you, she's asked for it… but Vanity, man! What o' her?”

  “Takin' no harm, for tho' Lardo would slake his evil lust wi' her, the presence o' his fiancée – what's her name, Meliflua? – cramps his style sorely.”

  “Ah, the sweet half-pint!” murmured Avery compassionately. “Doomed to marriage wi' yon walking disaster … but I'll save her yet—”

  “I don't know ye need bother,” said Blood. “The grapevine doth say that she hath o'ercome her maiden terrors o' Lardo, to the extent of refusin' to let him bring his snakes an' spiders in the dining-room, so it may be he hath bit off more than he can chew wi' the fiery young hidalga. Serve the big bastard right if he has.”

  “I'll be blowed! Good girl!” cried Avery admiringly. “But how did ye escape from such fell durance? And by what strange chance are ye here, and who be these who even now are beating the bushes for ye?”

  “I'm glad ye asked that”, said Blood. “'Twas thus, on a night o' tempest and raging wind, as the surge lashed the base o' lonely Octopus Rock, heaving the Spanish ships in their rockbound haven, swinging the great cage in which Sheba huddled for warmth among old banana skins, rattlin' the dentures in Lardo's bedside bucket, and drivin' the Spanish sentries to seek shelter 'neath the battlements—”

  “All right, all right! Skip the tourist stuff and get on …”

  … High in the tower of the forbidding castle, in the spacious room which had once been Black Sheba's, Lady Vanity stirred uneasily in feverish slumber. She hadn't slept well since her arrival, and blamed the surroundings: the sable decor which Sheba favoured didn't help, or the row of stuffed Spanish heads which grinned high on the ebony panelling, or the disused Iron Maiden in which the pirate queen had been wont to hang her bath-robes and shower-caps; naught relieved the sombre ghastliness of the chamber save the Mr Universe calendar and a few of Master McGill's postcards from buccaneer friends which adorned the dressing-table mirror. The only good thing about the place, from Vanity's point of view, was the store of her own Helena Rubinstein cream which Sheba had pinched; it was some consolation, as Vanity dabbed it on before retiring, to think that her dusky rival was getting the salt-water treatment in her cage outside.

  Yet more than her surroundings troubled the sleep of the Admiral's beauteous daughter, and not just Spanish cooking, either. “Ben, ah peerless Ben!” she murmured, and her dreams in which she spooned fondly with him at tropic taffrails were plagued by nightmares in which he ran, whistling lewdly, after dim shapes in leopard-skin tracksuits and conga skirts and a vague Spanish female in matador pants. But what was this? Before her very eyes stood the Castilian sex-symbol herself (not in matador pants, 'tis true, but in a pretty slinky cloth-of-gold peignoir with lace ruffles which must have cost a bomb), her dark hair down, a slim finger to her lips, and a candle in her hand. Behind her the door stood ajar, with three Spanish guards piled up on the threshold, snoring thunderously.

  “Heest!” she warned. “They are droog-ed, but we moost be silent as meeces!” She glided forward and regarded Vanity with sullen dark eyes. “Yoo are the Laydee Vanitee! Ah, I hate yoo! Yoo are so beeyootifool an' pale an' cold, an' – ah, caramba! eet ees too much! – yoo are a natchooral blonde!”

  Vanity, golden tresses bemused, forget-me-not eyes aswirl, gave her lovely visitor a swift up-and-down. “Well, that's pretty steep! Certes, I'm beautiful, but you should complain, whoever you are – art dishy enough, I warrant!” She caught her breath as it flew past. “Golly, you must be Donna Meliflua! Ha! You and your matador pants, that did beguile my sweetheart, thou Benidorm snatch-artist!”

  “I? Heh!” Proud tears sprayed from Donna Meliflua's lids. “I should be so loocky! I yam distract' weeth love for 'eem, your darleeng Ayveree – an' 'ee spurn my devotion, cast me aside – me, high-bred and allooring wheestle-bait of Castile, as you see me! Aside, I tell you, like an old boot! Only yoo 'ee loves, weeth your natchooral blonde 'air … Ha! Eet's not a weeg, ees eet?” she cried hopefully.

  “Try pulling it,” suggested Vanity, “and then start counting your teeth. But you say – he loves me? That he was blind to your attractions?”

  “'Ee onlee painted your 'ateful name on thee stern of my personal galleon, would you believe? Glonde Vayinty - weeth my own eyeses I see eet! An' oll through deener 'ee go on about you, an' call you beezer, Sooperwoman, light of 'ees life – an' me in my sexee-est manteella! I was seeck leesteneeng!” The lovely little face crumpled tearfully into gnash, and Vanity, albeit her heart was doing cartwheels at this glad news, was touched.

  “Oh, poor kid! Gosh, I'm sorry!” She laid an impulsive hand on the hidalga's arm. “Well I know how he can enflame maiden passion, yea, to boiling-point -whether 'tis his godlike profile, or splendid physique, I know not… or his slow smile, his clear grey eyes, the dimple in his chin …”

  “Button eet up, por favor!” sobbed Donna Meliflua, bouncing distraught on the bed. “I yam onlee hyooman!”

  “Ah, fret not, sweet child,” soothed kindly Vanity, “for I know Señor Right will come along, you'll see—”

  “Oh, yeah? Take a look in thee Vicereegal suite some time! Señor Reepulseev, weeth 'ees snakeses an' black weedows an' 'ees 'orreeble teeth – forced on mee by crooel parentses!”

  “You don't mean it? If my father had tried to pull anything half as grisly,” mused Vanity, “I'd have bitten him on the leg.”

  “Ah, yoo Eengleesh, weeth yoor weemen's leeb an' deesco danceeng, anytheeng ees posseeble. Me, I yam stuck weeth Lardo, an' mus' make thee best of eet! Creesto!” She raised her eyes to heaven and spat. “Wheech reeminds me – yoor companion. Blodd? Blewed?”

  “Colonel Blood?”

  “Ah, Carnal Blodd. 'Ee moost eescape, at once. Thees verree night!”

  “Escape?” Vanity's rosebud lips whiffled. “Is't possible? What, and convey me to safety? Oh, dearest Meliflua, let me embrace thee! Selfless child – thy tender heart has been moved by my plight, and would reunite me with my Ben! Gosh, that's white of you … I mean, considering you're the losing team, so to speak—”

  “Ha! Leesen, vain Eengleesh rose,” Meliflua's fiery eyes crackled with disdain, “'tees not for thee or that ice-cold Ayveree 'oo spurn me that I yam concerneded! I weesh thees Blodd person to vamos, but 'ee lies een thee dungeons, een chains, an' I 'ave peenched the key from Encheellada's office -�
�� and from the froth of lace at her bosom she hauled out a massive iron key, shuddering. “Boy, was eet cold! But 'ow to convey eet to Blodd, weeth soldiers everywhere? Onlee thee crayzee Eengleesh cabbage-lan'scaper … Shafftow, eesn't eet? … 'oo 'as been made slave een charge of thee castle pot-plants an' weendow-boxes, can pass safely, seence 'ee tends thee dungeon watercress, an' no one weel suspeesh heem. But I not spik Engleesh well enough, so yoo mus' tell 'eem.” She raised a slender hand in caution. “Heest! 'E waits weethout!” And gliding to the door, she inserted two fingers in her mouth, and Vanity started at the eery blast which echoed up the vaulted corridor. There was a scurry of feet, and Solomon Shafto appeared, hopping nimbly over the drugged guards and knuckling his forehead bright-eyed to Vanity.

  “Evenin', leddyship, an' oidle-doidle, sez you! 'Ell of a night, hain't it? Ar, chimbley-pots a-flyin', I reckon! Ar!”

  “Steady on!” Vanity passed trembling hand o'er faultless brow. “Donna Meliflua – what mean ye? Blood to escape – but to what end? Don't tell me,” she crisped, “that Irish smoothie has beglamoured thee, wi' his clarkie tash and winning tongue?”

  “'Ee ees nozzing to me!” shrilled Meliflua. “But 'ee must fly to warn the Eengleesh settlements that Don Lardo plans to destroy them weeth fires an' swords! There ees no time to looze!”

  But …” Vanity was fogged. “Do you mind? I mean, as an Englishwoman I think it's perfectly ghastly … our colonies devastated, people massacred – no more cricket tours, or afternoon teas on H.E.'s lawn, or Mustique holidays – but you're Spanish! Why aren't you all for it? I ween,” she added severely, “thou'rt pretty unpatriotic.”

  “Ah, caramba!” Meliflua stamped dainty foot in impatience. “I yam troo daughter of Spain, dedicate to glory of Castile an' Viva España! But eef Lardo make war on your pipple, what 'appen to my Papa's Eengleesh eenvestments? 'Ees sterleeng accounts? I tell yoo … they weel freeze them, those 'ereteec swine! Confeescate! Meelions lost! My Papa roo-eened! An' I yam onlee child,” she added, her shapely nostrils pathetically a-droop. “So Lardo's schemes must bee scootled. Okay, tough – but Papa's forchoon weel be saved, an' no one weel ever know 'twas me, Donna Meleeflua Etcetera, 'oo pulled the ploog. So … Carnal Blodd must warn the Eengleesh in time. Tell Shafftow.”

  The flower of patriotic British womanhood needed no further urging. While Donna Meliflua idled by the windowsill, moodily dropping make-up jars on Black Sheba's cage far below, Vanity filled in the twitching Solomon Shafto on what must be done, and pressed the great key upon him. Solomon, agog to serve her, would have swallowed it for greater security, but Vanity wrested it from his eager jaws, and a moment later the ragged ancient was scurrying downstairs, wi' watering-can and secateurs to lend colour to his errand, and the key concealed in his flapping beard. None hindered his passage through those gloomy vaults, past guard-rooms where torches guttered and sleepy sentinels yawned, until he came to the noisome watercress dungeon where Colonel Blood swung, suspended by chains round his ankles, crooning resignedly “Believe me if all those endearing young charms.”

  Hurried whispers i' the dark, groan o' key in rusty fetters, dull plosh as Blood dropped straight into a vat of mushroom fertiliser, stifled oaths, wet slurp of bemired feet across the flags, and stealthy sneak down dank corridor towards open postern. Beyond lay a narrow path skirting the storm-lashed rock to secluded cove where Meliflua, with forethought (and some artistic licence from the author) had caused a fast catamaran to be moored – but ere they won to the postern, an iron-bound door swung open, and guards in morions appeared, to yell alarm at the sight of the two figures, one ragged and wizened, the other plastered with muck, caught flat-footed in the torch-glare.

  “Jail-break!” bawled the guards. “Clobber them!” But Blood was upon the foremost, wrenching rapier from the fellow's scabbard, and in a trice the corridor echoed to the clang o' steel as our Colonel beat a fighting retreat towards the postern, his blade whirling 'gainst three in the hands of his bearded pursuers. Before that leaping point, and the frightful pong of his befouled person, the Dons held back, until Blood's foot slipped in the mushroom-horror; he half-fell, and Spanish steel was about to spit him when it was turned by subtle parry of outflung water-can, and Solomon Shafto leaped between, brandishing his secateurs.

  “Have at 'ee, hell-hounds, wi' a voom-vam-vimble an' be danged! Ha, Inquisition dogs, 'tis Secateur Shafto has 'ee at his point! Come, kiss my steel, vile thumbscrew-fanciers! Afoot, maister, an' down-derry-diddle, sa-ha!”

  Shoulder to shoulder they retreated, the capering scarecrow and the reeking soldier of fortune; Spaniards fell before their steel and the flailing sweep of the watering-can, but more were coming, and e'en as they reached the iron wicket, a blade drove through Solomon's beard and he staggered, gargling. Quick as light Blood leaped through and slammed the postern; he heaved up Shafto bodily and sprinted along the rain-lashed path, but the Spaniards sallied after them and he turned in desperation to face the onion-gorged menace as it surged up the path with swords aloft and beards gloating. Solomon shuddered and slipped down on to the wet ground.

  “What? Ha? How is't wi' you, old runt?” cried the Colonel. “Art foundered, or is't mere scratch?”

  Solomon's eyes flickered, and a spasm of pain twisted the gnarled old face as he glanced back at the approaching Dons, and the secateurs fell from his failing grasp.

  “Ha, maister! … nay, Ole Sol has took pesky thrust, d'ye see, an'…” He coughed weakly as his skinny hand gripped Blood's arm, and he forced a feeble grin. “Us … parts here, I rackon.”

  “Never say die, old joy!” cried the Colonel, moved even in this extremity. “I'll beat 'em back an' carry you!” But the old castaway shook his unkempt head.

  “Nay, maister … us'd never make it, no'ow. Frapple-de doo … I be … an ole done husk, an' as things is shapin', 'tis odds I'll ne'er see Babbacombe again … ar, sweet Babbacombe, wi' drippin' hot from the sty! But you, maister – you'm young an' strong an' … sound o'limb. So,” his faded eyes filled with tears, “you hold the buggers off while I get the hell out o' here!”

  And with a galvanised leap he was off up the path like an electric hare. With an oath Blood slashed and hacked at the arriving Dons; the howling wind drove his stench into their faces, and they reeled back, choking. Blood fled, and reached the cove just as Solomon, gibbering with panic, got the catamaran under way; a frantic leap and Blood was scrambling o'er the gunwale even as Solomon flung the tiller into second, and they surged out of the cove and into the teeth of the storm …

  “And then?” Avery's bated whisper echoed round the hollow trunk of the galoopa tree. “What next befell? What o' Solomon his wound?”

  “Wound my foot!” scathed Blood. “The Don's point had been turned by the Jobbing Gardener's Handbook for 1654 in the breast pocket of the ould layabout's rags – an' him carryin' on like the last act o' Hamlet! Howbeit, we cleared cursed Octopus Rock, the Dagoes misliking to follow in the tempest, which drove us headlong two days. God,” he shuddered, “what an experience! Two days in the company of that drivelling lunatic! Then we were becalmed, and lo! a distant isle, which the garrulous bum claimed to recognise, he having been marooned there years agone by Howell Davis. Who has my heartfelt sympathy,” he added, with feeling.

  “So we stood in, and there a great ship in the lagoon. Shafto climbs our mast, and ‘What d'ye see, old gallows?’ says I. ‘Jolly mariners a-dancin' heel an' toe on the strand,’ says he, ‘to chirp o' pipe an' lilt o' small guitar, wi' a hey-ding-a-boogie.’ ‘Sounds all right,’ says I, ‘what more?’ 'A gurt loon wi' a red beard practisin' press-ups,' says he, 'an' a swart lean fellow in a ribboned coat who lolls at ease in a deck-chair, attended by a timber-toed midget.' It seemed to me the descriptions were familiar. ‘Turn this bloody boat round!’ hollers I – but 'twas too late—”

  “'Vast narrating!” Avery snapped his fingers. “Red beard … swart lean chap … timber-toed midget – d'you know, Blood, they sound familar to me, too … Great Sc
ott!” He started up and hit his head a ringing crash. “It wasn't—?”

  “It was. Help thyself to the coconut.”

  “Firebeard and Bilbo! Nay, then here's rare opportunity!”

  “Not precisely how I put it meself.”

  “And they brought ye hither … and yonder fell black ship … the Laughing Sandbag?”

  “As ever was. An' I can tell ye her accommodation for prisoners is pre-eminently lousy, especially when ye have to share it wi' a babbling nut like Shafto, and a faddle-de-bopple to you! If ever,” Blood ground his teeth, “I hear the word ‘dripping’ again I may do something quite reckless … not that it didn't come in handy, mind you, for Shafto whined for it so oft that they gave him some from the galley, and when we anchored here I used it to slip me fetters an' bolt ashore. Speakin' o' which,” he cocked his head, “the pursuit seems to have died down …”

  But Avery's active mind was already pacing to and fro. “Right! I see the position, and what's to do. Phase One: I settle the hash of Bilbo and Firebeard for keeps, take over their ship, and warn our settlements about the Dons. Phase Two: I hie me to Octopus Rock, deliver my sweet Vanity and remind her that I'm her heart's desire and thou but vulgar passing fancy, put the skids under Lardo his vain dreams o' conquest, and slap Sheba in the cooler. Not necessarily in that order; we'll see how it goes. Phase Three: wrap up the remainder o' the Coast Brethren. Capital! A busy schedule, but I'm feeling pretty keen.”

  “Ye are, eh? Good, good …” Blood gave sardonic approval. “But no need to fret yourself over the Brotherhood, ye know; the Dons ha' settled them for you. On our voyage hither we fell in wi' two ships, one towing t'other – locked i' stinking lazarette, I but glimpsed 'em through a port, but by scraps o'erhead I gather they are sole survivors from Tortuga, where Lardo's galleons ha' minced the buccaneer fleet into tasty bite-sized portions.”

  “Nay! Who the dooce,” cried Avery hotly, “do these Dons think they are? I was looking forward to that. Ah, well, I can still set about Firebeard and Bilbo, and that wi'out delay. I've sat around long enough. You coming?”