The Pyrates

by George MacDonald Fraser

  His men flung themselves reluctantly into the half-blocked doorway, to meet the triple threat of Sheba's dazzling point, Vanity's artillery (she was getting the range now, and several shots hit the wall within yards of the doorway, one even grazing the lintel), and the hail of missiles which Meliflua, screaming with rage, was hurling from the dressing-table. Skilled from infancy in hitting a running Hattie McDaniel with anything from wooden blocks to Dinky toys, the fiery hidalga rained scent-bottles, brushes, and make-up jars on her countrymen with devastating effect; shrieks of the stricken mingled with cries for stretcher-bearers and impassioned peace slogans as the threshold became a shambles of blood, hand-cream, and Chanel No 5.

  But it couldn't have lasted. Sheba's steel strength, weakened by a fortnight on bananas (whate'er their cosmetic properties, they just don't provide the roughage) was flagging; panting magnificently, she lunged to bury her point in a Spanish torso, felt the blade snap, and fell back wi' a defiant sob and a sword four inches long; Vanity, startled off her aim, shot an opponent plumb between the eyes; Meliflua was reduced to hurling the Mr Universe calendar. It was the end! Beauteous but beaten, our indomitable trio had had it; with howls of gloat the brutal soldiery, urged on by the unspeakable Lardo, gathered themselves for the final rush … heavens, can nothing save them? Of course it can – listen! Aye, in that fatal moment of defeat and despair, they heard it, borne from afar through the night air on wings of hope and triumph – the gathering rumble of the Warner Brothers' fanfare, and on its heels the stirring double flourish of the Korngold trumpet; woooomph-tara-tee, tan-tara, tan-tee-tan-tan-tarraaah! followed by the thunder of broadsides as the Frantic Frog and Laughing Sandbag, heeling out of the sea-mist, poured their storm of shot and flame into the harbour fort and the sea-gate of the castle itself. The tower shook to the fury of the cannonade, twice and thrice repeated, and as it died echoing away came a sound even more terrible, as of hordes of desperate, cutlass-waving ruffians swinging recklessly to and fro in the rigging, pouring wildly in and out of hatches, leaping from the bulwarks, screaming with shock as they landed in shallow water, and finally storming up the beaches yelling that dreaded buccaneer war-cry wherewi' Spanish mothers were wont to fright their babes: “You go ahead, Jack, I'll beach the boat!”

  The Spanish garrison were taken completely unawares. They always are; it's part of their training. They responded perfectly; while the officers leaped from their chairs, overturning their wine-cups, the men gaped blearily, a sergeant in a morion ran about shouting “Andalusian rhubarb!”, and a small drummer began an impersonation of Buddy Rich in ill-fitting tights. In seconds, stairs and doorways were jammed with men in helmets carrying pikes, while a file of arquebusiers knelt down in agitation and opened fire at a blank wall.

  Into this brilliantly-choreographed chaos the buccaneers swept like a tidal wave – and guess who was at their head, in white shirt and ruffles, lithely skewering everything in his path, pausing only to point wi' muscular forearm and cry: “On, on, my lads! Feet-feet-feet, School – now let it out!” before bounding sideways on to an outside staircase to trip a couple of sword-waving idiots coming down, pink a third (who gets to do a slow artistic death-roll into the courtyard), pause for a grimly smiling profile shot in shadow, and then plough upstairs in search of Vanity.

  Down at the sea-gate Bilbo was in equally spectacular form, making kebabs of three foemen in quick succession, and fleering elegantly while performing the showy trick of taking snuff and discharging a pistol with one hand simultaneously – the least lapse of concentration and his opponent would have been struck by a pinch of Best Rapparee while Bilbo got a pistol ball up his nose, but the filibuster captain managed things to perfection; the Don went down, Bilbo fluttered kerchief to nostril, Goliath squealed admiringly “Four in a row, boo-boom!” and the men of the Laughing Sandbag o'erwhelmed the gate in celebration. At the same moment the harbour fort succumbed to an excited flood of pirates in striped jerseys and red pom-poms yelling “Vive la différence!”, and headed by the gallooned and prancing figure of Happy Dan Pew – a restful sea voyage and course of strongly-voiced consonants had restored him to comparative sanity. His nasalised vowels and sweeping épée drove the Spaniards like sheep, he prattled with fluent confidence of prefixed verbs and mesures thermométriques, and when he slashed down the Spanish flag with an exultant cry of: “I have reason, me!” his Gallic followers wept for joy, and only the more cautious spirits felt he was tempting providence.

  Down in the harbour itself was sheer panic. The crews of the galleons lined the rails pointing and holding on to the shrouds in disorganised fashion, while their superiors stood open-mouthed on their poops, fists on hips, crying “Caramba!” “Valencia!” and “Granada!” in well-bred amazement. And as trumpets blared and orders were shouted, none marked the black shape o' the Plymouth Corporation's Revenge gliding into their midst like very shadow o' doom – until all its lights went on at once, and it hove to, blazing like Blackpool front, while its skeleton crew leaned over the side sounding rattles, deflating poo-poo cushions, waggling their fingers beside their ears, and waving intimate garments at the Spanish ships. Firebeard was conspicuous with his exploding whiskers and lewd gestures.

  “Har-har, Dagoes!” he bellowed. “King Philip's a fairy, d'ye see? Notts Forest one, Real Madrid nil, belike! Latins are lousy lovers, wi' a curse! Har-har!”

  Enraged, the Spanish captains instantly ordered their ships to close on the insolent intruder, and in a trice half the squadron was close-packed round the pirate ship, while the skeleton crew were nipping smartly down to a jolly-boat 'neath the stern. Firebrand landing head-first (wi' a wannion), and as the unsuspecting Dons flooded aboard, the jolly-boat scooted for safety as hard as it could row, with Calico Jack at the tiller.

  High on a stone staircase in the castle, Avery was disposing of a platoon of sword-waggling opponents when he heard the cataclysmic boom of the Plymouth Corporation's Revenge's explosion. Pausing in his parry of five simultaneous thrusts, he had time for a hearty chuckle ere swinging to safety via a conveniently-hanging curtain; with a flick of his wrist he thrust a chest of drawers down the steps, sweeping his enemies away in confusion, and hastened to an embrasure from which he could look down on the panorama of courtyard and harbour, and tot up the score.

  Despite the good write-up we've been giving the buccaneers so far, it wasn't a totally satisfactory picture that met the captain's clear, grey-eyed gaze. True, the harbour was a roaring sea of flame, with half the galleons burning in a veritable holocaust of special effects, but the other half were making tracks for the harbour entrance in good order, and blasting holes in the Laughing Sandbag and Frantic Frog, which the pirates had carelessly left untenanted when they stormed ashore. Making a mental note to have someone on a fizzer for that dereliction of duty, our hero switched focus to the land-battle, and his knuckles beat faster and his ruffles rose in alarm as he saw that the buccaneer attack was running out of steam. (Here, that's bad.)

  To the untrained eye it was the usual torch-lit mêlée of bodies heaving lethargically to and fro, but Avery could read the tell-tale signs – Spaniards were falling screaming from the walls at far below the standard rate, no pile of surrendered weapons was visible, the music was nowhere like reaching a triumphant climax, cries of “Quarter!” were just as frequent in English as in Spanish, and – his lips tightened in anger – several knots of pirates had fallen out for a quick smoke and, in one sheltered corner, a surreptitious brew-up. Wi' muttered exclamation he was about to rush down and turn the tide single-handed, when his marrow froze and his hair congealed as from somewhere overhead there echoed the shrill wail of a woman – whether in agony, danger, disappointment, or screaming tantrum he could not tell …

  It's always difficult, with battle finales, to keep tabs on all the principals, and while the lads have been doing their thing we have lost track of events at the top of the tower, where we left les girls on the point of capture by Don Lardo's crew. The Spaniards were ab
out to barge in, you recall, when the pirate onslaught froze the scene – then it all happened. Sheba leaped to the panelling, pressed a button, and vanished into a secret passage with a sharp click, Meliflua swooned and was dragged out to the cruel embrace o' beastly Lardo, Vanity screamed, and Enchillada (who'd learned a thing or two in his career as a court functionary) shot from beneath the bed like a flying profiterole, and with a squeal of “Too thee bathroom!” pointed the way to sanctuary for our heroine. Vanity got inside just in time to see him vanish behind the shower curtain; then she had slammed the door in the Spaniards' faces, the “Engaged” sign shot up, and with all hell breaking loose outside the Viceroy ordered his men downstairs to lend the garrison a hand.

  Fine – that's Vanity out of harm's way, and the stage is set for Lardo and Avery to run into each other somewhere on a lonely stairway or in a great shadowy torch-lit hall, exchange long, slow, burning looks – revoltingly contorted and deep-breathing hatred on one side, steely-eyed and grim-smiling resolution on t'other – bandy remarks like “So, English dog – you'll yap defiance at the finest swordsman in Spain, will you?” and “All right, Lardo, we'll see if your blade's as nimble as your tongue – I've no doubt it's cleaner,” slash a few candles in half, and get down to business.

  Sorry, that's not what happened. Avery, hearing, that piercing shriek (Meliflua coming up for air, actually), was making for the stairs like a frenzied whippet, but got caught up not with Lardo but with a spare bunch of guards – the ones who are forever emerging at the double from archways and passages with shouts of “Ha! Jumble!” whenever the hero is operating solo in the enemy HQ and needs some time to himself. So it was back downstairs again for our Ben, wi' thrust and parry and flying furniture, while Lardo, wi' his limp and lovely burden …

  He wasn't the best swordsman in Spain, or even in Madrid W1; huge, ugly, disgustingly strong, yes, but strictly Fourth Division when it came to stamp and slash, sa-ha! And he was chicken, too; one quick look from a window at the carnage beneath. and he was making for the backstairs, with Meliflua in a fireman's lift, his one object to scuttle out the back way, get aboard his private flagship, the Santa Umbriago, which was round the corner in a secluded creek, and make for the tall timber. For aboard the Santa Umbriago was all his loot, including the multi-millions of Pew's treasure in used gold coins – that fabulous hoard which Blood had betrayed, ye'll mind.

  And speaking of Blood, you haven't noticed him laying on i' the thick o' the fight, have you? Not we, says you, blinking – where on earth …? Even so, says I, step this way …

  Deep in the gloomy bowels o' Octopus Rock, where walls dripped and all manner o' uggle lay underfoot, two figures stole through the odorous dark of the watercress dungeon, and paused in indecision where dim-lit passages converged. Hark 'ee …

  “Come on, ye ould idiot – ye were down here long enough to grow fins, so ye must know the way up! Take a cast about, rot ye, an' if ye land me in another tub o' mushroom dung I'll lose me temper, so I will!”

  “Oidle-de-dang-doo! Thataway, ha? … nay, p'raps not … or by yarnder stair, eh? Ar, mizzle it! ole Sol be confazzled, maister, d'ye see? 'Tis shortage o' drippin' – ar, sweet, nourishin' drippin' – as do blunt the senses keen, so it do … So whither, ha …? Let's lay aloft on this tack, wi' a baddle-de-bop …”

  Blood and Shafto, by the powers! What should this portend? Easy. Blood, misliking hard knocks, yet eager to show well wi' Vanity in the last act, had sloped off like the skunk he was when the pirates first landed, and with Shafto as guide had entered by the familiar postern. For Shafto, ye mind, knows where our heroine is confined, and for promise o' rich reward he has engaged to conduct knavish Tom thither, Blood's reasoning being that if he's the first Marine to land, the Admiral's daughter may yet be his. Devious type, isn't he? So up they steal, past echoing empty cells, on those fatal backstairs – and we know who's on his villainous way down, don't we …?

  They met with mutual yells of alarm – the hideous Viceroy had retained two trusted thugs as bodyguards, but Blood and Shafto had no time to reckon odds, let alone flee. It was swords out and get stuck in, Blood's rapier and Solomon's gardening implements 'gainst the three Spanish broadswords, while Meliflua assumed the classic pose for spectating heroines, one hand clasped to muslin brow while the other plucked her marble fichu.

  Brawl right murderous ensued, for Lardo, armoured and berserk wi' panic, was lethal as a rogue steam-roller, bawling and clanging as he unleashed savage swipes which would have cloven our twain in two (or vice versa) had they been less nippy. Blood, parrying desperately, was beaten back by sheer weight, and as Lardo closed with him a thug let drive at the Colonel's undefended flank – but swish-thunk! came a high-heeled stiletto, flung wi' unerring aim (well done, Meliflua!) to pierce the rascal's sword-arm. As Blood broke free, Solomon's secateurs found a gap in the second thug's guard, Blood completed the good work wi' punta rinverso olé! and a hack on the shins, and Lardo, the yellow hound, pausing only to scoop up case containing credit cards and traveller's cheques, snatched Meliflua under one huge arm and legged it incontinently, with the Irish adventurer and the ragged galoot in hot pursuit.

  Lardo boobed. Fleeing regardless, he was making for the front of the castle, and his mad rush carried him out on to a balcony overlooking the flaming harbour; trapped, he turned at bay, his nightmare features glaring horribly, and as rapier and secateurs drove in for the kill, the craven Viceroy sank to the pits of caddish behaviour. His steel fingers closed on his lovely hostage's slender throat, and his dentures gnashed in fiendish threat.

  “Back! Back, I say – or the frail gets hers! Another step, and bye-bye vertebrae!”

  “Uulngh!” gasped Meliflua piteously. “Hoidle a-gling!” cried compassionate Shafto. “Pack it in, Lardo, and I'll try to get ye off wi' 99 years!” shouted Blood, white-lipped, but the Viceroy gibbered wi' mad laughter, and his free hand sought the great rusty chain which hung hard by the balcony down the sheer castle wall to Sheba's cage far beneath. One step and his foot was on the iron links.

  “Stay me at your peril!” he snarled. “Once aboard the chain I'm immune as I scramble down to safety – for if I fall she falls with me, to manglish death! Ha-ha-ha, I've scored again! Pass me that case of traveller's cheques, Irish lout, and then turn to the wall and count a hundred! And no peeking!”

  Tense as an E-string, Blood edged forward, took the case on his sword-point, and cautiously extended it. Straddled 'twixt balcony and chain, but hampered by Meliflua as they hung o'er the dizzy drop, Lardo opened mailed hand to receive it – and with a mad yell of “Froodle-me-zip!” Solomon suddenly flung his deadly watering-can. Straight as an arrow it sped, clanging resoundingly on the back of Blood's head – he reeled, the case fell, Lardo grabbed at it, Meliflua slipped from his grasp and landed, decoratively asprawl, on the balcony coping, Blood lunged and seized her, the Viceroy swung out and away on the chain, howling with rage, the tiny rivets on his steel gauntlets popped free under the strain of clutching the rusty links – plink-plink-plink-plink! -the metal glove came apart, and with a hideous scream the massive armoured figure fell, turning over and over, growing smaller and smaller as it plunged down at 32 feet per second per second into the gloomy depths. They waited breathless, Meliflua swooning in Blood's arms, Solomon chewing his beard and counting, until from far below came the ultimate almighty clang and splat! Fearfully they peered down and beheld the octopus pool a-churn wi' horror, and thereafter the tentacled denizens scrambling out with octopodal noises of disgust, and slithering hastily across the rocks seaward. But of infamous Lardo naught remained, save shattered dentures on the pool's rim.

  Ye may think, belike, that with Meliflua snuggling up to Blood a new romantic attachment is imminent – after all, he's plucked her from grisly fate, and she's unattached. Sorry again – Blood isn't privy to her old man's bank balance, and anyway she's too young for him. Disposing her decently on a convenient couch, Tom is hot-foot upstairs again to find Vanity, while Solomon
clambers nimbly down the chain to retrieve his fallen watering-can, which had ricochetted from the Colonel's skull into the void.

  But what's happening down below, anyway? Faith, but we're in desperate case, for the sheer weight of numbers of the damned Dons is like to turn the scale, d'ye see? The buccaneer detachments, their first fury spent, are barely holding their own against vasty odds as the battle rages across the great courtyard and round the sea-gate; the Spaniards, heartened by the rumour that their leader, Don Lardo, has met a timely end, have got their heads down in a really splendid shove, and the pirate pack is like to be heaved off its feet, look'ee – ah, them breaks in training, they crafty smokes when all was going well, we'm paying for them now as the Dons wheel and take in an inspired foot-rush, and the tide of battle rolls inch by inch towards the great sea-gate with its looming portcullis, fit scene for desperate last stand by the ragged rabble as the Dons press in on them, wi' a curse. But they're going game.

  Black Bilbo, his shoddy finery cut to ribbons, his boots pinching like bedamned, fights like a lean fury in the front rank; beside him capers Happy Dan, plying lively blade and hissing his vowels through clenched nostrils, with no trace of diphthongisation; Goliath, his leg in splinters, lies gnashing tiny teeth and biting every Spanish ankle in sight; Firebeard, up from the harbour, his beard a charred wreck, plunges into the mêlée roaring and reeking; Calico Jack spits again on his horny hand and swings ponderous cutlass; Solomon Shafto, his secateurs snapped off short, lays on with watering-can and pruning-knife – and still they give slow ground, the battered remnant of the once-mighty Brotherhood, their backs to the sea where the unscathed Spanish galleons are wheeling leisurely towards shore, preparing to rake the retreating enemy with grape and so make an end. Let's face it, the buccaneers are right in it, up to here.