Now this happened on the very day that Avery and Sheba were escaping from Cartagena into Injun country, and Vanity and Blood were falling into the hands of the Cohaclgzlns. What has since happened to them, we know, but it may be as well to pause for station identification on some of our other characters, who haven't been heard from for a while.
Happy Dan Pew, for example, we left nursing his fractured heart and leafing moodily through Lesson One (je suis, tu es, il est, etc., poor devil) while he cruised dazedly towards Tortuga – thanks to his Vanity trauma he had forgotten all about joining Bilbo at Cartagena. Which was just as well, since when last seen Bilbo, Firebeard and Goliath were leaving the city at high speed, with Lardo's soldiers taking futile pot-shots after their canoe. Let's see where they went.
If you and I had been in their shoes (a horrid thought, when you consider that Odor-Eaters had still to be invented) we would have continued downstream in top gear. But Bilbo reasoned coolly that his ship, the Laughing Sandbag, must still be lurking secure off the coast, since the Spaniards couldn't conceivably have found her yet. Accordingly he and his companions quickly beached their canoe and took to the woods, Firebeard carrying the wooden-legless Goliath as they struck out for the coast. A gruelling march it was, of a kind that nowadays would be attempted only with two-way radios, survival gear, nylon anoraks, and sponsorship by several sporting-goods firms, and even so would probably end in disaster and air-sea rescue. But those were the days when Morgan and Dampier and their crews were wont to plunge into trackless, fever-ridden jungle with a handful of salt and a cutlass, hack their unerring way to where the loot was, fight their half-starved battles against impossible odds, hack their way back again, and so home, thinking nothing of it. To Bilbo, who could read the stars as easily as a book, and carried his own radar in his head, the twenty miles to the sea were a mere irritating formality. Twelve hours' solid jungle-bashing, with Firebeard acting as a foliage-plough and Goliath singing “Climb every mountain', brought them within sight of the sea; they were ripped and bitten and bloody from their ordeal, and virtually out on their feet (foot, in Goliath's case) with hunger, thirst, and exhaustion – but Bilbo had hit the coast within half a mile of their ship, and long before the guarda costas had peeped warily beyond Isla Baru, the Laughing Sandbag had slipped like a black phantom out to sea.
She prowled the shore for a few days, on the chance that Sheba might appear, and then sheered off to a convenient desert isle to careen, lay in wood and water, and have Goliath fitted with a new wooden leg from the local tree surgeon. (Bilbo had lost his toupee in the woods, and got the sailmaker to knit him a new one in secret, but it looked awful, and he had no choice but to wear his plumed hat permanently, which was a fearful nuisance in the tropic heat, particularly during the games of rounders and head-tennis with which the pirates beguiled their leisure.)
So now we know what Bilbo and Firebeard are doing (loafing, let's face it), and it is time to turn to sterner matters, for while we have been gathering in these lesser strands of our tale, Spanish devilment has broken loose, all unsuspected, behind our backs, and in the sneakiest possible way. 'Twas thus: ye mind how Don Lardo (out upon him!) vowed to launch a great campaign to sweep all right-thinking opposition from the Caribbean? Aye, says you, we mind – but would you believe that he's actually got it under way already, and us none the wiser? Never! says you, 'tis thing impossible – why, he's been fully occupied massacring Cohaclgzlns, and being beastly to Vanity, and offering to pull Blood asunder, and the like o' that. Aye, to be sure he has – but elsewhere his minions have been at their evil employs. Listen to this, and tremble:
Before sallying forth from Cartagena to hunt down our fleeing principals, the crafty Viceroy had sent a fast sloop scudding north to Santo Domingo of Hispaniola, wi' urgent commands to his governor there, Don Toro Molinos, to open the campaign with a sudden assault on the great buccaneer stronghold of Tortuga. Aye! So now – on the very morn when Lardo himself was digging up the treasure which Blood had betrayed, and gnashing his dentures exultantly; while Bilbo and Firebeard were lapping up the bread of idleness and pina colada on their careening island; while Happy Dan Pew was sailing along revising “Une Promenade au Bicyclette” (and not making much of it); while Avery was being carried off ever farther by slave-traders, while Vladimir was joining in the keep-fit class on the games deck of his westering packet, and Admiral Rooke was trying to get his show on the road at the Cape – on that self-same morn a great red and gold fleet descended on Tortuga like a garlic thunderbolt, forced the rocky harbour of Cayona before anyone was out of bed, shattered its forts with broadsides, and stormed the buccaneer ships drowsing at anchor.
Pacing the gilded quarterdeck of his great galleon, the Misconcepcion, Don Toro Molinos twirled haughty moustache with lean swarthy hand emerging from a cruel froth o' priceless Mechlin lace, as he watched his guns pounding the hapless pirate ships, smashing buckets, severing washing-lines, damaging machines on the promenade, and generally creating havoc. Pirates were falling overboard, some only half-dressed and with their breakfasts untasted, piles of plunder awaiting inventory on the dockside were scattered by cannon-shots, floods of rum cascaded through the alleyways, and as he bounded from his office at the Filibusters' Co-operative and raced for the harbour, Calico Jack Rackham could see that much more of this and Tortuga would be closed for the season.
In a trice he had buttoned his pristine shirt, adjusted his head-scarf, dragged his sozzled crew from the haunts and hells, sent for the fire brigade, posted his will, and got sail on the Plymouth Corporation's Revenge. Plainly all was lost: Tortuga was aflame, Spaniards were pouring ashore in curled wigs with primed arquebuses, the harbour was a hell of burning hulls and wet buccaneers, Don Toro was quaffing a celebratory cup of rich Malaga on his poop before landing in person, and Rackham saw little point in hanging about. Wi' sailorly skill he warped his great ship through the inferno, its crew bravely manning the yards, sheets, tops'ls and ship's laundry, holystoning the scuppers, opening the bar, and even throwing things at their attackers; somehow she fought her way clear, with the loss of only her three masts and the bosun's wellingtons carelessly left on the afterrail. The crew hauled feverishly on the sweeps, and the sole survivor of the once-mighty pirate fleet escaped to sea, followed by a storm of chain-shot and canister and taunts of “Windy!” in Spanish. The overthrow of the Coast Brotherhood's great haven was complete, and Calico Jack, tight-lipped and with the daddy of all migraines coming on, could only flee to the safety of the Windward Passage.
He was not greatly cheered up when, two days later, he ran into the Tortuga-bound Frantic Frog, for Happy Dan was having one of his turns again, and lay on the hammock in the psychiatrist's berth whimpering about-oux endings. Taking overall command, Rackham put his crippled vessel in tow to the Frenchman, and ordered a course for his own private lair on the far side of the Caribbean, at the strange settlement of Roatan (of which more anon); there he would refit and retrench, pick up the latest news and some clean white shirts, send scouts to find how Bilbo and Sheba were doing at Cartagena (he's in for a nasty start, by the powers), and try to discover why the Dons were getting energetic all of a sudden.
Dark care sat heavily on the broad shoulders of the buccaneer chief as he brooded his way slowly south-westwards. He was used, was Calico Jack, to being the sheet-anchor of that wild fraternity, and never had he felt such a burden of responsibility as now, when catastrophe had overtaken the Brotherhood. Square chin in strong hand, he stood on his battered quarter-deck, listening to the rats playing in the bilges and the crew moaning through the rigging, and ever the same fateful question came to trouble his mind and make him grit his mighty teeth in near-despair: why, oh why the hell, he kept asking himself, hadn't he listened to his parents' advice and taken that office job with Somerset County Council?
Look, if Rackham thinks he's got trouble, he's not the only one. Things are in desperate shape all round. Why, at this rate it'll be Don Lardo who scoops the pool and goe
s sailing off triumphantly into the sunset on the last page, and God help the history of Western civilisation then. All right, you may say it all comes of leaving Avery in the hands of slave-traders through the whole of the last chapter; good point, and we agree it's time he started earning his corn again. But he's going to need a little help from his friends, and in especial, one – a rotund, ill-shaven, fatly furtive figure lately come ashore at that weird cesspool o' the Western Seas known as Roatan, where anything can happen and is just about to.
CHAPTER
THE SIXTEENTH
don't bleedin' believe it!” gasped Vladimir Mackintosh-Groonbaum in stricken incredulity. “It must be some other geezer.”
He was at breakfast on his private verandah of the Roatan Athenæum Club – or rather, he wasn't, for the item in the broadsheet before him had caused him to leave untasted his dish of squid kidneys on breadfruit toast (“crisp wi' the fragrance o' your favourite focsle”) and take a quick restoring draught from the pannikin of grog'n'orange at his elbow. He had arrived the previous night at this wide-open, lawless settlement which served as a great neutral clearinghouse for the Caribbean, where honest traders rubbed shoulders wi' the scum o' the seas, where plunder was exchanged, contraband openly sold, plots hatched, government spies lurked, waterfront hells and merchant banks stood wantonly open day and night, and nothing was too wild or wicked – even tour parties were accepted. And before he had properly rubbed the sleep from his piggy little eyes or got over his galleon-lag, the paragraph on the classified page of the Carib Curse had smitten him like a falling belaying-pin. He goggled at it again:
FOR SALE: As new, one KING'S CAPTAIN, young, well-built, Double First, house-trained. Answers to name of Ben. One thousand doubloons, o.n.o. Write for brochure or apply in person, De Souza's Barracoon, Scupper Street. Hurry, hurry while stocks last!!!
“It can't be 'im!” muttered Vladimir. “Can it? Wot, Long Ben Avery, pride of the Senior Service, lettin' 'isself get put up for grabs in the slavery column? Never! 'E may be an officer an' gent, but 'e ain't that simple … is he? Oh, Lor'!” His little yellow jowls trembled in doubt, and five minutes later he was scooting along the colourful wharves, heedless of the raffish crowds of human flotsam who jostled him, accosted him, picked his pocket, offered to take his likeness, and plied him with postcards and Roatan Rock in five yummy flavours (tabasco, cinnamon, sandalwood, Reek o' Powder, and Bilge). In Scupper Street he obtained entry to the slave barracoon by flashing the complimentary voucher which the Athenæum gave to all its guests, and followed the shuffling turnkey through the foetid atmosphere of the foul underground pens marked “Sale Goods” where human cattle of every hue were packed in suffocating squalor. In the last chamber of all, marked “Special Offer – Not to be Repeated” he paused in horror, for there, alone, and chained by massy links to the floor, was the object of his quest – immaculately ragged, impeccably unkempt, radiating clean-cut fortitude through his five-day growth, Captain Avery rose with clanking courtesy to greet his visitor. His fine grey eyes widened with astonishment as the turnkey withdrew.
“My agent!” he cried. “Why, whence come ye?”
“Oh, unhappy sight!” exclaimed Vladimir. “Wot the empurpled 'ell are you doin' 'ere?”
“Preparing to escape,” replied Avery in a cool whisper. “Know, small employee, that sundry nights agone I was trepanned from the temple o' Cohaclgzln by dastard knave who besought me for a light (aye, tho' he had matches and to spare, I warrant), and borne hither as probationary slave. The rotters,” he went on grimly, “had me trussed secure, else had I escaped, yet all's for the best, for this night when I crash hence I shall take with me the many hundred sorry captives who lie in this vile barracoon, and if there happens to be a Spanish fleet attacking the town at the time, I and my fellows will mount bloody counter-assault, o'erwhelming the Dons and earning the gratitude o' the authorities, who will gladly confirm our freedom. That, according to what you told me, is the classic way of escaping from slavery, is't not?”
“Did I say that?” quavered Vladimir, bewildered. “But … but… supposin' there ain't a Spanish fleet attackin' tonight? I mean, yer can't tell, this time o' year—”
“Then I'll just take over the settlement by force,” shrugged Avery, “and with my liberated band make haste to Cohaclgzln, there to rescue my betrothed, the peerless Lady Vanity, who lies captive o' heathen savages. You wouldn't have heard about that, though.”
“'Old on a minnit!” Vladimir sank weakly on to a convenient pile of rusty shackles and mopped his brow. “I'm still not abreast. Why the 'ell,” he demanded, clinging to essentials, “aren't you out there mollocatin' the Coast Bruvver'ood? 'Ow come you've let yerself be took by slavers? I mean, it's not good enough, cap'n! You an' me gotta contrack, an' it don't say a dam' thing abaht yore goin' into domestic service—”
“How, sirrah?” Our hero's eyes knit and his brows glinted sternly. “D'ye presume to question? If fortune o' war deserts me for the nonce, 'tis no concern of thine! Besides, I'll be off and running as soon as I've broke me this chain, inspired the slaves to revolt, laid out the turnkey, and captured the local armoury. But to quiet thy importunities, and satisfy thee I have not been idle,” he added carelessly, “cop hold of these.” And from the ragged sash at his gracefully disordered waist he drew forth two Madagascar crosses, one enclosing a flashing diamond, the other a black pearl, and tossed them to the goggling Vladimir. “Now shut up a minute while I haul this ringbolt out of the floor.”
But Vladimir was already speechless as he stared bug-eyed at the glittering trophies. Five out of six! Of course, Avery didn't know that Vladimir already had the crosses of Happy Dan, Firebeard, and Akbar, and the oily twister had no intention of telling him; keep the lad on his toes. So while Avery did a few yoga exercises and then began to heave amain to break his fetters, the agent gnawed his lip in silence, and then gave a deprecatory sniff.
“Well, that's two of 'em, I s'pose. Jus' two aht o' six, cap'n – we 'aven't been settin' the Seven Seas on fire, exackly, 'ave we? Gotta do better'n that, I think. Ah … which o' the bloody villains did you get these orf of?”
“Sheba … the … She-Wolf …” gasped Avery, heaving until his magnificent biceps creaked, “and … Black … Bilbo! Hah!” He paused, sighing. “Nay, I see I shall have to use both hands. Stand back, fellow, lest ye come to harm when I pull the floor up.”
He laid hold again, but Libertatia's favourite pawnbroker paid no heed: he was calculating that the only cross now missing was the one held by Calico Jack Rackham, and he was confident that he knew exactly where it was. It was notorious that the prudent Calico, who believed in Post Office savings and Christmas clubs, forwarded all his loot to his voluptuous mistress and former comrade-in-arms, the celebrated Anne Bonney, who kept it safe on their shark-surrounded island retreat, not an hour's sail from Roatan. But how to obtain the cross from the formidable termagant, guarded as she was, and herself a notable sword-and-pistol dame?
“Oh, blow!” exclaimed Avery, who had been hauling prodigiously to an accompaniment of crackling concrete and clouds of dust; he had dragged up not only the ringbolt but the enormous boulder in which it was embedded. “I can't cart that lot around after me; I'll have to pound it to bits. Talk about slavery …” And of a sudden he checked, and wheeled on Vladimir, his rags aflap with inspiration.
“But of course! What need to labour towards escape, now that thou'rt on hand, good Mackintosh-Groonbaum! Oh, by the way, your name is too much of a mouthful – I think I'll call you Mac. Unless you prefer Groon? No matter.” He laid a hand on the shyster's grubby shoulder. “As I was saying, now that thou hast arrived so timely, thou canst buy me from these slave-traders, for I doubt not y'are well lined wi' funds. Why on earth didn't I think of it earlier!”
“Wozzat?” Vladimir started from his reverie, and blinked up at the eagerly-smiling captain. “Buy yer, did yer say? From the slavers?” His eyes owled in alarm. “Ooh, cap'n, I couldn't do that! Wot, me, dabble
in slave-tradin'? Ow, my conscience wouldn't let me – it's immoral! Oh, that'd never do!”
Avery slapped his forehead in vexation. “To be sure, I never thought! Nay, forgive me, good Groon. I blush for my own lack of scruple. Thou art an honest fellow. Ah, well,” he sighed, “I'll just have to bash my way out after all.” And he began karate-chopping at the boulder, shouting “Hai!” Vladimir winced.
“'Old on a sec, cap'n,” he pleaded, for Avery's proposal had sown a seed in his knavish mind, and he wanted time to think. “I couldn't buy yer, we agree … but I might be able to work aht somefink. I got contacts, see? An' we don't want you startin' a slave revolt unnecessary, do we, or strainin' yerself makin' an escape? Look – gimme a couple of hours, and I'll see wot I can do.”
“Ye have a scheme, good fink?” cried Avery, a-quiver.
“In the bud,” mused Vladimir, “in the bud. Lissen -you 'ang on 'ere – an' wotever 'appens, you go along nice an' peaceful, a'right? Do exackly wot you're told, 'owever unlikely, await directions, an' trust me, 'cos I think,” he tapped his bulbous hooter, “I see daylight.”
“Bravo, Groon! Nay, ninety per cent is little enough, I vow!” said Avery warmly. “Never fear, I'll abide thy stratagem, whate'er it be – and in the meantime, d'you think you could smuggle me in a razor, after-shave, and a complete change of kit, 42 chest, 30 waist, ruffled shirt and plain buckles?”
“Exackly wot I was abaht to suggest,” said Vladimir unctuously. “Leave it to yer uncle. Turnkey!”
The jailer thrust in his villainous head, and swore at the sight of the ruined floor. “You bloody vandal!” he cried. “Next thing you'll be on the roof, I s'pose, throwin' dahn slates! Cripes, it's worsen 'avin' the I.R.A. on yer 'ands!” Vladimir waved him aside, and a few minutes later was closeted with De Souza the Slaver, a hooknosed horror with a great whip coiled on his desk, and B.O.