Colonel Blood answered deliberately. “No-o … not coming, exactly – going, and that right speedily. To some sweet haven,” he went on dreamily, “o' peace an' rest (if such there be, which I begin to doubt) totally devoid of Firebeards, Bilboes, mad Frogs, black fiends, damned Dagoes, murthering Indians, Solomon Shafto, and above all,” his whisper shook with passionate sincerity, “of heroical bushy-tailed duty-besotted supermen whose rightful place is in some remote and well-guarded home. Am I getting through to thee?”
“Perfectly!” snapped Avery. “So … thou'rt ratting? Again? 'Tis very well! I …” He broke off, sniffing. “Here, are you smoking?”
“Who, me? No.”
“Somebody is. I smell smoke, distinctly.”
“It's probably your ardour burning …” Blood stirred impatiently in the dark, then sniffed. “Bedad, y'are right! 'Tis reek o' fire—”
“As of wood-smoke! Nay, how should this be?”
“Don't look at me … oh, I see what it is!” Blood gave a light, hysterical laugh. “Our tree's on fire.”
And it was. An idle pirate, fed up of looking for Blood, had sought repose 'neath the galoopa tree, and being unable to drop off for the racket of our heroes' whispering, had finally tumbled, and summoned his mates wi' gleeful stealth. For ten minutes the whole gang had been listening outside the refuge, cramming hankies in their mouths to stifle mirth and belting each other in the ribs. Then they'd decided to burn the tree down.
So now, as Avery streaked forth leopard-like, looking for someone to hit, and Blood stumbled after, coughing, they found themselves ringed in by blades a-glitter i' the firelight, and in the shadows sinister figures who roared with laughter, and having laughed, spake each in turn.
“So-ho, what dawcocks ha' we nesting here, bullies? A pretty brace, i' faith, and shall be plucked anon!” sneered Bilbo.
“Mais quelles oiseaux, slightly singed! Les jobards Anglaises, ain't it?” chortled Happy Dan Pew.
“Har-har! Belike, bedamned, an' good e'en to ye, cullies, an' which'll we fillet first, wi' a curse?” bawled Firebeard.
“Easy all, King's man – keep your hands up, and keep 'em empty,” said Calico Jack Rackham.
Discouraging; no other word for it. Avery's schemes have caught their toe on the first hurdle, and Blood's only consolation as the jeering pirates bind them hand and foot is that there isn't much that can be done to him that hasn't been done already. Pretty worn, is our Tom. But stiffen the sinews! All's not done, and we haven't come 344 pages to have our Ben collapse wheezing in the straight, an' ye may lay to that. At least we hope not.
*True.
CHAPTER
THE EIGHTEENTH
e have it on the authority of Defoe (and who could doubt Desperate Dan for a moment?) that Anne Bonney once observed irritably of a lover, as he was dragged out to the gallows at dawn, that if he had fought like a man he need not have been hanged like a dog. Neat and pithy, and must have cheered him up no end, but the real significance of her remark at such a time has hitherto been overlooked by scholars, the dumb clucks. Not any more, though; we've spotted it: plainly she was not at her best first thing in the morning.
This is borne out by her reaction on waking up nude, cold, wi' coated tongue and a head like a burst cushion, to find herself lying on a mattress ripped to shreds, and her room in wild disorder. Her first bleary ecstatic thought was: Gad, that new slave is something else! – and then she realised that the Madagascar cross was gone, and that the smooth long rat must have slipped giggle-juice in her loving-cup. Her bliss evaporated in frothing rage – not only robbed, then, but scorned! Small wonder that Onslow, bringing prunes and poached eggs in response to her bellowed oaths, should have tottered out again with the breakfast tray wrapped round his head and the impresssion that her instant requirements were a pack of hounds, a horse-whip, and a cauldron of hot tar in the back yard.
Gripping her skull with both hands to prevent its flying open, and mouthing rich sea-oaths, the unhappy redhead became aware of a distant clamour, and reeled to the window. Focusing with difficulty, she beheld on the sunlit reach beyond the trees three tall ships, which her experienced but glassy eye recognised as the Laughing Sandbag, the Frantic Frog, and (Gad's anchors!) the Plymouth Corporation's Revenge under jury rig – the big idiot was home, rot him! And then she realised that the garden was aswarm with pirates, trampling her croquet lawn and clock-golf layout, invading the barbecue pit, and close-packed in a noisy mob round the swimming-pool. There was Calico himself, with Bilbo and Firebeard and the snail-guzzler, all seated on barrels round the deep-end, regarding two pinioned figures who stood on the diving-boards, the nooses round their necks attached to the top platform. She started, reached for the brass-mounted telescope on her make-up tray, and homed in.
… A likely big rascal wi' black curls and pencil moustache … rather scrumptious, in a dirty-looking way … and the other – as the splendid Greek-god profile and lithe figure swam into her lens, Anne could not repress a cry of “Gotcha, you bastard!”, and she was about to lean forth and, in a contralto which had hailed the fore-top ere now, instruct them to hold him down till she got at him – and then she bethought. Like anything.
If she denounced him for cross-snitching slave, last night's doings would be thoroughly aired, ripped mattresses goggled at, lewd conclusions drawn, and the scum o' the sea would cough delicately behind horny hands and give each other knowing looks. Oh-ho, they would murmur, at it again, is she? Not that she gave a hoot, normally; everyone knew, and dahling Calico had always been broad-minded – provided she was discreet. Ye-es, but he might be just a teensy cross if her latest attempted infidelity was flaunted before the crews of three notoriously gossipy pirate vessels … she found herself recalling how he had beaten Blackbeard at Indian armwrestling, and the thrilling night when he had flattened her iron-studded bedroom door with one blow of his fist (which had been holding her first husband at the time). No … it wouldn't be fair to embarrass dear Jack, definitely not. She'd better just forget about the Madagascar cross; it hadn't really gone with any of her outfits, anyway, and she could always tell him it had gone phut in the South Sea Bubble, or something. As to that gorgeous swine on the diving-board, who had passed her up, damn his impudence, and given her this monumental hangover, it was imperative that he should get his without delay, and without telling any bedtime stories, either.
Pausing only to swallow a pint of rum and seltzer, shudder, stare in the mirror, shudder again, repair her make-up, and fix her hair, Mistress Anne squeezed her way into a modish riding-habit o' turquoise nylon, donned a picture hat plumed au Mousquetaire, cursed the gremlins who were kicking holes in her cranial cavity, gulped four aspirins, summoned her chair, and sallied forth to enjoy the fun.
Meanwhile, it was all go at the deep end. The little Welsh pirate was laying it on the line passionately, while our heroes, noosed and attentive, waited to hear their fate.
“I'm not sayin' you can't 'ang these two non-union individooals yere – I'm just sayin', look you, that if you 'ang 'em out of 'and it'll be a flagrant contravention o' conference policy as democratically ratified by overwhelmin' block vote at the Port Royal Congress, innit?” The tiny Taffy brandished his rule-book. “Clause 2, subpara 5 spess-iffickly states that when captives, prisoners, and/or hostages 'ave survived the ordeal o' Dead Man's Chest, then further disciplinary action at shop-floor level can on'y be implemented after affirmative vote o' the execcative council, see? 'Nother words, ye cannot 'ang 'em unless council sez so, an' it dun't matter a monkey's about yer show o' hands!”
Cries of “Cobblers!” “Stick it, the Welsh!” and “Order, order!” were stilled as Calico Jack pounded his cutlass-hilt.
“The council accepts Brother Aneurin's motion—”
“Wi' a curse!” bawled Firebeard, being awkward.
“That's an amendment!” squealed the little Welshman.
“Accepted wi' a curse, then,” growled Rackham. “So, council o' captains must pass for
mal vote o' doom – 'tis all one, they swing in the end, and sing merrily all, sa-ha!”
“Jus' keepin' things reg'lar, like,” said Aneurin primly, while the pirates roared: “Huzza! Tip 'em the Black Spot, cap'ns!”
But now Mistress Bonney's sedan had arrived, borne by stalwart blacks, and as she debussed and swayed oomphishly forward the assembly gave her gallant greeting, wi' stentorian wolf-whistles and cries of “Ho for Red Annie, messmates all!” and “Hey, lady, you left your motor running!” which she acknowledged wi' languid grind o' hips. Rackham, not having seen her for months, bussed her fondly and set a barrel for her, Bilbo and Happy Dan made legs full courteously, and Firebeard lit his whisker-crackers, exploding in reeking welcome. The little Taffy offered her the minutes, which she waved aside.
“Taken as read, dahlings,” she drawled. “Tho' one is unacquainted with these … gentlemen.” She gestured limply at the prisoners, and introductions were hastily made by Rackham: “Cap'n Ben Avery, R.N., rot 'im; Colonel Tom Blood, cashiered … Mistress Anne Bonney.” She inclined her head, Avery bowed superbly in his bonds (if she pretended non-acquaintance, not for him to bandy a lady's name), and Blood, despite his pressing anxieties, could not help noting that here was a well-built piece of all right, whose green eyes ignored Avery but warmed sleepily at Blood himself; she even murmured “Colonel…” in a way which spoke censored volumes. (No harm in making Avery realise he wasn't the only pebble on the beach, the handsome bastard, she thought spitefully. Not that much time would be left him for jealousy.)
“These two be for the see-saw, after formal vote o' council,” explained Rackham. “As to the fashion by which they die …”
Mistress Anne stirred an eyebrow. “No problem there, dahling, surely? A slight nudge, and let 'em dangle. We don't,” she yawned elaborately, shooting a sidelong glance at Avery, “want them making a lot of unnecessary noise, do we? Not before lunch.”
Cries of dismay arose from those who had been looking forward to slow fires, broken bottles, and bicycle pumps. Mistress Bonney shrugged, but plucked doubtful lip, and Avery, his razor mind instantly hep to her reasons for wanting him speedily despatched, hastened to reassure her. (He just oozed chivalry, our boy, and felt he owed her some amend for the state of her bedroom.)
“Mr Chairman,” he baritoned meliflously, “let me assure madame – or should I say mistress? – that whatsoe'er form death takes, be it ne'er so lingering beastly, there shall be no untoward peep out of us.”
“Is that right?” snarled the Colonel, but Mistress Anne was relieved. “One is beholden, captain,” she purred. “Why, then, dahlings – let's fill up the pool with piranhas and slide the gentlemen down the chute, why don't we?”
Whoops of cruel glee and demands that the local aquarium should be contacted greeted this proposal, but Rackham waved them aside and addressed the doomed pair, Blood sweating large amounts, Avery wearing his noose wi' elegant composure, as 'twere à la mode.
“Bullies,” quo' Calico Jack, “ye go clean to your long home. You, Ben Avery, for that ye swore vengeance on this Brotherhood, slew our mate Akbar, and wrested from our brethren Sheba and Bilbo two Madagascar crosses, knowing them to be hot ice, which doth make thee a receiver o' stolen goods.” Roars of delight from the pirates, who hadn't thought of that one. “You,” Rackham turned to Blood, “have just been a bloody nuisance from the start. So – ere the council damn thee both: hast aught to say?”
Blood could think of plenty, but gazing down on that evil, gloating company he thought, what's the point, and contented himself with an extremely vulgar noise. Polite clapping greeted this spirited statement, and Blood's stock rose several points. Avery, meanwhile, was choosing words that would sting – he mustn't appear to be pleading with these blighters, or have them think he minded dying, but by Jove he'd remind them how utterly lacking they were in sporting spirit and good form. Rotten thing to have to do, but if he didn't no one else would. He coughed modestly.
“I hate to bring this up, and I would ha' none think he owes aught to any,” he remarked casually, “but I feel bound to point out that this council, which is about to vote us bootees o' cement, would be two men short if someone hadn't saved their lives at Cartagena. That's all. Talk among yourselves if you like.” If his hands had been free he'd have blown lightly on his nails.
“Nay now, cully!” Bilbo was on his feet, all lean and sneering mockery. “Thyself did say, in Lardo's pesky dungeon, that 'twas but a moment's truce, and then red war betwixt us! So did ye cancel the debt! Ha, pull the other one, King's man!”
“Bloody cheek, by the powers!” howled Firebeard. “Saved my life, did 'ee – an' who carried thy mangy rat's carcase down them dungeon stairs, all tender lovin'-like, arter ye'd swooned at sight o' blood? Hey? Why, tear, scour, an' riddle thee for rank poxy ingrate!” He shook ham-like mottled fists. “We'm square, you an' me, an' hast the brazen neck to urge—”
“Urge nothing,” said Avery coldly. “Forget it. Sorry I spoke. Should have known better—”
“You 'ad ter mention it, didn'cher?” Goliath the dwarf stumped forward on indignant peg-leg. “Cor, that's rotten, that is – at a time like this, an' all! Tryin' ter make people feel uncomfy an' mizzable! Reelly rotten!”
Murmurs of disgust arose from the pirates. “D'ye hear, mates? 'Tis petty knave doth rake up old debts … Nay, what a slob! … Anything to get sympathy … Typical, trust the Navy! … Shame on ye, Avery!”
A faint glow mantled the captain's proud cheek. “Nothing of the sort! If conscience pricks it's your own foul fault! It shouldn't ha' needed mentioning … no, I won't shut up, Blood! One either has one's code or one hasn't… ha, what do I say? They're only a pack of pirates!”
The audience went berserk, swearing horribly and throwing cushions and programmes at the indomitable figure on the diving-board. Avery curled proud lip, and then Calico Jack flung up his arms for silence, a strange glint in his dark eye.
“Is that so?” quo' he. “Ye think ye're owed summat, ha?”
“Not in the least,” clipped Avery. “But were I Firebeard or Bilbo (a perfectly ghastly notion, I agree), I fancy I should consult mine honour – if I had any …”
Firebeard ran screaming in circles and kicked his barrel into the pool; Bilbo, pale 'neath's tan, glared hate. Rackham nodded at Avery.
“So, bully? Pack o' pirates, is it?” He swung to the mob. “Mates – what be the first law o' the Brotherhood?”
That shut them up. Calloused thumbs leafed surreptitiously through Codes o' Conduct, wi' uneasy glance and whisprous doubt. “Dirty in thought word an' deed? … The proletariat is the material weapon o' philosophy, ha? … Don't ask me, where's that little Welsh git…?”
Rackham spat. “I'll tell ye – it's ‘Fair's fair’. So, get the Black Spots out an' let's get crackin'!”
Wow, the Black Spots! Here's sensation, by the powers – and while our Dynamic Duo watched wi' bug-eyed panic and cool disdain respectively, five ebony discs were laid on a barrel-head before the pirate leaders. “Aha, les petits Blobs Noirs!” giggled Happy Dan, and the tumult died as Rackham held up a disc to the prisoners.
“Now mark how a pack o' pirates deal. Thus we dooms our enemies -” and he slapped the disc on the barrel; it couldn't have looked blacker. “But if any among the council hold that a debt or favour be due to a captive, then may he vote to let him live – thus.” He flipped over the disc, to show a reverse side of pure white. “Here be five o' the council – Cap'n Bilbo, Cap'n Pew, Cap'n Firebeard, Mistress Bonney, and myself. Each shall vote in turn – nay, patience, Brother Bilbo! All in due form, for our credit's sake; so let a brother stand by each captive, an' if the vote go foul for them, let 'em swing on the instant!”
Two hairy ruffians mounted the springboards and eagerly seized Blood and Avery, ready to launch them into fatal half-gainers when the time came. Rackham took his seat with Happy Dan and Firebeard on his right, Anne Bonney and Bilbo on his left. Avery glanced down at them wi' scorn in every r
uffle of his shirt, but no hope in his gallant interior – Happy Dan's eyes were alight with epicene hostility and pure barminess, Firebeard was resting his red-fuzzed knuckles on the ground and emitting coughing growls, Rackham's face was impassive brown marble, Mistress Bonney's full lips were curved in mocking smile, and Bilbo was guzzling snuff wi' wolfish eagerness – his boots were probably giving him gyp, Avery reflected. All in all, not a happy sight for the boys (in fact Blood had his eyes shut, and was gurgling like a very old radiator).
In the deathly hush, Rackham spoke. “Cap'n Pew!”
“Qui? Moi?” Happy Dan flourished beringed hand, and his buckled shoes tapped a vengeful rigadoon. “Ah, par l'horloge sur le mur de l'école – je n'aime pas this Ayveree, 'oo 'ave slew le pauvre petit Akbar! Et le Paddy méchant, 'e play mauvais sur le plage, an' transform ma Fille Grande bouche fantastique into une scrubbaire peroxide!” He flung down his spot, black side up. “A la lanterne!”
“One-nil!” chanted the pirates, to the tune of “Amazing Grace', and Rackham pounded his hilt again. “Cap'n Firebeard!”
They had to beat the giant about his shaggy ears to make him realise it was his turn, so disordered was he in his resentful wrath. He glared on the twain from piggy eyes. “Belike!” he bawled. “Look'ee! Aye, an' d'ye see? I hate 'em both! They're honest men! Rip, tear, an' hammer 'em, sez I, King's man an' Mick alike!” He hurled his spot on the barrel so hard it split a stave – and there it lay. Two black spots.
“Ee-zy, ee-zy!” roared the pirates, and Rackham weighed his disc in his hand. “I said from the first ye was too good a man to lose. Long Ben – an' if my camarado Sheba was here, I know how she'd cast her lot. So, for all the good it'll do ye …” He laid his spot on the barrel, white side up – and Mistress Anne's green eyes narrowed, and she sighed a gentle sigh.