The Black Joke

by David Bramhall

  Chapter 28

  Surely thou wilt slay the wicked, O God: depart from me therefore, ye bloody men (Psalm 139)

  The wind was like a solid thing, pressing them down as Pert and the twins crept up through the churchyard towards the Vicarage. Behind them they could still hear the steady thud as the guns fired, and sometimes a crash as the ball landed. Presumably the quieter impacts were when the ball hit a tree, or landed in the street. Or hit a person, thought Pert, with a shudder. Teague certainly meant what he said, though. He wasn't about to stop. This was pay up or have your house bombed sooner or later. Each gun seemed to be firing every minute or so. That was 60 cannon balls an hour, two guns made it 120 an hour. Pert wondered how many cannon balls the pirates had. Surely not all that many? But then, the ship didn't have to carry any cargo, which left plenty of room for ammunition.

  Pert swarmed over the Vicarage back fence, which was rocking wildly in the wind and surely couldn't last much longer before it fell and blew away. He ran to the back door and knocked very quietly.

  Vera opened it. “It's not dark yet!” she hissed.

  “Change of plan,” Pert said. She shrugged, and let him in.

  “There's the scullery,” she pointed. “She's awake. We was just talkin' through the door.”

  “Rosella?” he whispered.

  There was a movement inside. “That you, Pert?”

  “Yes. I've come to get you out. You all right?”

  “I will be. Thank you for coming.”

  “Get away from the door, then. When the diversion starts, I'll try and bash it in.”

  They waited. “Vicar's upstairs in 'is study,” said Vera. “But be careful, 'e 'ears everything.”

  There was a long pause, and then it started. There was a great crash as something hit the front door of the house, and then the sound of breaking glass. Seth and Solomon were attacking the front with rocks and stones. They were hooting too, like a tribe of lunatic monkeys, and giving shrill whistles, and meanwhile pelting the windows with stones. They heard the sound of footsteps rushing down the stairs, and the Vicar swearing.

  Pert looked at Vera. “I never heard him swear before,” he said.

  She smiled grimly. “I bet there's lots of things you never ‘eard 'im do before, but 'e does 'em!”

  They heard the front door open, and an angry shout. The whoops redoubled, and more stones were thrown.

  “Now!” said Pert. He took a run at the door and hit it with his shoulder near the lock. It shook and there was a splintering noise, but it held. He tried it again, but still it held. Then Vera came staggering in with a great log of wood from the yard. It was as tall as she was, and much fatter. She dropped it on the floor, but they picked it up between them and ran and hit the door with it. There was a crash and the door flew open. The door was intact, but the latch had torn right through the frame as Seth had predicted.

  “Quick!” said Pert, and Rosella appeared, pale and very dirty, but intact and smiling. He took her hand and ran to the back door.

  “Vera,” he said, “you come too! I know a place where you can both hide!”

  “I'll follow you,” she said, “there's something I have to do first.”

  They could hear more footsteps from the front of the house now, and the sound of monkey whoops fading into the distance. They ran for the fence. As they reached it, part of the fence finally gave up the unequal struggle and let go its hold on the ground. It sailed up in the air and drove inland, revolving as it went. There were two solid thuds from the harbour, and two loud crashes from the town.

  In the churchyard they paused and waited for Vera, but she did not come. The wind whipped round their ears. They could see straight into the Vicarage back yard now the fence was gone, and there seemed to be a light in the kitchen. Then there was a whoosh and flames blossomed from the open door. The window blew out with a crash, and flames came out of there too.

  “She set the house alight!” said Pert. “That was her plan! She's going to burn the old bugger!”

  “But where is she?”

  The flames went down a little, and then bloomed once more, but this time from a window on the first floor. The fire was spreading with horrifying speed. There was still no sign of Vera.

  “Perhaps she'll go out through the front, it's not burning there yet,” said Pert, so heedless of the danger they ran to the Canonry and into the Vicarage drive. The fire may not have reached the front, but you could see it. It was as if the whole back of the house was ablaze, lighting up anything in front of it. As they watched, a figure moved rapidly across first one upstairs window, then another. The wind had found the broken window panes and was reaching in to the fire, feeding it and spreading it.

  Then the front door opened, and the figure was silhouetted against the flames. It was not Vera, but tall, spindly, its arms outstretched, its hands like claws. It was burning. It stalked forward, lifting its feet, and down the front steps to the drive and they heard its feet crunch on the gravel as it began to run, taking great prancing steps, bounding high in the air as though preparing to take off, and as it passed there was a roaring noise from its burning clothing, for the wind was whipping at the flames, wrapping them round the limbs and clothing them in fire. With his head held back and his beaky nose raised to the sky, the Vicar bounded past them, his mouth wide in a silent scream, and trailed black smoke and cinders behind him as he fled down the street.

  The inside of the house was an inferno now, and with a creak and a crash the interior floors gave way and came crashing down, releasing a cloud of sparks. Flaming wood and fabric rose into the sky, driven by the howling gale, and landed on the house next door. One patch of fire stuck on the roof, and burned, and soon they could see that this house was also burning, and that the roof was alight. Slates toppled down, and the rafters were coated in flame. Another house across the road was also alight, and each cast its cargo of flaming material into the gale to be carried up the road. These were the richest houses in the town, built of fine timber and costly curtains and carpets, and they burned merrily as the wind stalked over them and spread fiery contagion.

  Pert and Rosella took to their heels and began to run down the hill towards the Market. Behind them the lowering clouds reflected the inferno back, so that the town was lit by a hellish backdrop to go with the carnage beneath. In the Market Square the Emporium had been hit, more than once. There was a huge hole in its roof, and the turret and bay window at the corner overlooking the street, where Pert had seen Urethra Grubb watching him, now leaned drunkenly and about to fall.

  A crowd stood in the Market Square, and in front of them, her voluminous layers of black whipping in the wind, stood the squat, massive figure of Urethra Grubb herself, waving her arms and shouting at them. The children stopped.

  “Why don't you move, you pathetic flock of pox-ridden verminous sheep?” the woman was saying. “Must I do everything myself, you flaccid, useless appendages? Go! Go and kill those murdering spawn of Satan!” Her voice was hoarse with fury. She rushed in the crowd and began hitting and kicking at them. “Go, why don't you go?” she yelled.

  Suddenly from the Bearward burst the dishevelled figure of Patroclus Prettyfoot. He had broken out of the study where Floris had locked him, and he was incoherent with rage and drink. Waving a bottle in one hand, he weaved across the road towards Urethra Grubb, shouting imprecations.

  "Fat, revolting harridan," he yelled, "last time you come t' ... t'my house 'n' bully me ... had enough! Enough, y'hear?" He flung the bottle at Grubb, but missed. It fell without breaking, and liquid

  glugged from it.

  "See what you made ... hic! ... made me do, you fat cow?" he screamed. "I'll kill ..." he staggered forward, "... kill you, taking my daughter ... where is she? What did you do?" He stopped and planted his feet, swaying wildly. "Don' you lay ... hic! ... finger on my daughter! 'f anyone hits 'er, it'll be me, ungrateful little slut! I'll take 'er hide off, see if I ... hic! ... you give 'er back, Grubb, you ..."

>   "You shut your mouth, or I'll shut it for you!" Grubb shouted and darted towards him with murderous intent, her face black with rage and her great fists clenched, but there was a hissing sound louder even than the wind, and a cannon ball made a direct hit on the horse trough at the edge of the Square. The trough split in two and spilled its water in a cascade down the gutter, and the ball bounced high into the air and took Patroclus Prettyfoot's head off his body. The ball flopped onto the cobbles, bounced twice and then began to roll with gathering speed down the hill. People leaped out if its way, and it hit the railings outside the bank and went plink-plink-plink-plink on each one and then disappeared down the hill. The head rolled more slowly and did not go plink but made a wet splatter as it looked first at the pavement and then at the sky with an expression of mild surprise.

  The other gun fired a moment later and a ball struck a house further down the road, leaving a hole in the roof. The door of the house sprung open and people spilled out into the street, screaming, their thin cries whipped away by the wind.

  Grubb turned to look at the trough, and then at the lifeless body of Prettyfoot, and her eye fell on Pert and Rosella standing transfixed with horror. A great shudder ran through the woman, and she pointed.

  “There!” she roared, her voice hoarse with emotion, “there! There they are! They did this! Murdering, thieving, sneaking little spy! Whoring little slut! Fetch them here! Go, go, get them, I'll rip them limb from limb!”

  A portion of the crowd moved uncertainly towards them, and Pert poised for flight. Grubb began to lumber up the hill towards them, her solid limbs pumping and her feet heavy on the cobbles. Some of the crowd followed her, and some stood still. At the back of the crowd a more coherent group began to move, a group with some leadership. Mr.White was there, and Mrs.White, and the older fishers, grim-faced and silent. It was not clear to Pert whether they were on Grubb's side or his. He began to back up, dragging Rosella with him. Then the rear of the crowd turned to look down the hill. Around the corner from the quay came a phalanx of men, trotting in tight formation, cutlasses aloft and pistols in their belts. It was the pirate crew, resolute and armed, and they kept close and drove up the hill through the crowd, shoving some aside, cutting with their swords at those who didn't move fast enough. At their head was Walter Sabbage, grinning savagely.

  “Grubb! Grubb!” he shouted, “we'm comin' fer you, Grubby! Capting wants you, Grubby! There's a noosy and a swingy and an 'appy little droppy waitin' fer you, Grubby!”

  A sigh rose from the crowd, which was swelling rapidly as people poured out of the side streets. The pirates reached the front and drove towards Urethra Grubb. She stopped, torn between flight and the capture of Pert and Rosella.

  It was Rosella who broke the deadlock. She let go of Pert's hand and darted forward. With a scream she launched herself at Grubb and hacked one, two with her big boots on the thick shins. Grubb staggered back with a howl of rage, and then launched herself forward. Rosella turned and sprinted, her legs flying and boots clattering, with Grubb behind her. She ran for the top of the Square, and Grubb pounded behind her. A great knife had appeared in her hand. Pert stepped forward and threw himself at Grubb, but her momentum was too great and her onward rush brushed him aside so that he fell heavily to the pavement.

  With a shout the pirates broke ranks and ran after Grubb, whooping with the thrill of the chase. And behind them the Whites and the fishers finally galvanised the people of the town and the whole crowd ran up after the pirates, up past the church, up past the burning buildings, up and up with the wings of the gale pushing them onwards.

  Pert rolled over, winded. Seth and Solomon were there, and helped him up.

  “Rosella,” Pert said helplessly. “I must ...”

  “You can't. Don't worry, they'll never catch her. The pirates'll catch Grubb before she gets Rosella. And the townies'll catch the pirates. They've found a bit of backbone at last, and our dad's there.”

  “No, Rosella,” Pert moaned, “I must find Rosella ... wait!” He turned and sniffed the air, and looked around. “Something's changed. The wind's changed!”

  Behind them the flames roared, the fire was spreading still further up the row of houses, and the clouds threw back the lurid light. The whole upper town was either alight or illuminated. But out to sea, something had changed. Pert began to walk down the hill, an idea forming in his mind. The twins trotted beside him.

  Pert knew what every fisherman knows, that whatever direction the wind is blowing, when it reaches the shore it tends to turn so that it crosses the shoreline at right angles. All day long the great west wind had turned to blow slightly from the south as it crossed the shore, thundering up the creek and over the harbour. But so great was this gale, the great Twenty Year Storm, so high had risen the wind, that it no longer cared to notice the puny creek and the flat marshes. It was the West Wind, it had decided, and it would blow from the west as it should. The wind now blew across the creek, not up it.

  “If I can cast off the mooring lines of the Black Joke, this wind will take her out of the harbour. She'll drift across the wind and down the creek – she won't have any sails on but her hull is high, it'll act like a sail and drive her downwind and crosswind until she strands in the marshes somewhere. Then she can't fire any more. I can stop her, Seth!”

  “Come on, then!” said Seth, and made to run down the hill.

  “No!” Pert stopped him. “This'll only take one. I can cast off a few lines by myself. I can creep along the breakwater and ... no, I have a better idea, I'll get the Better Times and row across to her and do it that way. They're less likely to see me, I expect they'll be busy with the guns, and watching the fire, and wondering how their landing party is getting on with capturing Grubb.”

  “But ...”

  “I want you to stay. I want you to follow the crowd and see if Rosella's doubled back. That's what she'll do. And you can find her and get her somewhere safe. Take her home with you. And if you can't find her, then make sure Fenestra's safe. Please, Seth! Please Solomon!”

  “You sure, Pert? We can creep and sneak like anything, almost as good as Billy Moon. You sure we wouldn't be better with you?”

  “No, I'm certain. This is seaman's business, and I'm the seaman here. Look for Rosella. She's quick. She'll slip away from Grubb, easy, and get down and hide, and then come back. Find her for me!”

  “Righto!” they said, and the boys slipped away, running lightly up the hill. Pert hurried towards the harbour.