‘You can’t compare my belly with a city,’ said the Pirate Captain, frantically back-pedalling. ‘That’s a rubbish metaphor.’
‘Simile, Pirate Captain, it’s a simile. Now for a sustained assault on your front lines.’
Napoleon lunged at the Pirate Captain’s chest. The point of his blade cut through the fabric of the Captain’s blousy white shirt but he managed to twist out of harm’s way just in time.
‘Oh! The big man swerves at the last minute,’ said the Pirate Captain, in a commentator voice. ‘It’s an incredible recovery and the crowd go wild!’ He made a ‘crowd roar’ sound with his mouth.
‘Concentrate!’ said Napoleon. ‘It’s bad enough that you’re using illegal fencing manoeuvres, but the commentary is too much. Stand still, damn you!’
‘And it’s not looking good for the little general, as the Pirate Captain feints to the left, then to the right and – AAAHHH!’.
The Pirate Captain’s arm was bleeding. He’d hardly even seen Napoleon move. The watching pirates were aghast. For years the Captain had persuaded them that his veins ran with brine, and then recently he’d claimed that actually it was honey. But now they could see it, pouring from his bicep, it looked a lot like normal red blood. They couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.
Staggering backwards, the Captain tried to imagine again what he would do if this was a game of chess. But the analogy didn’t stretch that far, because he realised that by this point he would have ‘accidentally’ knocked the board on the floor with a sweep of his arm and stormed off in a huff.
Napoleon seemed unstoppable. He leaped over a rock and jabbed again with his rapier and the Pirate Captain let out a tremendous surprised roar as it speared about three inches into his shoulder. He looked down at himself in shock, not sure which was worse: the excruciating pain or the fact that his mermaid tattoo now had a big hole in her forehead, which frankly made her a lot less attractive.
‘Strike two!’ said Napoleon. ‘The crabs shall make a meal of your blood, Pirate Captain. And the seagulls will feast upon your pleasant, open face.’
Another blow from Napoleon sent the Captain’s cutlass clattering uselessly away. The situation looked bleak. And though it was a bit earlier in the proceedings than he would have liked, the Pirate Captain decided it was time to unveil his Secret Weapon. He swerved to avoid a swipe that almost chopped his hat in two, and yanked back his right sleeve.
‘What’s he doing?’ said the pirate with a hook for a hand. ‘Is he going to use his cartoon octopus tattoo as a distraction?’
‘He seems to be wearing a falconry glove,’ said the pirate in green, squinting at the spectacle unfolding in front of them. ‘And for some reason he’s stuck some currants to it.’
‘Maybe he’s hungry?’ said the pirate with long legs.
The Pirate Captain waggled his forearm. ‘Go! Fly! Fly, my bees! Attack!’
Three drowsy bees flew off the glove into the air. One circled around the Captain’s head and stung him on the ear. The second fell dead to the sand. The third flew at Napoleon, changed its little bee mind and then headed out to sea.29
‘Oh dear,’ said Jennifer. ‘That was his secret weapon? Bees?’
‘Why?! Why have you betrayed me?’ bellowed the Pirate Captain, sinking to his knees. ‘You bees! How could you do this? Oh cruel treacherous fate! My bees! My traitor bees!’
The pirate crew knew that their captain had a ‘unique world view’, but they realised that people who didn’t know him very well might just think he was a bit mentally ill. Looking at him now, drenched with rain, blood running down his arm, waving his hands about and shouting to the heavens about being ‘King of the Bees’, he did look a little unhinged. Confronted with this spectacle Napoleon seemed suddenly less confident, almost as if he were a bit embarrassed by the entire situation. The Pirate Captain took advantage of Napoleon’s brief hesitation, and he clambered away up one of the craggy rocks that lined the bay.
‘Think fast, Pirate Captain,’ said the Pirate Captain, as the General began to advance upon him once more.
The Captain thought fast.
First he thought about burgers. He liked burgers, more than hot dogs but not as much as steak. Then he thought about paper and decided that his favourite size was A5, because he could fold it small enough to go in his pocket without creating an unsightly bulge. Finally he thought about his pirate mentor, Calico Jack, and at last it came to him. He recalled a summer evening in a cherry orchard, when the old man had taught him a move that was both exciting and deadly: the Soaring Barnacle.
The Captain leaped from the rock and backed away down the sand so that he had a bit of a run-up. Then he turned to face Napoleon, paused briefly to wink at his public, and sprinted forward. All of a sudden he dropped to his knees and slid along the ground, waving his arms above his head. Just as he came within striking distance the Pirate Captain remembered that the Soaring Barnacle was actually a dance move.
‘Pirates doing unexpected dance moves’ was the kind of thing that fencing instructors tended not to mention, so Napoleon found himself caught completely off guard. There was a whumping sound as the Pirate Captain crashed right into the general’s midriff, knocking him off his feet and his rapier into the sand. The two men rolled down the beach in an ungainly tangle of limbs. They rolled across the shingle, they rolled through both the sandcastles, and soon they were rolling into the sea.
‘In my old job as a Victorian lady,’ said Jennifer, ‘I had to read a lot of romantic novels. They led me to believe that duelling was both a noble pursuit and the height of civilised combat. I certainly don’t remember hair pulling or wedgies being mentioned.’
‘Are they fighting or cuddling? I can’t tell.’ said the pirate in red.
‘They’re getting terribly far from the shoreline,’ said the Governor. ‘Do you think I should call them back? Pirate Captain! Napoleon! Please! This has become most unedifying!’
Unfortunately the Pirate Captain and Napoleon were too busy being engulfed by a great crashing wave to hear a word. Then they were too busy getting swept away in the ocean’s roaring currents. And before the watching crowd could do anything, all that was left were two pointy black hats bobbing about in the swell.
27 The term ‘vendetta’ comes from Corsica, which had a strict social code whereby any perceived insult would result in death. Between 1683 and 1715 it is estimated that a quarter of the population (30,000 people) were killed as a result. And in 1954 a donkey strayed into a neighbour’s garden, leading to a ten-year feud and two deaths.
28 Myrtle Beach in South Carolina is the current holder of the World’s Tallest Sandcastle record – 49.55 feet.
29 One of the few things people can say that’s more annoying than ‘we only use 10 per cent of our brains!’ is ‘According to the laws of physics bees shouldn’t be able to fly!’ In actual fact, experiments carried out by Michael H. Dickinson at Caltech using high-speed photography and a big robotic wing showed that bees are able to fly basically because they flap their wings really, really fast.
Fifteen
AN APPOINTMENT
WITH STABBING!
hree miles out to sea, the Pirate Captain and Napoleon eventually began to realise the scale of their predicament.
‘This seems to have got somewhat out of hand,’ said the Pirate Captain.
‘Yes,’ said Napoleon, spitting out a starfish and a mouthful of water. ‘It has rather.’
The two of them hauled themselves onto a piece of driftwood and didn’t say anything for a while whilst they got their breath back. The currents had carried them so far from the shore by now that St Helena was just a speck on the horizon, and the rolling grey Atlantic stretched out seemingly for ever in all directions, like a boring geography lesson.
‘I declare this piece of driftwood the sovereign property of Napoleon,’ said Napoleon.
‘You can’t do that, because I already declared it the sovereign property of the Pirate Captain.’
‘You did not.’
‘I did. But I said it quietly under my breath, so you probably just didn’t hear.’
‘Fine. You see that line of lichen? Everything to the left of that is mine. Please stay off my property.’
‘Happy to.’
The Captain turned his back on the general and thought about his adventure with Darwin. He stared at his reflection in the water and tried with all his remaining strength to evolve gills.
‘Why are you pulling such a ridiculous face?’ enquired Napoleon.
‘I’m trying to mutate into a mer-person. I’d advise you to do the same, because I think we could be out here some time.’
‘How long do you think we might survive on a diet of barnacles?’ asked Napoleon, after a couple of hours had passed, more to break the silence than anything else.30
‘Oh well, I believe they’re quite nutritious,’ said the Captain, trying to sound upbeat. ‘Though you’ll starve to death long before me, because look.’ He nodded at his glove. ‘I’ve still got a couple of dead bees stuck to my glove.’
Napoleon sighed. ‘It strikes me, Pirate Captain, that all this has become … a trifle petty.’
The Pirate Captain looked at the line of lichen, and at the little French flag and pirate flag they had each carved into their respective halves of driftwood, and he couldn’t help but feel that Napoleon might have a point. He tugged at his eyebrow for a moment, and then he picked up one of the bees and held it out to his rival.
‘Dead bee, Napoleon?’
‘Don’t mind if I do. Thank you, Captain.’
The two men chewed thoughtfully on their dead bees for a minute or two.
‘Listen,’ said the Pirate Captain eventually. ‘I really am sorry about that weight remark. I got in a bit of a muddle and thought we were trash talking, like that time during my adventure in Harlem, but that’s no excuse.’
‘Perhaps you had a point, Captain.’ Napoleon picked a bee leg from between his teeth and patted his belly with a rueful air. ‘I have been letting myself go of late.’
‘Nonsense. I was just perpetuating unrealistic body standards. I should know better.’ The Pirate Captain squinted up at the sun, which had come out from behind a bank of clouds and was now starting to beat down on them remorselessly. ‘Wish I hadn’t lost my tricorne. This dying of exposure business is going to play havoc with my skin-care regime.’
‘I wonder who won the election?’ said Napoleon.
‘Hardly seems to matter now,’ said the Pirate Captain.
‘No, I suppose not. In fact, I can’t really remember why it seemed so important in the first place.’
The Captain scratched his soggy beard thoughtfully. ‘Normally, Napoleon, I have to say, I’m not much of a one for emotional journeys. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I pride myself on remaining completely unchanged by my adventures. But this time, during my brief stay on St Helena, I’ve come to realise two important home truths. Firstly: bees are fickle *@%$#s who’ll let you down soon as look at you. But also, and perhaps more importantly, I’ve learned that just because I’m never going to be Pirate of the Year, that’s no reason to stop doing what I love. Self-worth shouldn’t come from awards and trinkets and getting the respect of your peers, it should come from within.’
Napoleon frowned. ‘Surely by that logic anybody can declare themselves a success no matter how useless and ineffectual they are? You know, like homeopathy.’
‘Well, I didn’t say it was a completely coherent personal philosophy,’ said the Captain, shrugging.
Napoleon jutted out his chin and gripped the Captain’s shoulder. ‘Really we are much alike, you and I.’
‘You mean the hats?’
‘No, Pirate Captain, I mean that we have both of us lost our way. I deluded myself that besting you in various pointless endeavours was somehow a good substitute for conquering the entire known world. But it isn’t. It’s not even close. I’m not quite sure how I got in such a muddle. The fact is, when it comes to the heart of the matter, we’ve both been running away from ourselves.’
‘The last time I did that it turned out to be a papier mâché version of me that Black Bellamy had built as a prank,’ said the Captain, nodding sagely. ‘Scared the living daylights out of me.’
‘I mean in a slightly more metaphorical sense, Captain.’
‘Aarrrr, got you. Ironic for us to have all these epiphanies whilst facing certain death in the middle of the Atlantic’
‘Very.’
‘Don’t take it the wrong way, Napoleon, but I’m starting to have one of those delusions where I’m seeing your face, but sat atop a gigantic mouth-watering steak instead of a normal body. You have delicious cupcakes for eyes and a strip of bacon for a mouth.’
‘I, too, am suffering hallucinations, Pirate Captain. I keep on thinking I can see a ship over there on the horizon.’
‘Yes, I’m having that hallucination too. Oh, and now your ears have turned into lamb cutlets.’
30 It’s possible to live without food for several weeks, but without water you’ll be dead in three or four days. The longest solo survival at sea is a Chinese man who survived for 133 days adrift on a raft after his ship was torpedoed during the Second World War.
Three Months Later
Sixteen
LOST IN THE SNOWS
OF TERROR
he pirate with a scarf stood on St Helena’s little beach, skipped a stone into the sea, and stared out towards the horizon. Even though the stone bounced six times before it sank beneath the waves, which the pirate with a scarf was pretty sure must be a world record, his heart felt as heavy as a cannonball. He sighed, because he knew that the Pirate Captain, had he been there, would have come up with a much better comparison than ‘heavy as a cannonball’. He’d have probably known the weight of some sort of dinosaur, or a special cut of meat, and would have used that instead. ‘Heavy as half a stegosaurus or two pork bellies’, something along those lines.
‘He’s not coming back, you know,’ said Jennifer, appearing at the pirate with a scarf’s side and putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘The Captain’s gone to that great pirate feast in the sea. The one he was always talking about, where the waitresses all wear those off-the-shoulder medieval-style lacy tops, and they never run out of grog or chops.’
‘I guess so,’ the pirate with a scarf said sadly. ‘I just hope there’s somebody there to wipe the meat grease from his beard in the afterlife. You know what a messy eater he is.’
‘Come on, we’ll be late. They’re about to unveil the memorial.’
A solemn crowd waited outside the St Helena Museum of Natural History and Antiquities, which now had the large red curtain from the town hall tacked onto one of its walls. Everybody looked sad but slim, because they were wearing black, which is flattering to the fuller figure. Several of the gamine lady islanders blew their noses noisily into their handkerchiefs. Even the ‘Monstrous Manatee’ had come out to pay his respects.
‘We’re gathered here today to remember our island’s two greatest residents,’ said the Governor, standing on top of a small box in front of the curtain. ‘Now, unfortunately we can’t carry out the Pirate Captain’s exact wishes for his memorial, because we don’t have either the troupe of dancing girls or the swimming pool full of jelly. Nor can we implement Monsieur Bonaparte’s desires to the letter, because the technology has yet to be invented that can rearrange the stars in the night sky so that they form a big dot-to-dot picture of his face. But hopefully, were they able to be here today, they would both approve of this little memorial. May it be a lesson to us all.’
He yanked on a piece of rope and the curtain fell away to reveal a large mural. It showed the Pirate Captain and Napoleon, each atop a brightly coloured pony, galloping down a road made out of rainbows whilst an assortment of woodland creatures looked on. At the bottom were the words:
In loving memory of the pirate
captain and napoleon
Bonapart
e, washed out to sea
whilst having a duel. Why can’t
we all just get along?
‘Would you like to add a few words, pirate with a scarf?’ asked the Governor.
The pirate with a scarf stepped forward and awkwardly traced a little picture in the sand with the toe of his boot. ‘I don’t really know what to say. It’s true the Pirate Captain wasn’t perfect. He could be pretty forgetful to be honest. He got through astrolabes like you wouldn’t believe. He tended to rely on “running people through” as a substitute for reasoned arguments. And he certainly had some strange ideas about where babies come from. But despite all that – ’
The pirate with a scarf stopped dead. Most of the audience grumblingly muttered that they thought this was a pretty poor eulogy, but then they followed the pirate with a scarf’s startled gaze and saw two shambling figures emerge from the sea and wander up the beach towards them.
‘Sea Monsters!’ exclaimed the albino pirate.
‘Come to feast on our guts!’ wailed the Governor. ‘Or whatever bit of anatomy it is sea monsters eat at this time of day.’
As the two figures got closer the pirates saw that it wasn’t sea monsters. In fact, it seemed to be a pair of surprisingly burly, bearded washerwomen. They were laughing and having quite an animated chat.
‘Hello, you scurvy knaves,’ roared one of the washerwomen, in a familiar booming voice. ‘What on earth is all this? Where are my dancing girls in jelly?’
‘Pirate Captain!’ exclaimed the pirates, because that’s who it was. They rushed forward, and then checked themselves when, as one, they all had the same thought.
In an Adventure With Napoleon Page 11