“Help me shove her off,” was all he said, and they ran the little boat down over the shingle and into the surf. And then they were standing out to sea, with the music a-thunder in a rousing crescendo, their tiny craft riding the salt waves in the sunlight, spray lashing bracingly all over the place, Avery bursting full of high endeavour, and Blood beginning to wish he hadn't come.
Thus they set out on their desperate journey together (as you always knew they would), but of what befell them thereon is, as Mr Farnol would say, yet to tell. For …
Here endeth Book the First of
THE PYRATES
And there's no lack of good stuff on the slate for Book the Second, with our Beauteous Heroine to be rescued from her Unspeakable Fate (and if it's the first time she's faced it, you can bet it won't be the last), our Stalwart Hero's good name to be cleared, Villainy to be pursued wi' stern resolve and given its lumps, and six bits of crown to be recovered, where'er they are. Mayhap our Dauntless Duo will have to seek them in hair-raising exploits in all sorts of bizarre locales – Sheba's hideous Gothic castle on Octopus Rock with its infamous watercress dungeon, Rackham's shark-surrounded island lair (wi' that fatal and voluptuous adventuress Anne Bonney, whee-whew!), the steamy dens o' Madagascar, lost jungle cities where ethnic minorities practise their weird rites, the dank torture-chambers o' the hellish Inquisition (wi' a curse!), and so on. The options are wide open – cannibals, mad castaways, suave and evil Dons, poisoned darts, flashing-eyed señoritas, crashing cannonades, oodles of treasure, wild native princesses in feathers and fruit hats, dungeons, escapes, betrayals, rescues, and any amount o' swordplay (sa-ha!), boozing, singing, loving, good fellowship, an' be damned.
But the moon is up, the stars are bright, the tide's on the turn, the snail's on the thorn, and Book the Second awaits. We shall bring ye to the Treasure House o'the World, and (as a famous real-life pirate once said) blame yourselves if ye go away empty-handed.
BOOK THE SECOND
CHAPTER
THE SEVENTH
Lovely boating weather,
Bilge on the tropic breeze,
Swing, swing together
With your fetters between your knees.
Let's hear it for Akbar!
His galliot never leaks,
We'll all swing together,
And swear by the best of sheikhs!
he dismal wailing of the lash-scarred slaves toiling at the oars of Akbar the Damned's infernal galley drifted down the night breeze, broken only by the crack of the overseers' whips and the occasional gasping cry of “Well rowed, Balliol!” and “Roll on the outboard motor!” from the parched throats of the rowers. It carried but faintly to the shelllike ears of Lady Vanity, as she sat in the great stern cabin, proud but palpitating, submitting to the ministrations of the eunuch hair-dresser who was preparing her – ah, well she knew it! – for the loathsome embraces of Akbar himself. He was upstairs somewhere, splashing on the Brut, oiling his beard, and humming “I can't give you anything but love, baby” in the lingua franca of the Barbary Coast, what time he gnashed his magnificent teeth in anticipation of the treat in store. (From which you will be relieved to gather that nothing untoward has happened yet, but a glance at our heroine will inform you that it won't be long now; Akbar's hand-maidens haven't dressed her in those see-through harem trousers and gauzy bra for a walk in the park.)
So little wonder that Vanity shuddered as the eunuch fussed with comb and rollers. “Oo, I don't know what butcher last had his hands on this lot, love,” he piped despairingly, “but he must have cut it with a knife and fork! It would make you sick – I daren't think what the boss'll say, and him that particular when he ravishes Christian maidens! He'll go mad. Hang on while I get me setting lotion …”
With a moan of fear Vanity started up, her ivory fingers (now alluringly a-glitter with barbaric jewels) flying to her parted ruby lips as she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. She stared, at once terrified and fascinated by the perfection of her own milk-white beauty, so ill-concealed by the flimsy Oriental finery. What man could resist her, she reflected hopelessly, least of all that great, swarthy, magnificently-muscled, flashing-eyed predator with his amazing hairy chest and superb shoulders and sexy forked beard …? For a moment her blue eyes misted as she considered her shapeliness, turning this way and that as she pushed back her golden tresses, pouting and undulating in an absent-minded way as she murmured: “Fry's Turkish De-li-ight …” ere the hideous reality of her plight returned, and she sank to her silken couch like filleted bream. Oh, why had not Nature made her thin and knock-kneed and spotty? If only she had bloated herself with chocs and milk-shakes like the other girls! But then Captain Avery, her wonderful, God-like lover, would scarcely have remarked her, let alone vowed his undying passion …
“Ah, wretched me!” she repined through pearl-like tears. “That peerless beauty which captured my true love's boyish senses undoes me quite, for now it must enflame the feral passion of that randy bedouin in the spiked hat! Oh, Ben, dear heart, haste to me, and for pity's sake get the lead out of your pants, or 'twill be too late …”
Did that virgin prayer float down the sea-wind to her lover? Probably not, and he wouldn't have heard it anyway, not half a mile off, and with Blood whingeing at him in the dark. But he was there, just the same, his keen eyes like silicon chips as they scanned the murk ahead. News picked up from a passing betel-juice tanker, and the tell-tale jetsam of used date-packets thrown overboard by the corsairs, had put him on Akbar's track; all day had he piloted his frail craft in the wake of that sinister hull barely seen on the horizon, and now that night had fallen, and the galley's pace had slowed, with the corsairs doling out their meagre measures of Horlicks to the wretched slaves, Long Ben Avery was racing in, wi' helm a-weather and molars gritted, determined to snatch his beloved from the clutches of Shameful Captivity or die i' the attempt.
“And ye know which it'll be, don't you?” protested Blood for the umpteenth time. “Hast lost thy marbles quite? We don't stand a prayer – devil admire me, man, there must be six hundred angry wogs on that galley if there's one, and we but poor two! Look, let's get sensible, and do it diplomatic like – notes to governments and U.N. resolutions and things -”
“Cheese it, Colonel,” was Avery's crisp rejoinder. “Thy clack untimely stirs my just contempt. Look rather to the powder keg and fuse, for therein lies our chief hope to surprise these infidels and effect my dear one's enlargement.”
“And a bum idea if ever I heard one,” snapped Blood, rummaging in the gloom for the keg which Avery indicated. “All right, ye say ye've done it before – but not, let me point out, with an Irish engineer striking the matches. Which end of the fuse do I light?”
“Hist! What see ye yonder, i' the loom o' night?” cried Avery, and flung out a pointing finger in a gesture supremely dramatic, barking his knuckles painfully.
“That's our mast,” said Blood caustically.
“Beyond, I mean! See there!” hissed Avery, sucking his fingers, and sure enough, through the darkling gloom shone the light from a great stern window, where the galley glided slowly ahead of them. Zoom quickly in and through the window, and we find Lady Vanity backed against the panelling, pale but peerless, trying to cover herself up with cushions, what time the swarthy Akbar, feasting hot eyes upon her, locked the door and advanced licking his chops, his Christian Dior gold medal bobbing passionately on his gleaming naked chest.
“Shalt bring a fair price from some lucky man in Basra,” he growled, leering. “But first thou'rt Akbar's, aye -”
“Another step and I call the conductor!” cried Lady Vanity proudly. “Get lost, thou foulness! I want the British Ambassador -”
“Fix not thy hopes on him,” snarled Akbar. “He doesn't go for blondes.” And with cat-like speed he pounced, sweeping her into his embrace, his hot breath causing her golden locks to stream backwards from her ivory brow. “Aye, flutter thy soft pinions as thou wilt, little dove,” he crooned hat
efully. “'Twill make for better sport.” And chuckling cruelly, he rained burning kisses on lips, nose, chin, throat …
It's a matter of split seconds now, but the Marines have arrived, all unsuspected, making fast their boat 'neath the galley stern, jamming the powder keg under the rudder, Blood swearing and clicking his lighter at the fuse, Avery swinging up the chains like a startled marmoset, rapier clenched 'twixt flawless teeth, the light of battle in his eye and the taste of Brasso in his mouth. An instant he paused under the sill, while Blood panted up behind him.
“Wait – I've got a better idea!” hissed the Colonel. “Why don't we buy her? You know, make 'em an offer—”
A scream of mortal anguish rent the night like a steam whistle, the cry of a lost soul in the very abyss of agony and despair. Vanity had given Akbar the knee in a vital spot, and the proud scourge o' the seas was rolling on the carpet, clutching himself and gasping for the trainer. Then, with a cry of “Remember the Alamo!” Avery had surged through the window, rapier a-whirl, found he was in the wrong cabin, apologised blushing, and darted through a communicating door to the main saloon where the action was. All of which had given Akbar nice time to hobble painfully to his feet, select a convenient scimitar, wince with a ruptured oath as he straightened up, shoot a reproachful glance at Vanity, bawl for the guards, and cross blades with Avery as the latter bounded in roaring: “It's cutlasses now, men!”
Blood, following more cautiously, paused to blink appreciatively at the wide-eyed Vanity, slipped a protective arm round her waist, and got his face slapped for familiarity. He would have protested, but at that moment the powder keg exploded under the rudder, blowing half the bottom off the galley, and causing some confusion. Akbar and Avery were fencing away like crazy, jumping on the furniture, exchanging defiant remarks like: “Your sands are run, Muslim beast!” and “You've come to Nottingham Castle once too often!” (no, sorry, wrong period, but you get the idea). To and fro they stamped and slashed, Akbar gnashing desperately, for his constitution, undermined by dancing girls and rahat lakoum, to say nothing of the crunching low tackle from Vanity, was no match for the finely-tuned agility and perfect timing of his clean-living opponent. Furthermore, Akbar's curved scimitar, while ideal for thrusting round corners in a crafty, Oriental way, was ill-suited 'gainst the straight and trusty British blade (from Toledo, actually). While his minions pounded on the locked door, shouting: “Was there something, oh Falcon of Islam?” and “Last call for second sitting,” Akbar fell back, sweat pouring down his face and chest and playing havoc with his carefully-applied deodorant. Avery, his blade the usual ubiquitous whirling menace, pressed his advantage, his ears beautifully poised on either side of features which were a superbly-sculpted mask of virtuous determination, and flung an order over his shoulder, not bothering to see where it landed: “Look to the lady, ho!”
Blood, who was trying to convince an indignant Vanity that there was no impropriety in giving her a fireman's lift, paused to view the lightning play of his companion's blade.
“That's it, boy!” cried he approvingly. “Take no nonsense from him, Ben; you lay on. And now, mistress, if ye'll kindly—”
“Take your clodhopping paws off me!” snapped Vanity, who had no intention of being rescued by a supporting player. “Help him, can't you? See, he is sore beset!” For Akbar, heartened by the fact that his corsairs were now beating down the door, had made a last furious effort. His gold lamé jeans stretched to the limit, his scimitar hissing in a glittering arc, he hurled himself on Avery; a shriek from Vanity, a slither and clash of blades whirling like egg-whisks, and our healthy Anglo-Saxon caught the scimitar on his forte, extended himself in a beautifully academic lunge, and sent his point through the corsair's sweaty, reeking, hairy chest. Akbar's face contorted appropriately, the scimitar fell from his nerveless hand, his forked beard quivered in its death agony, and with a strangled cry of “God, that hurt!” the great sea-wolf o' Barbary sank lifeless to the floor and began to mess up the parquet.
Vanity cried “Eek!”, Blood said smugly, “See, what did I tell you?”, and Avery, wiping his ensanguined blade with a sternly compassionate tissue, pronounced the swordsman's traditional valediction on his fallen adversary.
“Well, Brian, what can I say except that without good losers we wouldn't have worthy winnners, would we? I didn't know our friend on the floor all that well, but he certainly contributed to the extremely sporting contest we've had here tonight, heathen muckrake though some might call him, but this isn't the time for recriminations, is it? He did his best, and I had what luck was going, I suppose, although I honestly felt I was fitter and better-trained than he was, which I owe to my old school and all the people who had confidence in me. I suppose that's about all, really, except to say I'm just sorry we can't have a re-match …”
His manly oration was interrupted by half the cabin floor falling in, with a raging inferno of smoke and flame surging up from the doomed vessel. Pausing only to abstract Akbar's piece of the Madagascar crown from the in-tray on the ormolu-encrusted desk, Avery sprang to the window, where Blood was supporting the swooning Vanity.
“Why d'ye tarry, man?” cried Avery. “Into the boat, for our lives!”
“What boat?” snarled Blood savagely. “You and your powder-kegs! ‘We'll disable the pagan villains,’ sez you. Pity it didn't occur to you that in blowing their stern off we might just blister the paint on our own little Skylark. 'Tis sunk in burning shards, wi' a wannion, and we trapped like mice on fiery hulk as shall presently founder—”
“Dash it!” said Avery, his noble brow momentarily furrowed, the ruffles on his shirt quivering with anxious excitement. His keen glance raked the water, where amidst the fiery wreckage the corsair crew were taking to the lifeboats, clutching their suitcases and six-packs of sherbet, calling on Allah and gesticulating wildly, tearing their hair, falling in the water, and doing all those things which well-trained extras do on abandoning ship. For Avery, it was money for old rope to wait until one boat drifted beneath the stern, drop into it with athletic grace, disperse the occupants overboard with a few straight lefts and karate chops, volley a crisp order to Blood, catch the falling Vanity with one hand while holding the tiller with the other, set a course, unfurl the lateen sail, tramp on the fingers of various fellaheen clutching at the gunwales, and gaze back fearlessly at the burning hulk behind them while Blood, who had fallen in the water and dragged himself aboard sodden and spluttering, laid hold of the oars and pulled for dear life. Thus, with Vanity disposed gracefully in the stern-sheets, and our hero soothing her marble brow with a sock dipped in sea-water, his calm voice calling “In – out, in – out,” to the labouring Blood, the little boat glided smoothly beyond the glow of the doomed vessel and into the shielding tropic night, while the despairing cries of the shipwrecked corsairs faded behind them … “Bismillah, I knew that curry was off!” “It's a Zionist plot, mark my words.” “Peace, brothers, what is written is written; it is kismet.” “Kismet, my foot! I don't care if it's Chu Chin Chow, I'm shipping with P. and O. next time …”
Later, 'neath waning tropic moon, with balmy zephyrs stirring Vanity's golden tresses and whistling through her gauzy trousers as she lay in the embrace of Avery's muscular right arm, while his muscular left one managed the tiller, and he furled the sail with his foot, our lovers discoursed fondly on this wise:
AVERY: So, one villain down, five to go. As go they shall—
VANITY: Not tonight, thanks. I'm pooped. Incidentally, what kept you? Writhing i' the hated embrace o' swarthy ravisher, I thought you'd never show up.
AVERY: Nay, sweeting, we came wi' all despatch. But now all's well – see, I've copped back Akbar's chunk of the crown, which is what really matters, since 'tis first step to clear my good name, fulfil my mission, and regain th'esteem of my superiors.
VANITY (with a slight edge): Dah-ling, I seem to remember talking to you about priorities before. I mean, aren't you just a teeny bit pleased that I've been saved from a rathe
r indelicate fate? He wasn't exactly a male model, you know.
AVERY: Nay, fond heart, how could I be other? Without thee, all is naught. I just meant that until I've mopped up these rotters, recovered the whole crown, and squared myself with your old man … well, how should I aspire to thy beauteous hand, if mine honour and credit were still leaking at the seams?
VANITY: That's more like it. Convince me by forgetting my hand for the moment, and concentrating on these my soft, parted lips.
AVERY: Oh, bliss! (Embracing her with enthusiasm)
BLOOD: Anyone care to take a spell at the oars?
AVERY: (ecstatically): Mmm-nymm – mmhh …
VANITY: (slightly muffled): Oh-h, rapture …
BLOOD: Ah, the hell with it, what's the use?
Anon, when the adoring duo had kissed their sweet fill, and Vanity was restoring her make-up, what time Blood opened a tin of corned beef and sulkily set out plates, Avery outlined his plan of campaign.
“As I judge from the stars, we are precisely seven and three-quarter leagues east-nor'-east of Libertatia, on the coast of Madagascar …”
“Well, I hope there's a decent hairdresser, but I'll bet their dress-shops are the pits,” pouted Vanity, twitching at her scanty finery. “And I can't go home like this. Look at me!”
“Any time,” leered Blood, buttering biscuits.
“Another fresh crack like that,” snapped Avery, “and you can start swimming. Nay, fondest love,” he continued to Vanity, “we touch not at Libertatia, which is notorious nest of vile pirates and related sea-scum. For that matter,” he added, “I don't suppose they've got a hairdresser worth a hoot, and for raiment 'twould be strictly off-the-peg at the ship's chandlers. It behoves us to slip by and set course for the Cape, there to set thee ashore to await arrival of thy father and those with him who were cast adrift; 'tis there they'll make their landfall. I shan't come ashore myself, under cloud o' shame and suspicion as I am, but I shall rejoin thee straight as soon as I have destroyed the Coast Brethren and collared the crown. Right? Good. Have some bully and biscuits.”
The Pyrates Page 12