“It's our own headquarters, thou pestilent guts!” cried Bilbo impatiently, and Firebeard scowled his mortification and muttered that nobody told him anything.
“Peace!” snapped Black Sheba, and in an instant there was silence as they eyed the sable beauty lounging in her chair, toying with her jewelled cross whose fiery gleam was not brighter than the fiendish light of cruelty in her amber eyes. Her smile was wicked, and her voice hissed like water in a hot frying-pan as she suddenly leaned forward voluptuously, a movement which caused Bilbo to swallow sharply, Happy Dan to drop his quizzing-glass and exclaim “Tout craquait!”, and Firebeard to bite the table-leg.
“Hear me, camarados!” said the pirate queen. “These ploys be but small potatoes, scarce worthy the mettle o' such as we. Why, consider – wi' the treasure ta'en from Fort St Bartlemy, wi' the British admiral cast adrift and his organisation in a worse state than China, wi' our vast fleet, secure havens o' Tortuga, Libertatia, and the Coast, our crews of seasoned, tarry dreadnoughts, are we not meet for an enterprise o' scope and splendour to make the world ring, and cause crowned heads to tremble at our power?” She paused, and her gaze scorched them like a microwave oven.
“Such as?” said Rackham soberly, powerful fingers tapping his square chin.
“Indeed, sweet sister,” quo' sardonic Bilbo. “Such exploit we ha' long dreamed on – but what, ha? If thou hast such a biggie in mind, then discourse, black beauty; discuss and elaborate.”
“Mais oui; I wait agog to hear of this caper formidable!” cried Happy Dan. “Je listen, me, and perpend, ain't it? Un coup énorme, sacred blue! Spillez, chérie, tout suite!”
“Where's China?” growled Firebeard, who had got lost further back. Black Sheba considered them 'neath sleepy lids.
“Of all the nations of earth,” she murmured, “which is our strongest, greatest foe, whose humblement in the West would most enrich us and enhance our might?”
“Spain,” said Bilbo promptly. “The Dons,” agreed Rackham, and Happy Dan nodded vigorously. Firebeard's agreement might be assumed from the fact that he hurled his chair against the wall, tore down a curtain, and yelled: “Them onion-floggin', garlic-guzzlin', bull-fightin', incense-swingin' Dago bastards, I hate 'em, I despise 'em, I'll sink, split, tear an' cast anchor in 'em, so help me …” Etc., etc.
“Spain, indeed,” purred Black Sheba. “Now, could we obtain mastery o'er her empire in the Americas, then should the Coast Brethren be a power indeed, like to a government – we, the outlaws, the landless, could become a country, to treat with others, show a flag, dispatch envoys, sign accords, enter the Davis Cup, and enjoy rank as doth a nation-state.” And if ever we get that far, she was thinking, the first thing I'll demand from the Brits is a free pardon, recognition as Queen of Libertatia – and to clinch my good will they can lend me, as fleet commander, a certain gorgeous Apollo from the Royal Navy, assuming he got off that sandspit in one piece. (If this sounds like pipe-dreaming on Sheba's part, remember she's had a tough time in life and may not be entirely free of toys in her attic.)
Her fellow captains gaped at her in amaze, and Rackham cleared his throat. “It's one way of going legitimate,” he said tactfully, “but camarado, 'tis thing impossible. O'erthrow Spain i' the New World? You're kidding. Certes we're strong, and well-lined wi' gold, but you can't fight city hall! Spain is First Division stuff—”
“ – and ripe for the steel toecap!” cried Sheba, her eyelashes snapping like whips. “Hear me, while I unfold a plan whereby we may have the Dons of the Caribbean Empire running around like headless chickens, and take over their whole operation.”
Awed by her flashing eyes and hot gusts of her Nina Ricci perfume, those hardened ruffians waited for her to continue.
“According to the gossip column of the Goa Reminder,” said Sheba, “the Viceroy of the Spanish Indies, a bloated and evil reptile named Don Lardo Baluna del Lobby y Corridor, is affianced to the choicest bloom o' the Spanish aristocracy, Donna Meliflua Etcetera, a sweet, virginal child who was Deb of the Year at the Escurial barbecue. I've seen her picture, and she's a lulu, I have to admit,” added Sheba grudgingly. “Howbeit, Don Lardo being impatient for the nuptials—”
Indignant cries interrupted her. “Disgusting!” “The dirty old rip!” “Poor kid, it oughtn't to be allowed!”, and Firebeard smashed a chandelier in his righteous wrath.
“ – his child-bride sails from Cadiz for Cartagena next month, in an argosy of richness to match its precious cargo. Now, let us intercept that argosy as it nears the isthmus, snatch the plump little pigeon for whom this viceregal bladder is panting like a bellows, and we've got Don Lardo by the shorties, but good.” Black Sheba's lips writhed in a hateful smile. “What ransom, think you, will he give for her? I'll tell you – the plunder o' Cartagena City will be our price, the surrender and disarming of its fleet and garrison, his own person in our hands, and then …” her jewelled finger stabbed the table “… then, we break faith, cut his throat, overrun his province, and with the loot and armaments at our disposal, sweep on to Panama, Maracaibo, Campeche, Mexico City, Acapulco Beach, the works! Spanish America will be as a ripe fruit that ye squeeze, savour, and consume at your good pleasure.” The slim fingers clenched into a fist, and Sheba licked her purple lips as though she could taste the juice. “After that … who knows? Today Panama, tomorrow …”
Firebeard went berserk and started stamping through the floorboards in a frenzy of exultation, Bilbo inhaled a full box of snuff in his excitement, Happy Dan danced the Carmagnole on the table, and Rackham gnawed his lip thoughtfully. This girl needs a good long rest in quiet surroundings, he was thinking, but while he regarded her imperial fantasies as so much elephant gravy, he saw sure profit in kidnapping Donna Meliflua and squeezing Don Lardo for an enormous ransom.
“When sails the argosy and on what course?” he asked, and Sheba shook her sleek head.
“'Tis close-kept secret, that,” said she. “Outside Madrid, only Don Lardo himself is privy – so to Don Lardo we must apply.”
“As how, dusky goddess?” croaked Bilbo, between thunderous sneezes, and Sheba smiled silkily and toyed with her necklace.
“Myself shall visit him – possibly in guise of Creole millionairess, or lady o' quality on her travels, or itinerant go-go dancer,” she shrugged. “It boots not, so long as I get a chance to work on the lecherous creep. He'll sing to little Sheba, don't you worry.”
“It's risky, camarado,” said Rackham. “If so be as ye was recognised, 'twould be hideous death by torture at the hands o' th' bloody Inquisition, look'ee, wi' stakes an' nails an'—”
“ – puppydogs' tails,” laughed Sheba, and clapped the big man on the shoulder. “Never fear, Calico, I'll not be recognised what time I sex his secrets out o' the Spanish squirt. Unless, with luck, I get the chance to question him in more amusing fashion.” And at the tigerish expression which flitted across her lovely features even Rackham felt an inward chill. Sooner you than me, Don Lardo, he thought.
Still, he insisted, she should not go alone. Bilbo should carry her to the Spanish Main in the Laughing Sandbag, and lurk in a secluded cove while she, with Firebeard as a personal bodyguard, ventured into Cartagena in what guise might seem best to insinuate acquaintance with Don Lardo. In the meantime Rackham and Happy Dan would await Akbar (little they dreamed that Avery had turned the great corsair's toes up permanently), and follow with all their force to Tortuga, there to organise the pirate fleet, make do and mend, and catch up on their correspondence while they awaited word from Sheba of the argosy's date of sailing.
So it was that on the dawn tide, her crew hastily rounded up from the Foundered Squid, the dockside hells and kennels, and the Libertatia Corporation Library, the sinister shape of the Laughing Sandbag weighed anchor and glided out of harbour through the pearly mist, with sailorly cries of “Yo-ho!” and “Luff a-lee!” and “All visitors ashore by the port gangway, hurry along, please!” She near as a toucher ran down an exhausted figure dog-paddli
ng towards shore in a manner which suggested that if it had been possible to swim on hands and knees he would have been doing it. From the poop the unfeeling Firebeard threw rocks at him with brutal cries of “Har-har!”, never guessing who the swimmer was (we know, though), and the keener intelligences which might have detected him were both busy downstairs, Sheba going through her wardrobe to decide which outfit would most inflame Don Lardo, and Bilbo, with his cabin door locked, trying on a new hair-piece bespoken from a mail-order firm under plain wrapper, while the dwarf Goliath stood by with scissors, adhesive, and helpful remarks.
You will remember a few pages back we referred to the pawnbroking establishment of Vladimir Mackintosh-Groonbaum, where Happy Dan Pew had deposited his own piece of the Madagascar crown as well as Firebeard's. This action had not been dictated by ordinary prudence; as has been noted, Happy Dan's destiny was entirely controlled by his obsession with Collins' French Primer, and he carried in what passed for his mind a vivid picture of les voleurs who lived dans la forêt, and who, Happy Dan was positive, were always lurking behind the next bush waiting to hi-jack him; he had been much struck by Mr H. M. Brock's lively illustration of them, brandishing their swords and pistols, and whenever valuables came into his possession (which, in his profession, they frequently did) nothing would do but he must get them smartly under lock and key before les voleurs of his board-duster-disturbed imagination could get their hands on them. (Really, Happy Dan was a pretty sad case, and it was only his lifelong quest for La Jeune Fille avec la Grande Bouche, with whose picture (again by Brock) he had fallen passionately in love, that kept him going. Show him a Junoesque brunette and his eager greeting would be “Petite pomme?”, only to have his hopes dashed when she failed to respond with “Petite poire”.)
So into Vladimir Mackintosh-Groonbaum's safe had gone the two precious crosses – and it would be well to remark here, in case anyone thinks we are making racist jokes, that the pawnbroker's name was a fictitious one. Born Walter Puddefoot, he had decided on taking up his career that you'd better sound like what you are, and that a new handle would be appropriate. Hence the happy blend of Caledonian-Semitic, with a touch of old Mother Russia thrown in for good measure, and a cockney accent to boot. The rest of the legend on his shop-sign, “By Appointment Turf Accountant to Oliver Cromwell”, was pure affectation; he never had been really.
But a smart man was Vladimir, and when on opening up shop next morning he received as his first customer a bedraggled individual with water leaking from his boots, seaweed in his hair, the airs of a gentleman, and an Irish accent, he was intrigued; when this apparition offered for sale a gorgeous emerald set in a gold cross which bore evidence of having been hacked loose from some larger object of vertu (and which Vladimir recognised in a fraction of a millisecond as being fellow to the two crosses already in his possession) he was deeply interested and a mite alarmed. He fingered unshaven pudgy jowel, screwed up piggy eyes, wiped bulbous nose, and played for time:
“Paste, o' course – an' yer can see where the brass is showin' through on the settin',” he wheezed throatily as he weighed the glittering marvel in his hand. “But not bad for a himmitation … yerss … say a fiver? Or stretch a point an' I'll make it guineas.”
Now it was not without qualms that Blood had so recklessly exposed his treasure for sale at the first hock-shop he had encountered on emerging dripping from the sea, but he was rendered desperate – if you'd swum fifteen miles and had Firebeard hurling rocks at you, you'd have been anxious to cash it in yourself. But he'd been in pawnshops before, and knew the drill.
“Try again, Izzy,” said he. “Sure, 'tis a genuine emerald o' vasty price, given to me by me old mother, Lady Bridget O'Hagan of Merrion Square just round from the art galleries, and worth twenty thousand if it's worth a penny.” (In fact it was worth five times that, but Blood was no expert, and hungry into the bargain.) “I'll take ten thou', an' if ye don't like it I'll be biddin' you good day an' be damned to you.”
“My boy!” exclaimed Vladimir, aghast. “My boy, be reasonable. I got eleven kids an' a mortgage! Let's see, nah …” His greasy features contorted as in thought. “I can see yore a proper gent dahn on yer luck … so I might stretch to five thou … though I'd be riskin' a thumpin' loss …” His piggy eye flickered suspiciously at Blood and away again. “You … er, wouldn't 'ave any more o' these on yer, I don't suppose?”
“I would not,” said Blood, suspicious in turn. “Why?”
“Just wondered, just wondered,” Vladimir fluttered hastily. “It looks like it's been chopped loose offa somethin', but mebbe it's just wear an' tear. Proper careless, Lady Bridget O'Whotsit must ha' bin, if yer don't mind my sayin' so. Tell yer wot,” he went on, greasily confidential, “why don't yer take these twenty guineas as an advance, pop rahnd ter the Foundered Squid – jus' mention my name – and git yerself a shave, clothes pressed, shoeshine, an' a bite o' breakfast, and I'll get this prop'ly assayed an' valued. I can see nah it ain't paste – dunno wot's 'appenin' to my eyes these days, ole age, I 'spect.” And he leered pathetically. “Lovely break-fuss they do in the Squid cafeteria – 'am an' eggs, grilled flyin'-fish, turbot au gratin, 'ot coffee an' toast, mango marmalade, the lot. An' the chambermaids is a bit of orl right, an' all,” he added, with a lewd wink.
Now, Blood was hungry, and life had taught him to grab what was going, so he accepted the pawnbroker's guineas and hastened round to the Foundered Squid and breakfast, leaving behind him an agitated Vladimir hastily donning coat and wig. Happy Dan Pew, in depositing the opal and sapphire crosses, had waxed descriptive, and Vladimir knew all about the Madagascar crown and its division among the pirate leaders; he knew also that, whoever Blood was, he wasn't a member of the Brotherhood, and that his possession of a cross from the crown was something that any good sneak, grass, and nark (and Vladimir was all of these) would be well advised to bring to the attention of the Brethren as quickly as possible; you didn't mess about with those babies, or conceal information, not if you valued your neck. With a cry to his lad to mind the shop, Vladimir was out and hurrying down the quay as fast as his little legs would carry him, bawling for a cock-boat to carry him out to where the Grenouille Frénétique rode lazily at anchor (if Blood had had his wits about him, he'd have noticed her, as well as Rackham's brig, the Plymouth Corporation's Revenge, but our Colonel could never tell one ship from another, anyway, and it hadn't occurred to his feckless Irish mind that the pirates who'd taken the Twelve Apostles were likely to be swanning around Libertatia.)
So, all unconscious of his peril, our gallant Colonel, replete wi' hot cakes, black puddings, and the advertised mango marmalade, presently repaired to the barber shop, where a pert octoroon wench in a frilly skirt installed him in a reclining chair, fluttered her eyelashes at him, covered him with hot towels, and was just murmuring in his ear about close shaves and Turkish baths when the floor seemed to give way, and Blood was precipitated, chair and all, into a noisome cellar. Here, in the foetid dark, invisible hands trussed him to the chair, his eyes were dazzled by smoky torch-glare, and the emerald cross was thrust before his face.
“Where got ye this, cully?” growled a menacing voice.
“Never saw it in my life,” cried Blood instinctively, and then, his surroundings becoming vaguely visible, he was aware of swarthy, bearded faces, hankies round brows, an eyepatch or two, naked steel, leering expressions, and two figures foremost – one enormous in neatly-pressed calico, the other in Froggy frills and satin weskit. Our Colonel considered.
“Mercy me, though, now I come to look at it, 'tis surely part o' the Madagascar crown!” he exclaimed. “Well, there's a coincidence! And surely …” he feigned astonishment, “ye be two o' the bully Brotherhood wi' whom I was anxious to enlist? And are ye keepin' the best, then? Faith, it's glad I am to see friendly faces—”
“Save it,” said Rackham, and took the Colonel's throat in iron grip. “And, look'ee, dawcock, we ha' hot coals for 'tween thy toes, knotted cords for thy brows, keen
sliver o' bamboo for 'neath thy finger-nails, and jam sandwiches to bind in thy armpits – unless ye discourse right speedily. This cross was given to Akbar the Damned -now, what o' him, how hadst thou it, where is the Admiral's daughter an' th' King's man Avery, whence come ye, and how the hell did you get off the Dead Man's Chest, anyway? Ye have five seconds, starting – now!”
“Let's go upstairs and have coffee,” suggested Blood. “Or, better still, the drinks are on me … all right, all right, I'll talk!” Which he did, succinctly and (since there was no point in lying, and the thought of jam-butties in his armpits was too much to bear) accurately, whereon his captors swore in amaze, beliked, look'eed, and invited the Powers to rend, blast an' shiver 'em. Happy Dan Pew was distraught.
“Ah, but I am disconsolate, me! Le pauvre Akbar -we were like frères, and now he is mort, hélas and purple patches, and has gone to the grande salle de classe in the sky! Ah, but that Aver-ee is gros stinkaire, 'e must 'ave fought foul, the referee was bent, it is what you call a carve-up—”
“Nay, now,” quo' Rackham, tapping shaven chin in narrow-eyed thought, “this Avery is canny lad and wight o' skill an' enterprise. And he purposes our downfall, doth he? Well, now, here's food for thought – and ye say he intends to bestow the Admiral's daughter on the Pleasant Isle of Aves, eh, what time he ventures forth against us?”
“That's the place,” agreed the recreant Blood, who had no shame. “I heard him, plain as ye like. Well, I'm glad ye've got Akbar's cross back, so I am … it's been worrying me, a valuable thing like that, and not knowing where the lost property office was—”
The Pyrates Page 14