Nay – but this can't be! says you. What, wi' vile Lardo slain, Vanity and Meliflua preserved miraculous, Sheba taking care of herself somewhere, and the lads but a moment since within an ace o' glorious victory – it cannot go sour at the last, ha? Can it not, says I? We warned you from the first, remember, that this was no ordinary tale; happy endings are well enough for the last pages of romance, or the closing reel of spectaculars … but this is not Hollywood. This is Octopus Rock.
Even Avery frowned in vexation as he dropped from an embrasure on to the sea-gate wall. He had disposed of those inconvenient guards upstairs, and now sped nimbly along the wall, dusting off stray Spaniards, launched himself at a torch-sconce, and with a series of trapezish swings, dropped into the midst of the buccaneer force as it beat its fighting retreat in a choking haze of powder-smoke and recriminations. Heedless of the din of battle, the crash of shots and clash of steel, the gloating yells of the Spaniards and the appalling language of the pirates, he demanded situation reports from his commanders. He got them.
“We'm beset, d'ye see!” bellowed Firebeard. “Took fore an' aft, burn, rot, and sink them sneakin' Dons! I despise 'em! They ain't even honest men, dammem!”
“C'est un fact, morbleu!” chortled Happy Dan, executing a neat pas seul and unseaming a passing Spaniard. “Mais que voulez-vous? C'est la vie! Ha, what do I say, me? Ce n'est pas la vie at all… c'est le mort!”
“And no gainsaying!” growled Calico Jack, his fine white threads begrimed with powder-reek. “We ha' bit off the inch too much this v'yage, Long Ben, and there's an end to't.”
“So shall ye have your way at last, King's man!” jeered Bilbo, leaning panting on his black rapier. “An end to the Brotherhood – well, ye ha' led us to it! Die all, die merrily!”
“Absolute rot!” cried the undaunted Avery. “Why, we haven't even started – so what I want to see is a good deal more effort and less of this defeatist croaking! Why, all we've got to do is knock the stuffing out of these blighters – or even half of them, and the rest will pack in, you'll see! Vive la France, Happy Dan! Give 'em the message, Firebeard! Goliath, you're doing extremely well – carry on gnashing! All right, Shafto, settle down! The rest of you, get stuck in, and hip-hip-hurrah!” But as the buccaneers roared their derision and fought tooth and nail with their onrushing foes, our hero's jaw tightened with an audible creak, for he could count as well as the next man, and unless he was mistaken, the end was near.
“Bilbo,” he said quietly, “just for the record – you're the best swordsman I've ever seen.”
“Indeed, cully,” drawled exhausted Bilbo, “I verily believe I am. For, see thou – I have never met my master.” And he grinned his most vulpine grin, and nodded to Avery. “Only my match.”
And with that he laughed and plunged into the fight, his black blade darting, and was lost to sight.
“Rackham,” said our hero, his sturdy chin a-quiver with manly apology, “I may have goofed after all. Sorry about the pardons.”
The big man nodded, with an odd, slow smile. “An we never claim 'em, camarado,” quo' he, “yet shall we have our quittance here, one way or t'other.”
And that, as the tide of battle surged around the sea-gate, should have been it… but of course it wasn't. For as someone protested a couple of minutes ago, we haven't come four hundred pages, near as dammit, to have everything fall apart in the last chapter – nay, there's card to play yet, and here it comes, for even as we glance fearfully seaward, to watch the Spanish galleons standing in, ports up, guns out, stately grandees pacing the poop, linstocks smoking as their gunners prepare to sweep us all to blazes wi' langrel and canister, we're all took aback to see that there's summat amiss wi' the Dons, ha! They veer, they yaw, their sails buckle, they bump into each other in confusion, some of them are even caught in stays – and ashore, too, their troops give ground, gesticulating in dismay and starting to run in circles, while from the beleaguered buccaneers goes up a great ringing cheer, head-scarves are flung into the air, timbers are shivered, out come the baccy and rum-flasks, Solomon Shafto dances above the sea-gate, skinny finger outflung to seaward … and Calico Jack stares long and hard, bright-eyed, before taking chin in hand and beckoning Bilbo and Firebeard aside …
For yonder, coming up with the sunrise, the Union Flag a-flutter in the dawn breeze and the strains of “Rule, Britannia” sounding soft and steady across the track of the morning, a great double column of stately men-o'-war is ploughing over the sunlit sea, and from the erratic course they're steering it can only be Admiral Lord Rooke and his fleet, arriving in the nick of time – aye, he got the show on the road after all, the stout old salt, and well pleased is he as he stumps his quarter-deck, scratches his grizzled head, and congratulates his sailing-master, Cap'n Yardley, on having navigated them so skilfully to Port Royal. It isn't quite the Jamaica coastline as he remembers it, but of course memory plays strange tricks … h'm, seems to be a fire in the harbour, and a fair bit of Spanish shipping about. Odd, that.
“Firing salutes, too,” he remarked approvingly, as smoke billowed from the guns of the nearest galleon. “Well, that's courteous. Damned careless, though,” he added, as a red-hot shot ploughed a smoking furrow in the deck and blew the stern-rail to pieces. “You there, sir, Don Whatever-the-hell-your-name-is!” he bellowed at the approaching Spanish ships, “don't ye know to take the goolies out o' the guns afore ye exchange compliments? We might ha' taken a mischief—”
His protest was lost in a crashing broadside which battered his flagship from stem to stern. The Spaniards, recovering from their momentary confusion at the sight of the British fleet, had seen that a quick, sneaky Castilian strike was imperative, and quickly turning their vessels round, were advancing to battle with guns blazing and trumpets sounding, silver sails a-gleam, red and gold banners streaming, and their commanders hurriedly quaffing last-minute cups of Malaga and wiping their moustachios. Promptly the British tars sprang to action with cries of “Belike!” and “D'ye see?”, urged on by their commanders, and none more stentorian than Admiral Rooke as he blinked at the shambles of his poop, stepped smartly aside to avoid a falling mizzen-mast, and demanded thunderously:
“Damn you, Yardley! Are you sure that's Port Royal?”
Equally prompt was the action ashore. As the two mighty fleets met with crashing broadsides and billowing smoke, in which they searched vainly for each other for several hours, the contending parties on Octopus Rock reached an unspoken truce, each reasoning that there was no point in sweating away fighting when the issue was plainly going to be settled by the warships. So the Spaniards prudently withdrew to the castle, locking the doors and peering uneasily out of windows, while the pirates dug in on the beach with cries of: “Get your heads down! Let the Navy take the strain!” much to the disgust of Captain Avery, who protested furiously that while their countrymen were doing the dirty work, the least the pirates could do was line the water's edge and cheer. No one paid him a blind bit of notice.
And while they are all thus gainfully occupied at Octopus Rock, let us take wing for just a moment, far across the broad Atlantic, and see what was happening on that very day in far-off, peaceful old England, whence we weighed anchor so many pages ago …
Master Samuel Pepys sat in his fine office at the Admiralty, massaging his Akeing Hedd and deciding that he didn't feel at all well. Last night had been bad enough; he'd been bored stiff admiring Mr Evelyn's collection of pressed leaves and listening to his ghastly poetry, and then he'd been unwise enough to sit up late with Captain Cocke, “drunk as a dogg”, hearing some juicy scandal about Lady Robinson. And this morning, when he felt fit for nothing beyond quietly recording those events in his diary, had come this appalling little stranger, bearing Bigge Trouble, the evidence of which was spread on the Secretary's table. He stole another uneasy glance, and shuddered – yes, they were still there: six coloured sketches of six priceless jewels … opal, sapphire, pearl, diamond, emerald, and ruby, each depicted in a gem-encrusted c
ross of solid gold.
“Whence,” croaked Master Pepys unsteadily, “had ye these?”
“Would you believe,” asked Vladimir Mackintosh-Groonbaum earnestly, “that them pictures was delivered anonymous at my lodgin's, wi' instructions to bring 'em to yore good self?”
“No,” snapped Pepys, “I wouldn't. And let me tell thee, sirrah, whosoever thou art, that if I order thy arrest on suspicion of possessing stolen goods – to wit, the Madagascar crown from which these sketches were made – it shall avail thee naught to tell my Lord Jeffreys it fell off the back of a sedan chair. He's heard that one before—”
“'Aven't we all?” chuckled Vladimir, no whit abashed. “So let's get practical – for I see, Master Secretary, that yore not one to beat abaht. So … we ain't bugged 'ere, are we? No coves wi' ear-trumpets at the panellin'? Good, good, can't be too careful. Well, nah … 'twixt ourselves, I might be able to lay 'ands on the originals – those six pieces o' the Madagascar crahn which was so misfortoonately lost as a result o' Admiralty negligence, but which 'ave now bin recovered thanks to the sterlin' efforts o' my client, Cap'n Benjamin Avery, R.N.—”
“Avery? Sterling fiddlesticks!” yelped Pepys. “Gad's life, he lost the damned thing in the first place!”
“Through no fault of 'is own,” countered Vladimir promptly. “Consider the facks. It wasn't Cap'n Avery's bright idea to 'ave this priceless diadem entrusted to a single messenger (albeit a distinguished officer) wivaht proper escort, was it? It wasn't 'is fault that the crew o' the Twelve Apostles - a King's ship, mind – included some o' the bloodiest buccaneers that ever wrung salt water aht o' their socks, was it? It wasn't 'is fault the ship was hi-jacked by pirates, was it? An' it wasn't 'is fault the crahn was betrayed by one Colonel T. Blood, who is not only a well-known jool-snitcher but is also -” Vladimir tapped his bulbous nose knowingly “ – a former acquaintance of a certain royal personage 'oo is always notoriously short o' cash.” Vladimir shook his unkempt head solemnly. “Admiralty negligence, did I say? Some might 'ave another word for it, mightn't they?”
Master Pepys discovered that his Hedd was Akeing worse than ever, and that he was starting to sweat most uncomfortably.
“But fret not,” continued Vladimir smoothly. “My client 'as instructed me to restore the jools, as an earnest of 'is unremittin' zeal for 'Is Maj.'s service – which 'e continues to do, incidentally, by riddin' the Western Seas o' the pirate scourge, for which I doubt not 'e shall presently receive rich reward an' fulsome honner from said Maj. 'E's goin' to be front-page stuff,” added Vladimir impressively, “my boy is.”
Master Pepys fought for speech. “But… but why, then, have ye not brought the Madagascar crown itself, 'stead o' these trumpery drawings?”
“Well …” Vladimir pursed his lips judiciously. “I'ad to take precautions, didn't I? An' it did occur to me that you might like the jools returned private-like, wivaht embarrassin' publicity. I mean,” he leered confidentially, “we wouldn't want the facks I mentioned jus' now to become common gossip, would we? If they did – well, at best the Admiralty'd get egg all over its face, an' at worst,” he sighed anxiously, “there could be an 'ell of a scandal, reflectin' even on yore good self, to say nuffink o' the geezer wiv the long wig an' spaniels. Ow, we know it was all jus' bad luck an' coincidence, but malishus tongues bein' wot they are … anyways, I thort you might like the jools back confidential, no questions arsked. Worth everyone's while, I should think.” He blinked and beamed greasily.
Ha! thought Pepys, blackmail! And this oily little knave was right – it could look like some infernally complicated plot, especially with that rascal Blood involved … the King's honour … Pepys's own reputation … He gulped, and glared at Vladimir. “Did Avery put you up to this?”
“Perish forbid!” exclaimed the fink indignantly. “Wot kind o' clients d'you think I got? Between ourselves, 'e wouldn't care for this one bit, decent lad that 'e is, but,” he smirked virtuously, “I gotta do my best on 'is be'alf, ain't I?”
Master Pepys ground his teeth. “How much?” he demanded.
“Well, nah …” Vladimir settled himself comfortably. “There oughta be a knight'ood, right? An' a Civil List pension … say two thahsand a year? An' the deeds to a nice little property … oh, somewheres abaht Chelsea, or Richmond. Yerss, that'd be fav'rite …”
Master Pepys took a deep breath. “You'll want it in writing, I suppose?” he grated. “Aye, very well.”
“Good! Right,” said Vladimir contentedly, “that's me taken care of. Nah, for my boy …”
His boy, at that moment, was having an incredulous confrontation with Colonel Blood on the beach at Octopus Rock.
“Locked in the what?”
“In the bathroom,” snapped Blood.
“My sweet Vanity, confined i' Spanish closet?” cried Avery in anguish. “Nay, 'tis fiendish refinement o' cruelty, even for Dagoes! To prison a tender maid in their foul tropic convenience—”
“She wasn't prisoned,” said Blood, who seemed to be in a bad temper. “Accordin' to a fat little greaser who was tryin' to crawl up the ventilator shaft, she had took refuge when Lardo an' his gang besieged her bedroom wi' intent to ravish her an' Donna Meliflua – hell of a mess, blood an' setting-lotion all over the shop. Fortunately,” he added carelessly, “I was in the vicinity an' dealt wi' Lardo an' his rascals. Och, there were four or five o' them, but ye know my old style – back to the wall, give 'em the old imbroccata, one-two—”
“But Lardo, man? What o' him?”
Blood shrugged. “I just defenestrated him.”
Avery went pale, wincing. “Gad, but you're ruthless! Will he recover?”
“From two hundred feet up, are you kidding? He didn't even bounce. But for all the thanks I got,” Blood went on bitterly, “I might ha' saved my labour. For what says my Lady Vanity, when I knocked on the privy door wi' the tidings that I had braved all hazards to win to her side, demolishin' Dagoes right and left? Did she even say thank you? Did she hell-as-like! ‘Where's my Ben?’ were her first words as she issued forth. ‘Downstairs’, says I, ‘givin’ his well-known impression o' Louis Hayward, wi' never a thought for your sweet self – but fret not, acushla, I'm here, your faithful Tom to rescue you and lay me heart at your feet.' Did she swoon gratefully on my breast, though? She did not. ‘Heavens!’ says she, ‘he mustn't see me like this, I'll have to change! Oh, look at my hair! And is he well? How's he looking? Ah, but how thoughtful of him to send you ahead, Colonel; so like him, dear considerate Ben!’ An' me wi' ensanguined blade and my shirt thrust through in four places! Women!” The Colonel snorted with disgust, and fell to sulky brooding.
Avery's spirits had rocketed at this recital, but now he laid a sympathetic hand on the Colonel's shoulder. “What else did you expect?” he wondered. “Some fellows ha' it, some ha' not. I ha', you ha'nt. That's all there is to it. But she is safe, and awaits me in the castle yonder? Nay, I am afire to hasten to her – and shall presently, once Rooke has got the lead out of his pants and come ashore. What's keeping him?”
For things have been moving while we've been away with Pepys and Vladimir; the great sea-battle between Rooke's squadron and the Dons has run its inevitable course, and if we didn't show it to you in full, well, we have to keep an eye on the budget, and you didn't miss much anyway. The fact is they blazed away all day in blinding smoke, only to find after it had cleared that they had been facing in opposite directions, wasting their shot on empty water. At which point the Spanish admiral had come to his senses, realising that since he didn't outnumber the British fifty-three to one he was in a position of historical futility, with nothing for it but to strike his colours, his forehead, and his subordinates before surrendering wi' courtly foreign grace to a bewildered Lord Rooke, whose annoyance at being hundreds of miles off course vanished when he discovered how opportune had been his accidental arrival at Octopus Rock.
The Dons' capitulation had been the signal for a corresponding armistice ashore, where the Span
ish garrison had mooched out sullenly from the castle with rather grubby white flags; Avery had received their surrender and set them to tidying up under the buccaneers' direction while he hastened down to the beach to welcome Rooke ashore in the big reunion scene. This was somewhat delayed, since his lordship was still in a state of confusion after his unlooked-for victory, with his great cabin full of bowing grandees offering him their swords and demanding separate berths as prisoners of war, and Cap'n Yardley at his elbow protesting that it wasn't his fault they'd strayed off course, it was these blasted Admiralty charts, d'ye see, and he'd always said they should never ha' gone metric …
Meanwhile Captain Avery, all eagerness to report to his superior, waits on the beach, where we have just seen Blood bringing him up-to-date on events in the castle -for it's been such a busy day, what with sea-battles to watch and surrenders to receive, that conscientious Ben hasn't had a minute, not even to seek out his lady fair. Now, reassured that she is in good shape, he is feeling pretty bobbish, unlike Blood, who is cheesed off to yonder. They stand side by side in the gathering tropic dusk, looking out across the dark waters towards the British and Spanish ships still sorting themselves out after their battle, wrapping up their sails and trying to find their anchors; over in the harbour the exploded Spanish ships have burned themselves out, the captured garrison have been locked up for the night with their tacos and tortillas in the castle out-buildings, and the weary buccaneers appear to be settling down at a respectful distance to a little light rum and music round their camp-fires. The soft strains of a chanty drift on the warm evening air, the moon is rising like a silver ghost – and suddenly we realise that this is the finale coming up, for 'tis all over, look'ee! Aye, virtue has triumphed at last, villainy has been given the heave, Rooke will be falling headlong ashore any minute full of bonhomie and congratulations, the pirates will get their pardons for services rendered, and e'en now Vanity in the castle is putting the last touches to her make-up for the moment when she and handsome Ben will hasten to each other's arms in slow motion to a thunderous crescendo of violins. And that'll be it.
The Pyrates Page 38