And all this because Avery, who had hoped to run down his quarry in African waters, had learned to his chagrin what we knew ages ago; that the pirates were off to the Caribbean. It was all in the “Kidd Stuff” column of the Daily Look'ee - Bilbo and Sheba listed as stateroom passengers on the Laughing Sandbag, with Firebeard travelling scupper-class; Rackham bound for Tortuga in the Plymouth Corporation's Revenge, and the Frantic Frog headed for the Spanish Main “via Aves.” Those last two words had struck Avery as a remarkable coincidence, and reminded him that Vanity was expecting him back on Friday. Well, since he must lose no time pursuing his enemies, Friday was out, but he had prevailed on Vladimir to have her picked up and conveyed to the Cape – a promise which his rascally agent (who believed that the fewer dumb blondes Avery had to distract him from pirate-hunting, the better) conveniently forgot, with what dire consequences we know. Unconscious of Vladimir's knavish neglect, Avery had sailed west with a tranquil mind, assuaging his love-sick yearning for the Admiral's daughter by writing her daily love-letters which he dropped overboard in bottles, telling himself it was the thought that counted.
But our gallant hero's chief concern as he paced the rotting poop of the Rocketing Spitfire (the name which Vladimir had caused to be painted hurriedly over the legend “West Hartlepool Dredging and Maintenance Company”) was whether this decomposing hulk would be adequate to deal with the entire buccaneer fleet when he reached Tortuga – assuming it stayed afloat that long; he didn't care for the way the ship's rats had taken to building their nests in the lifeboats. And the crew were undoubtedly restless; here they came again, surging across the deck bawling “Avery out! Avery out!” firing pistols and hurling knives; a marlin-spike whizzed past the captain's head and thudded into the mast, and he sighed irritably as he drove them back for the umpteenth time wi' flashing rapier and ringing command.
“Down, sea-scum! Down, I say! To your kennels! Stop it, you rotters!” He disarmed one mutineer, pinked a second, kicked a third carefully above the belt, and kayoed a fourth with a perfect straight left. “It's action you want, is it, my bullies?”
“Action, nothing!” roared a bearded ruffian lunging with a boarding-pike. “We want to go home!”
“Home, is it?” Athletically poised on the ladder, flicking back lace from immaculate cuff, Avery smiled proudly down on the snarling faces and glittering blades. “Travelling in style, three-course dinners, pockets stuffed wi' loot – is that what you want, eh?”
It gave the scoundrels pause, plucking whiskers, rolling eyes, and spitting doubtfully. “Aye,” growled the boarding-pike expert at last, “that'd be favourite. I'd 'ave to consult the membership, like, but in principle, it sounds a'right.” A suspicious growl from the crew confirmed him; they'd been here before. “Can you guarantee these proposals'll be implemented across the board?” they chorused.
Avery's reply was a gay (gay cheerful, not gay peculiar) laugh, and a whirling gesture of his rapier to point abeam.
“Right on!” cried he gallantly. “There she is – fame, fortune, riches, dollars, all the grub you can eat, and a safe passage home … eventually!” As one man they turned, and there it was, sure enough – a magnificent Spanish galleon, the sun gleaming on the gold paint of her beak and sterncastle, and on the brazen muzzles of the tiers of cannon thrusting from her ports, towering sails in white pyramids of canvas, and the red and gold flag of Spain fluttering from her staff. She surged across the cobalt water, a veritable queen of the seas, and Avery's voice rang out again:
“Fear not, my hearties – she's one of theirs! A proud and vaunting Don, so there's nothing unethical about giving her the business! Yon be symbol o' King Philip's tyranny! I warrant there's not a man aboard her who is C of E, or drinks honest ale, or can speak good English, even! Furthermore, they're insufferably conceited and have far more money than is good for them. Ho, trumpeter – sound to quarters! Huzza!”
An echoing roar from two hundred lusty British throats answered his stirring call to battle.
“Are you kidding? Attack that? They'll murder us! Nay, cap'n, we'm outgunned, outnumbered, out of our everloving minds if we venture broadsides wi' such as yon! 'Tis stark madness, belike an' look'ee!” Bawling, they clamoured round the intrepid figure erect on the ladder, and his lip curled and his fierce glance exploded on them in scornful sparks.
“Ha! What? Are ye British seamen, or crawling curs?”
“British curs!” they roared. “So forget it!”
But Avery was their master. With one lightning spring he was at the binnacle, a pistol plucked from his belt, and his jaw jutted with a determination little short of reckless.
“One more step!” he shouted. “Just one – or even a dirty look – and I blow the compass to pieces, and you'll never find your way home! Why, you illiterate rabble, you don't even know where you are, or which is north, or anything!” They checked their rush, muttering, some crying that north was over there, beyond the sharp end, others shouting no, no, you had to point the hour hand of your watch at the sun and divide by two-fifths. Avery smiled grimly at their confusion.
“Choose, ye lubber! It's sail round in circles till ye rot – or death to the Dons, honour, glory, and money in the bank!”
His dauntless bearing had its effect. With yells of panic they flung themselves to the gun-tackles, hurled up the ports, rummaged in corners for powder and shot, ran up the colours, thrust the helm hard over, let fly the sheets, and with defiant screams of anxiety bore down on the startled Spaniard. Aboard the galleon was sudden bustle and shouting of words ending in “-o,” donning of morions and blaring of trumpets, flapping of sails and strutting around the poop by proud figures in backs-and-breasts of polished steel with little forked beards and haughty faces, while across the azure sea the pride of the West Hartlepool coastal trade came racketing in like gang-busters, swarthy bearded faces peering through the ports, teeth chattering, closing their eyes, fumbling for their matches, and wishing they'd joined the army, belike. Poised on the rail, rapier in hand, head flung back, sleeves rolled up, flies securely buttoned, and the light of battle in his eye, Avery measured the narrowing distance to the enemy.
This is what we came in for. This is the moment, as the great sea-castles run to meet each other, when the trumpets sound and Erich Wolfgang Korngold's music thunders to a crescendo that culminates in crashing broadsides, billowing smoke, spurts of flame, shots smashing into timber hulls, masts toppling, tangles of cord and canvas hurtling all over the place, smoke-blackened faces glaring, voices screaming, decks shuddering – and perhaps in some more sober moment we might spare a grateful thought for the nameless scoundrels who, for the basest of motives no doubt, broke the power of Spain in the western oceans in just such actions, and all unwittingly made the world a better place to live in, before they went to their unhonoured account, leaving behind as their own memorial only the doughnut (which they invented) and a pantomime figure with a patch over its eye, a scarf round its beetling brows, and a parrot on its shoulder.
But for the moment it's all romantic blood-and-thunder as the Rocketing Spitfire, its sides torn with shot, the water pouring into its hold, its masts gone, its powder spent, its focsle furniture damaged beyond repair, and even the rats huddled forlornly in a corner squeaking in unison something that sounds like “We'll meet again …”, crashes wi' rending timbers into the Spaniard's stern. Locked together in the battle-smoke, the two ships swing together, and this is where Avery earns his money, as with a yell of: “Follow me, men, and remember it's a foreign ship, so behave as you would at home!” he launches himself rapier-first into the mob of moustachioed grandees on the quarter-deck. For a moment he is alone, with his crew shouting “Good riddance!” and trying frantically to cast off, but as they realise that the Rocketing Spitfire is finally giving up the ghost and sinking beneath their feet, they opt for the only solid surface in sight, and pour in a yelling wave over the galleon's bulwarks.
Well, that's it. Never in romantic fiction has a horde
of buccaneers, roaring “Belike!” and “Aaarrgh!” and “Where's the purser's office, Jack?” stormed the decks of a galleon with any result but one, and the Dons knew it perfectly well. They thrust and parried haughtily for a minute or two, crying “Caramba!” and subsiding with blood on their ruffles, while their inferiors did a bit of pushing and shoving on the main deck before scuttling away in search of safety, life-jackets, and white flags. But once Avery, fencing athletically with that eager fighting smile dazzling the opposition, had skewered a couple of hapless extras, engaged the Spanish captain, disarmed him with a masterly lunge and flick, presented his point courteously at the crestfallen Dago's throat, accepted his gasping surrender with a bow, and slashed the halliard which brought the red-and-gold banner flopping to the deck – well, after that there was nothing for the Spaniards to do but throw down their weapons, draw themselves up proudly, mutter the Spanish equivalent of “Sod this for a game of soldiers,” and call it a day.
With a wave of his hand to his exultant followers, and an indulgent, “All right, men, settle down now, and smoke if you want to,” Avery turned to the stricken commander, and explained in fluent Castilian that they needed his ship, that complaints could be forwarded to the Admiralty, Whitehall, SW1, and he would be obliged for the keys to the main cabin and officers' washroom. He then invited them to step over the side, with such aplomb that they did so before it was realised that no lifeboats had been launched, and some confusion followed before this was remedied and the disconsolate Dons had been rescued and placed in inflatable dinghies, with wet wigs and Sodden Finery.
Some of the wilder elements in Avery's crew took advantage of this disorder to run out a plank forrard and coax some of the prisoners off the end of it, but Avery soon put a stop to that. He summoned the boarding-pike gorilla and addressed him sternly.
“Belay that, Mr Bellamy!” he thundered. (The gorilla's name was in fact Hector Smallpiece, but Avery knew what a buccaneer mate ought to be called, even if Hector's parents didn't.) “Get that plank in at once before it's damaged, and never let it happen again! Plank-walking is a Victorian fiction, and I won't have it aboard my ship, d'you understand? Right – they can have ten minutes debauch, and then I want the entire crew formed up for inspection, kerchiefs straight, earrings polished, cutlasses clean, bright, and slightly oiled – oh, and put out that blaze forrard and straighten that mainmast, it's all crooked.”
“Aye, aye, cap'n!” bawled the beaming hooligan. “Wi' a will, an' yarely, an' bedamned, an' that! What, lads? A rouse for Long Ben Avery, wi' a curse!” At which the triumphant buccaneers roared their acclaim, and threw up their sweaty nightcaps, toasting their lucky commander in the Perrier water which their piratical instinct had already discovered in the galley stores.
“Make 'em go easy on that stuff, Bellamy,” said Avery curtly. “It causes flatulence and it's foreign, so heaven knows where it's been. And now I mind me, this vessel shall be known henceforth no longer as the Santa Cascara, but as—” He paused, and a tremor of emotion quivered his larynx, causing Bellamy to ponder slyly, 'allo-'allo, “ – as the Golden Vanity, so have it inscribed on bow and stern immediately.”
With that he left them to tidy up and throw overboard all the litter of the battle, including any Spaniards who had got left behind, which they did while abusing the Perrier incontinently and bawling ribald songs. Avery went below to the luxurious compartments of the Spanish commander. Cleansing his rapier fondly with Vanity's sweat-rag, which he dropped in the laundry chute, he sighed deeply at the blue-eyed vision conjured up by that mundane act, blew a kiss to the empty air, and feeling renewed and rededicated, breezed into the great stern cabin.
A gasp of female agitation greeted him, and he stopped amazed at the sight of two women crouched against the bulkhead. One was black, and built along the lines of Hattie McDaniel; the other – well, suffice to say that even though his thoughts were full of Lady Vanity, the sight of her stopped Avery, brrdoing! as though he had walked into an oncoming bus. How to describe those magical dark eyes, the glossy black tresses, the crimson parted lips, creamy skin, sweeping lashes, and girlish perfection of figure encased in a white lace gown, all blending into a mixture of virginal sweetness and gypsy wildcat – call her a sort of Audrey Hepburn with Sophia Loren overtones and you're not far out. Wild fear blazed in her eyes as she regarded Avery.
“Stop!” she shrilled, and a slender stiletto gleamed in her tiny hand, poised over her snowy bosom. “Anothair step an' I weel keel myself!”
“I do beg your pardon,” said Avery politely. “I had no idea the cabin was occupied. If you'll excuse me.” And he was preparing to withdraw when she shrilled again.
“Stop! Another step an' I weel keel -” she hesitated, grabbed Hattie by the hair, and flourished the poniard at her throat “ – her!”
Avery frowned. “There seems to be some misunderstanding. I am Captain Benjamin Avery, of the Royal Navy. I don't think I have the privilege of your acquaintance, Miss …?”
“I am the mos' nobble, serene, an' 'igh-class Donna Meliflua Etcetera, daughter of Don Miguel Alonzo Bonanza Verandah Etcetera, Knight of Sant Iago de Compostella, Grandee of España!” flamed the flashing-eyed beauty. “Lay a defiling feenger on my person, or even raise your eyes een my direction, an' you weel answer to my 'ateful an' loathsome betrothed, Don Lardo Baluna del Lobby y Corridor, Viceroy of the Eendeez!”
“How do you do?” said Avery, and Donna Meliflua's wondrous eyes widened. “You meen … you are not goeeng to – how you say een Eengleesh? – to raveesh us, helpless weemen that we are?”
“I must apologise for my intrusion,” continued Avery, affecting not to hear her, “and for any inconvenience caused to your ladyship by the recent disturbance—”
“Wee are nott to bee ray-ped, or soobjected to shayme, or solded as-a slayvess?” Donna Meliflua's astonishment was such that she let go of her black maid, and Hattie gave one last squawk and fainted in a massive heap. “But … I nott unnerstand! Yoo are endemonised heretical Eengleesh pirate, an' I yam beyooteefool Spaneesh laydee – and I yam only seexteen!” she added indignantly. “How ees poseeble you don' wan' molest-a me?”
“I assure you, marm,” Avery was beginning, when a bearded face appeared at the open stern window, flourishing a paint brush. “'Ow many enns in Vanity?” it asked.
“One,” snapped Avery. “Idiot.”
“Ta,” said the face, and disappeared.
Donna Meliflua placed one snowy hand on her lissom hip and put her head on one side. “'Oo eez thees … Vanitee?”
Avery went faintly pink. “A lady of my acquaintance,” he explained stiffly, and Donna Meliflua placed a dainty pinkie between her flawless teeth and smiled.
“A-a-ah … now I unnerstand – shee ees your belov-ed!” She frowned. “Yet shee cannot bee more beeyooteefool nor mee! So I steel theenk it ver' strange you don' wan' to—”
“If I may say so, marm,” said Avery, shocked, “such froward talk ill becomes lady o' your years and quality, especially one who is, as ye inform me, betrothed to the Viceroy o' the Indies. Howbeit,” he added, and could not refrain from bestowing a brotherly smile on this gorgeous if eccentric young poppet, “ye need fear naught. That we should have taken your ship, I regret, but be assured that my first essay shall be to lay course for Cartagena and deliver you safely to your betrothed in two shakes of a duck's rudder, as we sailors—”
A shriek as of escaping steam interrupted him. Donna Meliflua's splendid eyes blazed like bonfires, her fists clenched, her bosom heaved, her proud head tossed, and her tiny foot stamped. My God, thought Avery, she's not going to do the Mexican Hat Dance—
“I 'ate 'eem!” she spat. “'Ee eez gross peeg, what I shall nevaire marry, nevaire, nevaire, nevaire! Not for a meelion Papas an' Mamas! So thaire! I yam told 'e eez old, thees Don Lardo, an' a blubbery bladdaire of bulldroppeengs! I shall die before I submeet my virgin sweetness to 'eez deezgusting embraces!” And to Avery's concern she hurled herself on the sofa
and began to feed short-arm jabs to the cushions. Then she wrenched off a shoe and broke a mirror with it, kicked Hattie McDaniel's prostrate form, and set about the cabin upholstery with her stiletto, sobbing hysterically.
“Ah,” said Avery. “Well, I'll just send the steward down with some tea, shall I, and perhaps your ladyship will condescend to honour me with your company at dinner? Seven-thirty for eight, quite informal, no need for long gloves. My respects, marm.” He withdrew amidst a crashing of crockery and screams in Spanish schoolgirl slang which he was rather glad he didn't understand.
But it was a very different Donna Meliflua who presented herself on the stern gallery that evening, where Avery had made free of the Spanish captain's snowy napery, choice crystal, and EPNS o' Toledo for her entertainment. As the Santa Cascara glided o'er the ultramarine surface o' the Carib sea for distant Cartagena on the Main, while the crew were all forrard watching the in-voyage puppet show, and only dusky stewards hovered round the table, and the ship's steel band waited concealed behind a canvas screen, the imperious Spanish half-pint emerged from her cabin all demure delicacy in gown o' scarlet satin, diamonds of price twinkling 'neath her mantilla, a fan of black lace concealing her face south of those coyly downcast eyes.
Avery seated her with all solicitude – but don't for a moment think that he was going to all this bother with any improper intentions. Certainly not; he was simply behaving as an English gentleman should, and if you imagine that his pash for the absent Vanity was in any way abated by the presence of the luscious Spaniard, you don't know our Ben. Solid worth, that's what he is. Indeed, as he helps her to the hors d'oeuvres, and watches her set about the sardines and scotch eggs with Latin daintiness, his regard is positively patronising. I mean she's just a child, jolly pretty, no doubt, but probably not much past the teddy-bear stage, and not in Vanity's street.