“Wait!” Blood snapped his fingers. “It's comin' back to me. Did ye do French at school? Well, then, d'ye not recall the lesson about the wench whose mouth was too big, an' the doctor bade her say ‘petite pomme, petite pomme,’ over an' over, so should her trap diminish, but she, bein' flighty piece an' misrememberin' what fruit he had specified, repeated ‘petite poire, petite poire,’ so that her gob got bigger than ever? I mind me there was a picture of her in our school-book, a well-curved and oomphish brunette, an' 'tis my guess this lunatic Pew did fall in love wi' it, an' seein' thee wi' thy hair stained wi' galoopa juice, supposeth thou art she! See? So keep up the dye-job an' you're safe enough, for—”
“Safe?” shrilled Vanity. “Safe, i' the clutches of a buccaneering hophead who devours me wi' wild eyes, and drools of honeymoons in Bermuda? Anyway, my mouth is not too big, sure 'tis small and dainty rosebud!” And she turned to regard it indignantly in the mirror.
“He probably wasn't lookin' at your mouth,” observed Blood drily, edging closer. “No wonder, the way you traipse around in shortie night-rails, gauzy pants, floral bikinis, an' frilly corsets – I can't think when I last saw ye wi' your clothes on, thank God,” he added, taking a playful pat, but Vanity hadn't played mixed lacrosse for nothing, and as the Colonel hopped and swore with a hacked shin and a finger-jabbed eye, she grabbed up a heavy brass candlestick and stood on guard.
“What was that for?” cried Blood. “A mere brotherly gesture of affection, to comfort thee—”
“Try it again,” threatened Vanity, “and I scream for help, then shall we see how Happy Dan's crew do serve the molester o' their captain's intended.”
“Ye've got me all wrong,” protested Blood, and hastily revised his strategy, the crafty knave. “I mean only thy service, for consider that once Happy Dan hath recovered from his irregular verbs, thou'rt right in it, gorgeous child. Aye, unless ye want to end up as Mistress Pew, legal or not, ye must rely on honest Tom Blood to pluck you from this pickle, and he's the boy to do it, so he is.”
“Ha! In a pig's ear, I'll warrant!”
“In a nutshell, rather. Dear Vanity, this cursed ship is bound for Cartagena on the Main, there to join wi' Black Sheba, Bilbo, an' t'other o' the damned Coast Brethren in fell design 'gainst the Spanish Viceroy. If you want to find yourself playin' tig wi' that lot, I don't,” said the Colonel earnestly, “an' since we're only a few days' sail from Cartagena I suggest ye let me devise our evasion forthwith.” He drummed up his most winning, crinkly smile. “Come, lady – is it a truce?”
Vanity weighed the candlestick suspiciously. “Shalt keep thy paws to thyself? No playing footsie, even?”
“Perish the thought,” promised Blood, crossing his fingers unseen. Not until we're safely out of this lot, he reflected lecherously, the rotter.
“Pax, skinch, and keys? Honest Injun?”
“On me ould mother's grave. Ye'll be as safe wi' me as wi' your precious Ben Avery, wherever the hell he's got to.”
At this mention of her lost love Vanity was so moved that the candlestick fell from her nerveless fingers, her eyes misted, and a great shuddering sigh convulsed her bosom. Blood gave a sharp moan and bit his lip.
“Please don't do that,” he pleaded. “Not in that corset.”
Touched by his restraint – and not a little flattered, the minx – Vanity composed herself and recounted how she had been awaiting Avery on the Isle of Aves when Happy Dan abducted her. “Though how he knew of my whereabouts is more than I can guess,” said she frowning, while rascal Tom shook his head innocently, “nor why my darling Ben was late in coming for me. I fear he may have met with some mischance …”
“Miss Chance,” murmured Blood absently. “Or Miss Barbados.”
Vanity stiffened. “What was that crack?”
“What? Nothing!” Blood started elaborately. “It just slipped out… thinkin' aloud … forget it …”
Vanity went pink, white, and several more becoming intermediate shades. “Creep!” cried she. “D'ye imply that my dreamboat is gallivanting after yon beldame Sheba? 'Tis foul lie, told out of jealous spite by treacherous marplot, thou! Ha! I mind how you tried to sow dissension 'twixt us in the boat! Just because his perfection makes you look like something left out for the bin-men, you seek to sully him in mine eyes! Typical!” Her perfect lips whiffled and her corset creaked with contempt. “And about what I'd expect from a cad who tried to cop the Crown Jewels, betrayed my love's mission, snuck off with a piece of the Madagascar crown, and e'en now invaded my toilet and made passes! Why, what a caitiff stinkard art thou, and where,” she demanded, as Blood (the sly skunk) turned away meekly and started to climb through the shattered picture towards the secret passage, “d'you think you're going?”
“Back into the woodwork,” said Blood humbly. “Since I am not wanted, and have by thoughtless inadvertence given offence to your ladyship, I'll e'en hie me back among my friends the rats and cockroaches. I beg your ladyship's pardon.” He sighed heavily. “Fare ye well,” said he, in a quivery voice, and as he began to clamber through the wrecked painting the artful villain sneaked a scrap of paper from his pocket and let it flutter to the floor.
“Take your litter with you,” said Vanity coldly, and picked up the paper to thrust it at him with disdain, when she noted the dread signature: “Sheba the She-Wolf” and the row of kisses writ as crosses. Her beauteous orbs bugged, and in an instant she had conned the note and yowled with rage and dismay.
“I… pad my bra?” she shrilled. “What infamy is this? Who … to whom … what… yikes! Whence had ye this vile libel?”
Now you'll have guessed that this paper was the letter which Sheba had written to Avery, and which the Colonel had purloined unnoticed on Dead Man's Chest (see page 115). Ripe stuff, in which the pirate queen had poured out her passion. Blood, half-way through the wall, feigned vexation and made a feeble snatch at the letter, a pretty piece of acting marred by his accidentally rending his breeches painfully on a splinter. Vanity goggled distraught at the letter.
“Did that saucy sable slut write this to Captain Avery?” she gnashed.
“No, she wrote it to Louis the XIVth!” snarled Blood, his composure disturbed by splinters in his rear. “Of course she wrote it to Avery! Ah, what have I said?” He smote his forehead in pretended remorse. “Ochone, I would ha' spared ye this, but… aye, she wrote it to him. Why not? She's a woman, an' he's God's gift. D'ye wonder she dotes on him? Didn't he save her from a flogging, an' show her tender regard—”
“So did you!” cried Vanity wildly, white to the gills.
“But I'm a caitiff stinkard,” said Blood, all martyred. “Everyone knows that. Not like Wonder Boy.” He gave a wounded shrug. “Mind you, I didn't go drooling after her first chance I got, having lulled an' abandoned my trusting betrothed on a desert island to be scooped up by Happy Dan Pew. Nay, I didn't vow eternal love to the purest, sweetest saint that ever curved a corset, while engaging in secret correspondence with a virago who says that you pad your bra – a malicious an' laughable lie, incidentally, from where I'm standing”. He shook his head with a brave, sad smile. “Such are not the ways of Colonel Blood.”
Vanity stared from him to the letter in stunned dismay, like the class idiot called on to solve a quadratic equation.
“My senses swim!” she faltered. “Oh, can he be false indeed? What am I to believe?” She sank limply to the couch, and a great tear sploshed on the crumpled letter. “See, this abandoned cow writes to my personal fiancé as ‘beloved’ and ‘barracuda baby’ and I know not what … would she do this if he had spurned her, as he pretended? Ooooh, if he's two-timing me, the rat! Nay, but 'tis not on! He is an English gentleman, and she an alien tramp whose very colour must repel!”
“Some people go for black jelly beans,” observed Blood cryptically, and as Vanity clutched her temples the oily rogue climbed swiftly down into the cabin again and took up a strategic kneeling position by the couch. “Ah, sweet Vanity, to see thee thus ill-
used!” he murmured, and although the amount of silken leg on view cried out for a juicy pinch he schooled himself to imprint a chaste kiss on her little toe. No fires broke out, so he essayed a reverent smooch on her instep.
“Don't do that!” moaned Vanity, distracted, “it reminds me of Happy Dan Pew.” She clasped her brow and seemed to become aware of him all of a sudden. “What are you doing, for God's sake?”
“Worshipping”, said Blood pathetically.
“Eh?” Her wits were quite disordered. “Ah, of your pity, one emotional crisis at a time! Here am I, distraught lest my lover has handed me the welly, and you nibble at my nylons!” She shook a bemused galoopa'd head. “Hold on – when you spoke a moment since of the purest saint who ever curved a corset… did you mean me? You?”
“Who else?” Blood looked at her like a distempered poodle.
“And … that your regard for me is … honourable? That y'are not mere groper and nuisance?” Blood nodded dumbly, and Vanity stared amazed. “Oh, pull the other one! Or rather, don't!” And she hastily swung her legs aside, while the wily ruffian shook his handsome curly head.
“Oh, Vanity acushla,” quo' he. “Get a grip, take a deep breath, and consider the facts. 'Tis true I betrayed the Madagascar crown to the pirates – well knowing that if I did not, thy precious self would ha' been next on the sharks' menu. And thereafter, compare my conduct wi' a certain other's. Who rushed to thy side in Akbar's cabin an' gave thee a fireman's lift, cruelly tho' you requited him – and who neglected thee in his eagerness to slaughter the wog an' grab the jewellery? Who washed the dishes in the boat, humbly preparin' bully an' tinned pears for thy delight – and who lolled i' the stern an' beguiled thee wi' fair words? Who, rather than stay on Aves (where he might ha' lapped up the goodies in safety) followed thee here aboard, an' now kneels at your feet, offering his life in your service – and who couldn't wait to get after Black Sheba an' may e'en now, for aught we know, be workin' the zipper on her tracksuit? I name no names,” crooned the insidious scoundrel, “but leave it to your woman's intuition to judge what the hell I'm talkin' about.”
“I can't cope,” whimpered Vanity. “I'm in a state. Ah, what is a poor friendless maid to think? Gosh, I'll break that blighter's neck if, as I suspicion, he has the hots for yon dark Delilah! And you, making like Galahad – and yet ye deserted from the boat, swiped Akbar's cross, and left a note in which ye maligned me grossly and spoke of living it up in the stews o' Libertatia—”
“A mere device to cover up the suicide on which I was intent, distracted as I was at seeing you in the arms o' that smoothie Avery,” protested Blood glibly. “If 'twas known I'd done away with meself, how could me ould mother have collected the insurance, an' her livin' on mouldy spuds in a turf pigsty in Galway? But a chance current bore me ashore, God be thanked, since I'm spared to serve you in your sore need, an' prove the depth of my … ah, dare I say it? Oh, go on, why not, unworthy though I am, an' timid an' hesitant an' misunderstood … aye, the depth o' my true love for thee, dear delectable Vanity.”
Strong material, and if she half-swallowed it, well, defenceless females in need of rescuing from pirates seldom remain indifferent to Clark Gable respectfully stroking their toes and giving them the dimple. And if you wonder why the bounder was pitching such ardent woo, it was because he was looking ahead to the point where he had borne her safely back to civilisation (he was Irish and optimistic, remember), and had earned her gratitude – and possibly some warmer emotion, the scheming snake. His raffish charm might well catch her on the rebound from Avery, whom he had so cunningly discredited, and there were worse billets than being old Rooke's son-in-law with Vanity's charms as an added bonus.
So the rascal reasoned, while Vanity heaved another bewildered sigh and absently smoothed her stockings (actions which forced Blood to keep a tight hold on himself), raised her lovely tear-stained face, screwed up Sheba's note with a final jealous gnash, and regarded the kneeling Colonel with a gym-mistress tilt to her queenly chin.
“Right,” she said. “Little choice have I. The galoopa juice is growing out, I'll be blonde again before you know it, and heaven knows how that screwball Pew will react when he realises I'm not Miss Bigmouth after all. Whether Captain Avery be false or no, 'tis to thee I must look for present aid – easy, boy, easy!” she cried as Blood pressed ardent lips to her extended hand, “swallowing my arm is not part of the deal. As lady o' quality and ranking society pippin I am far above thy touch, so don't get fresh, understand? But extract me from this garboil, and shalt have such reward …” here she shot him that cool hands-off-but-wait-and-see look which had ravished the Whitehall beaux “… as I may deem fitting. Cripes, what's that?”
For from an adjoining cabin came strange sounds, a voice that babbled: “Connaître, connaissant, connu -present indicative, and … and … ah, mort de ma vie … connaissais!” followed by an exultant scream of laughter. “I 'ave found eet! Eureka! The imperfect indicative, n'est-ce pas?” And as Blood and Vanity stood rooted, came running feet and roars of “The Captain recovers 'is marbles! 'E ees cured! Bring aft the rum, Darby, an' listen to this!”
“We are undone!” gasped Vanity. “Pew has mastered his irregular verbs!”
“Are ye sure?” Blood was tense. “He hasn't got to the present subjunctive yet—”
“It skills not!” cried Vanity, clasping her corset and stamping her foot impatiently. “He'll be in here any moment to claim me as his bride! We must flee! Quickly, plan our escape while I get a dress on!”
She shot behind a screen, and Blood rushed to the stern windows – there, not a mile distant, was a green jungly coastline. The Main, probably, peopled by terrors indescribable, but what the hell, if it wasn't Blackpool beach it was still their only hope. Outside the tumult grew:
“Connaissais, imperfect' indicative!” Happy Dan was chortling, amidst rapturous applause from his followers. “Et aussis, connaîtrai – the future! How's about that, hein?” His crew stamped and shouted, while Blood considered and rejected various means of escape as feverishly as Vanity, behind her screen, was running through a selection of garments. Thus by the time the Colonel had decided against swimming (too far), floating ashore in barrels (too slow) and building a raft (sure to attract attention), the fair captive had discarded mauve taffeta, flowered silk, see-through scarlet nylon (not safe, she felt, in view of Blood's propensities), and cloth of gold, and had emerged in a most becoming maroon velvet number with her hair up. Blood was peering out of the stern window, and swearing foully.
“There's no boat!” he cried. “Jayzus, trust the French! Whoever heard o' pirate ship without a small boat moored 'neath the stern an' provisioned wi' all necessities, so that fugitives can light out unseen!”
“But they're coming!” cried Vanity. “Listen!”
Sure enough, from without the cabin a great cheer had gone up: “Vive l'imperfect indicative! Dix out of dix for le capitaine, and it's his turn to clean the tableau noir!” And then the voice of Happy Dan Pew, sounding distressingly sane: “Merci, mes enfants. An' now to claim my bride, La Jeune Fille avec la Grande Bouche!”
Blood didn't hesitate. With one hand he snatched a convenient rapier from the wall, and with the other he swept Vanity almost bodily through the gaping hole in the picture and into the passage behind. An instant later and they were crouched in the dark of the secret passage, while the cabin door burst in, and Happy Dan's glad cry of “Ouvrez la porte, ma belle!” ended in a shriek of dismay. “Où est-elle? Elle n'est pas ici! Ah, but I am staggered, me! I feel not well! I should 'ave stayed on the deck avec Papa!”
“With any luck he'll have a relapse,” whispered Blood, “an' we can lurk unseen an' get our breath back.”
“But will they not see the great rent i' the canvas picture?” hissed Vanity, huddled against him. “Hang it, it's about three feet across!”
“Not a chance,” hissed Blood. “What wi' the shock o' your disappearance, he's probably back to Lesson One by now. I doubt if h
e could tell ye what ‘je suis’ means. They'll have eyes for naught else—”
Pat on his words came a yell from the cabin. “Mais regardez, mon capitaine! Un grand trou dans l'image sur le mur! Cette's the way elle has gone!”
“That's a nuisance,” said Blood, and as hairy heads thrust through the hole to stare into the gloom of the passage, he got to his feet, carefully pushed Vanity behind him, and fell on guard. Scoundrel he might be, but when the chips were down and there was nowhere left to run, our Tom knew what to do. “I'm sorry, acushla. Fine help I've been to ye, after all. I'll hold 'em as best I can, an' when they've finished me, ye can tell 'em I was kidnappin' you; play along wi' Pew, an' take your chance when it comes.”
Vanity's gasp was lost in the yells of the French pirates as they spotted the fugitive pair crouched in the gloom of the passage. They swarmed through into that narrow place, a wild-eyed Pew at their head, flourishing his épée in one hand and a lace hanky in the other.
“Ah, scélérat! Irish chien!” he cried. “Vous êtes un voleur – de la forêt, pas de doubt! What do I see but that you ravish away my love, méchant! Now we pay you back for Lansdowne Road! En garde! Don't worry, petite pomme, 'Appy Dan is 'ere to rescue vous!”
The blades clanged, and as Blood faced his crazed adversary and the horde of ruffians pressing behind him, he was conscious of Vanity's hand on his shoulder; just a moment it pressed there before it fell away, and Blood felt a strange content and lightness of heart as he parried Happy Dan's thrust and sent his point through the shoulder of a bearded lout at the French captain's elbow. Then he was retreating, parrying and riposting for all he was worth as they surged down on him three abreast, into a wider space where a convenient lantern flickered. Vanity shuddered back against the bulkhead, and Happy Dan, turning a low lunge from Blood, leaped to her side, flourishing his blade and crying:
“See, I come! Moi, 'Appy Dan! Give 'im the business, garçons!”