“But I can't be Meliflua's bridesmaid – I'm C of E!” protested Vanity. “Certes, you want a lady o' the Roman persuasion -”
“Een thees place?” wailed Enchillada. “The onlee other female creature ees that bloddy Gila monstaire!”
“What o' the blackamoor pirate – she who is so cruelly encaged over the octo-thingies, and serve her right? I don't know if she's a Catholic, but she'd look smashing in white -”
“A voodoo bridesmaid? Pleez, señorita, don' geev me a hard time – eet can onlee be yoo, an' oll ees arrange'. I 'ave priest can geev yoo crash course, special deespensations, confirmations, you name eet, you'll be shooteeng left-footed before breakfast -”
“Renounce my faith? Never! I'd sooner eat mud!” The dauntless English rose quivered to her full five foot five, hand outflung in a gesture that ordered St Augustine straight to the pavilion. “All right – so Daddy only goes to church at harvest festivals, and I'm sorry, God, for eating sweets at prayers and reading Pooh in confirmation class – but never shall I bow the knee to idolatry, and chance it!” And she began to sing “Land of Hope and Glory” in a clear girlish soprano while the distracted chamberlain flung himself pleading at her feet.
“Pleez, señorita – onlee theenk, thee weddeeng woodcut weel bee een oll thee papers, an' you weel be recognise', an' Don Lardo weel 'ave to release you! But eef you don' play – 'oo knows yoo are 'ere? A 'orreed fate weel ovairtake yoo, an' yoor Papa an' friends noon thee wiseaire! Pleez, señorita, I beg – see, I smooch yoor tootsees een entreatee—”
“ – make thee mightier yet!” concluded Vanity defiantly. “Stop it, you clot! What is it about my toes,” she wondered, “that gets men going? Pew, Blood, and now you – jolly odd. But chuck it, fats, for I'll not yield to -but hark!”
From the corridor without came a rhythmic thumping of drugged sentries hitting the deck, the door crashed open, and on the threshold Meliflua paused dramatically, hair distraught and appearance streaming wildly. She saw Enchillada crouched in supplication at Vanity's feet, and immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion.
“Not yoo too?” she shrilled. “Thee greaseball ees proposeeng? Ah, keek heem een thee slats, proud Vanitee – geev heem a tooch of thee old Cheltenham bodee-slam, eesn't eet? Would that I could doo thee sayme to my persecutor, thee deezgusteeng Lardo, 'oo comes even now too claim me for 'ees bride! But I weel keel myself first—”
“Don't panic!” cried Vanity. “'Tis but a rehearsal, and if the main event depends on having me as a bridesmaid, Lardo can scratch it off his card right now! Get that, Enchillada? Then hie thee to thy vile master, and tell him—”
“Tell heem yoorself!” moaned the chamberlain. “Leesten!”
From the depths of the castle boomed a crazy brazen voice, echoing up stone stairway and along vaulted passage, loosening plaster and shaking the very walls; the Mr Universe calendar fluttered at its moorings, and one of the stuffed Spanish heads fell off the panelling.
“Enchillada!” it (the voice, not the stuffed head) bawled. “Where are you, corpulent vermin? I'm waiting, Enchillada, for you and that heretic slut! To say nothing of my bride, my wedding teeth, the ‘Apple Blossom Time’ sheet music, and a vet for the Gila monster! Forty-five seconds to rehearsal, Enchillada – which is about twice as long as you'll take to fall screaming from the battlements if I have to come looking for you! Forty seconds and counting …”
Wi' shuddering sob Meliflua slammed the door. “I moost 'ide! Ah, conceal mee, Vanitee carissima! 'Ee may not theenk to look for mee 'ere—”
“Nay, why should he, wi' a passageful o' stoned guards outside the door!” snapped Vanity. “Stay! Could we revive them, think you, and send them about some errand -what didst zonk them wi', child?”
“'Ow doo I know? Some droog wheech my maid get from 'er pushaire – streekneen she call eet …”
“Golly, that's torn it! We must both hide – nay, such castle as this must ha' hidden passage, priest's hole, whatever! Thou, Enchillada—”
“Pleez, señoritas, eet's no use! Eef yoo deefy heem … ah, Jesus Maria, 'ee ees comming!”
“Time!” boomed the distant brazen voice, wi' hideous peal o' laughter. “Prepare for take-off, Enchillada!” Then he was bawling commands, and they heard the menacing tramp of guardsmen hastening to follow their dread master as he came ravening upstairs in search of his prey.
Meliflua shrieked with dismay. “All ees losted! Ah, but 'ee shall nevaire possess mee! Eet's sooeecide time – I shall fleeng myself from thee weendow onto thee crooel rocks below, an' cheat 'eem of 'ees loathly tryoomph!” She streaked to the window, leaped to the sill, and stood poised, holding her nose for the jump, ere Vanity could stop her. “Farewell, sweet Vanitee!” she enunciated with some difficulty (and if you think we're going to attempt a nose-blocked Spanish accent you're mistaken). “Adios, and may yoo find 'appeeness weeth yoor yummy, deevine, scroomptious Ayveree! Ah, Ben, mi amore, I shall nevaire – eek!”
The lissom figure tottered on the sill, gaped downward, and sprang back into the room like a startled budgie, great dark eyes wide wi' amazement.
“Vanitee!” she squeaked. “Thair ees someone climbeeng up thee chain to yoor weendow!”
Which is as climactic a moment as we could wish to zoom out and away from Octopus Rock, leaving Vanity and Meliflua clinging to each other as they gaze down from the sill at the dim form writhing up the creaking chain out o' the dark depths – and if they'd just happened to look straight out instead of down they might have seen more matter for a buccaneer midnight, by the powers, for far out on the dark water something is moving indeed – it wasn't our imagination, d'ye see? – nay, those tall black shadows on the face o' the deep are things palpable and charged wi' menace, surging in towards Octopus Rock from out of the tropic night, and ye may hear the wild sea-march singing through their shrouds as they come – one, two, three great ships wi' canvas spread but nary a light among them, save the faint glow at the binnacle o' each, where stoop the tight-lipped commanders, their eyes fixed ahead to scan the stark outline of rock and castle a bare half-league away, and the dark loom o' the harbour-mouth through which glitter the lights of the Dons at anchor.
Aboard the first ship … a whispered exchange by the wheel.
“Right, capting – got everyfink? Rapier, brace o' barkers, dagger, snuff-box, clean kerchief (I'm carryin' a coupla spares), deodorant, an' a buckshee wig just in case. 'Ow's the one ye got on – stuck dahn a'right?”
“Gummed to perfection, halfling – nay, but my cursed boots do pinch exquisitely, ha! Haply we'll find replacements o' rare soft Cordovan neat's hide in Lardo his wardrobe – dead men's boots they shall be, Goliath, when I ha' sped that monstrous bastard to's last account!”
“Attaboy, skipper! 'Ere – think we can pull it orf, though?”
“Aye, can we, imp! Codso, shall be such exploit this night as shall live in sea-history – when they clink their cans on Plymouth Hoe and Severnside, and talk o' Drake at Nombre, Morgan at Maracaibo, and Flynn i' the Warners' tank, then shall they also roar a rouse for Black Bilbo that led the storm o' Octopus Rock, sa-ha! Aye, zooks – the deadliest blade o' the Brotherhood, they'll say, and the best-dressed …”
In the hold o' the second ship …
“Easy, old 'un, wi' they matches! There's forty ton o' powder close-packed about us, d'ye see, an' it ain't non-inflammable!”
“Forty ton, Calico, ha? Har-har! Enough to light my crackers, by the powers, wi' a curse, belike, an' damn-all, say I! Aye, an' to blow the Dagoes to hellangone -so shall they speak o' the harbour at Octopus Rock as ‘Firebeard's Beard’, look'ee, that flamed an' roared an' consumed bloody Lardo an' every bottom o' his cursed fleet!”
“Nearly, old son, nearly … but hark'ee now – when thy fuses be lit, an' this old Revenge has driven to the very heart o' the Spanish squadron, then every light above-deck must gleam of a sudden, an' thou and the lads blaze defiance at the Dons, so shall they bring their ships close about to grapple an' b
oard—”
“—an' when Revenge doth blow her forty ton, 'twill hoist the buggers nigh to Kingdom Come – rat, burn, damn, an' devour me else! Aye, shall have an auto-da-fee o' their own! But… when they be all flamin' in glory, an' we victorious … then, Calico brother, we take pardons, ha …? An' swallow the anchor like bonny Anne? Sure, 'twill be strange, that… wi' a curse, an' belike, d'ye see …”
“Aye, strange, old rogue. So … see's thy hand, camarado … an' good fortune …”
“An' thou, messmate! An' damn all Dons an' honest men! Har-har!”
While aboard the third ship …
“… so there's no call to get all la-de-da wi' me, Blackleg Avery! I'm tellin' you the execcative totally an' arbitrarily exceeded their powers in givin' command to a non-union individooal, an' unless yore pree-pared to sign this applecation for a temp'ry probation'ry card, I shall be forced to black this entire operation, see—”
“A fig for thy card, sirrah! What, in five minutes we'll be at grips wi' the cursed Dons! Steer small, quartermaster! No smoking forrard! Bosun, take that man's name! Now, look, you - I've explained that as captain I'm part of management—”
“An' therefore confined to poop operations, an' not entitled to engage in tradesmen's activities, to wit -boardin', cuttin', thrustin', swingin' on ropes, dischargin' firearms, stormin' fortifications, lootin', pillag—”
“Don't be ridiculous! I'm the hero! Stand by, men -and when I cry ‘Grapnels away!’ I want to see good clean throws wi' bags o' follow-through! Ready, Trumpeter Korngold …? Will you get off my quarter-deck, you Welsh pest?”
“Oh, a lock-out, is it? Comrades, we got a right fascist yere! Right, boyo, I'm not comin 'ead-scarf in 'and to you, so—”
“Hit him, Blood, will you? Thanks. Right, chaps, any minute now … all set, pikes? Ready, rapiers? Stand by, cutlasses! Quiet, please … settle down, everyone. I want this done in one take, remember, so when I shout ‘Action!’ …”
We can't deny him a close-up – there he is, for almost the last time, one hand on the rigging, profile cleaving the night air, spray dashing against smiling teeth, keen grey eyes and shirt-ruffles dancing in unison. He flourishes gallant blade to his followers, who skip hurriedly back out of harm's way, laughs wi' carefree confidence as he pops a Sea-Legs pill 'twixt eager lips, and claps Blood on the shoulder – possibly out of comradeship, but more probably to make sure he doesn't sneak off at the crucial moment.
For now they're rocketing in on the last lap, Frantic Frog and Laughing Sandbag to launch their crews in surprise assault on the castle, d'ye see, while the Plymouth Corporation's Revenge, a floating bomb with a skeleton crew, will add to the general gaiety by exploding amongst the close-packed galleons. A mighty hazard, says you, they want their heads examined – which they undoubtedly did, just like Piet Hein and Pierre Le Grand, and Howard and Drake with their improbable fireships at Gravelines, and Morgan with his crazy stratagem at Maracaibo, and all those other mad adventurers who apparently couldn't count, and whose ghostly outnumbered men-of-war and caravels and longships hung like wraiths on the heels of the buccaneers gliding in towards Octopus Rock …
“'Oo can it bee?” cried Meliflua, window-hanging breathlessly as the chain creaked and swung with the approach of the mysterious climber. “A boorglar? A hyooman fly? Ah, Vanitee – per'aps eet's some gallant offeecer from the galleons 'oo 'as seen yoo from afar, and ees climbeeng mad weeth love for yoo – an' 'ee weel rescue us een the neeck of tyme!”
“Oh, don't be so soppy, Meliflua!” blushed Vanity. “'Tis far more like to be someone who's been gated, sneaking in after breaking bounds. I mean, who could fall in love from that distance – he couldn't even see me!”
“'Ee coold, I say!” stamped Meliflua. “Weeth a telescopp, eezy!”
Their speculations were interrupted by a thunderous din as of eleven zinc baths toppling in the corridor without, followed by a metallic pinging not unlike a pin-table -noises which the terrified girls instantly diagnosed as a Viceroy in full ceremonial armour tripping over a pile of drugged guards, his false teeth flying out and rebounding from stone walls. With a shriek of alarm Enchillada dived beneath the bed, and Vanity sped to the door and shot the bolts home only an instant before some massive object (Don Lardo's skull, in fact) crashed against the panels. The great door creaked and shuddered as he beat on it with steel gauntlets. (In case you're wondering why Don Lardo should be armed cap-a-pie for a wedding rehearsal, it was because his family always got married in full martial panoply, a quaint custom dating back to the Crusades, when Starko Baluna, first of the line, lost his spanners at the Siege of Acre … but it's rather a long story, and the fact is we want Lardo in armour for this scene anyway.)
“I know they're in there!” he bellowed. “Enchillada, you maggot, what have you done with my betrothed! Is this your idea of a stag-night practical joke? I know your zany sense of humour, you mad barrel of fun, you! Well, I'm not a bit angry,” he screamed, tearing great lumps of wood from the door, “and if you open up we'll say no more about it – at least, you won't, because I'm going to nail your tongue to the back of your head!” The door shuddered on its hinges, and the helpless girls did another panic-stricken cling.
“What can wee doo?” moaned Meliflua. “Hey – coold we take Enchillada 'ostage, an' threaten too cott 'ees throat unless they promise us transport to Panama?”
“That'll send Lardo scurrying!” cried Vanity sarcastically. “Ah – they are taking axes to the door! Quickly, Onions – to the chain, outside the window! If someone can climb up, perchance we may clamber down! 'Tis perilous chance, but our only hope—”
A dreadful throaty chuckle cut her short. “Feel free -the chain's empty at the moment. After you, ladies!” And with a mocking gesture of invitation Black Sheba slipped over the sill, rapier in hand. Meliflua clutched flawless brow, but Vanity was equal to this new crisis, and made an instinctive grab for the one remaining pot of Helena Rubinstein on the dressing-table. Sheba snarled, and flung her sword wi' diabolical nicety, pinning the English girl's sleeve to the timber.
“Hands off, honky!” Sheba bounded to the table, jerked free her rapier, and with a malicious chuckle tossed the precious goo-pot through the window. Vanity wailed with dismay.
“Oh, spiteful – 'twas the last o' discontinued line!”
“Who needs it?” Sheba thrust out her lovely ebony chin. “Two weeks I rotted in yon foul cage – yet mark my complexion its creamy softness, its warm glow o' vibrant tissue! Saw ye ever such satin perfection, ha?”
Vanity marked, in wonder. “Why, 'tis true! Nay, but to what…?”
“To what but Dame Nature's own abundant oils and vitamins!” crowed the sea-queen. “Mashed banana, sparingly applied twice daily, and laved clean wi' pure rain-water -so a pox on their apothecary gunge! Aye, and not for facial beauty alone!” She pirouetted, gleaming nudely. “How's that for all-over skin tone?”
“Terrific! … but, Dark Medusa, we are beset! Don Lardo rages without, intent upon our shame! Aid us, for pity's sake!”
“Good luck to him!” mocked Sheba, rummaging for clothes in the wardrobe. “He can have you and welcome – and yon green-sick Spanish pansy, too! 'Twill be his last fling afore the Brotherhood lowers the boom on him!” She was whipping on shirt and breeches o' familiar scarlet, chuckling wickedly as she drew on her long boots. “Take comfort from that, dainty Vanity – thy ravishment shall be speedily avenged!” She sped to the mirror and tried on a picture hat wi' a green plume, adjusting it doubtfully.
“Captivitee 'as driv' 'er mad!” cried Meliflua. “Black fool, 'oo ees goeeng to doo any avengeeng once that door ees down? Enchillada, under thee bed, maybee?”
“Lardo'll give you the works as well as us!” urged Vanity. “And that colour combination stinks, incidentally.”
“Ha?” Sheba glared at the mirror. “What's wrong wi' green?”
“Clashes like maracas – if you can't match the red, forget it. Right, Meliflua? Ah, see where t
he door splinters!”
Sheba, with an oath, tried a yellow plume, biting her lip. “Nay, 'twill have to do!” She snatched up her rapier and leaped cat-like towards the door. “Get a blade, fool, if ye would save your milky hide – from the rack yonder! Canst use a tuck, ha?”
“Oh, gosh, sorry – didn't take fencing at school. Haven't got a hockey stick, have you?”
“Jesu! And ye think yourself fit mate for Long Ben Avery! The chest, then – pistols and shot! Haste, whey-face – if we can hold them off, the Brotherhood shall be here anon – I've had their sea-drums in my ears this hour past, I tell you! Speed!”
Little though she had expected to find herself embroiled in such boudoir battle, Sheba was raring to go; she whirled a satin hanging round her left arm, and as an axe-head bashed a great hole in the upper door and Lardo's frightful clock appeared, agrin wi' bestial fury, the dusky wild-cat yelled with glee and thrust like striking snake, ploughing a great gash in his cheek; howling, the Viceroy recoiled, but a rush of his followers beat down half the door, and furious clang o' blades followed as Sheba held them in that narrow space, thrusting, leaping, taunting, and doing some neat matador work with her satin shield. Vanity scrambled for the pistols, and presently the chamber was a-reek wi' powder smoke and booming with discharge as she blew holes in the floor, ceiling, and dressing-table mirror, while Meliflua lent valiant support by climbing on a chair to spot targets and shout out the ranges and elevations to the blonde pistoleer.
“Take 'em alive!” hollered Lardo from the back of the press, dashing gore from his face with his steel gauntlet. “Yuggh! Blood! My blood! God, if she's ruined my looks I'll roast her alive! On, on, you scum – bring out my bride unscathed and you can have a gang-bang with the other two! Down with them, sort them out, or we'll never get this wedding rehearsal under way! Laggards! Cowards! Have at them – they're only a pack of frustrated feminists!”