Everybody bedded down, right? All serene? You know better.
As the last bell sounded, ending the middle watch, a stalwart figure in neatly-pressed white calico took over the wheel, and a massive untidy heap crouched by the side-rail clawing his red hair out of his eyes the better to scan the distant sea. Seeing nothing, he started striking matches, instinctively setting his beard on fire and having to put his head in a bucket of water to douse the blaze. But the brief conflagration had served its purpose; far off in the sea-mist a pale light blinked, and as he coughed and spluttered and threw away clumps of burned hair, Firebeard was able to cackle triumphantly:
“'Ere they be, Calico! Good dogs! Brave boys! They'm dead on time, wi' a curse, say I, an' that! Unless,” he added doubtfully, “it's some bloody fool as we don't know on, playin' about wi' lights unauthorised an' wanton! Eh?” Rage suffused his unwashed features. “I'll tear him, I'll kill him, I'll cast anchor in him!” he was starting to rave, until a curt word from Rackham sent him lumbering below, where he blundered about among the hammocks whispering: “We have lift-off! Rise an' shine! Rogues on deck, honest men stay where ye are! Get your cold feet on the warm floor! Up and at 'em!”
In a trice his accomplices among the crew had piled out, pulling on their socks, hunting for their combs and toothbrushes, adjusting their eye-patches, and scampering silently up the companion, while the honest sailors turned over drowsily muttering: “Shut that bloody door! Is that you up again, Agnes?” and the like, before resuming their unsuspecting slumbers. Up on deck the little knot of rascals received Rackham's urgent whispered orders, and scuttled away to seize the arms chest and guard the hatchways, the tardier spirits among them goofing off and tying knots in the rigging to make it look as though they were working. Firebeard blundered up last, to report “All villains roused an' ready, by the powers, d'ye see, Calico camarado, aarrgh like!” and Rackham despatched him to the mast-head to deal with the look-out. Firebeard panted busily upwards, taking several wrong turnings along yardarms and getting his leg stuck through futtock-shrouds, lubbers'-holes, and possibly even clew-lines, before he arrived at the crow's-nest to hear from within fevered mutters of “Pot? Tea? Gin? It's another flaming misprint, that's what is is!” Firebeard sandbagged the look-out smartly, snarling “Take that, ye bleedin' intellectual!” and hastened down again to join Calico Jack who, grimly smiling, was at the rail watching Black Bilbo keep their rendezvous.
Out of the mist they came just as the first glimmer of sun topped the eastern horizon – three fell shapes o' doom and dread, surging in on the hapless merchantman. First, the rakish corsair galley of Akbar the Damned, its great steel beak aglitter, the green banner of Islam aloft, its oars thrashing the water as the drivers flogged the naked slave-rowers and rounded up those who had nipped aft for a quiet smoke. Its deck crammed with swarthy, bearded rovers of Algiers and Tripoli, flashing their teeth, brandishing their scimitars and getting their spiked helmets caught in the rigging, the galley was a fearsome sight to Christian eyes, and hardly less disturbing to Buddhists or even atheists. And naught more fearsome than the dark, hawk-faced, hairy-chested figure of Akbar himself, lounging on his stern-castle in gold lamé pyjama trousers, his forked beard a-quiver as he munched rahat lakoum proffered by nubile dancing-girls, his fierce eyes glinting wildly as he practised cutting their gauzy veils in two with his razor-edged Damascus blade.
Secondly came that gaily-decked galleon of evil repute, the Grenouille Frénétique, or Frantic Frog, flagship of Happy Dan Pew, French filibuster, gallant, bon vivant and gourmet, who was given to dancing rigadoons and other foreign capers as his vessel sailed into action. Clouds of aftershave wafted about his ship, whose velvet sails were fringed with silk tassels in frightful taste, its crew of Continental sea-scum lining the rails crying “Remember Dien Bien Phu!” and “Vive le weekend!” as their graceful craft seemed to can-can over the billows with élan and espièglerie.
[In fact, Happy Dan Pew wasn't French at all. His real name was Trevor O'Grady from St Helens, but he had been hit on the head by a board-duster while reading a pirate story during a French lesson, and his mind had become unhinged. From that moment he suffered from the delusion that he was a Breton buccaneer, but since he spoke no French beyond Collins' Primer, his crew had a confusing time of it.]
Third and last came Black Bilbo's ghastly sable barque, the Laughing Sandbag - he was last on account o' he bein' barnacled, d'ye see? Or, in the rather coarse expression of the time, his bottom was foul. Consequently Bilbo was in a rare passion, stalking the poop, inhaling snuff and pistolling mutineers with murderous abandon. He couldn't bear being second to Happy Dan, who had pipped him for Best-dressed Cut-throat o' the Year.
As his fellow-rascals brought their ships in against the ill-fated Twelve Apostles, Calico Jack snapped to his small band of villains, “Down and take 'em, bullies!” and with glad cries of “Geronimo!” “Carnival!” and “After you!” they raced below to overpower anyone who happened to be around – crewmen who were still in the focsle ringing for their coffee, or had gone to the bathroom, or were doing their early morning press-ups. Having disposed of these, the pirates stormed howling to the stern of the ship, recklessly disregarding the “First Class Passengers Only” notices, and bursting into the cabins without knocking. Thus:
Captain Yardley stared at his chart, in which a thrown knife was quivering beside his pencil point; ere he could so much as cry out a despairing “Belike!” pirates were jumping all over him, binding and gagging him, untying his shoe-laces, giving him a hot-foot, and playing with his set-square and compasses. His discomfiture was complete.
Admiral Rooke awoke to find an apple being stuck in his open mouth, and Firebeard's shaggy countenance leering down at him yelling: “Breakfast in bed, milord, har-har? Nay, then 'ee'll make a rare boar's head, wi' a curse! Haul him aloft, give him the message, do him the dirty, wi' a wannion, by the powers, har-har!” And as the unfortunate Admiral was secured, gasping and choking, Firebeard began to break up the furniture.
What of our two bright boys? Blood, seasoned in alarms, was rolling out of bed, sword in hand, even as the first pirates came ramping in yelling: “Surprise, surprise!” He blinded one with hair-powder, kicked a second in the stomach, crossed swords with a third, and then, having weighed up the odds, dropped his weapon and raised his hands, automatically reciting: “I'll-come-quietly-officer-but-devil-a-cheep-ye'll-get-out-o'-me-till-I've-talked-to-a-lawyer.” Thus tamely did the rascal chuck up the sponge.
Not so across the passage, where a flashing-eyed Avery was holding crowds of desperadoes at bay with his whirling blade, jumping on tables, swinging from chandeliers, throwing chairs at their shins, knocking over candlesticks, and swathing his attackers in torn-down curtains. It couldn't last, of course; it never does. They bore him down, cursing foully (them, not him, he never cursed), and he struggled vainly in their brutal grasp, his hair becomingly rumpled, his shirt slightly torn, and the teeniest trickle of blood on his determined chin. But his eyes gleamed undaunted; by Jove, they'd better watch him.
Down i' the foetid orlop an exultant Sheba was being unchained by the little Welsh pirate, who had also brought her a fresh wardrobe so that she can be properly attired for the big confrontation scene on deck, which comes in a minute. She hurled aside her loathed fetters, gnashing with delight, and the little Welshman modestly looked away as she donned her scarlet silk breeches and shirt, buckled her diamanté rapier at her hip, drew on her long Gucci boots, exclaimed at the state of her coiffure, clapped on her plumed picture hat, dabbed a touch of Arpège behind her ear, and then spent ten minutes selecting one long earring and applying her lipstick. Finally, with a curt “Tidy up!” to the little Taffy, she strode lithely up the companion, pausing briefly at the full-length mirror in the gun-crews' recreation room, to adjust her hat fractionally and turn her voluptuous shape this way and that, wondering if she had lost weight during her captivity. A pound? Pound and a half? Mmh, maybe not… still …
She was brooding about this when she stepped into the cabin passage, to meet a bawling Firebeard, who had bagged Rooke's coat and wig, thrown on any old how, and was kicking in doors just for laughs. He swung her up in his hairy arms, yelling:
“She's all ours! Ho-Ho! We'm masters o' the ship, look'ee, and Bilbo an' t' others be layin' alongside, shiver me timbers! Har-har! Tear 'em up, bully boys! Sick 'em, pups!”
“Put me down, you walking tank of pigswill,” hissed Sheba, “and if you've got spots on my new outfit I'll carbonado you! And get that drunken rabble on deck!” She pointed imperiously at Firebeard's mob who were looting and rampaging and writing graffiti on the walls and knocking the tops off bottles. They cowered before her flashing eyes, knuckling their foreheads and belching guiltily, and Sheba scorched them with a look before pirouetting neatly to the last unopened cabin door. She flung it wide, and –
Lady Vanity sat bolt upright in bed in a froth of lace, gold ringlets, and confusion, blue eyes wide, ruby lips parted, eye-lashes fluttering like net curtains in a high wind. She was distraught, astonished, and envious all in one at the brilliant spectacle of Sheba swaggering in, a hateful smile on her proud lips, one fist poised on a shapely hip as she gloatingly pondered the petrified English rose. What an absolutely stunning colour combination, thought Vanity – lipstick not quite the right shade, though, but what else could one expect? … and then she saw the monstrous Firebeard rolling and goggling in the doorway, and squealed with indignation.
“How dare you come in here without permission? Leave at once, you inferior persons! Underlings! Peasants! Savages!”
“Savage! That's me!” howled Firebeard gleefully, drumming his chest with his fists. “I'll show ye savage, me little honey-flower! Har-har!” And he rushed lustfully towards Vanity, great mottled hands outstretched, but Sheba, whose hips were not just for decoration, body-checked him elegantly as he galloped past, and he went flying in a tangle of shattered furniture and lay there roaring. Sheba stalked past him to a table where fruit and sweetmeats o' Peru were temptingly piled, and crammed handfuls into her mouth, for prison rations had left her with that between-meals feeling, and she wanted to restore that pound-and-a-half without delay. Vanity shrieked with outrage.
“Put that down this instant! Oh! How dare you, you insolent black wench! Those are my personal goodies! Put them -”
And she scrambled out of bed indignantly, only to be met by a well-aimed squashy fruit, and staggered back, tripping and falling into the embrace of Firebeard, who crowed with unholy joy, pinning her arms and pawing and nuzzling lasciviously. “Wriggle away, me plump little dove!” he chortled. “Split me, but ye'll coo soft enough presently!” And it might easily have been X-certificate stuff then and there (always assuming that Firebeard, not overbright at best and in a confused state after his fall, had been able to remember what to do next), had not Black Sheba, gulping a final avocado and wiping the juice on Vanity's costly coverlet, kicked him sharply in the groin.
“Drop it, thou whoreson randy old badger! She's not for thee – yet. Take her on deck!” And she turned her attention to Vanity's dressing-table knick-knacks while Firebeard, muttering “Coo-o-o!” and holding himself painfully, hauled his struggling captive to her feet as she beat dainty fists on his matted chest.
“Let me go! Ah, unhand me thy vile clutches, reeking knave! Oh, the indignity! That this should happen to me, Deb of the Year and daughter of an Admiral! Eek! My jewels – put them down, thief!”
This last was addressed to Sheba, who was proddling with her rapier in Vanity's jewel-box, sneering at the merchandise but privately thinking that these Society bitches did all right on Daddy's allowance. With one vicious sweep of her blade she sent box and all in a glittering cascade across the room, and stalking menacingly over to Vanity, thrust her dusky face to within an inch of that pale peach-blossom complexion.
“Your jewels, sister? Pah!” Sheba's voice was like oiled gravel. “You have no jewels, tender little lady – no perfumes o' price, no fine garments, no dainty kickshaws and furbelows – none!” Her sword swept Vanity's scent-flasks away in splinters, and slashed great rents in those hanging dresses which Sheba had decided were too short in the sleeve anyway. “And soon,” the sepia nemesis chuckled evilly, “shalt have no body, neither … and no soul! I see you use Helena Rubinstein's pasteurised special,” she added, “but I'll find a home for that, since you won't be needing it. Take her away!”
For the first time Vanity's intrepid spirit quailed. “Not the Helena Rubinstein!” she quavered. “You can't get it these days … ah, of your pity, dark and sinister woman, not that! The line's been discontinued …”
“Don't I know it?” growled Sheba, scooping up the precious pots. “Haven't I scoured every boutique in Tortuga? Away with her, Firebeard!”
As Vanity, wailing piteously, was dragged out, and Sheba was sizing up a suede number by Balmain which might just do if it was let down a smidgin, the other passengers were likewise being rudely hustled aloft. Blood, an old hand at being apprehended and frogmarched, was murmuring: “Right, all right, fellows, I know the way,” as they thrust him up the companion; Avery, tight-lipped and pinioned, came face to face with Rooke, who was still in his night-shirt, leering pirates grasping his elbows. The Admiral was in fine voice, though, damning them for pirate scum and promising to see them quartered and sun-dried; he cheesed it momentarily to inquire of Avery in a hoarse whisper: “Is it safe?”, and Avery, inwardly cursing this indiscretion, nodded imperceptibly. Not imperceptibly enough, however, for a silky voice cut menacingly in:
“Is what safe?”
And there, on the ladder just above them, was the fearsome figure of Black Bilbo, who had come aboard and made straight for the quality's cabins in the hope of finding some Sea Island steenkirks or spray-on talc. He lounged wolfishly, hand on hilt, taking snuff delicately from the case proffered by Goliath the dwarf.
“Now, gentles,” quo' he softly, his dark eyes gliding from one to t'other, “what precious item, what thing o' price, is this – that is ‘safe’, ha?” They remaining silent, Bilbo nodded, making play with a soiled lace kerchief from which, to his annoyance, he realised he had forgotten to remove the laundry tag. “So, so,” he hissed, clipping Goliath over the ear for luck, “we shall discover anon. Keep me this bellowing bullock below -” he kicked Rooke savagely “ – and hale the fighting cock on deck.”
The scene which met Avery's eyes may be old stuff to you if you saw “The Black Swan”, but it was new to him – a helpless merchantman in the talons of the hawks of the sea. Chaps in hairy drawers and coloured hankies staggering about, draped in loot, letting off pistols, getting beastly drunk, singing “Blow the man down”, throwing bottles around, and manhandling hapless prisoners. Firebeard had thrust Vanity sprawling on the deck in her scanty night-rail, to the accompaniment of wolf-whistles and cries of “Hubbahubba!”; she scrambled up, trying to look haughty, which isn't easy when there's nothing between you and the goggle-eyed rabble except a wisp of brushed nylon and a few ribbons. “Shake it, blondie!” they chorused, and Avery clenched his teeth in fury.
Looking down from the quarter-deck was the stalwart figure of Calico Jack, the barbaric splendour of Akbar, and the slender finery of Happy Dan, who viewed the scene through his quizzing-glasses and exclaimed Froggishly.
“What is what is this what? I am aboard. I look about myself. Zut alors donc! What a doll, that! What talent! Ah, ma chérie, mon coeur est toujours à toi! How about it, hein?” He minced and bowed and fluttered his fingers at Vanity, while Akbar's eyes glowed with strange fires, and Rackham threw up a hand to silence the motley mob swarming beneath – bearded white faces, coal-black Nubians, slant-eyed Chinese devils, swarthy Asiatics, squat and evil Malays – the usual lot on pirate ships in those days. Now among them glided Black Sheba, her glance dwelling darkly on the bound figure of Avery ere she took her place, lounging on a convenient capstan.
“Camarados, brothers!” cried Rackham. “We
ha' ta'en this fine ship, and released our dear comrade and fellow-skipper Sheba from durance shameful and doom o' hellish slavery! (Cries of ‘Hear, hear!’, applause, breaking of bottles, and an attempt by the little Welsh pirate to lead a chorus of ‘We'll keep a welcome in the valleys’.) And we ha' ta'en also captives o' rank and quality – a Lord Admiral, no less -” Yells of hatred and blowing of raspberries, with Firebeard bawling: “Hang him up! Rip his guts out! He's an honest man – I hate him!” He rolled on the deck in a frenzy of rage, and the pirates cheered amain. Bilbo sauntered forward, sporting his shabby finery, his tight boots squeaking painfully.
“All in good time, lambkin,” quotha. “But, by y'r leave, Brother Rackham, I ha' matter to impart to the company. (Cries of ‘Order, order!’ ‘Chair, chair!’.) I learn that there is some precious ‘thing’ aboard this vessel, and that this -” he flicked a tiny poniard from his sleeve so that it quivered in the mast by Avery's ear; a shocking show-off, Bilbo was “ – fortunate fellow is privy to its whereabouts. Shall we inquire, ha?”
“Aye, aye!” roared the pirates. “Go on, ask him; it can't do any harm.”
“Well, bully?” said Bilbo silkily. “What is't, and where, eh? Discourse, friend, and discover. Don't be shy.”