George Fraser - The Pyrates

Meanwhile the object of her unholy passion was leaning against a bulkhead some way from the orlop, muttering “Phew!” and shaking his head to clear it, when he became aware that Colonel Blood was sitting with folded arms on a nearby cask, head cocked and a dirty look in his eye.

“Now what,” wondered the Colonel, nodding towards the orlop entrance, “have you got that I haven’t?”

Avery straightened. “Decency, perhaps?” he replied frostily, and his gesture invited the Colonel to precede him up the companion. Blood rose lazily.

“Faith, is that what ye call it?” he reflected as they went up. “Well, ye didn’t take much advantage of it. Ye’ll regret it, in your old age, see if you don’t.”

“My only regret,” said Avery, “is that necessity compels me to consort aboard this ship with such lewd scoundrels as you.”

“You can mend that as soon as you like,” said Blood. “Or does your courage stop short at hitting from behind?”

Avery was before him in a flash, all icy contempt. “When we touch dry land at the Cape, sir, I shall accommodate you face to face, with what weapons you choose.”

Blood looked him up and down (and until you’ve seen Blood’s eye travelling north and south you don’t know what provocative insolence is.) “The number of times,” he drawled, “that some coxcomb has said to me that he’ll meet me next week, or next month, or the first Shrove Tuesday in leap year – and when the time comes, damme if I haven’t had the ground all to meself. I see that ye’re another lad … of promise.” And he turned on his heel at his cabin door.

Crimson mantled the flawless cheekbones of our Hero, and his jaw set like frozen yogurt. He spun the Colonel round with steely fingers. “That taunt becomes you, coward,” he grated. “Well you know ’tis impossible we should meet aboard ship. Affairs of honour are not settled so –”

“Why not?” grinned Blood. “There’s a stern gallery yonder where none should hear us – faith, it’s familiar ground to you and your paramour – the blonde one, not the darkie –”

Schooled in imperturbability though he was, it took Avery all his time to suppress a yowl of fury. His eye flamed, and the colour drained from his face to his ankles. “With you on the instant!” he snapped, and strode into his cabin for his rapier.

Now what, you ask, is crafty Thomas up to? It cannot be that he is intent on repaying the merited buffet bestowed on him by Avery for getting fresh with Captive Africa. No way; Blood is used to chaps taking swings at him. Nay, he is needling Avery in furtherance of some dark design, to wit – if they cross swords on the stern gallery secretly, and Blood can give Avery the mortal stuck-in and heave his corpse into the main, he can then snaffle the Madagascar crown. And next morning, when investigation takes place, who is to point a finger at T.B.? Poor Avery, he must have fallen overboard in the night; too bad – that will be the official version, and if Tom can’t keep the crown safely secreted until they reach the Cape, he isn’t the man he thinks he is. Thus did the cunning rascal reason as he repaired to the stern gallery with his own rapier, to find his stalwart antagonist awaiting him wi’ unbated tuck.

They faced each other on the narrow gallery in the moonlight, the ship’s bright wake creaming beneath them. “When you fall,” said Avery sternly, “I may be hard put to it to explain why we met thus irregularly, but it sorts not with mine honour to let you live who have sullied a fair lady’s good name with –”

“Save it, son,” said Blood coolly. “Any explaining will be in good hands – mine. You can kiss it goodbye.” He was grinning and snaking his blade in and out á la Rathbone, and Avery drew himself up, very academic as you might expect, and slid a foot forward into the attack, his eyes like chips of solid helium.

Well, you’ve seen it before – glittering blades rasping, feet slithering, close-ups of Blood’s grinning teeth and rumpled curls, and Avery’s icy composure as he breathes brilliantly through his nostrils. Gosh, he was good – so was Blood, of course, but bouncing about with cits’ plump wives and drinking mulled canary at 4 a.m. had sapped his vigour and slowed him down just that little bit. Avery, by contrast, was trained to a hair and pure of heart, so it was inevitable that after one of those engagements in which the blades whirl too quickly for the eye to follow, Blood should spring back with a curse, a livid cut across his left forearm, and gore dripping on the planks.

“Lucky bastard!” was all he said, and sprang again to the attack, but with his fertile brain ticking over at speed. This boy was hell on wheels, all right, he was thinking, but he was Olympic gold medal material, no more – wide open to such unorthodox stunts as a good kick in the crotch, for example. Yet how should that profit Blood now? Even if he killed Avery, he had taken a wound and there was blood on the deck – even dimwits like Rooke and Yardley would be bound to connect these facts with the young Captain’s disappearance. So … the crown in Avery’s cabin must wait for another day. In the meantime, how to emerge from the present hoo-ha with his life – and, if possible, lull Avery’s enmity for the nonce, perhaps even win something of his regard? A tall order, but meat and drink to our Irish mountebank.

So he bore in with all the considerable science at his command, recklessly expending his energy while Avery broke ground with close-playing wrist (whatever that is) and perfect control, husbanding his strength, as prudent heroes always do, until his opponent’s fury should have spent itself, which it inevitably does. Blood, lashing away like a carpet-beater gone berserk, bore him back by main force until they were in that well-known close shot, chest to chest, both heaving away like crazy, the baddy fleering and sneering sweatily, the goody keen-eyed and straining manfully, at which psychological moment Blood asked casually:

“Tell me captain – when I’ve fed ye to the fish, what becomes o’ that precious bauble in your cabin?”

Since he was almost on his knees with exhaustion, the words came out in a sort of ruined wheeze, but they earned full marks for effect. For a split second Avery’s icy composure faltered; to be honest, he gave a passable imitation of a gaffed salmon, and in a trice the crafty Irishman had stamped on his toe, disarmed him by seizure, and whipped his point against Avery’s Adam’s apple. And there they stood, Avery aghast and biting his lip with vexation, Blood panting asthmatically and trying to hold his sword steady. At last, having regained his wind, he lowered his point and stepped back, looking for somewhere to lean on.

“Ye know,” he remarked, “you’re a mighty pretty swordsman, but ye’re not fit to be let out alone, so you’re not. An old dodge like that – letting your opponent talk ye into a tangle. Faith, it’s as well I’m not the rogue ye think me, or it’s dead meat ye’d be by this. And where would your bonny jewelled crown be going then, eh? Not to Madagascar, sonny.”

Avery, hero though he was, looked (and probably felt) as though he’d been jumped on by the Wigan front row. “The Madagascar crown?” he gasped. “What know ye on’t?”

“Everything,” fibbed Blood smoothly. “What d’ye think I’m here for?”

“You mean – y’are an agent of Master Pepyseses?” stammered the Captain, his eyes like bewildered gimlets. “But … but he told me none knew of the mission save he and I, his majesty, and my Lord Rooke!”

“That’s the civil service mentality for you,” sighed Blood sympathetically. “Never tell you a damned thing.” He improvised boldly. “I’ve been privy from the first. They thought the job was too important for just one man.”