George Fraser - The Pyrates

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.