The Pyrates. George Fraser MacDonald

as he followed her aboard. So intent was she that she tripped on her ankle-chain and hit the deck with a blistering oath which caused the nearest seamen to press their knuckles to their teeth and stop their ears.

      Lady Vanity, looking down in disdain from the poopladder, was heard to remark: “Fie! what a disgusting creature!” and Sheba, sprawled on the deck like Cat Woman, glared up at her with diabolic venom.

      “You should pray, my lady,” said she in a sand-papered hiss, “that you never find out how disgusting I can be!”

      “How now, baggage o’ midnight – wilt bandy, ha?” Captain Yardley dragged her to her feet. “An’ wi’ lady o’ rank, look’ee, aye, an’ prime quality, as far above ’ee as truck be above keelson!” He frowned, considering – yes, the truck was above the keelson, he was pretty sure. He thrust her roughly towards the hatchway. “Stint thy hoydenish clack or we’ll ha’ thee in the branks – you there, down wi’ her an’ clap her in bilboes, wi’ a wannion!”

      He turned apologetically to usher his quality passengers to the poop, where they thrilled to the spectacle of the Twelve Apostles being warped from her moorings. Men threw ropes about, and dropped tardy wenches over the side, sails were unfurled and bumboatmen fell in the water, articles of all descriptions were clewed up, the crowd on the dock sang the seventeenth-century version of “Auld Lang Syne”, the stench of bilge mingled evocatively with the rotting refuse of the river, the jolly sailormen swung their pigtails and strained at the capstan bars wi’ heave and ho, Captain Yardley was quietly seasick in a corner, and only Blood spared a last glance (a leer, actually) for Black Sheba as she was hustled below. But even he missed her sudden start as a huge brute of a seaman yanked cruelly at her fetters with a coarse guffaw of: “Har-har, me fine lady – allow me to show ye yer quarters – a right dainty chamber, sink me!” He was a great bearded ruffian, all shaggy with red hair from crown to breast, and he quickly bundled Sheba out of sight. Blood sighed, and wondered where they would put her; maybe in some quiet corner where she’d be glad of a little company … provided she wasn’t guarded by daunting thugs like that red-haired gorilla. Big, tough rascal he looked. Come to that, these sailors were a pretty muscular lot; Blood’s eye dwelt for a moment on another seaman lingering by the hatchway, a clean-shaven heavyweight in spotless white calico who looked as though he could comfortably have taken three straight falls from Oddjob. Of course, the Colonel mused, sailors probably had to be large and fit in order to cope with squalls and doldrums and other nautical hazards; it stood to reason.

      He dismissed them from his mind, and set to studying how to cut in on Avery, who was explaining to a fascinated Vanity that the sharp end of the ship was at the front, and if you consulted the compass you could point the vessel the way you wanted to go; she was astonished at his expertise. Admiral Rooke observed them fondly, and Captain Yardley, having dosed himself liberally with Kwells and Alka-seltzer, stumped his deck and berated the topmen who were clinging to the futtock-shrouds in lubberly fashion.

      Thus, wi’ her strange human cargo, did the stout ship Twelve Apostles set out on her fateful journey to the far-off Indies, gliding down the Thames through a forest of lesser shipping which gave way, d’ye see, before her stately passage. Tall and proud she stood down for the open sea, dipping her peak to their Lordships’ flag at Greenwich, dropping the pilot off the Medway, bumping into the pier at Southend, and running down a shrimp-boat off Clacton. Old salts viewed her admiringly as she passed, and wished her a prosperous voyage with ale-mugs raised in half-stoned salutation, none guessing what strange destiny awaited her ’neath tropic stars beyond the ocean rim …

      Night found her in the Downs, pursuing her steady course beneath all plain (and decorated) sail, her crew and passengers a-slumber as she bore southwards. Did I say all? Nay, there were those that waked – the man at the wheel, more or less, and the look-out aloft, although he was surreptitiously reading a dirty book, possibly Moll Flanders, by shielded candle-light in the crow’s-nest. And others there were who as yet were sleepless – what thoughts, think you, reader, crowded their minds as they pondered the unknown future? How the hell should we know, says you. Then I’ll tell ’ee, says I, and ye may lay to that.

      There is Captain Avery, strong chin in firm hand, his keen grey eyes veiled for once in thought as he dreams of … flag rank? Naval glory? The Madagascar crown and his perilous mission? Or is he envisioning a perfect roses-and-cream complexion framed by gold ringlets, dreamy blue eyes, a small soft hand brushing against his own, a sweet musical voice inquiring: “What are scuppers?” Of course he is, the susceptible big jerk. Vanity, Vanity, all is Vanity, as far as he’s concerned.

      And Vanity, her petal-like cheek resting on her lace pillow, is drowsing fondly over the memory of that marvellous profile, that vibrant baritone, that strong arm that supported her up the poop ladder. Mm-mm, if only he has ten thousand a year …

      Blood, too, has his thoughts as he lies in his berth. That big spade bint is a bit of all right, he reflects; of course, so is Blondie, if a little upstage. Still, four months is a long time … suppose he was shipwrecked with both of them? A happy dilemma, and the cad falls asleep with a blissful smile on his raffish countenance.

      And they weren’t the only ones astir on the Twelve Apostles as she cruised gently south in the velvet night.

      Far below the waterline, in the nethermost bowels of the ship, in the foul reeking orlop where rats scurried beady-eyed in the dark, and the bilges slopped around wi’ foetid plash – there, in a far corner, a light guttered palely, casting the shadows of three figures. Black Sheba, fettered by slim ankles to a bulkhead, reclined her shapeliness on matted straw, eyes agleam like eager anthracite, and with her the red-bearded gorilla and the tall fellow in white – you know who they are, but how did they get here? Listen …

      “… all the way to England, camarado, dogging the King’s ship that brought you, till we sighted Portland, when we dropped ashore, while Bilbo lay off, d’ye see? When we had word o’ where ye was bound, we shipped aboard as focsle-jacks, and –” here he winked a shrewd Calico Jack wink “– with a score or so stout lads as we can count on, look’ee. Bilbo’s been tipped the word, and lays course south for a rendezvous agreed wi’ Akbar the Damned an’ Happy Dan Pew …”

      “– an’ when the time comes, a right merry meeting we’ll ha’ on’t, rack, rat, an’ rend me for a sea-slug else!” chortled Firebeard. “Har-har! These misbegotten King’s pimps don’t dream what a flock o’ lovin’ lambs they’s got aboard – an’ when Bilbo and the lads lays alongside – why, good day an’ good-bye to ’em, honest men! Then, little Sheba darlin’,” gibbered the hairy scoundrel, “ye can pay ’em for this sal-oobrious accommodation, an’ this jewellery they’ve give ye!” And he jingled her fetters gleefully.

      “Oh, friends!” Sheba, the proud, fearless sea-queen who gutted Spaniards before breakfast, and had been known to roast cathedralfuls of nuns just for laughs, choked back a sob of pure feminine emotion. A tear welled on her dusky cheek, and Firebeard wiped it tenderly away with the tail of his shirt, blushing coyly to the eyelids, the only part of him visible through his tangle of hair. “Dear comrades,” continued Sheba, “I know not what to say … shall we barbecue ’em first and keelhaul them after? Or flog and carbonado them, and then disembowel and flay them by inches? Could we, perchance, do all six, and woold and dismember them later on? Oh, I know these are mere womanly fancies,” she went on, with a catch in her voice, “but it’s been so long! And if it’s the last thing I do –” she clenched her fists till her chains rattled, and ground her pearly teeth “– I’m going to fix that stuck-up little blonde bitch in the St Laurent outfit with the puffed sleeves and those pleated seams going round above the hips and gathered in under the little bows along the back so that it fits snug at the waist and looks as though it’s creaseless material and probably costs a bloody fortune to have altered supposing you can get a woman to do it. She won’t,” Sheba added venomously, “have much use for it by the time I’m through with her –”

      “There, there,” said Firebeard soothingly, patting her manacled ankle with his great paw, “she han’t got near such nice legs as you, I’ll lay, an’ I bet she sunburns somethin’