The Pyrates by George MacDonald Fraser
“ – an' when God an' Princess be hitched, there follers the fructifyin' o' the Daughter o' the Sun for three days an' nights—”
“I knew it!” yipped Vanity, but ere she could give vent properly, there came an unexpected interruption.
“Hold on, grandad,” said Blood, frowning. “Ye say these redsticks don't know how to make wheels … an' whoever can show 'em, they'll accept as God?”
“How, sirrah!” Avery's brow was dark. “Wouldst horn in, ha?” But Blood waved him to silence and looked narrow-eyed on Solomon.
“How come,” said he, “when you fell among these natives, ye didn't make wheels for 'em yourself? You could ha' been the Great White God, surely, an' been worshipped and lain soft o' nights wi' Long Tall Sally in the feathers? But instead y'are content all these years to live in rags, an' grub among the beans an' brussels. Now, why – eh, Slippery Sol?”
Solomon grimaced and shuffled uneasily. “Ar … hem … us can't make wheels, noways! Ar, us forgot how, see? Hoople-de-hoot!”
“Forgot?” scoffed Blood, and so patent was the castaway's falsehood that Vanity and Avery stood arrested, watching as he plucked nervously at his rags.
“Princess didn't fancy me!” he squealed shifty-eyed. “Ar – poor ole Sol ain't a big rackety blade like t' captain 'ere! An' … an' I wor married a'ready, see? – on little Mall Trattleworthy as minded Gaffer Tovey's pigs, so fiddle-de-dapple to you, an' chance it!” Seeing Blood's scornful smile, he began to gibber. “An' I didn't want no heathen dame wi' long slinky legs an' lovesome lips, be 'er belly-button never so cute! So there! An' I like gardenin' an' compost heaps an' clods wi' worms a-wriggle -” He shrieked as Blood grabbed him by the throat. “Leave us be!”
“The truth, scarecrow!” snapped the Colonel, shaking him, and suddenly Solomon seemed to shrivel, and whimpered piteously:
“Don't hurt poor Sol! Please, maister, I'll tell 'ee! Ar – I didn't want ter die, that's why! It's the truth! Ar -for arter his three days' fructifyin' wi' the Princess, these savages do dispatch the Great White God as sacrifice to the Sun – aye, by hellish disembowelment on the altar stone! An' then they serve un up for dinner, meejum-to-well-done, slutter-cum-gush! 'At minds me,” he pawed pathetically at Blood's sleeve, “'ee wouldn't 'ave a crust an' a smidgin' o' drippin' for poor Sol, matey?”
There was a longish pause, in which Vanity swayed white-faced, Blood whistled noiselessly, and Avery finally cleared his throat. “I see,” he said. “Well, that puts a slightly different complexion on things, of course.”
“Oh, Ben!” Vanity rushed to her lover's side. “Ben, my darling, they shan't serve you up – not medium-to-well-done!”
“Nay, honeybunch.” Avery scooped her soothingly against his ruffles and flashed teeth in fighting smile. “Now that I have thee again, shall I wind up 'twixt the fish and the After Eights? I trow not. At worst we shall fight our way clear – we be two stout blades, the Colonel and I, assuming,” and he shot Blood a stern glance, “that the blighter's prepared to pull his weight for once. Aye, and it may be we shall have Black Sheba's aid in the pinch!”
“Hey?” Vanity snapped upright like whalebone. “What? Sheba?”
“She's out in the woods somewhere … I rescued her from a Spanish dungeon a couple of nights back,” Avery added carelessly, “and it may be some spark o' gratitude animates yon dusky bosom—”
“Never mind yon dusky bosom!” shrilled Vanity. “What were you doing rescuing her from dungeons, when for all you knew I was twiddling my thumbs on the Isle of ruddy Aves?”
“Why, it so fell out, poppet mine. And why I think she may lend a hand now, is the way she rallied round after we'd ‘scaped the Dons. Opened my eyes, I can tell you. I'd taken a crack on the roof, you see, and she carried me wounded through the jungle (in her stilettos, mind you) to a secluded glade where she nursed my hurts wi’ rare skill… ah, but 'tis too long a tale for now, and strange enough to strain belief—”
“I'll bet! Suppose you take it from the top? I'm all ears!”
“Why, then, sweetkin, if you must… there was this galleon I had taken, wherein was fair young Spanish popsy, Donna Meliflua – oh, you'd like her, Vanity … such a brave, sweet little soul, not a day over sixteen, but what a cracking spirit!” Avery sighed grimly. “Aye, poor child, condemned by reason o' her fresh young beauty to a loveless marriage, and begged me to save her – which I jolly well will, too! Anyway … what's up, precious?”
For Lady Vanity had reeled back with a wordless wail into the sardonic arms of Colonel Blood, and ere Avery could inquire further, who should tool in but Brasso, accompanied by temple guards, and Solomon passed on the news that the Sun Princess required the presence of the Great White God, presumably for a wedding rehearsal and a chat with the vicar. Avery took it like a man.
“I must tread delicately,” said he. “Not to worry, folks. Chins up.” He bestowed a gallant smile on Vanity, who had sunk to the sofa with her head in her hands, and marched out, ready for anything. As the brazen door clanged shut, Vanity gave a great woof of numb despair, and raised bewildered blue eyes to heaven.
“What the hell have they been feeding him?” she apostrophised the ceiling. “He rescues me from hideous fate, vows me eternal love – and now I find he's been playing Galahad to some sixteen-year-old groupie in matador pants! To say nothing of barging into dungeons after that oversexed fugitive from the Hot Mikado, who seems to have carried him on her back halfway across South America, to nurse him (ha!) in a jungle glade, forsooth! And now he springs hotfoot from my side to the Queen of the Mardi Gras – nay, 'tis more than simple English maid can bear! Ah, my heart tells me he is true, yet on the face of it he carries on like some souped-up Solomon! And I don't mean him,” she added, indicating the castaway, who was standing around looking squalid.
“What did I tell you?” murmured the Colonel. “Sure, an' he ought to be in some sort of home. The man's not safe.”
“What am I to think?” Vanity flung up her arms, and then all the pride and passion of Cheltenham Ladies reasserted itself. “I know this much – if he goes through with marrying that man-eating rhumba dancer, I've had it with him and his godlike profile, and I hope they serve him up with duchess potatoes and an apple in his mouth!”
At which the Colonel made so bold as to pat her shoulder, what time he smiled and stroked his clarkie moustache.
The Princess of the Sun unsteadily paced her luxurious boudoir, a prey to remorse and cold turkey. Not for hours had she had a fix of drinking-chocolate, and the gremlins were getting to her; she twitched and shuddered as she swayed to and fro in her wonted conga rhythm, automatically muttering “One-and-two-and-three-boom!”, and pausing only occasionally to glance in her mirror and scream (as who wouldn't at the reflection of a pink mongoose in a fruit hat?) Oh-h, brother, she whimpered, I wish I was back in Campeche.
But the real trouble was her conscience, dulled these many years by the insidious Cohaclgzln goof-talc. When first, as a runaway novice nun, she had strayed among the Indians and been hailed as Sun Princess on the strength of her million-dollar legs and skill in Latin-American dancing, she had become addicted to the novel chocolate dust, sniffing it, rubbing it in night and morning, dabbing it behind her ears, even having her hand-maidens (who were sworn to secrecy) shoot it at her from blowpipes; she had done everything but drink it, and the years had slipped by in a cocoa-coloured haze. Until yesterday, when she had fallen madly in love with a fair superman who might have been designed by Michelangelo and trained at Stilman's Gym, and without thought had proclaimed him Great White God and bridegroom before the Cohaclgzlns assembled.
Aflame with pure infatuation, she had determined to kick the habit, but now, as she emerged from her stoned state, returning sanity brought with it a realisation of what she had done. By claiming her mate she had condemned him to death; she would have him for three days of wild passion (she went goose-pimply at the thought) and then he would be taken from her and she would never see him again exc
In her frenzy she had smashed quite a bit of furniture, and the noise summoned her chief attendant and confidante, a worldly little tomato who had fled the convent with her and shared her fortunes ever since. She surveyed the wreckage with a sympathetic eye, and inquired:
“Monkey on your back, sweetie? Want I should hit you?”
In broken whispers (in case anyone should overhear and realise that her official Tarzan accent was a phony) the Princess explained her dilemma. “I have doomed him, Prtzltntln! That superb man-god with his curly hair and dimples – my arms ache for him, but if ever they enfold him, he is scheduled for the chef! Ah, pity me! What am I to do?”
“Have a three-day honeymoon and forget it,” counselled Prtzltntln. “Once you're back on the chocolate you'll never give him another thought.”
“Ai-ee-ee!” wailed the Princess. “There is no drug powerful enough to drown the remorse I should feel! Oh, God, I could do with a blast – maybe just a teensy little one? … no, no, I must be strong! Prtzltntln, I can't do it! I must forego his embraces in order to save him!”
“Get up to date, oh Daughter of Montezuma,” said the practical hand-maid. “If you back-track now and say he isn't the God, they'll just stick him over the maguay anyway. And they might start asking themselves if you're the girl for the job.” She patted her mistress's shoulder. “Go on, pamper yourself, honey. You can skip the main course at the feast.”
The Princess hurtled upright, her lovely midriff streaked with tears. “I must get him away!” she cried wildly. “If I can't have him, at least I'll know that I set him free! Help me, sweet Prtzltntln, as you love me -how can I bust him out of here?”
“Have you been at the hash behind my back?” Prtzltntln was suspicious. “You're serious? Next thing you know, you'll be wanting to go with him!”
“And give up drinking-chocolate permanently?” cried the Princess, round-eyed. “Oh, come on!” She clutched her brow in perplexity. “There must be a way to help him fly the coop! Disguise? Laundry baskets? A garbage truck? Think, Prtzltntln, you dumb bitch, think!”
“There's the slave-traders,” said Prtzltntln doubtfully. “You know, that half-caste gang who come every six months to buy our vagrants and used-up priests? They'd smuggle him out, if you made it worth their while.”
“The slavers?” The Princess tried to bite her lip, but missed. “Ah, what a hideous fate … and yet, better than going into the oven at gas-mark seven, surely. At least his death would not lie on my conscience.” She closed her eyes in anguish, opened them again, and shrieked. “Where am I? Who are you, woman? Why doesn't the floor lie down? Oh, I remember … yes, do it, do it, Prtzltntln! Go secretly to the slavers and make a deal -tell them we'll sell them Brasso next time round -anything!”
“I'm on my way,” said Prtzltntln obediently, “but I still think you're looped. Three Nights in Paradise you're passing up, remember … all right, I'm going! And while I'm gone, suppose you have the Great White God put in the Hall of Catzlotlbotzl, alone.”
The Princess was baffled. “To what end? And why are these green beetles doing a square-dance on my coverlet?”
“We've got to get him alone so the slavers can make a clean snatch, don't we?” cried Prtzltntln impatiently. “Say it's so he can contemplate his divinity or something – and tomorrow we'll tell the peasants the Sun God couldn't wait to claim him, and drew him up to heaven in a gilded chariot drawn by … by … by green beetles, for Christ's sake! They'll buy any story if it's goofy enough. Then you'll be off the hook … and back on the sauce, if I know anything.”
“Dear Prtzltntln, you think of everything,” palpitated the Princess tearfully. “Stick me with a fix before you split, will you? The blow-pipe's on my make-up tray …”
So now we have Prtzltntln speeding through the darkened streets on her way towards the slavers' camp, Captain Avery answering the summons to the great shadowy Hall of Catzlotlbotzl, and out in the surrounding jungle … what, ha? Can that be an elegant black figure whose trouser suit needs invisible mending and a dry clean? See, it crouches in the loom of a step-pyramid, rapier in hand, eyes and finger-nails ferally agleam in the moonlight – Black Sheba is on her way to mount a one-woman rescue of Captain Avery, wheresoe'er he may be (it's astonishing what women will do for our hero, and one can only hope that whatever it is he's got, the government let him keep it).
But, hist! … still deeper in the jungle, on a shadowy trail, a light blinks, metal clanks softly, and there is the muffled sound of stealthy feet, as of a great disciplined multitude tripping over things in the dark and walking into trees. Surely it isn't the slave-traders? No, they're over there, in the opposite direction, swarthy ruffians listening agog round their camp-fire to the urgings of fair Prtzltntln, nodding grim assent to her proposal, sealing the bargain with an invitation to join them in rum sodas and a game of strip pontoon, which she declines, bidding them haste to do the Princess's bidding. Here they come now, half-a-dozen hairy unwashed half-breeds with hankies round their brows and slave-shackles in their back-pockets, sneaking along behind Prtzltntln, who points ahead through the gloom to the distant temple and the ajacent Hall of Catzlotlbotzl… the slavers give her the thumbs-up, and she slips away through the darkness to rejoin her mistress.
(What about the armed multitude, then? Easy does it; we shall know more o' them anon … oh, all right then, they're Spanish soldiers from Cartagena, wi' arquebuses primed, d'ye see, and naked blades, preparing a camisado [which is not a highly-seasoned Catalonian stew, but a night attack, so called because they wore their shirts over their armour]. Eddication, by th' powers! But, mum …)
Prtzltntln buzzed through the silent temple passages and upstairs to a certain secluded balcony where, she had guessed, the Princess would be found. Sure enough, a feathered skirt was rustling in the shadows, and a liquid contralto was whispering: “Ai-ai, whatsat numbah? Ai-ai, Cuban rhumba,” as the Princess, her tissues restored by a mammoth blast of chocolate which had reduced her pupils to the size of mill-wheels, undulated silently in an alcove where she could look down through a cunning screen at the vast Hall of Catzlotlbotzl far below, where a solitary but clean-cut figure paced to and fro carelessly whistling “When you walk through a storm …”
Prtzltntln joined her mistress and glanced down cynically.
“Couldn't resist a last peek, eh? Well, make the most of it, 'cos the Banana Bunch are closing in. Two minutes, and counting …”
“Isn't he gorgeous?” breathed the Princess, starry-eyed. “That tawny hair … those shoulders … oh, God, if he turns that profile to the torchlight again, I'll freak … and I'm letting him go! I need my chocolate-injected head examined … couldn't the slavers lift him after the three days and nights? I mean … look at the way he moves … Oh-oh-oh …”
“He could scratch my back,” admitted Prtzltntln, “but it's too late now, all-highest. List!” From somewhere far below came the unmistakeable sound of a drowsy Indian sentry being sapped, and the figure in the hall stopped whistling, every nerve alert. “Get the alertness of those nerves!” hissed the Princess. “Hell, he's perfect!”
“Hist!” whispered Prtzltntln, and frowned, trying to think of a word ending in “ist” that meant “look”. Baffled, she pointed, and the two women clung to each other and stared with bated breath. A door in the hall below had opened …
Captain Avery drew himself up. He had been kept waiting in this great gloomy place for several minutes, and Princess or no Princess, he was thinking impatiently, it wasn't good enough. And who came here, this unwashed half-breed with tangled locks sneaking furtively towards him with dubious intent? One of the temple staff? A cleaner, possibly …
“Evenin', mac,” whispered the half-breed, with a snaggle-toothed grin. “Gorra light?”
He held up a half-smoked cigarillo,
The slavers bundled him up and were out and running with him in a trice, and far above the Princess of the Sun heaved a great sob and drooped in her feathers. “Gone!” she glooped, and listlessly plucked and ate a mango from her headdress. “The only man I ever loved, and I never even saw him conga!”
Prtzltntln regarded her with eyes of cow-like compassion. “Don't bear down, favoured child of the Sun God”, she coaxed. “We'll get over it; he's just a rag and a bone and a hank of whatever-the-hell… and listen,” she confided, “I've got something 'll blow what's left of your disintegrated mind.” She stooped to whisper. “Malted chocolate dust… cray-zee about it!”
The slavers legged it through the jungly night, nor paused till they had reached a river and bestowed their precious cargo on their barge, which they warped hastily downstream. Just in time, too, for the sound of marching feet and the smell of smouldering arquebus fuses was getting closer. See where the lights gleam in the undergrowth as the Spaniards close in on sleeping Cohaclgzln – but why? What's Cohaclgzln done? Cut to a jungle clearing where slaves stagger under the weight of three enormous sedan chairs, closely guarded by morioned pikemen. Two of the chairs were de luxe eight-slave jobs with ivory trim, and contained Don Lardo Baluna and his intended bride; the third sedan, a light sports model with two groaning carriers, contained Enchillada the Chamberlain. The Viceroy was all in gleaming black armour, his face alight with hideous glee as he stroked a live black mamba in his steel gauntlets. Meliflua (poor lady!) slumped gracefully in the height of night-jungle fashion – cloth-of-gold camouflaged gown, matching accessories, and a mosquito veil of priceless Mechlin lace. Dusky attendants fanned her and proffered cooling drinks which went unheeded.