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“Which one?” asked Firebeard. “The cocky black Irisher or the mealy swab wi’ the long legs?”
“The Englishman,” said Sheba coldly, “thou untutored bladder.”
“Name o’ Avery,” said Rackham. “Captain in Charlie boy’s navy. Why?”
“Oh … nothing,” said Black Sheba, and stretched herself like some great black cat on her straw, her eyes stoking up ’neath lazily-lowered lids, a strange enigmatic quiver agitating her sensuously-parted toes …
A Canberra cruise this isn’t, but who can tell what lies ahead as the Twelve Apostles skids round the corner of the Kentish coast, her passengers all unaware of the mischief brewing below decks? What dark purpose does Sheba harbour Avery-wise? What will come of his infatuation with the lovely Lady Vanity? Is her dress of creaseless material, and could it conceivably be altered to fit a corsair virago six inches taller? What dark schemes revolve in the fertile mind of Colonel Blood? How would you like to be chained up in an orlop? Read on …
CHAPTER (#ulink_ed98b724-98c3-5189-9c79-cafda120fc3d)
THE FOURTH (#ulink_ed98b724-98c3-5189-9c79-cafda120fc3d)
The Twelve Apostles followed the course charted by movie art directors since time immemorial, in which the image of a tiny galleon is seen gliding gently across an Olde Worlde map with whales spouting bottom right – down from the Channel, across Biscay (where everyone would be ghastly sick and heaving, but you don’t see that bit), round the top left-hand bump of Africa, and down into tropic waters, at which point the map dissolves into a long shot of the actual galleon cruising briskly across a sunlit sea. Then we get a quick shot of life on board – first the captain with a telescope on the quarter-deck, just to let you know that everything’s under control, possibly a long shot of filling sails in case you’ve forgotten how the ship is actually propelled, and lastly to the matter in hand, whatever it may be. Right.
In this case we see Captain Yardley and Admiral Rooke looking down indulgently on a specially-holystoned part of the main deck, where Lady Vanity, clad in biscuit-coloured muslin, is playing shuffleboard with Captain Avery, trilling merrily when she wins, and pouting prettily when she loses. She doesn’t often pout, because Avery is the shuffleboard champion of the Royal Navy, and his keen eye and sinewy wrist enable him to leave his rings just that bit short every time, or nudge Vanity’s shots into the centre of the target. (After all, he’s besotted with the girl, and knows that his wooing won’t prosper if he whitewashes her 12–0 every time.)
And as they play, the jovial Firebeard galumphs about retrieving the rings and crying “Rare shot, milady!” and “Bravely thrown, cap’n!” and “Bloody hard lines, ma’am!” and bobbing and grinning and knuckling his forehead and generally grovelling like anything. For he and Rackham have shipped aboard under the names of Knatchbull-Carshalton and Wentworth respectively (Bilbo’s suggestions, naturally), and have been at pains to impress their superiors with their trustworthy, seamanlike, forelock-tugging qualities. With the result that Captain Yardley has remarked to Admiral Rooke on the rare good fort’n, by cock, of getting two such prime hands, and Rackham has won such golden opinions by his resolution and intelligence that he has been appointed quartermaster, with responsibility for steering in the night watches. (Significant, eh?) Firebeard isn’t much good at navigation (let’s face it, when he watches the sunrise he has to spin a coin to decide whether he’s looking east or not), but he is something of a mascot because he organises dice-horse-racing and deck quoits and sweeps on the ship’s mileage for Vanity’s amusement, and is the caller for Bingo in the evenings, crying “Eyes down, look in, clickety-click, legs eleven, Kelly’s plonk, blind sixty” and the like, to the hilarity of all. Vanity thinks he is a perfect pet, and calls him (wait for it) Master Nittywhiskers, and generally treats him like a tame retriever, and no one ever notices the occasional mad piggy glint in the eyes of the grinning, fawning sycophant.
Not even Blood, with his villain’s nose for villainy. For he had other things to think about. To start with, he found himself sent to Coventry in the first week, after Avery suddenly remembered where he’d heard the Colonel’s name before, and the Admiral, Yardley, and Vanity were thunderstruck to discover that their fellow-passenger was the notorious ruffian who had recently scandalised London by his attempt to glom the Crown Jewels, for which daring exploit he had unaccountably been pardoned by King Charles and set at liberty. (Fact, and no one has solved the mystery to this day.) However, after that it was the cold shoulder all round for our Tom, the gentlemen turning sharply on their heels and Lady Vanity elevating her exquisite little retroussé nose and daintily fanning the air if he came within ten feet of her. The Colonel endured philosophically his exclusion from after-dinner whist and “I spy”, and having to eat in his cabin alone, and not having anyone tell him the right time. His isolation enabled him to ponder two matters which were intriguing him – one being the mysterious oak box which Avery kept hidden in his cabin (the Colonel having watched its bestowal from a convenient skylight on the first day of the voyage), and the other being how to arrange an undisturbed visit to the orlop to teach Sheba postman’s knock. Being a patient man, he set himself to wait, ignoring the slights of Cabin Society, and fingering his clarkie moustache with a slow smile as he leaned nonchalantly against the rail.
His double opportunity came on a balmy tropic night as they sailed smoothly down towards the Cape over a limpid azure sea beneath a moon so golden that it almost dripped in the purple sky. Stars twinkled, scented breezes blew, in the great cabin the Admiral and Yardley, stuffed to surfeit and drowsy with port, hiccoughed and reminisced, and in the seclusion of the stern gallery Captain Avery and Lady Vanity clung in an ecstatic embrace, munching each other’s lips and only occasionally coming up for air.
(Avery? Necking? Has our idol got feet of smouldering clay? By no means. Left to himself, he would have worshipped his blonde divinity from afar, or rather from close quarters, but never laying a glove on her; he didn’t have all his Scout badges for nothing. His love was chaste and holy, and he had never so much as held hands at the church social. But Vanity soon took care of that. Delicately nurtured at a finishing school where panty-raids by ardent young males were commonplace, and where she and her schoolmates had been wont to classify Society bucks as N.S.A.V., N.S.I.S.C., and N.S.A.
respectively, she had quickly realised that this dream-man was such a spiritual Galahad that he would need tuition in how to get physical. Her course of instruction took about eleven seconds, consisting of a glance at the moon, a gentle sigh, a hand on his arm, her eyes wide and uplifted to his, a parting of her moist lips, and before the hypnotised Avery knew what he was doing he was glued to her like the Magdeburg hemispheres, finally parting after three solid minutes of osculation with the sound of a drain unblocking. After that first memorable kiss, which he quickly convinced himself was not only a perfectly seemly, but courteous thing to do – for this adorable girl deserved every treat she could get – it was plain sailing; Vanity could relax contentedly and let him make the running – all good clean fun, mind you, for she was a proper and toward young lady who permitted no undue familiarities, which she guessed Avery wouldn’t know how to make, anyway.)
So they smooched away blissfully and decorously, as lovers will, until Vanity decided that she had now got this superman softened up sufficiently to start moulding him to her imperious will – a necessary preliminary to the marriage which she had determined would follow eventually, when she felt like it. From this point the lovers were observed by Colonel Blood, out for a twilight prowl, and cheerfully eavesdropping from the stern rail above their heads, the swine. This is what he heard:
VANITY (panting): Easy, boy, easy! Golly, you don’t know your own strength! Is my hair a mess?
AVERY: Nay, sweet goddess, ’tis immaculate as thy perfect self. (With an indulgent male chauvinist smile.) I fear me y’are well named Lady Vanity.
VANITY (checking make-up in mirror): Too right. I’m gorgeous, proud, and insufferably spoiled. Very properly. Now, what’s all this rot about getting off at Madagascar, and leaving me to be bored witless all the way to Calicut?
AVERY (sighing): Alas, dearest, I have my duty.
VANITY: Indeed? I can see we shall have to get your priorities straight. One, duty is what other people do. Two, if ever you find yourself faced with a choice between duty and me, I shall whistle – once. Three, if you’re to be Sir Benjamin before your twenty-fifth birthday, and we’re to be Earl and Countess before you’re thirty – for I won’t settle for less, and flag rank for you into the bargain –
AVERY: Angel, I shall win these trifles and lay them at your feet!
VANITY: Trifles, quotha! You win whatever you like, Tyrone, and I’ll manage the essentials. For know that I am an Admiral’s daughter, a Very Important Lady with immense influence – the King has spoken politely to me –
AVERY (frowning): Has he, though?
VANITY: – and before I’m through you’re going to have a seat in the Cabinet. Don’t fret, I can keep Charlie at a distance, and arrange your preferment, advancement, and finances perfectly satisfactorily. Ah, ’twill be very bliss, you and I together, our future golden –
AVERY (friendly but firm): I still have to get off at Madagascar.
VANITY: Forget it – I shall speak to Father –
AVERY: Dear heart, even he is powerless. ’Tis royal command.
VANITY: Straight up? Oh, blast! Then let us make the most of what little time is left to us for the moment. Hold me, my darling … renew our fleeting rapture …
AVERY (ardently): Yum-yum!
VANITY (slightly muffled): Mind my beauty patch …
By this time Blood had given up in disgust, not untinged with envy, and judging that Avery would be occupied for some time, descended stealthily to the young captain’s cabin and began operations on the oak box with great patience and a bent nail. (No end to the fellow’s criminal versatility.) Presently he had the lid up and was squatting reverently muttering “Bejazus!” as he contemplated the gleaming glory of the crown. So this was the precious secret – and it was going to Madagascar! Fat chance. For about five seconds he gloated greedily, and then, being a highly practical scoundrel, relocked the box and went on deck, where he lurked chin in hand – and he wasn’t considering his next contribution to Dr Barnardo’s, either. How to acquire this wondrous bauble – it must be thought upon. In the meantime, with the crew all asleep and the Quality either swilling port or snogging, it occurred to the Colonel that he knew an excellent way of celebrating his splendid discovery. Watching all that boy-and-girl stuff on the stern gallery had reawakened the beast in him, rakehell that he was …
Captain Avery, having bidden the delectable Vanity good-night with a last fond grapple at her cabin door, had thereafter repaired rather unsteadily to his quarters for a cold bath. He had been hopelessly in love for several weeks now, but actually petting with beautiful blondes was something else – so that was what Ovid and Count Orsino and the poet Herrick got all worked up about, he reflected breathlessly. Well, he could see what they meant. Wow! And she loved him, and melted in his arms, and her kisses were like perfumed darts from Cupid’s bow … but enough was enough – well, no, it wasn’t, but in the meantime he was Captain Benjamin Avery, after all, with responsibilities and duties and things, and it was time to climb off Cloud Nine for the moment. He would take a brisk walk round the deck before retiring, and this slightly dizzy feeling would go away.
So he dressed rapidly, and going quietly on deck, was just in time to see a stealthy figure descending the main hatchway. It looked like that awful scoundrel Blood … in a moment the lover was transformed into the cool, alert man of action as the captain, narrow-eyed and treading softly, followed to see what mischief the fellow might be up to when all decent folk were in their pits for the night.
It did not occur to the Captain that there was anything demeaning about snooping after his fellow-passenger in this fashion. After all, Blood was widely known to be as bent as a boat-hook and, as head prefect at Uppingham Avery had been accustomed to trailing nocturnal bounds-breakers and confiscating their illicit cherry brandy and copies of Playeboye. So now, his magnificent shapely ears pricked, he crept down the companion after the softly sneaking Colonel; past the focsle where the crew snored and the atmosphere was thick enough to sell as coal briquettes, past the main cargo deck, into the hold, and then through dark narrow ways among the piled-up gear, where rats squeaked and scuttled, and only the occasional horn lantern guttered i’ the gloom. Once the Captain paused, when his foot got jammed in a bucket, and then he was hurrying ahead towards a distant gleam of light, whence came the sound of voices, one tense with fury, the other soft and sinisterly mocking …
“Get away from me!” Black Sheba, crouched against the orlop bulkhead, clutched her rag of shirt across her breasts with one hand and swung the slack of her fetters with the other. “Another step and I’ll lay your face open!”
“Now, stab me if I understand you,” Blood was saying, and Avery could picture the sinister smile on his lips. “What’s the matter with me? I’m good-looking, young, charming, clean, amiable, and I shaved this morning. Bigod, ye don’t know what a lucky girl ye are; all I want is to help you pass the time pleasant-like –”
“Some day I’ll pass the time with you,” snarled Sheba, her bazoom heaving like anything, “and you’ll beg to be let die!”
“Ah, come off it,” said Blood, eyeing the fetters warily. “It’s going to happen to you in Calicut anyway. You’ll be sold off, every delectable pound of ye, to some greasy old hog of a planter, and he won’t take no for an answer. Whereas with me, it’ll not only be a rewarding experience, I’ll even engage to buy you myself – if I can raise the money …”
The artful stinker had been edging closer, and as Sheba let fly with her chains he ducked nimbly underneath, and with a caddish chuckle tackled her low and pinned her on the straw, smiling mockingly into her blazing eyes. She struggled vainly while he got himself comfy.
“Now, then,” he said, “what I propose is one little kiss, and if ye don’t like it, then on my honour I’ll leave you be. Tom Blood doesn’t stay where he’s not wanted. But I can’t believe a fine strapping lass like you won’t think better of it …”
And the bounder’s lips were descending on hers when steely fingers closed on his shoulder, and he was dragged up to meet Avery’s eyes glittering wrathfully, and Avery’s voice ringing in icy scorn:
“Muckrake! Stinker! Jerk!”
And he hit the Colonel a big one, splat! which sent the startled amorist hurtling headlong across the orlop, and serve him right. Avery, fists clenched, towered over him in manly indignation, while Black Sheba crouched on her straw, wide-eyed. The Colonel presently sat up and nursed his jaw reflectively.
“Some days are like this,” he sighed. “Ye just can’t please anybody. A man goes about trying to promote a little happiness, but …” He shrugged and came to his feet, smiling to conceal his anxiety about his bridgework. “That’s a fair wallop ye have in that hand, Captain. Is it as ready when it’s holding steel?”
“Get out,” snapped the Captain, in refrigerated contempt.
“So soon?” wondered the Colonel amiably. “We could have a three-handed game of brag … no?” He winked regretfully at Sheba. “Sorry, sweetheart, ye’ll just have to contain your passion for another time. If you’re staying, captain, and she starts fiddling with those chains – duck.”
And with insolent aplomb the hardened scoundrel tipped them a salute and went off, whistling. Avery waited till his footsteps died away, and then glanced at the swarthy Juno crouched at his feet.
“Did he hurt you?”
Sheba shook her head, and slithered up sinuously to lean against the bulkhead while Avery looked about her cramped prison. What a filthy hole, he was thinking, even for a wild female blackamoor; why, his gundogs, Buster and Doodles, had better kennels at home. And Sheba, her smoky eyes devouring him, was thinking: what a profile, what class, what style! Even the way he tramped accidentally on her waterdish, and wrinkled his Grecian nostrils in distaste, sent gusts of passion surging up from her ankles. And now those wonderful grey eyes were turned on her as he asked, in his best orderly officer manner: “Any complaints?”
Any complaints! The words seemed to turn her shapely knees to buttermilk, but all she could do was shake her head again dumbly, at which he nodded in a way which clutched at her heart. As he turned away she found speech, huskily: “Captain Avery?” He paused inquiringly, and the gentle lift of his moulded eyebrows hit her like a battering-ram.
“I have not been able to thank you,” she breathed, “for saving me from the whip, the day we sailed. Why did you?”
He frowned. “Didn’t like it. Not British. Cruel.”
Sheba considered him. “Cruelty can have its uses,” she husked, gnawing her lip and smouldering a bit, but Avery didn’t notice.
“Anyway,” he said, fair-mindedly, “that blighter Blood was the first to help you. Just shows, he can’t be all cad.”
Sheba’s lovely lips writhed in a sneer. “He had his reason, as you saw just now. Were I old and withered, instead of …” Here she let actions speak louder than words by doing a gentle bump and grind, “… they could ha’ flogged me to mincemeat and he’d not have lifted a finger, he.” And she called Blood a horrid name.
Avery pursed a doubtful lip – after all, Blood did hold the King’s commission, and that sort of talk from a person of her class struck him as subversive. But before he could chill her with a mild reproof, Sheba had glided forward as far as her ankle-chain would allow, and repeated in that hot sandalwood voice:
“I have still not been able to … thank you, captain.” And she made a little helpless gesture with her fetters which would have won her a contract at Minsky’s. “These chains …”
“What about ’em?” said Avery innocently, and stepped closer to look. The great sap couldn’t see what was coming; he was all off balance as two slim dusky hands were raised to caress his cheeks, two amber-flecked eyes gazed into his, and two crimson lips were pressed fiercely against his mouth – you wondered for a split second if she was going to strangle him, didn’t you? Not Sheba. She was giving that sudden embrace all she had, which was plenty, since she had had lots of practice. Whereas Avery, apart from his brief session with Vanity earlier on, was a total novice. Consequently, the effect on him was electric. For a moment he was petrified, and then jungle drums began to throb in his ears, ritual fires blazed up, fogs of musky incense swirled through his senses, erotic cymbals clashed, and he found himself inexplicably thinking of silk cushions and Turkish Delight, of all things. He drew back in some confusion, disengaged her hands, and automatically adjusted his neckcloth.
“That,” he said, slightly hoarse, “was not necessary.”
“That,” panted Sheba, her eyes like open furnace doors, “is what you think.”
What an odd woman, thought Avery. Barbarian, of course, just expressing thanks in her primitive fashion. Rather touching, and indeed not unpleasant, in a peculiarly disturbing way – just for a moment, there, he’d felt a sort of dizzy, hypnotic attraction … in fact, he still did, even at a range of four feet. Extraordinary … yet how curious that he who had never been kissed before this evening, should be embraced by two women within an hour. Vanity would be vastly amused when he told her … or then again, perhaps she wouldn’t. The dear child might not understand that the touch of her sweet lips was utterly different – pure, exquisite, holy bliss, quite unlike this savage creature’s crude display of gratitude … yes … very different …
Now that he looked at her, this black female was quite striking, if not altogether seemly in appearance. Very tall girl – and how oddly she was regarding him, with that intense stare while she licked her lips and growled deep in her throat. Captain Avery swallowed; he was feeling that dizziness again. Very close down here; he needed a breath of air. Abruptly he turned about and left the orlop.
Black Sheba stared after him hungrily, her eyes heaving and her chest smouldering (just by way of a change). Then she relaxed, a feral, enigmatic smile playing about her chiselled lips as she reclined on her bed of straw. Playing hard to get, eh, she thought … but not for much longer, you gorgeous Greek god, you. Any minute now, buster, any minute.
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.”
Just one man! The words were a karate chop across the windpipe of Avery’s self-esteem. “I could have done it standing on my head!” he snapped.
“So we’ve noticed,” said Blood drily, but the Captain wasn’t listening. His nostrils flared delicately with mistrust.
“And you’d have me believe they sent you to guard me?” he cried. “Nay, ’tis thing impossible! Y’are a notorious foul villain of rank repute and noisome infamy, steeped i’ knavery and treason, a seasoned rascally cutpurse profligate who tried to nick the Crown Jewels, a foresworn skunk, crud, creep, and renegade –”
“All right, all right!” Blood interrupted warmly. “Can you think of a better cover?” he asked knowingly.
“You mean,” whispered Avery incredulously, “that you’re not really a notorious foul villain of ill repute –”
“Rank repute.”
“– rank repute and noisome infamy, steeped i’ –”
“If I was, you wouldn’t be standing here running off at the mouth, remember?” snapped Blood. “Some of us,” he went on virtuously, “don’t mind being given a bad name if it enables us to serve his majesty the better. We don’t insist on going poncing about like Sir Walter Raleigh. We are content to wear,” he added bitterly, “dishonour’s mask in honour’s cause.” Here, that’s not bad, he thought; a nifty to remember.
“But if you’re not a seasoned rascally cutpurse profligate,” demanded Avery, “what were you climbing all over that poor defenceless black female for?”
“Your benefit,” said Blood, and got all austere. “I have observed you, sir, and methinks you spend overmuch time in dalliance wi’ my Lady Vanity, to the neglect of your duty. Nay, belt up till I ha’ done. Marking this, I provoked you – the black trull means no more to me than a squashed grape; such carnal employs engage not my senses, I thank God – to test me your metal, to recall you to your duty, and to inform you –” and here he laid a hand on Avery’s astonished shoulder, “– that in whate’er perils may lie ahead, y’are not alone.” Rugged nobility was just oozing out of him.
“Stone me!” was not an expression that Captain Avery ever used, but it was a near thing. For what Blood had told him was flawlessly logical when weighed in an ice-cool brain – he must be a Pepys muscleman, or he’d have used his momentary advantage – a cad’s trick, incidentally, stamping on a chap’s toes – to kill Avery and trouser the crown. And it was just like those old sneaks at the Admiralty to stick a second man on the job, without telling a fellow. Blinking cheek, thought Avery, and quite unnecessary – and then a flush of shame mantled his fair young brow as he remembered how he’d been canoodling with Lady Vanity and never thinking twice about his precious charge. He let out an anguished woof.
“And I was found wanting!” His face was pale as a mortified parrot’s. “You are right, sir – a fine guardian, I, spooning and duelling to indulge my base appetites!” He ground his flawless molars in remorse, while Blood patted his arm reassuringly.
“We all make mistakes, lad,” he crooned. “Bedad, on me own first mission, charged wi’ letters o’ rare import to the Grand Sophy – ye won’t believe this – didn’t I get so engrossed in ‘Paradise Lost’ that I missed the last caravan to Aleppo … or was it to Damascus … no, t’was there I slew the four Spanish agents, was’t not? No matter. Anyway, I nearly blew the whole deal.” He made a deprecating gesture, and blood from his wounded arm splashed on Avery’s snowy shirt. The Captain yipped with contrition.
