The Pyrates. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      “And I wounded you!”

      “Pish!” said Blood. “A flea-bite.” For which you’ll pay, my smart-assed friend, he thought grimly, while yet smiling so winningly that Avery gulped with emotion. How could he ever have mistrusted this honest, sturdy gentleman?

      “Colonel Blood,” said he, frank and manly, “I ha’ done you great wrong. You’re all right. One of the lads. My eyes are opened.” He proved this by giving Blood his steady First XI glance, and clasping his hand. “What more’s to be said, save that I –” he shrugged modestly, “– yes, even I, shall sleep sounder o’ nights knowing that in you I have a loyal and steadfast … ah … assistant.”

      You do that, son, thought Blood, and arm in arm they repaired to the slumbering passenger quarters ’neath the poop, where all was still save for the sweet murmurous breathing from Admiral Rooke’s berth, and the thunderous snorting from Lady Vanity’s. (Eh?) There they bade each other a comradely good-night, and sought their respective cabins, Avery thinking, what a worthy fellow, and Blood thinking, what an amazing birk.

       Hand it to Blood, he’s slicker than wet paint. What next impudent villainy does he intend? And Avery, that honest lad – are his dreams refreshed by pure, blissful visions of Lady Vanity, or do strange phantasms of our Ebony Hebe disturb his repose? Does Vanity really snore? Who’s minding the ship? Let’s lay aloft, says you, and we’ll ascertain.

      ^*Not safe at Vauxhall, Not safe in sedan chairs, Not safe anywhere.

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