Pirate King (19 page)

And me.

After a while, I cautiously descended from my hammock and made my way above decks. I was well accustomed to spending most of a voyage braced in the fresh air, but that night I came up to escape nothing more troubling than the faint odour of fish and the snores of my cabin mates. In fact, I came up because I wanted to enjoy the sensation of a boat that did not make me ill.

The sail-makers had long since bundled their project out of the way. The only persons I could see were a pair of shadowy outlines on the quarterdeck. Adam—who, although by no means the eldest of the crew, was clearly deemed one of the more responsible—was at the wheel; with him was young Jack. I gave them a small wave, but wandered in the other direction towards the bow. There, as far as I could see in the faint lamp-light, I was alone beneath the sails.

I paused halfway up the side, watching the delicate coruscations of the aft lamp dance across the sea, listening to the constant motion of the sails and ropes and all the complex, sophisticated, and nearly anachronistic mechanism of this form of travel. For the first time, I understood why people referred to a hull and its means of propulsion as “she.”
Harlequin
was alive, our partner in this enterprise. I would have sworn that she was grateful for Randolph Fflytte’s mad, romantic vision, which restored her, even temporarily, to her true self.

I could almost sympathise with his wish for active cannon.

I smiled, and leant over the rail, hoping for a ballet of porpoises, for a—

A hand came down on my shoulder, and I screamed. Like any mindless female who had permitted herself to become oblivious of a world of danger, I squeaked and punched hard at the large, silent, threatening figure who had taken advantage of my idiotic preoccupation with beauty to corner me on the deck.

My arm is strong. Had there been three steps of distance to the bulwarks, my assailant might have recovered. There were but two. The man staggered away, arms outstretched, and the back of his legs hit the side. One hand clawed at the worn wood but his centre of balance was compromised, and over he went. Calling my surname as he fell.

I leapt forward and grabbed the ropes, staring back helplessly at the splashing figure who dropped farther and farther behind us in the featureless sea.

Holmes.

BOOK TWO
T
HE
H
ARLEQUIN
November 17–27, 1924

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

KATE
: Far away from toil and care,
Revelling in fresh sea-air.

Meanwhile, the previous Monday …

A
BOUT THE TIME
the charabanc full of Major-General Stanley’s thirteen blonde daughters was crawling out of Lisbon’s last hill on Monday, its War-era engine gasping for air much in the way its passengers would do on the hill above Cintra later that day, Teams One and Two arrived at their respective destinations. Within minutes, anger flared.

Team One, composed of Randolph St John Warminster-Fflytte and his piratical highness, La Rocha the First, disembarked from the taxi that Fflytte had judged necessary for the sake of face (even if, as he had to admit, they might have walked there and back in half the time) and presented themselves to the offices of the harbour master.

Which were shut, it having been judged time for morning coffee.

When the harbour master and his secretary returned, fifteen minutes later, Fflytte had worked himself into a state of high dudgeon and was ready to turn his aristocratic fury on someone, whereas La Rocha was … well, he was La Rocha. Anything might happen.

The harbour master was young, educated, and new to Lisbon (a beneficiary of the country’s current impoverishment and general dissatisfaction with The Way Things Were, young newcomers being both cheap and unaffiliated with the status quo). His secretary was a Lisboan, born and raised, who had lived within gull-cry of the water his entire life, and who had worked as a stevedore until an accident had cost him a few essential body parts. His wits, his modicum of literacy, and his ability to hold a pen landed him in the office instead of on the street, and here he remained, a valuable resource for three decades of harbour masters.

And this man knew La Rocha, oh yes. His hand came out as if to seize his employer’s coat, then faltered as his initial philanthropy was countered by craven self-interest: the impulse to turn heel and run. But the urge got no further than a brief step backwards before his nobler instincts regained control.

He caught his employer’s shoulder and murmured in that young man’s ear. The fresh face went from an expression of curiosity at the pair of men waiting to mild irritation at being manhandled by his inferior, followed by a frown of concentration at his secretary’s words, until his eyes went wide and his throat convulsed in a nervous swallow. The grey-haired assistant let go his grip. The boss settled his narrow shoulders inside the jacket, and came slowly forward.

“Good morning, gentlemen, I apologise for my absence. Are you waiting for me?” He spoke flawless English, and would have presented a face of complete assurance but for the tight wobble that was the final word. He made haste to get inside his office and around the back of the polished counter, as if personal territory combined with solid wood might offer a defence.

“Yes,” Fflytte answered. “There’s a ship in your harbour called
Harlequin
. I need to talk with the owner.”

“The—”

One word was all he managed before La Rocha began to speak. Everyone listened, even Fflytte, who did not understand a word of it but could appreciate authority when he heard it: incongruous voice, looming presence, and the texture of promised violence at the back of La Rocha’s torrent of words. The scar helped, too: The harbour master’s gaze wove in fascination between the compelling eyes and the terrible scar.

Within a couple of sentences, the young man was making a hurry-up gesture to his assistant, who ducked under the counter and began to pull out files. Less than a minute after La Rocha opened his mouth, the secretary stood up with a piece of paper in his good hand, and made to proffer it to La Rocha. The harbour master snatched it, then laid the page cautiously on the wood between the two strangers. La Rocha picked it up.

“Obrigado,”
he said, like a pat on the head. He handed the page to Fflytte, who repeated the thanks in a surprised voice.

As the two men left the office, the sweating employees of the Lisboan harbour authority heard the tiny Englishman’s comment: “I say, they’re certainly more efficient than one might expect. They didn’t even have to look it up!”

The name and address were for a ship’s chandler near the harbour. This man, too, seemed almost to be expecting an enquiry concerning the
Harlequin
, although he was clearly not interested in a temporary arrangement. He flatly turned down Fflytte’s offer to hire the vessel for the week. When Fflytte pointed out that he would be returning the ship in considerably better shape than it was currently, the man’s eyes flicked briefly sideways in the direction of La Rocha before they locked back on Fflytte. No: It was for sale, to the right customer, but only for sale. And no: He could not introduce Fflytte to the owner, whose instructions had been clear, and who was in any event out of the area. The entire country, in fact. Perhaps forever. But to be absolutely honest (he said, earnestly holding Fflytte’s eyes, as if another glance at La Rocha would mean being reduced to smoking bones) the
Harlequin
was a bargain. Yes, she was not pretty, but the owner was getting out of the fishing business and wanted only to sell. To the right customer, as he had already indicated. And if he could be so bold to suggest, if the good gentleman did not wish to take the
Harlequin
back to England with him, once the ship was restored to beauty, she could be sold again, perhaps by sailing her around Spain to the coast of France where the wealthy gathered with little to—

La Rocha cleared his throat, and the man went a touch pale, dropping his gaze to his papers and scrabbling them about for a moment. Then he returned to his suggestion: Perhaps if Mr Fflytte would look at the proposal, he would see that purchasing
Harlequin
would be a far more beneficial arrangement.

So Mr Fflytte sat down with the papers, and to his surprise, what the man had said looked to be true. The purchase price was so reasonable it made him wonder what was keeping the vessel afloat.

Love might be blind, but it was not completely witless.

“I’ll have to have someone survey it for me,” he said firmly, expecting the man to quibble, but far from it, the fellow seemed quite relieved.

Fflytte took away a sheaf of papers, which he studied with the attitude of an unlovely octogenarian handed a marriage proposal by a charming young beauty: What am I not seeing here?

“I must speak with Geoffrey.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

PIRATE KING
: Although we live by strife, We’re always sorry to begin it.
For what, we ask, is life Without a touch of Poetry in it?

Also the previous Monday …

I
N THE MEANTIME
, Team Two had gathered in the Maria Vitória to continue the arrangement of the pirates’ scenes. Without La Rocha to keep the men in line, Geoffrey Hale was anticipating problems, and his heart sank when his first instruction to gather round was completely ignored by the merrily chattering men.

Then Samuel’s single word crackled through the theatre, bringing instantaneous silence. He fixed the others, one by one, with a baleful eye, then turned to Hale and waved a hand of invitation.

Hale had no subsequent problems with discipline.

Not that there weren’t problems aplenty without discipline entering in.

Hale began by introducing the stand-in cameraman, William Currie’s assistant. This was a nervous and spotty Liverpudlian named Artie, who wore a soft cap that he never removed and prefaced each speech with a series of tugs at the beard he was attempting to grow. The pirates looked him over as if he were a puppy, or dinner.

“Artie is here to see that the fight scenes we plan out will work on the screen. Remember, the camera lens stands at one place, so if, for example, Adam—come here, Adam—goes to stab Charles—yes, you stand there—and in the meantime Earnest is in the way, the audience will make no sense of it when Charles falls with his hands to his stomach. You see?”

Charles said something, and Pessoa said, “He wants to know if he is going to die in the picture.”

“I don’t know, that’s up to Mr Fflytte.”

Pessoa translated that, then Earnest spoke, and Pessoa said, “He says, who is he fighting with while the other two are stabbing each other?”

“Again, I don’t know.”

Translation, then Kermit spoke up, followed by Pessoa: “He wants to know if he can fight Irving. I think the two boys both have eyes for one of the girls. That is my comment, not what the boy says.”

“Tell him— Oh hell, this is going to make me crazy. Mr Pessoa, your English is really quite good. Do you think you might just try to keep up a running translation rather than pausing to say ‘He says’ and ‘He wants to know’?”

“I will try,” Pessoa said, and after that he did. At first he was slow and scrupulous, but within the hour he was caught up in the rhythm of it and even took to duplicating the inflections of the speaker.

It made things much easier.

The first scene took place in the pirate stronghold. Fflytte had marked the script with “pirates clown about,” which suited Hale as a starting place, since clowning was a good way both to break the ice and see what his amateur actors could do in the way of physical emoting.

“Now,” he told them, “I want you to remember that your audience won’t be able to hear your words. You have to tell them everything by your gestures, the expressions on your face, how you stand and move. Imagine that your audience on this stage is made up of deaf people. You—”

“Do you want us to shout louder?” Lawrence, the smallest and youngest, asked.

“No, they don’t hear at all. Surely you’ve all seen a moving picture?” All the heads nodded. “The only thing you hear is the music, isn’t it? Now, imagine that the cinema is filled with all those pretty girls, the sisters. They won’t be able to hear your words, will they? You have to impress them by how you act. You have to tell them your story without using words.”

The heads nodded again. Encouraged, Hale went on.

“Your first scene takes place in the pirate stronghold. You’re gathered there to celebrate the end of Frederic’s apprenticeship, since he has turned twenty-one.” The plot had been laboriously explained to them already, but reviews, Hale had found, were essential when amateurs were involved. “It’s a party, there’s drinking—although no, we’re not breaking out the rum today for the rehearsal—” (Hale was pleased when this brought groans and jokes from his pirates.) “—and there’s a lot of clowning around and … sorry, Mr Pessoa? Oh, clowning around is jokes, merry-making, games. It’s a celebration. So let’s pretend for a minute that you’re all at this party. I’ll play the part of Frederic, since he’s off with the sisters filming in Cintra. Raise your glasses—yes, just pretend—and … what would you do? Dancing? How about some dancing?”

He began to clap loudly, and Adam followed by Francis gave themselves over to the spirit of it and jumped about. Some of the others joined in, singing and leaping, and then two of them started a wrestling match and in moments the birthday party had disintegrated into a free-for-all of arms and legs and happy shouts. Hale waded in to separate the nearest pair of combatants, and a fist came out of the
melee
, sending him reeling.

For the second time, the pirate lieutenant’s voice sliced through the air, freezing a stageful of men in their places. Samuel moved fast, sending one lad flying and hauling another upright and off the boards in a single jerk.

“Stop!” Hale managed to wheeze. Samuel paused, looking over his shoulder. Hale coughed and said, “I’m Frederic, remember?”

The lieutenant studied him, then lowered the lad he had been holding—Earnest, looking very frightened indeed—gently to the floor. He brushed the boy off, bent to pick up a couple of hats and restore them to their respective heads, and stepped back to the side of the stage.

So much for clowning. Still, it suggested some additions to the scene, and when Hale had his breath back, he began to run through them: Several of the lads could perform cart-wheels (Lawrence took care to button his pet white mouse into its pocket first); middle-aged Gerald had a quite impressive squatting dance move, almost like a Russian folk-dance; Irving had a face like rubber; Benjamin had a dark intensity that would play well next to fair-headed Frederic.

And so it went.

Still, before long they ran up against the limitations of using a stage to practice scenes that took place out of doors. And other than the initial party, that included all of the scenes. Time and again, Hale would have to exhort a man to imagine that there was a tree there, or water behind him, or a boulder behind which he could hide. Each time he did so, a string of questions came trailing across the stage: How big a tree? (It doesn’t matter.) What kind of water? (Salt, with small waves.) Why is there a solitary boulder there? (Because I put it there.)

It did not take too many of these diversions before Hale felt like beating one of the less-imaginative pirates over the head with an invisible chair. He looked at his watch, and put out one hand, calling a halt and sending them all to lunch.

“And I want you sober when you come back!” he shouted at their backs. He sighed, gingerly prodded his bruised stomach, and retrieved the jacket he had shed in the heat of frustration. Pessoa, halfway down the aisle, paused to look back at the stage.

“Would it make a difference if you were to practice in the out of doors?” the translator asked with diffidence.

“Not in the manicured little parks you have around here, they’d be no better than the stage.”

“I was thinking, perhaps, the botanical gardens?”

Hale considered the suggestion, and told himself that not all of the translator’s suggestions would be as fraught as the
Harlequin
. He finished straightening his neck-tie. “Show me?”

The gardens, right adjacent to the theatre grounds, proved ideal. Particularly as it wasn’t actively raining when the men—more or less sober—came back from their luncheon. And Pessoa knew the man in charge, who let them in at a special rate for the group. There were trees and a little water and even a few diminutive boulders, and Samuel’s crew responded to the setting with the relief of men coming home after a confusing time abroad.

Originally, Hale had intended to bring the police constables in for the scenes, but after seeing the enthusiasm with which the pirates had thrown themselves into the party
melee
, he was glad he had decided to wait a day. Or two.

He explained that the scene he needed them to think about was when the police came—“The police are coming? Here?” “Only in the picture, Charles.”—when the
pretend
police came, because the pirates had taken the Major-General’s daughters captive—“I’ll take them captive, yes!” “I can have two?” “Harriet is mine!” “No, she is mine!” at which point Pessoa’s translation bogged down. Since there was little need for translation Hale merely raised his voice and went on. “—taken the girls captive, but freed them to return to their father. The Major-General then sends the police—yes, the pretend police—and that is when you fight them.”

As he talked, he had taken off his jacket and worked his way into a special, heavily padded waistcoat he’d asked Sally to fashion after the knives came out on Saturday. She’d had to cannibalise other garments—none of the costume corsets had whalebone now—but it ended up a garment that might protect his more vital organs from any stray non-collapsing blades.

“All right, first thing is to give your own knives to Samuel, here.” When none of them moved, Hale said, “You’ll get them back at the end of the day, and it saves you from worrying about pulling the wrong blade.” When still none of them moved, he added, “If I end up in hospital, it’s going to slow the production down considerably.”

Samuel’s hand went out, and one by one, the pirates filed past and divested themselves of their arms. Fourteen men: Hale stopped counting at twenty-three weapons.

He felt somewhat more confident when they began lining up to practise stabbing him.

That night, while Hale was attempting to dress for dinner, his cousin let himself in. Fflytte stopped dead.

“Christ, Geoffrey, what happened to you?”

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

“Looks like the time just before the War when that bloody mare tossed you into the stream. What was the creature’s name?”

“Thumper.” Hale prodded a small patch of his torso that was not black or blue, and winced: even that hurt. “So long as you’re here, help me with the plasters? I don’t want to bleed all over another shirt.”

Fflytte took the packet of plasters and began to cover the open wounds Hale had trouble reaching—all minor, although an alarming number of them. As he worked, he asked, “Have you decided how we should pair up the constables?”

Unlike the girls and the pirates, who would be matched up by their respective heights, the smaller number of constables required a more deliberate pairing to get the full effect of the fight scenes. And where the girls were for beauty and the pirates for masculinity, the constables (with their tall, thin Sergeant) had been chosen for humour. Short, bald-headed “Clarence” in his brass-buttoned uniform would be perfect battling Samuel, as sixty-year-old Frank with his protruding ears and missing teeth was going to look absurd facing handsome young Benjamin. Trying to ignore his cousin’s none-too-gentle ministrations, Hale ran over his pairings. “—and the Sergeant with Lawrence, who comes up to his belt-buckle. The only one I’m none too sure about—ow, watch it!—is Bert.”

“Which one’s Bert?”

“The dark Cockney.”

“The pretty one. Yes, I meant to ask about that: I thought we were going for odd with the constables?”

“I wouldn’t say he’s pretty. Not exactly. Though I’ll admit, he’s prettier than I remembered.”

Fflytte made no comment, which was comment enough. Hale opened his mouth to defend himself against the unspoken charge of a personal interest, but decided there wasn’t much he could say. He didn’t recall hiring an actor with good looks—indeed, if anything, he vaguely remembered a runt with a twisted nose. But he had been rushed at the time, and then the problem with Lonnie came up, and in any event, here was Bert, with nothing particularly odd about him. And if he wasn’t pretty, exactly, his looks were interesting enough that his attentions to Annie were reassuring.

Hale was abruptly called back to himself by a prod in a tender zone. “Was there something you wanted, Randolph?”