out his features. I stared at his expression, then resumed my rowing before he could scold me. “
“Shh,” he urged. Pulling the edge of the blanket forward so his face was in shadow, he murmured, “Is there any language you are certain is not spoken by any of those on board?”
“I haven’t tried them all, but I’d guess Hindustani.” And before he could scold me about that as well, I added, “Yes, guessing is deplorable, I know.”
The shadowed face seemed to fold into a brief smile, and then he sat upright into the lamp-light and said in normal tones and a Midlands accent, “I have to thank you again, Miss Russell. Quite ridiculous of me to tumble over like that, ought to make the railings tall enough to hold a man instead of tipping him overboard. What if you hadn’t been there to see me go?”
“There was a man on watch,” I loudly reassured our Major-General Stanley. “He tossed you a life-ring, too.”
“Well, I hope you haven’t spoilt your lady-like hands on the oars, you really should have let me take them.”
“I didn’t want to risk having you over again. Catch that line, would you?”
He caught at it, missed it, nearly fell in again, dropped his blanket in the water, and finally got his fist around the line. By dint of my pushing him from below – a tricky manoeuvre, when braced in a skiff – and others pulling from above, we got the Major-General back on deck.
“Take him to galley,” La Rocha ordered Adam, then to his damp passenger, “Warm there, you be dry in no time.”
The young pirate led him away; I did not think Holmes’ shivers were entirely an act.
The boat was made fast, and La Rocha ordered the sails raised. I wished him a good night and headed below, but his voice stopped me.
“Why you on deck?”
“When he fell, you mean? I was enjoying the quiet – I’m not used to sleeping in a room full of people – and he came up and … Well, I thought he was assaulting me, so I … I’m afraid I shoved him, and he went overboard. That’s why I sort of felt I had to go after him. My fault.”
The pirate king stared at me, then stared at me all over. And he laughed. As if a man making advances on Mary Russell was quite the biggest joke he’d heard in years.
Which was more or less what I’d intended. Still, he didn’t have to agree with quite so much gusto. Feeling very cross, I went down the stairs and, instead of going directly to my bunk, went to the galley instead. I thrust my head inside, to find my husband and partner arranging his wet garments over various chair backs. Adam was with him; both men looked up.
“From now on, you keep your hands to yourself!” I stormed. “Next time I’ll use a belaying pin, and let you drown!”
The young man looked startled, but Holmes’ face ran a quick gamut of surprise, disapproval, and distaste, before he pasted on an expression of sheepishness for the benefit of La Rocha’s man.
I’d had to let him know what explanation I’d given for our little adventure. I dimly recognised that saddling him with a reputation for lechery – a reputation he would find repugnant every time he was forced to uphold it – was a displaced revenge on his brother. However, I will admit that the thought of it was a small warm satisfaction, nestled to me as I drifted off in my canvas sling.
Where I slept peacefully, until the screams started.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MAJOR-GENERAL: In fact, when I know what is meant by “mamelon” and “ravelin,”
When I can tell at sight a Mauser rifle from a javelin …
I SHOT UPRIGHT in my hammock, instantly flipped over, and by dint of hanging on hard to the canvas, managed to describe a complete circuit before crashing dramatically to the floor. The hold seemed to be populated by dangling pupae with startled faces, but everyone else managed to remain in their canvas, and no one appeared to be writhing in agony or fighting off an attack. I snatched my glasses from the nearby shelf and looked again. No: The noise was coming from above.
Grabbing my dressing-gown from the laden row of hooks, I tied the belt while hurrying up the companionway towards the thin dawn light. When I stepped out on the deck, I knew I was still dreaming.
The last time I’d seen Captain La Rocha, near midnight, he’d been dressed in a pair of striped pyjamas and a dark dressing-gown – extraordinary in their unexpected ordinariness. Now …
Either our Captain had decided to immerse himself wholeheartedly in his assigned role, or I had knocked myself cold falling from the hammock.
His hat was scarlet. From it danced an emerald ostrich plume the length of my arm. His jacket was brocade, orange and red, over a gold waistcoat, burgundy trousers, and knee-high boots a Musketeer would have killed for, also scarlet. His small earring had doubled in size overnight, and half a dozen fingers bore rings – gold rings, with faceted gems. The henna in his beard gleamed red in the sunlight.
The only missing details were an eye patch, a peg-leg, and a parrot.
“Good-morning, Miss Russell,” his incongruous voice piped. “Meet Rosie.”
He tipped his face upwards. I, too, lifted my eyes to the rigging, then lifted them some more, wondering what female on board the ship would dare to clamber the lines. Surely Edith wouldn’t have – then the scream came again, and I saw its source.
A parrot.
I felt someone beside me and looked over, then down. Randolph Fflytte, who for the first time looked almost nondescript in a violet dressing gown, was rubbing his eyes.
“This is your fault,” I said bitterly.
His eyes caught on La Rocha and went wide. His jaw made a few fish-like motions; at Rosie’s next shriek, it dropped entirely. He stood gaping at the bird, who screamed its challenge at the rising sun, then turned to me. “I never,” he declared.
“You wanted a pirate,” I told him. “You got one.”
“Jaizus” came Will’s voice in my ear, “he’s even put up a pirate flag!”
He was right. A skull and crossbones taller than a man rippled in the bow breeze, flashing its grin at the pirate, the parrot, and those of us along for the ride. The Jolly Roger, a declaration that no quarter would be given. The voice of the Byron-loving Miss Sim seemed to thrill in my ear:
“Is that legal?” It was a woman’s voice – Mrs Hatley, sounding disapproving. I had to agree: Surely maritime laws frowned on such frivolities as pirate flags?
The rising sun touched the top of the mast, exciting our avian alarm. It flapped its brilliant wings and shouted something in response.
“What did it say?” someone asked.
“Probably Portuguese,” came an answer.
“Not Portuguese,” said a man – our pirate crew was now awake, too, and clearly as astonished by La Rocha’s antics as the English passengers.
The bird screamed again, and I blinked as the sign-board appeared before my mind’s eye:
“Actions are propaganda!”
I repeated it aloud.
Fflytte said, “What the devil does that mean?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what it said.”
“She’s right,” said Will.
Three dozen people in various stages of undress, and one pirate in extraordinary dress, stood agog, awaiting the next pronouncement. The bird gazed down at its audience.
