In an Adventure With Napoleon (17 page)

The pirate with a scarf handed the Pirate Captain his best towel, which had some pictures of lions lazing around and “I’ve bathed with the lions at Longleat!’ written across the top, and tried to affect a philosophical expression. ‘I think the trouble is unfortunately the one thing you
have
learned, Captain, is that you usually
manage to get away with it, so there’s no real deterrent.’

‘It’s not really my fault. The problem is that my mouth just comes out with these things. And you can’t blame me for what my mouth does, can you? Curse this mouth. Do you think it might be possessed?’ The Pirate Captain looked in the mirror and made his mouth into a series of shapes that he thought looked demonic.

‘It may be impetuous, sir, but it’s also bursting with quiet resolve and kissable softness,’ said the pirate with a scarf, as tactful as ever.

‘I suppose it is one of my best features,’ sighed the Pirate Captain. ‘Still, if it wasn’t for the sensuous curve of my lips I think I’d probably cut my mouth off and have done with it. I reckon I could cope perfectly well without one.’

As the pirate with a scarf brushed the Captain’s teeth, they both contemplated what life would be like if the Pirate Captain had no mouth. The pirate with a scarf could certainly see an upside, but on balance he thought that he’d miss hearing the Pirate Captain use his mouth to say things like ‘scurvy lubbers’ and ‘Do we have any Coco Pops?’

‘Even so, I’m not too worried,’ continued the Captain, after he had gargled. ‘You know what these generals are like. Stand at the back shouting orders and expect the little man to do all the work for them. Would you mind putting my deodorant on for me, number two? My arms are still quite sleepy.’

He lifted his arms. ‘But there’s no little man to do the work for him this time, is there? Frankly, I doubt he’s ever picked up a sword in his life.’

‘All France Champion, 1810, 1811, 1812. European Gold Medal four years running.
What épée?
Man of the Year, 1814,’ said the pirate with a scarf.

The Pirate Captain wilted a bit.

‘Red pants or blue pants?’ asked the pirate with a scarf.

‘Red. Do you think there’s some sort of ancient martial art that bee-keepers have passed down from generation to generation? Ideally something that I can learn in about twenty minutes while I get dressed?’

‘I’m afraid there’s nothing in the
Children’s Golden Treasury of Bee Stories
along those lines.’ The pirate with a scarf paused. ‘I know it’s not in your nature, Captain, but it’s really not too late to flee. Nobody would think any less of you.’

The Captain snorted imperiously. ‘You know me. “Flee” isn’t in my vocabulary. By which I don’t mean “flee” isn’t in my vocabulary in the same way that “rebuttal” isn’t in my vocabulary. I know what “flee” means. In fact, I know what both spellings of the word “flee” means, double “e” and “ea”. But my point is this – the Pirate Captain doesn’t flee.’ He did his resolute face and stared out of the bathroom window. All of a sudden his eyes lit up. ‘And he doesn’t need to, because he’s just come up with a maverick yet brilliant idea that pretty much
guarantees him victory. Only I’m not going to say what it is, number two, because I don’t want to undermine the impending drama for you.’

There was a real spirit of carnival down on the beach. As ever, the pirate crew demonstrated a touching faith in their Captain which bordered on the delusional, so they were waving banners, blowing horns and joking with the islanders. Enterprising types were selling snacks and football rattles. They all cheered as the Pirate Captain and the pirate with a scarf appeared over the brow of the hill. The Captain was wearing his best blousy shirt, his beard was gleaming in the early morning light and he’d polished all his gold teeth. As he strode manfully towards the shore the only thing that could have made him look even more heroic than he already did would have been the theme to
Flash Gordon
playing in the background, but it was a hundred and seventy years too early for that.

‘So, this is dawn is it?’ the Captain muttered, staring out at the horizon. ‘I have to admit, it’s very pretty the way it does all those orangey colours. I didn’t know sky got up to that kind of thing.’ He turned to Jennifer, who was carrying his cutlass. ‘Well, Jennifer. Here I am, facing almost certain death. Possibly these are my last few minutes on Earth. You know what might be a nice send-off?’

‘Sorry, Pirate Captain,’ said Jennifer, giving him a
warm but platonic embrace. ‘I already told you I won’t do that. But good luck anyhow, we’re all rooting for you.’

The crowd murmured amongst themselves excitedly as from the other end of the beach Napoleon appeared. He marched forward with a businesslike air, kitted out in a set of immaculate white fencing gear. The pirate who followed fashion reckoned Napoleon had already lost the most important battle, mainly because the pirate who followed fashion didn’t read many books and thought Napoleon had a sieve on his face. The two men stood toe to toe and everything fell silent, except for the rolling Atlantic Ocean which seemed pretty disinterested in the whole affair and went on crashing against the rocks that lined either side of the bay.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the Governor, gravely. ‘In all my years on St Helena, never have I had to oversee an event as regrettable as the duel you are about to witness. Please! Don’t cheer! It’s horrible. I would beseech both parties one last time to resolve this in some more amicable way.’

‘Fair enough,’ said the Pirate Captain, shrugging. He held a conciliatory hand out to his rival. ‘How about a game of Monopoly? I’ll let you be the dog, if you like. And to show you just how amicable I’m feeling I don’t even mind if you want me to be the wheelbarrow. Normally I hate being the wheelbarrow.’

‘I am sorry,’ replied Napoleon, cricking his neck. ‘But
we Corsicans are a proud breed. Only blood can wipe the stain from my honour.’
²⁷

‘Honestly, Napoleon,’ said the Captain with a sigh. ‘That doesn’t even make sense. How can blood wipe away a stain? It’s just going to make an even bigger stain. White wine might do the trick.’

‘Gentlemen, please take your positions,’ said the Governor, ‘which we have marked with little sandcastles – the Pirate Captain’s being a tiny ship and Napoleon’s a miniature Versailles. Thanks to the St Helena Competitive Sandcastle Group for that.’

A group of islanders cheered.

‘They’d like me to remind everyone that they meet every Tuesday morning at nine down here on the beach. Bring your own bucket and spade.’

The Pirate Captain liked sandcastles and made a mental note to pop along next Tuesday, before remembering that there was a distinct possibility he’s be cut to pieces before then.
²⁸

‘Now, I want a good clean fight to the death. No scratching, biting, goading, bombing, petting, or hitting each other with tables, ladders or chairs. Sexy distractions are strictly forbidden.’ The Governor looked up at the
stormy sky. ‘And if you could get it over with before this drizzle turns into proper rain, I’m sure we’d all be very grateful.’

Napoleon swept his rapier from its scabbard. He bowed to the Pirate Captain and raised his blade. ‘En garde!’

‘Aaarr. That means put your cutlass up, doesn’t it? You know, for this to be fair I really should be going backwards up a staircase.’

The Pirate Captain decided to start the duel the same way he played chess – by closing his eyes and making as much noise as possible. Cutlass hit rapier and steel rang on steel and there were even some sparks, which delighted everyone, because it looked really dramatic. The Captain lunged forward energetically, his beard shook and his earrings jangled. Things seemed to be going so well he even decided to do a little pirouette between blows, as Napoleon edged backwards under the onslaught.

‘I’m no expert on fencing,’ said the pirate in red, watching from the sidelines, ‘but you have to admire Napoleon’s parrying. He’s not really moving anything but his wrist, is he?’

‘I think they’re toying with each other, looking for weaknesses,’ said the pirate in green. ‘Napoleon’s main weakness seems to be that he looks a little bored, whilst the Pirate Captain’s main weakness is that he’s already hopelessly out of breath and has no technique whatsoever.’

‘Why on earth is he twirling about like that?’ asked Jennifer. ‘Do you think he’s drunk?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said the pirate with a scarf, trying to look as hopeful as possible. ‘The Captain told me that he has “something up his sleeve”.’

Every time the Pirate Captain swung, he was annoyed to find Napoleon’s blade already there. He aimed a blow right at his opponent’s neck, but the general simply hopped to one side, and the Pirate Captain’s momentum nearly sent him tumbling onto the sand. Napoleon whirled around and sliced dangerously at the Captain’s unprotected left side. ‘A surprise flank attack,’ Napoleon announced with a grin, ‘similar to that which secured my victory at Castiglione.’

‘You can’t compare my belly with a city,’ said the Pirate Captain, frantically back-pedalling. ‘That’s a rubbish metaphor.’

‘Simile, Pirate Captain, it’s a simile. Now for a sustained assault on your front lines.’

Napoleon lunged at the Pirate Captain’s chest. The point of his blade cut through the fabric of the Captain’s blousy white shirt but he managed to twist out of harm’s way just in time.

‘Oh! The big man swerves at the last minute,’ said the Pirate Captain, in a commentator voice. ‘It’s an incredible recovery and the crowd go wild!’ He made a ‘crowd roar’ sound with his mouth.

‘
Concentrate!
’ said Napoleon. ‘It’s bad enough that
you’re using illegal fencing manoeuvres, but the commentary is too much. Stand still, damn you!’

‘And it’s not looking good for the little general, as the Pirate Captain feints to the left, then to the right and – AAAHHH!’.

The Pirate Captain’s arm was bleeding. He’d hardly even seen Napoleon move. The watching pirates were aghast. For years the Captain had persuaded them that his veins ran with brine, and then recently he’d claimed that actually it was honey. But now they could see it, pouring from his bicep, it looked a lot like normal red blood. They couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

Staggering backwards, the Captain tried to imagine again what he would do if this was a game of chess. But the analogy didn’t stretch that far, because he realised that by this point he would have ‘accidentally’ knocked the board on the floor with a sweep of his arm and stormed off in a huff.

Napoleon seemed unstoppable. He leaped over a rock and jabbed again with his rapier and the Pirate Captain let out a tremendous surprised roar as it speared about three inches into his shoulder. He looked down at himself in shock, not sure which was worse: the excruciating pain or the fact that his mermaid tattoo now had a big hole in her forehead, which frankly made her a lot less attractive.

‘Strike two!’ said Napoleon. ‘The crabs shall make a
meal of your blood, Pirate Captain. And the seagulls will feast upon your pleasant, open face.’

Another blow from Napoleon sent the Captain’s cutlass clattering uselessly away. The situation looked bleak. And though it was a bit earlier in the proceedings than he would have liked, the Pirate Captain decided it was time to unveil his Secret Weapon. He swerved to avoid a swipe that almost chopped his hat in two, and yanked back his right sleeve.

‘What’s he doing?’ said the pirate with a hook for a hand. ‘Is he going to use his cartoon octopus tattoo as a distraction?’

‘He seems to be wearing a falconry glove,’ said the pirate in green, squinting at the spectacle unfolding in front of them. ‘And for some reason he’s stuck some currants to it.’

‘Maybe he’s hungry?’ said the pirate with long legs.

The Pirate Captain waggled his forearm. ‘Go! Fly! Fly, my bees! Attack!’

Three drowsy bees flew off the glove into the air. One circled around the Captain’s head and stung him on the ear. The second fell dead to the sand. The third flew at Napoleon, changed its little bee mind and then headed out to sea.
²⁹

‘Oh dear,’ said Jennifer. ‘That was his secret weapon?
Bees?
’

‘Why?! Why have you betrayed me?’ bellowed the Pirate Captain, sinking to his knees. ‘You bees! How could you do this? Oh cruel treacherous fate! My bees! My traitor bees!’

The pirate crew knew that their captain had a ‘unique world view’, but they realised that people who didn’t know him very well might just think he was a bit mentally ill. Looking at him now, drenched with rain, blood running down his arm, waving his hands about and shouting to the heavens about being ‘King of the Bees’, he did look a little unhinged. Confronted with this spectacle Napoleon seemed suddenly less confident, almost as if he were a bit embarrassed by the entire situation. The Pirate Captain took advantage of Napoleon’s brief hesitation, and he clambered away up one of the craggy rocks that lined the bay.

‘Think fast, Pirate Captain,’ said the Pirate Captain, as the General began to advance upon him once more.

The Captain thought fast.

First he thought about burgers. He liked burgers, more than hot dogs but not as much as steak. Then he thought about paper and decided that his favourite size was A5, because he could fold it small enough to go in his pocket without creating an unsightly bulge. Finally he thought about his pirate mentor, Calico Jack, and at last it came to him. He recalled a summer evening in a
cherry orchard, when the old man had taught him a move that was both exciting and deadly: the Soaring Barnacle.

The Captain leaped from the rock and backed away down the sand so that he had a bit of a run-up. Then he turned to face Napoleon, paused briefly to wink at his public, and sprinted forward. All of a sudden he dropped to his knees and slid along the ground, waving his arms above his head. Just as he came within striking distance the Pirate Captain remembered that the Soaring Barnacle was actually a dance move.

‘Pirates doing unexpected dance moves’ was the kind of thing that fencing instructors tended not to mention, so Napoleon found himself caught completely off guard. There was a
whumping
sound as the Pirate Captain crashed right into the general’s midriff, knocking him off his feet and his rapier into the sand. The two men rolled down the beach in an ungainly tangle of limbs. They rolled across the shingle, they rolled through both the sandcastles, and soon they were rolling into the sea.