Les Animeaux - Part IX

Chapter Five

Pyrates at Large!

The Inn was scarcely a thousand metres from Oak Island. As Zita unpacked the Car and freshened up, the two Animeaux snuck over and placed their sonar transponders in the corners of the Bay, aligning them with the old treasure pit and their own map’s depiction of the underwater tunnels. While Callum was doing this BT-McG placed wire taps on all the phone lines going to the island, and climbed one of the large trees overseeing the small bay and placed the infra-red beacons for the Dragon Dragoons to home in on. When this was complete they casually wondered back to the Inn and snuck in through the window. The four of them then went to dinner in the dining room that overlooked The Island.

Naturally they all started with the chowder and then sat around the large table looking out the windows that framed the Island in the last light, drew diagrams and lightly discussed the celebrated engineering that highlighted the mystery of Oak Island. Slowly the discussion turned to the practical question of whether the workings that had brought Callum and BT-McG down to the sea could be of any use to their problems at home.

“Personally I don’t think Pyrates had anything to do with the venture,” said Callum as he shaded his eyes for a better look, “From our briefings it appears to me that the work is far too complex for Pyrates to have had their messy hands in on the effort, more likely it was built to protect some Great Treasure from Pyrates or real estate salesmen. It would not surprise me to discover Pyrates are presently at work here, determined to steal the treasure as soon as it is uncovered.”

BT-McG looked up from his soup and nodded in agreement, “By the way chums have you seen the waiter staring over here?”

Zita said “Why yes, though he is a bit old for me, the attention is nice for a change.”

Simultaneously the three others choked on their chowder, “Well I hadn’t quite t’ought of it likes that.” BT said diplomatically, “I was too disastonished by the patch over his eye and the parrot stains down the back of his shirt. Don’t look-up now, he is coming over.”

The two Animeaux suddenly developed an intense interest in the menus and disappeared behind them. The waiter took the order and asked if they were intending to have an extended stay at the inn. Craig said that they thought that a few days would be sufficient to accomplish their business and pointedly added no explanations. The waiter thanked them and hurried away.

BT-McG said “Don’ t’ink it was wise to tickle their interests. Pyrates can be most worrisome when it suits ‘em. Look, he has gone over t’other waiter, with the wooden leg and the hook; they keep look’en over here.”

Craig realized that perhaps these Pyrates were a more contemporary and substantial risk then he had assumed, “Sorry guys. I blew it.”

When he looked back only BT and Zita were at the table. Callum had disappeared. He was about to ask “Where’s Callum?” when a warning glance from McG dissuaded him. The waiter reappeared, “I am so sorry, but we are all out of the curried-gingerbread soufflé. Can I suggest a substitute. Perhaps a nice mango, potato and rum mousse. It won’t be ready for a while, I could have it brought to your room, if you would give me the number.”

Much to their surprise BT-McG accepted the offer.

Twenty minutes later the two sand-filled pillow cases had followed their projected trajectory, swinging from the edges of the door frame. They surely would have met had not two Pyrates heads got in the way.

The suddenly still forms thudded to the floor and Craig and Zita dragged them to the safety of the room, “Hope you all know what you’re doing. It will be difficult to explain this to the Amalgamated Union of Maritime Waiters and unemployed Actors if they are legitimate.” said Zita.

“Have no worries on that account,” said Callum “do you see any sign of our mousse? -- No, just a couple of blackjacks and a canister of fabric softener to knock us out. It’s just like Pyrates to try to stage a massacre and not to even bring dessert. They have not a smidgen of style.”

The fiberglass tape had been removed from the Car’s emergency repair kit and around 12 that night the four of them watched as the erstwhile waiters, bound to wayward logs, floated serenely into the bay.

As they walked back to the Inn, Callum and BT-McGruph discussed whether they should try to reorder dessert.

The next morning at breakfast, they decided that Callum and BT-McG should modify their travel plans as Zita was sure that the area would probably be swarming with Pyrates and their paid “toddies” in no time at all.

This presented the usual problem. The Animeaux had intended to camp out and “rough it” and did not have enough ready money for an extended stay. A quick discussion ensued and the treasure split was upped to 8%, for which Craig and Zita would cover the direct and legitimate costs of the treasure research. The agreement pointedly excluded any trips to Sweden or Italy for “Consultations”.

The next two weeks passed in unaccustomed simplicity. Callum phoned home regularly to check on the progress of the search and BT put on weight as he sampled the home cooking of every small inn on Cape Breton Island. They justified the excursion to the rest of the “lads” as a ruse. If the story was to be believed they were apparently leading hordes of Pyrates on an exceptionally wild goose chase.

Though to give them their due, there did appear to be a rather shoddy, old, large and ill handled sailing ship standing off shore when ever the sea was in view—it could have been coincidence.

Naturally they stopped at Louisbourg where one of the most famous Pyrate depredations occurred centuries earlier. Callum insisted that it was Animeaux money behind the restoration of the old Inn where they dined. BT-McG used the occasion to stuff his knap sack full of fresh buns—for tea time en-route he claimed. After lunch Zita had long postponed chance to have a lengthy gossip with some of the attendants about their costumes.

Both Callum and BT had their pictures taken in front of and on top of everything bigger then them and explored the re-emerging city to their heart’s content, making sure to keep an close watch out for parrot droppings or an indiscreet and telltale “YoHoHo”.

Craig worried. This contact with Pyrates was becoming much more real and infinitely more regular then he had expected or approved of. Although he did occasionally wonder what 8% of tetra dollars would be, or how one would get a wheelchair into one of the new F-50s or if perhaps did Lamborghini make wheelchairs, or had they ever even thought of it?

The next day when they got to Halifax Zita immediately staked out the fabric importers while the rest went to the Maritime Museum and continued their investigations. Craig distracted the guards while his companions snuck into the archives and spent the next few hours photographing the ‘Restricted’ and ‘Open only in Presence of Donor’ files. As they busied themselves in their work, Craig examined the museum from stem to gudgeon—being in a nautical frame of mind you see.

As he stood looking out over the Harbour he noticed that the ship docked at the museum’s wharf had a slovenly familiarity about it, and he hurried back into the museum. As he took the elevator to the first floor he could hear squabbling coming from the elevator shaft. The door opened just in time for him to see an empty bottle of Burmese Rum roll by. He raced for the archives and found Callum and BT in close scrutiny of some mildewed documents.

“Not a moment to loose. We are being infiltrated and inundated by Pyrates—They have already got into the inner workings of the building and are probably just awaiting to pop out and wreak havoc.”

BT-McG reached down and retrieved his pack, “Just a moment now.” he said as he reached deep inside, past the buns and pulled out a green stun and a yellow smoke grenade.

“I’ll t’row the stun into the hall and us will run to the front door, d’en I’ll heave the smoke in the nosiest direction. All ready Lads? Lets off!” All three broke through the door into the foyer.

Pyrates were everywhere and the stench was awful. The Animeaux had been right—the Pyrates hadn’t changed their socks in eons.

The stun grenade blew the first contingent to smelly smithereens and confused all the others who wondered when their shipmates had learned to fly. BT rolled the smoke grenade into their midst and they rushed the front door. The backup Pyrate patrol was on duty on the far side of the doors and they came running when they heard the din. This advance brought them to the front door just as Craig, being hurried along by his two friends hit the self same door at an impractical speed.

The resulting collision would have been catastrophic—if the Pyrates had been on the svelte side, fortunately they weren’t and the shock was cushioned by their enormity.

It appeared as if their escape was going like clockwork, until BT-McG’s prized “Red Sash of honour” got caught in the door handle, and as he struggled to disentangle himself a large hand reached up and grabbed his foot.

“Gotcha Matey!” snarled the voice of one of the prone lumps. BT kicked him as hard as he could, to no avail and the Pyrate started to pull him towards the now open door, and certain oblivion.

Cupping his hands to his mouth he shouted “Save your selves! Don’t cry for me Animeaux. I’ll be fine. They’ll never hang me out to dry. Say good-bye to all “The Lads” and Dugal. Promote our Piper to Captain. Tell Lou I’ll not forget her. She can have all my Chutney recipes!”

He then bit the Pyrate soundly on the arm, but sadly it had no effect, aside from leaving a gritty taste in his mouth.

On hearing BT’s desperate growl, Craig stopped and tried to reverse his tracks, but before he had moved a foot the heroic Callum McCallum had dropped down on all fours and rushed the brutes—head down, horn up and helmet awry.

As he neared his quarry, Craig could have sworn that Callum’s size increased with each thunderous stride. By the time he hit the Pyrate he seemed the size of an old Volkswagen.

A large “Carrumphhh” followed and the Pyrate went down reeling, on to his back, releasing BT, who immediately started to do his version of a clog dance on the first offending head he found. He was soon joined by Callum and they smoothly moved into a rather stylish flamenco; did a quick tango for a trendy finale and raced up the hill. At the summit Craig was brandishing his favourite Henckels pocket knife, singing brave songs, learnt from Stan Rogers’s albums. Through these efforts he had backed some of the smelly fiends into the Nova Scotia School of Art—where they were never seen again.

“Quick gentlemen, this way!” said a voice from the side. They all turned around and saw a rather compact TeddyBear—in Pyrate garb—waving them further up the hill.

“I have alerted the Citadel, and if we are quick about it, we might survive the afternoon.”

The three looked at each other, at the advancing hordes of Pyrates flooding from the museum doors, at the Pyrate TeddyBear and decided to take his advice and retreat up the hill - with dispatch.

Over the hundreds of quite disgusting suggestions and general confusing Pyrate hubbub - they could hear the call of the fifes turning out the Citadel’s garrison.

Just as a wickedly hooked rug was thrown towards the group, the legion of 36 pounders sounded their contempt for the ill mannered and scruffily dressed attackers. The shot hurried over the foursome’s heads and ten-pinned the Pyrates back to their sullied sloops.

The three friends stopped to catch their breath. BT Mcg wheezed out a “Who are you?” as their eye-patched, ear-ringed and be-scarfed accomplice shook his fist at the departing rabble.

“Why Douglas Furbanques, C’est moi; in disguise and undercover!” he said taking a dirk from between his teeth and swinging around a lamp post with one hand, “Shall we make ourselves scarce before some unanswerable questions are posed.”

This seemed eminently reasonable, so they raced down a side street, up an ally, through a back yard, soon sauntering into the lobby of the Sheridan and with immense relief stumbled into their room.

Zita locked the door, “I heard all the commotion, the canon fire and those terrible oaths ringing out and I just knew you all were the cause of it. Is everyone alright? and who is that climbing the curtain?”

Craig looked around and seeing no volunteers, replied, “Well, he says his name is Douglas Furbanques, and apart from saving us from the Pyrates we don’t know a thing about him, aside from his questionable taste in clothes. I guess we should find out.”

As Zita phoned home to reassure the gang as to their present safety, just in case today’s events made the National News, the rest sat down and invited the newly arrived TBear to have a chat. He climbed down from behind the curtain where he had been peering out the windows and sat in one of the wing back chairs.

“Now I suppose that you are wondering why I am sitting here in this awful Pyrate garb and what I was doing on board the good ship “SS Rasputin”. Well I presume it is too late to continue the charade any longer as they are certain to have tumbled to our game, and it is only proper etiquette that I should now introduce myself. I am Douglas Louis D’Orleans DeBellevu-Furbanques of the Cinquieme Bureau of Le Legion Etrangere, and I am currently on loan to the SCLAT.

As you can imagine La Belle France is gravely concerned with the Pyrate menace. Why think of it! Ugly, wrinkled, stripy pants, mono-coloured eye-patches, fake diamond earrings, an absolute repugnance about changing their socks and no abiding anything lace. Do you know that in over 400 years of recorded history not one Pyrate has ever bought a Hermes scarf for his greasy head. Degueulasse! Not a butterfly’s breath of savoir-faire in all of them. It would be a frightful economic disaster for France if Pyrate fashions ever took hold you see.

Monsieur Le President himself ordered an intervention. Even so, it seemed as if all the gentlemen from the Service Central de la Lutte Anti-terroriste were far too well bred, if one can believe Le Figaro, to be able to infiltrate the Pyrates, what with the Angolan Rose and the Japanese Scotch—not to mention the socks problem. So they came to the Legion for recruits and volunteers—it’s one and the same in the Legion. Well I went under cover and have been sailing around with them for these three years; perpetually lost or aground. Now it was your interest in Oak Island that shocked them into their attack today. It seems as if they have been waiting nearly 150 years for someone to dig up the treasure so that they could steal it. The sudden presence of some of the hated Animeaux, especially when one of them was from the dreaded Clan Rhinosasauri, on the site scared them silly I can tell you.

Well I best phone Legion HQ in Corsica and report in, excuse me for a moment.”

With that he got off the chair and walked over to the telephone stand and called the operator.

“Well that is quite interesting and even possible, I suppose.” said Craig.

Callum said he would phone home and have the story checked out through some less formal fashion then usual. In the meantime they were going to have to do something about the smell.

“Good God! What an awful stench they have.” Callum said as he sprayed his feet with Heat Liniment, “Just dancing on his head for a short while has curdled my poor toes and just ruined my sneakers.”

BT who habitually went around with bare paws (naturally) was in far worse shape. He and Zita were in the hotel bathroom shampooing his feet for the fifth time. They had the windows open and had soaked two face cloths in “Opium” and were going to wrap his feet in them.

The Blue chair had been hosed down in the bath tub and Craig’s gloves had been deposited in the Harbour, with apologies to the Loons who lived there.

Douglas was fast asleep on the sofa and his clothes were soaking in the sink—he had been liberally doused with baby powder. It was necessary, much to his embarrassment, as he had forgotten what polite company smelled like. They were sitting there with all the windows open wondering what to do when Craig asked, “BT by any chance is there any of your Chutney left in the Thermos?”

A muffled voice came from the bathroom, “Yes and it’s all I have left so keep your hands to yourself.”

“I think I just might have the solution to this terrible odor, how about a Chutney-foot bath. Tomato juice works for skunks, perhaps your famous ‘red with yellow spots chutney’ can counteract the Pyrate stench? It might be worth a try.”

“But if it don’t work I’ll be both very smelly and really hungry.” BT claimed with some apprehension, “I can’t just stop off and gorge on some of that Mr. McDonald’s concoctions. Unlike you I have a delicate stomach, and my chutney is a super restorative and civilizer of food.”

Zita said she agreed, “Anyway he looks quite fetching in his makeshift terry cloth slippers, floating on the clouds of perfume they give off.”

BT gave up and with some disgust and full resignation said, “I left the thermos under my copy of the collected works of George McDonald Fraser.” (Which accounted for BT’s somewhat ribald view of history I suppose).

Twenty minutes later with chutney poultices on all the appropriate places the room began to regain its’ antiseptic hotel smell and they felt it was safe enough to phone down for room service. Zita wondered if they should wake Douglas Furbanques and ask if he liked fresh lobster Pizza?

Meanwhile back at the Vacation

They departed the next morning for the opposite coast, and left a false forwarding address at the front desk. The Blue Car was introduced to Douglas, who had agreed to hitch a ride with them until he could make contact with his Commandant. The Legion would not accept collect calls it seemed.

Two days later they snuck through the Fundy fog and landed at St. Johns. From there it was a very quick day’s ride to the L.L. Bean store in New Hampshire, where there was much scurrying around and muffled discussions of the pro and cons of potential Christmas presents for one and all. Fortunately there were some tweed hats on sale and several were acquired. The Animeaux always thought a shopping trip to be incomplete unless at least one new hat was found, it didn’t really matter who it was for, just that it was very “au-current” and fit someone tolerably well.

The Car was stacked to the brim when they crossed through Canada Customs and the expected inquiries were replaced by a “Welcome Back” and the wave of a hand.

They stopped a few miles later and Douglas wiggled out from under the trunk where he had been suspended with a “bungee” cord. They all felt that a unidentified, Foreign Legionnaire—on detached service with French Counter Intelligence—posing as a Pyrate, would be even too difficult for Craig to rationalize. It was decided to smuggle him into the country—he could ask for refugee status later.