Pirate King by Laurie R. King Read Free Book Online Page B

appreciate it.”
    “Certainly. And I’ll send the ship’s librarian along, too.”
    “Very good of you.”
    Beginning that night, I had a constant stream of women bringing me their bound treasures. One title was brought by no fewer than three of the girls’ mothers, each of whom presented it in an identical, surreptitious manner. The first two I thanked and handed it back, but after the third such indication of prize and respect, I thought I might as well give it a try: E. M. Hull’s The Sheik .
    The novel, made into a moving picture that put Valentino onto the world’s lips (in more ways than one), had been written during the War by a woman whose husband was at the Front. Whose husband had clearly been at the Front for a long, long time.
    It was appalling. Not so much the writing itself (which was merely the lower end of mediocrity) nor the raw pornography (which it was), but its blatant message that an independent and high-spirited young woman would be far happier if she were just slapped around a bit by a caring sadist. I read every word about fiery young Diana Mayo and her encounter with, abduction by, and ultimate submission to Sheik Ahmed ben Hassen. Then I went to wash my hands, and took the novel back to Mrs Hatley, with a fervent plea that she not let any of the girls read it. She turned pink and said of course not. But had I enjoyed it?
    I closed her cabin door and went back to my wind-swept perch to examine by lamp-light my further literary options. Which to read first: Desert Healer, Desert Love, The Hawk of Egypt , or Zareh the Cruel ?

CHAPTER SIX

MAJOR-GENERAL: This is a picturesque uniform, but I’m not familiar with it. What are you?
    T HE NEXT DAY , the sky grudgingly cleared. My solitary roost was invaded, with Signorina Mazzo leading the girls in swaying dances meant to evoke trees or trailing smoke, with Edith, my admirer of the ill-fitting footwear, offering to fetch things for me, with regular passengers taking exercise on the deck. In the evening, after the dining room was refused for a second night’s transformation into cinema-palace, Randolph Fflytte managed to inveigle the First Officer into stringing a bed-sheet out-of-doors on the deck— my deck—and opened the showing to anyone possessing a First Class ticket and sufficient warm clothing.
    The impromptu cinema-house nearly closed on its opening night when Will Currie, our laconic Welsh cameraman and general machinery-operator, was nowhere to be found. His assistant, Artie, proved so fumble-fingered under the pressure of threading film through a constantly-moving projector that his hands more or less ceased to function. Randolph Fflytte and Geoffrey Hale admitted incomprehension.
    Hope stirred that I might be permitted a solitary evening after all, but then one of the actors—our “Bert-the-Constable”—stepped forward to see what he could do. Bert was a fit, swarthy-looking young actor whom I was sure the camera would appreciate as much as a couple of the girls did (although thus far, he had maintained a degree of aloofness towards them that I, for one, was grateful for). He had a brilliant white grin, a Cockney accent, and fingers as clever as Will’s when it came to machines. In a moment, the projector was turning, and the outside lights were switched down.
    Roman Galley began to sail across the bed-sheet (although I thought the topic of ship-wrecks might have been avoided) followed by the first reel of Moonstone . At that point, some of the older girls (the younger having been dispatched to their beds) began to murmur a rebellious desire for something other than a Fflytte offering. Hale was prepared, and handed a film can over to Bert.
    I took another swallow from my bottle, nestled into my furs in a haze of drug and moving picture, and was startled out of my wits when my husband’s name appeared on the flickering screen.
Buster Keaton in “Sherlock Jr”
    I jammed the cap onto the small bottle and launched it overboard: