The Angel's Command

Book One

LA PETITE MARIE

1

CARTAGENA, 1628

GREAT AND GOLDEN, like an enormous, newly minted doubloon, the Caribbean sun presided over the waterfront.

Ships of all nations, from salt-crusted skiffs to stately galleons, bobbed on their moorings, each craft facing bow onto

the harbour wall. Children clambered and played upon the bronze cannons fronting the jade and aquamarine waters of

the wide Caribbean Sea. Along the dusty quayfront fishing boats unloaded their catches straight to the stalls. Noise and

bustle were everywhere. Women sold plantains, melons, coconuts and an amazing variety of exotic fruits and

vegetables. Parrots squawked and monkeys chattered from their cages of split bamboo. Men squatted in the shade,

bargaining for spices, rum, snuff and tobacco. Young girls danced and sang to the music of guitars and drums, cajoling

coins from passersby. High in its ornate tower, the bell of Santa Magdalena clanged dully over the red-tiled and palm-

thatched dwellings, which ranged from austere Spanish architecture to bedraggled local hovels. Taverns, bodegas and

inns were packed to the doors with laughing, brawling, arguing and drunken seafarers, pirates, freebooters, corsairs and

buccaneers, known collectively in Cartagena as The Brotherhood—those beyond the law of honest men.

Ben and Ned sat among the trees, where it was relatively peaceful and free from trampling feet. After travelling alone

in sparsely populated regions of South America for so long, they had been watching the teeming life of the quayside

for fully an hour, both rather taken aback by this sudden surge of noisy humanity. The big black Labrador passed a

single thought to his tow-headed young companion.

"Well, are you hungry enough to go and explore yet?"

The boy smiled into his friend's moist, dark eyes. "It would be a nice change to eat something cooked by somebody

else besides myself. Come on, Ned, let's take a look."

The dog pondered his companion's thought for a moment, then rose gracefully and returned the mental comment.

"Hmph! If I had hands instead of paws I'd make a wonderful cook. I can't help being a dog, you know."

Ben patted Ned's head affectionately, answering the thought. "I'll wager you'd be the world's best cook, just as you're

the the nicest dog on earth!"

The black Labrador's tail wagged. "Oh, you're just saying that because it's true. Follow me. I'll sniff out the place

where the food smells good."

People did not pay much attention to the pair as they strolled along the harbour street, a tow-haired lad of about

fourteen years, dressed in an old blue shirt that lacked buttons and a pair of once-white canvas trousers, tattered and

frayed at the hems, walking barefoot alongside a big black dog. Ned threaded his way between crates of live, clucking

chickens and barrels of still-slithering, silver-scaled fish. They skirted a crowd who was watching an entertainer wrap

live snakes about his body. Ben stopped to watch the performance, but Ned tugged at his shirt-tail. "What d'you want

to do, watch street shows or eat? Come on!"

Ben obediently followed the dog, his eyes drinking in the colourful spectacle of crowded humanity as he went.

Ned halted at the front doors of Cartagena's biggest waterfront tavern and winked one eye at Ben. "Someone's roasting

beef in there, my mouth's watering!"

Ben's strange, clouded blue eyes stared up at the swinging sign. Crude artwork depicted a grinning jaguar taking a bath

in a barrel of rum. Below this in scrolled lettering was the name Rhum Tigre. The whole aspect of the tavern was that

it might once have been the home of some prosperous Spanish merchant, now converted into a drinking den with

upstairs accommodations for paying guests. Ben hesitated, doubtful as to whether he should enter. Sounds of a fiddle

and hoarse voices discordantly singing rowdy ditties emanated over the babble of gossiping seamen within. Ned sat

scratching behind his ear with a blunt-clawed back leg, communicating mentally.

"Enter callow youth, if thou art not afeared!"

Ben shifted from one foot to the other, and he shrugged. "Easy for you to say, mate, but I'm the one who'll get thrown

out if they find we have no money."

Ned was still in a playfully encouraging mood as he replied, "Tut tut, m'boy, leave this to your trusty hound!"

He rose and trotted inside, with Ben sending urgent thoughts after him. "Ned! Come back here ... wait!"

The dog's mental answer floated back to him. "Money's never stopped us so far, Ben. Faint heart never won roast beef.

Woof! Just look at that carcass on the spit!"

Ben shouldered his way in through a gang of departing men. The moment he stepped inside, he froze. Faces were all

around him, faces like those he had encountered aboard the Flying Dutchman, unwashed, unshaven, gap-toothed,

tattooed and brass-earringed. Scowling, grinning wickedly, slit-eyed, broken-nosed, knife-scarred ruffians—faces like

those which returned sometimes to haunt his dreams. Ben stood rooted to the spot, seemingly unable to move, until

Ned tugged at his shirtsleeve, growling as he mentally reassured his friend. "Step lively, mate, they won't harm us. I

felt the same as you when I came in here, but my stomach got the better of me. Look over there!"

The object of Ned's desire was a cavernous old fireplace where, over a bed of glowing charcoal, two cooks were

slowly turning a spit on which was transfixed an entire side of beef. Juices and fat from the roasting meat popped and

sizzled as they dripped onto the flames. Every now and then, the cooks would stop turning the spit. Using long, sharp

knives they would slice off a chunk of beef for a customer, pocketing the coins they were given. Ben felt his stomach

grumble aloud at the sight. He was very hungry.

Ned chuckled mentally at him. "Ho ho, I hear a gurgling gut, a sure remedy for any fears."

Ben stroked the Labrador's silky ear. "So you do, but a gurgling gut with empty pockets isn't much use. What d'you

suggest?"

The fireplace was constructed in the centre of the room. Through the flames could be seen a bar area and some tables.

Something was going on at the largest table, where onlookers were gathered round to watch whatever it was.

Ned began tugging Ben toward the table, passing a message. "Let's see if we can't pick up a coin or two over yonder."

The crews of two pirate ships, the Diablo Del Mar and La Petite Marie, were watching their captains gambling. Rocco

Madrid, master of the Diablo, was winning, and Raphael Thuron, master of La Petite Marie, was losing, heavily.

Rocco's sword, a fine blade of Toledo steel with a silver basketed handle, lay on the table. Behind it was an ever-

growing pile of gold coins from many nations. The Spanish captain played idly with his long, grey-streaked black

curls, smiling thinly as he watched Thuron. "Make your choice, amigo, where is the pea?"

Thuron, the French captain, stroked his rough brown beard with heavy, club-nailed fingers, his eyes roving over the

three down-turned walnut shells lying on the table between them. He flicked Rocco a hate-laden glance, growling,

"Don't hurry me, Madrid!"

Sighing heavily, Thuron looked from the dwindling pile of coins, which were stacked behind the blade of his cutlass

on the opposite side of the table. He bit his lip and concentrated his gaze on the three walnut shells, while Rocco

Madrid drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

"I am not hurrying you, amigo. Shall I take my siesta while you try to find our little friend the pea, eh?"

The Diablo's crew chuckled appreciatively at their captain's witty observation. The more gold Thuron lost, the slower

and more deliberate he became.

The French captain spoke without looking up from the three nutshells. "Huh, the little pea might be your friend, but

she's no friend o' mine, not after ten losses in a row!"

Rocco twirled his waxed moustache, enjoying his opponent's discomfiture. "Who knows, the little pea, she might

change her mind and fall in love with you. Choose, amigo."

Thuron made a snap decision. He turned up the shell that lay in the centre of the three. It was empty, no pea lay under

it. A cheer went up from the Diablo's, crew, and groans from the men of La Petite Marie. Thuron separated five stacks

of gold coins from his meagre pile, swiping them toward the Spaniard with the back of his hand.

One of the coins fell from the table and clinked upon the floor. Ned was on to it like a hawk on a dove. Diving beneath

the table, he took the coin in his mouth. Madrid held out his open hand to the dog, rapping out sharply, "Here! Give!"

Ned ignored the Spaniard, turning his big dark eyes toward Thuron. The Frenchman liked the dog immediately. He,

too, held out his hand, speaking in a friendly voice. "Who owns this good fellow?"

Ben moved up alongside Thuron. "I do, sir. His name's Ned."

Communicating mentally with the Labrador, Ben sent him a message. "Give him the coin. I like him better than that

other one."

Ned wagged his tail. "So do I. Here you are, sir!" He dropped the coin into the French captain's palm.

The Spaniard snarled as he reached for his sword. "That's mine, give it here!"

Thuron grinned and winked at Ben. Taking a fresh gold piece from the small pile, he flicked it to Rocco Madrid.

"Take this one. The boy's dog earned that gold piece. You, lad, what's your name? Speak up."

The boy tipped a finger to his forehead. "Ben, sir!"

Thuron took the coin and spun it in the air. Ben caught it deftly and awaited orders. The Frenchman nodded

approvingly. "Get me some of that meat and some ale, too. Keep the change. Get something for yourself and the dog."

Ben thanked Thuron and passed a message to Ned. "Come on, pal, let's sample the beef!"

Ned replied as he stood on his hind legs, placing both front paws on the table alongside the French captain. "You go,

Ben, I'll stay here and watch. That Spaniard is too lucky for my liking. See if you can get me a bone, with plenty of

meat and fat on it."

Captain Thuron stroked the black Labrador's silky ears. "Leave Ned here with me, Ben. I've got a feeling he's lucky."

Ben elbowed his way through the tavern customers and went to get the food. The cook gave him two healthy slices of

roast beef, laying each one on a crusty slice of bread. He added two large ribs dripping with hot fat and thick with

meat. Ben purchased the ale and pocketed the small coins that made up the change. When he returned to the table he

noticed that the Frenchman's pile of gold had grown even smaller. Ned's thought informed him, "He's lost again. That

Spaniard's cheating."

Madrid eyed the food and stood up. "Excuse me, amigo, that meat looks good. Let's take a break while I get some."

Rocco's bosun, a thickset Portuguese, interrupted. "I'll get it for you, Cap'n."

The Spaniard picked up his sword. "No, I'll get it myself. I like to select my own meat. You keep an eye on my gold."

Members of the two crews went along, tempted by the sight of the beef. There was a lull in the game. Ned explained

to Ben about Rocco Madrid's dishonesty. "My eyes are quicker than most—I saw him palm the pea. After he's shuffled

the shells about, there's nothing under any of them. Then when he has to pick up his own shell, he palms the pea back

onto the table, as if it had been lying under the shell. That Spaniard is quick and clever."

Thuron had been watching the boy and the dog looking silently at each other. He finished chewing and spoke. "I was

hoping your Ned would change my luck, Ben, but it seems I'm bound to lose. Blast his eyes, Madrid has all the luck

today! Hey, boy, are you listening to me?"

Moving slightly closer, Ben murmured out of the corner of his mouth so that the remaining crew members of the

Diablo Del Mar, at the other side of the table, could not hear. "Don't look at me, sir, keep your eyes straight ahead and

listen to what I say..."

Rocco Madrid had carved the beef with his own sword. He ate it at the bar and drank a glass of red wine. Fastidiously

wiping his lips on a silk kerchief, he returned to the gaming table, where Thuron sat waiting. Placing his sword back

on the table, Madrid smiled affably. "So then, my good amigo, you wish to continue playing. Bueno. Maybe the little

pea will come your way this time."

Madrid placed the pea upon the table and covered it with the centre one of the three down-turned walnut shells. Ben

watched closely as the Spaniard's long fingers began deftly moving the shells, right to left, left to right, centre to side,

side to centre. Then he saw the trick. The shells were moving so fast that he almost missed it. Rocco shifted the shells

so skilfully that at one point the shell with the pea beneath it went slightly over the lip of the table. The pea was

flicked out into his lap, almost faster than the eye could follow.

Ned's thought cut into Ben's mind. "See, I told you! Now all he has to do is drop his hand and jam the pea between his

fingers, while our friend is sitting there deciding which shell to choose. When he makes his pick, there'll be nothing

beneath it. The Spaniard will make his choice then, skilfully dropping in the pea as he overturns the shell, and there he

has it, a winner again, eh?"

Ben patted the black Labrador's head. "Not this time though."

Rocco sat back, the same thin smile on his lips as he announced confidently, "Make your play, Capitano Thuron. How

much this time?"

Thuron's first mate and his bosun had edged their way around the table until they were standing on either side of

Rocco Madrid. Thuron leaned forward, eyeing the sly Spaniard levelly. "That gold there, your side o' the table. How

much d'ye reckon you've got there, my friend?"

Rocco shrugged. "Who knows, amigo, it would take quite a time to count it all up. So, are you going to play?"

Thuron smiled then. "Aye, I'm going to play. There's more gold aboard my ship, you know that. So let's stop messing

about with small wagers. I'm going to bet all I've got against what lies on this table. One chance, winner takes all!"

Rocco Madrid could not resist the invitation. "You are a real gambler, amigo. I accept your wager, eh!" He looked up

to his crew for approval, immediately sensing all was not well as he saw the bosun and first mate of La Petite Marie

hemming him in.

Thuron had one hand beneath the table. He smiled roguishly at his adversary. "There's a dagger either side of you and

a loaded musket pointed at your belly from my side. I'm betting there's no pea under any of those three shells. Don't

move a muscle, Cap'n Madrid! Ben, lad, turn the shells over!" The boy swiftly did as he was bid. There was, of course,

no pea. Sweat ran in rivulets down the Spaniard's sallow face.

The entire tavern had grown silent. All that could be heard was the crackle of beef drippings spilling onto the fire.

There was death in Thuron's voice. "Sit still, Madrid. You don't want to get that pea lying in your lap covered with

blood. You, Diablo crew, don't be foolish. There's no sense in dying because your captain's a cheat. Stay still and you

won't come to any harm. The game's over, I win! Anaconda, pick up that gold!"

Captain Thuron's steersman, Anaconda, was a black giant with a huge shaven head. He shrugged off a linen shirt,

displaying awesome muscles. With a few swift moves he swept the gold coins inside his shirt and knotted it into an

impromptu carrier.

Rocco Madrid's lips scarcely moved as he sneered at Raphael Thuron. "You will not get away with this, my friend!"

Thuron stood, his musket still pointed at the Spaniard. "Oh yes I will... my friend. Right, lads, back out, stern first.

Anybody makes a move, take no notice of them. Just kill their capitano. Ben, you'd best come with me, for the good of

your health. Bring my lucky dog too!"

Ben felt Ned's thought penetrate his mind. "Do as he says, mate. This place isn't safe anymore!"

Once they were out on the quayside, the entire crew of La Petite Marie took to their heels and ran for it. Ben and Ned

found themselves up front, with Thuron and his giant steersman. A cart of oranges was overturned, and some chickens

broke loose from their cages as the mass of fleeing pirates dashed through the crowd. The singing girls began

screaming, and the snake performer dropped his reptiles.

Thuron bawled toward a trim three-masted vessel lying bow onto the harbour. "Make sail! Make sail! We're coming

aboard! Make sail there!"

As he clattered up the steep gangplank, Ben could see the crew members on watch clambering into the rigging, whilst

others loosed the ship's headropes. There was a small culverin in the bows. The captain roared out orders for it to be

loaded. He knelt by the little swivel cannon, beckoning Ben to his side. "We'll blow them off the quay if they try to

follow. Hand me that tow!"

Ben saw the thick, smouldering rope end and passed it over to Thuron.

Ned sent a thought to Ben. "I hadn't figured on going to sea again, ever!"

The boy replied mentally to his dog. "We've no choice. It's either that or stay in Cartagena and get killed." He turned to

Thuron. "D'you think they'll follow us, Cap'n?"

The Frenchman held the burning tow near the culverin's touch hole, nodding. "Maybe not right away, boy, but he'll be

coming after us. Rocco Madrid lost a lot of face today. By the way, how did you know he was cheating? I just thought

I was extra unlucky today."

Ben knew it would be futile trying to explain about Ned, so he lied. "I've seen that game played before. As soon as I

came to your table, I saw Captain Madrid palming the pea. Where are we bound, sir?"

Raphael Thuron threw an arm around the boy's shoulder. "Home to la belle France, thanks to you. I'm finally set for

good. This pirating life is too dangerous, my friend!"

2

ONCE LA PETITE MARIE HAD BEEN POLED AWAY from the harbour wall, Anaconda swung her about to face the

freshening breeze, taking the ship out into the Caribbean. The all too familiar memory of a swaying deck beneath his

feet brought back dreadful memories of the Flying Dutchman to Ben. He lay flat on the deck facedown, pictures of

Vanderdecken and his villainous crew flashing before his mind. Ned lay down beside him, flashing urgent thoughts.

"Don't let it get the better of you, Ben. Vanderdecken's a bad thing to think of. Cap'n Thuron's our friend, a good man."

One of the passing crew put a hand to Ben's back and shook him. "What ails ye, lad? Come on now, up on yer feet!"

Ned stood over Ben, the dog's hackles bristling as he growled viciously. Thuron pushed the man aside.

"Leave the boy alone. Maybe he's seasick already. Ben, are you feeling ill?"

Wiping cold sweat from his brow, Ben lifted his head. "I'll be alright, Cap'n. I was frightened back there."

The Frenchman nodded. "I was too, boy. Rocco Madrid has a formidable reputation. He's also got almost twice as

many crew. Only a fool wouldn't have been afraid. You'll be alright. Go aft, take Ned with you, lie down in my cabin.

I won't let anything happen to you, Ben, you're my luck. Both of you."

The big cabin at the ship's stern was cool and comfortable. Ben lay down on the broad, velvet-quilted bed and fell into

a dreamless slumber. Ned jumped up beside him and laid his head across the boy's feet. "Hmm, I wonder how far away

France is. A good distance, probably."

La Petite Marie was now under full sail, plowing the blue-green waters of the mighty Caribbean Sea.

Evening rolls of purple cloud were striping the crimson sky as the sound of an opening cabin door roused Ben. Ned

nuzzled his leg. "Wake up! Here's food!" The crewman who followed Thuron into the cabin placed a bowl of fresh

water down alongside a plate of stew. He loaded the rest onto the bedside table before leaving.

Thuron sat by the table. "Ben, here boy, eat up, I made the stew myself."

Ben sat on the edge of the bed alongside the table. There was a bowl of stew, some fresh fruit, and water to drink, and

he tucked in heartily.

Thuron watched him eat. The Frenchman chuckled and ruffled the boy's hair. "Not feeling ill anymore, eh? 'Tis hard to

tell who has the better appetite, you or old Ned there."

The dog, who was licking a plate clean, shot Ben a thought. "Huh, who's he calling old? I'm nought but a pup yet."

Ben replied mentally. "Aye, a fat hungry pup!"

Ned growled. "Fat yourself, tubby youth!"

The captain's stubby finger turned Ben's chin until their gazes met. There was sea in the boy's clouded blue eyes—

ancient deeps and far horizons lurked in them. Raphael Thuron stared into the young fellow's calm face. "You're a

strange lad, Ben, where are ye from?"

Ben averted his eyes and picked up a slice of pineapple. "From the Tierra del Fuego, sir."

The Frenchman raised his eyebrows in surprise. "The land of fire down at the tip of this big country! That's a great

distance from Cartagena, lad. How came ye to travel so far?"

Ben did not like lying to the captain, but necessity had forced him to be untruthful with anyone who wanted to know

of his mysterious life. "I was a shepherd boy helping an old sheepherder down there. He told me that he had found me

on the shores, after a shipwreck. I worked with him . . . Ned was his dog. Early one spring the shepherd died in an

accident, so I wandered off with Ned. We've been travelling over four years. We visited many places before reaching

Cartagena."

Thuron shook his head in wonderment. "You must have been little more than a babe when the sheepherder found you

on the shore. What was the name of the ship you came from?"

Ben shrugged. "The sheepherder never told me. He said that the vessel must have sunk in a storm. I don't remember

anything, apart from living in his hut, rounding up sheep with Ned and enduring the awful weather down there. Have

you always been a seaman, Cap'n?"

Ned's thought flashed through Ben's mind. "I liked the way you changed the subject there, mate. That was a clever

touch, too, saying I belonged to the old shepherd. What our friend doesn't know can't hurt him."

Ben kept his eyes on Thuron, who began telling of himself. "Aye, I've been seafaring since I was younger than you,

Ben. I was born in a place called Arcachon, on the French coast. I didn't want to be a poor peasant like my father, so I

ran off one day and joined the crew of a merchant ship. On our voyage to Cadiz we were attached by Spanish pirates.

They slew most of our crew but kept me as galley boy. Since then, I've spent most of my life aboard one vessel or

another. If I'd been weak, I'd be dead by now. But here you see me, Raphael Thuron, master of my own ship, La Petite

Marie, a French buccaneer!"

Ben looked up at the captain. "You must be very proud of yourself, sir."

The Frenchman poured himself a glass of water, swirled it about reflectively, then shook his head. "Proud, d'ye say?

I'll tell ye something now, Ben, that I've never told any living soul. I'm ashamed of what I've made of my life.

Ashamed!" He kept swirling the water, his eyes fixed on its motion. "Me, the older son of an honest, religious family.

Oh, I was a wild one, not like my younger brother Mattieu. It was my parents' hope that one day I would reform and

make them proud by becoming a priest. My younger brother Mattieu was more suited to that sort of thing. He was a

good boy, though I often got him into trouble. Being a farmworker like my father was a gloomy alternative. So I ran

off to sea, and here I am all these years later, a man living outside of the law, buccaneering. But no more. This wicked

trade has seen the last of Raphael Thuron. I'm done with it all, boy. Finished, d'ye hear!"

This came as a shock to Ben. "What made you decide that, sir?"

The Frenchman quaffed his water, slamming the glass down so hard that it cracked. "I saw ye today, Ben, standing

there with Ned. You reminded me of what I was once, a cheery lad with a trusty hound at his heels. 'Twas you spotted

Madrid's cheatin' ways. I knew then my life had to change. You're my lucky boy, you and Ned. I've been storing

wealth away. Now, with what I took from Rocco Madrid, I'm a rich man. I'll make up for my buccaneering ways, Ben,

you'll see. I'll return to Arcachon and help my family. We'll build a chateau, Ben, and buy a big vineyard. I'll give

money to the church and the poor. Folk will speak of me like ... like—"

Ben interrupted the captain. "Like a saint?"

A huge smile spread across Thuron's heavy face. "Aye lad, that's it, lad, like a saint. Saint Raphael Thuron!"

He burst out laughing, Ben joined in, and Ned set up a howl. The Frenchman wiped tears of merriment from his eyes

onto his brocaded sleeve. "And you two will share in it. Young Saint Ben and good Saint Ned. How does that sound to

ye, eh?"

Convulsed with mirth, the black Labrador chortled away. "Hohoho, good Saint Ned? I like that, I'll wear a collar of

gold, like a halo that's slipped down round my neck!"

Ben returned his thought. "And I'll wear a long, flowing shirt and a pointed hat, like a bishop. Hahahaha!"

Thuron remarked through his laughter. "Oohahaha, look at you two, anyone'd swear you were gossiping together.

Hahaha!"

Ben slapped the Frenchman's back so hard that it stung his hand. "Heeheehee, that's a good 'un, gossiping with a dog,

hee-hee!"

The proceedings were interrupted by the bosun, Pierre, bellowing from the sternmast lookout point. "Vessel astern,

showin' over the horizon in our wake!"

The captain dashed out onto the deck, with Ben and Ned hard on his heels. Crewmen with worried faces clattered up

from the mess deck, carrying weapons and priming muskets as they made their way to the stern rail. Thuron pulled a

telescope from his coat lining and sighted on the dark smudge to the rear, which was all they could see of Cartagena.

He swung the glass to and fro, halting as he caught sight of sail.

"Rocco Madrid and the Diablo Del Mar! Well, he didn't waste much time, did he? Stand by all hands, we're in for a

sea chase. Load those cannon, Anaconda, I'll take the wheel. Come on, Ben, bring Ned too—I'm going to need all the

luck ye can bring me!"

Captain Rocco Madrid called up to his lookout. "Have they sighted us yet, Pepe?"

Loud and clear, the lookout bellowed back. "Sí, Capitano, they are piling on sail to escape us!"

Rocco's bosun, Portugee, handed the wheel over to his captain. "Shall I roll out all the cannon an' give 'em a full

salute? Capitano, we can outgun the Marie easily."

Madrid narrowed his eyes until they were wicked slits. "No, no, Thuron has the gold. He is of no use to me on the

bottom of the sea with his ship. Diablo will outrun them, we'll take the Marie an' her crew alive. I want to sail into

Cartagena with everyone aboard that ship hanging from their own yardarms. Our Brotherhood on shore will know then:

No man takes gold from Rocco Madrid and lives to tell the tale!"

Rocco's first mate, a fat Hollander called Boelee, spoke up. "Even the brat an' his dog?"

The Spaniard drew out his telescope and scanned the distant ship. "Especially the brat an' his dog, amigo. Lessons must

be taught by making hard examples."

Aboard La Petite Marie, Thuron was roaring orders. "Pile on every stitch of canvas there! Up the rigging, every man

jack of ye! Pierre, Ludon, climb out onto the bows an' chop away those rope fenders. She'll cut the waves cleaner with

a sharp prow!"

Pierre, the bosun, and Ludon, the mate, scrambled over the bows with cutlasses held in their teeth.

Ben looked anxiously at the Frenchman, voicing his thoughts aloud. "Are you sure we can outrun them, Cap'n?"

Thuron smiled grimly. "We've got to, or we're all dead men. Don't worry, boy, my ship may be smaller, but she's

faster, I'm sure of it. With me at the helm, Madrid will get a run for his gold. That big, awkward tub of his was never

built for sea chases. Our Marie will show him a clean pair of heels, providing he doesn't use his cannon. 'Tis my job to

keep us out of his range until he tires of the chase, though I'm certain that Spaniard doesn't want to sink us. If Madrid

does get us within distance, he'll try to snap off our masts."

Ned was struck by an idea, which he imparted to Ben. "It'll be dark in an hour or two, so why don't we make sure the

ship isn't showing any lights to give away our position?"

Ben immediately passed on the suggestion to Thuron. The Frenchman was wholly in agreement. "A good thought, lad.

Go and cover the ports and douse any lanterns you can find. I can probably lose him in the dark. Anaconda, take the

wheel. Let's go below and study the charts, Ben. Then maybe we can be like the fox—stop running and hide!"

After dousing every available lantern and curtaining the galley ports so that the glow from the stove would not betray

their position, Ben and Ned went to the captain's cabin. Thuron had a chart spread out on the bed. He tapped the point

of a dagger against a spot on the coast. "There, Santa Marta, that's where we'll hide."

Ben studied the chart: Santa Marta was just north up the coastline from Cartagena. He turned to the Frenchman. "But

sir, that's back the way we came."

Ned put his paws on the bed and scanned the map, thinking, "So it is!"

But the captain explained his strategy. "Madrid doesn't know we're bound across the ocean to France. He thinks we're

on a sea chase, north across the Caribbean. So I'll take a sweep east and turn south just after twilight."

Ben caught on to the plan quickly. "Clever! Madrid will be searching ahead and we'll side-slip him. He'll go sailing off

into the sea while we head back to land—a good idea, sir!"

Ned sent out a sobering thought. "Pretty risky though!"

The boy was taken slightly aback when Thuron replied as if he had heard the dog, though it was pure coincidence. "

'Tis risky, I grant you. If Madrid or his crew spots us, we're done for. But I'm willing to take the chance. There's a

high, rocky point that sticks out into the waters around Santa Marta. If we can get by the Diablo unnoticed, we'll lie in

the lee of it and be well hidden."

Rocco Madrid stared into the reddening horizon, watching day fade into night. He called up to Pepe. "Have you still

got them insight, amigo?"

Pepe scrambled down, grunting with the exertion. "Only just, Capitano. I will want your seeing glass to keep track

properly. I only need a lantern or galley stove glint to tell me where La Petite Marie lies."

The Spaniard handed over his telescope. "Be careful with it."

Pepe began his laborious ascent of the mast, grumbling. "I'll miss something to eat, being stuck up there."

Rocco heard him and replied humourlessly, "You'll eat when I say. Move from that crow's nest and you'll have to eat

supper through a slit in your neck!"

Pepe reached his lookout post and swept the seas ahead through the telescope. "I see them, Capitano, their galley fire is

shining out like a beacon!"

Ben watched the wooden spar bob away on the waves to the port side of the ship. A heap of old sailcloth, soaked in

lamp oil, blazed merrily on the spar's topside. He patted Ned's head fondly. "If I was wearing a hat, I'd take it off to

you, mate. That lighted spar is a stroke of genius!"

The Labrador stood with his front paws against the port rail, sniffing as he returned the thought. "If I was human I'd be

an admiral now. Suppose you'll tell our cap'n that it was your idea, eh?"

Ben shook his head. "I won't even mention it."

Ned dropped his ears comically. "Oh, go on, tell him and get all the glory for yourself. I know what it's like to lead a

dog's life, all work and no praise."

Ben lightly kissed the top of his dog's head. "There, you're getting my praise now. I don't know what I'd do without

you, Ned. The world's smartest dog, that's you!"

Thuron emerged from his cabin and pointed to the decoy light. "Hah! That's a great trick. Was it your idea, Ben?"

The boy answered, speaking the truth. "No sir, it was good Saint Ned who thought of it!"

The Frenchman cuffed Ben playfully. "Don't make me laugh. Sound carries far on open waters, you know."

Moonless dark fell over the softly soughing waves, and clouds cloaked most of the stars. Rocco Madrid handed the

wheel over to Boelee and went to the foot of the mast. He called up in a hoarse whisper. "Where is the Marie now,

Pepe?"

Pepe's nervous whisper reached his ears. "I cannot see her anymore, Capitano. I had your glass on the galley light and

poof! It went out. Someone must have closed the galley door."

Madrid's teeth grinding together made an audible noise. "Idiot, you mean you've lost her. She must have put on even

more sail. We'll keep a straight course. I think we're right in Thuron's wake. He's heading for Jamaica and Port Royal,

I'm sure he is. Boelee, set your course due north. Portugee, keep her under full sail. We'll sight him by daylight

tomorrow, there's nowhere to hide on the open sea. I'll be in my cabin. Wake me an hour before dawn."

The Spaniard stalked off to his cabin, leaving the three crewmen searching the night-dark horizon. Rocco Madrid

would not be a pleasant captain to sail with if they lost La Petite Marie.

Ben helped Captain Thuron's crew to slacken sail as the dark, humped cliffs of Santa Marta hove into view. Ned

watched as the giant steersman, Anaconda, took the vessel carefully into the western lee side of the towering rocks.

Thuron gave orders for the anchor to be dropped. He chuckled softly as the boy joined him on deck. "Our Marie is safe

here for the night. I'll wager that the Diablo is bound at full speed for Kingston or Port Royal—where else would a

Brotherhood vessel head for in the Caribbean? First thing tomorrow we'll slip round the headland and make a straight

run east, out of this sea and into the Atlantic Ocean. Then 'tis France and home, eh, boy?"

Ben threw the captain a smart salute. "Aye aye, sir!"

3

AROUND ON THE eastern side of the Santa Marta cliffs, little more than two miles from where the Marie was

anchored, lay another ship, the Devon Belle. She was a privateer, carrying a letter of marque from the king of England,

Charles the First. Little more than pirates themselves, privateers preyed upon other pirates and ships that were hostile

to the privateer's own homeland. They were common to many countries—France, Spain, Portugal and the Netherlands.

Devon Belle was a British privateer. King Charles had signed a licence for her captain to raid and plunder any foreign

ship he chose, on the pretext that a vessel not flying a British flag was either a pirate or an enemy. Carrying his letter

of marque, the privateer captain would attack and conquer all before him, taking charge of all treasures and booty he

captured. Very profitable ventures for the English Crown, which took a large share of the spoils. Privateer captains

usually posed as officers of the British Navy, pretending that they were clearing the seas of pirates and keeping the

world's shipping lanes free for honest seafarers.

Captain Jonathan Ormsby Teal was such a man. Elegant, suave and well educated, the ambitious eldest son of an

impoverished noble family, he had chosen to make his living on the high seas and had taken to the trade like a duck to

water. His ship, though small, bristled with armament, cannon barrels poking from every port, for'ard, aft and

amidships. At present he was playing his favourite game, lying in wait for any craft sailing out of Barranquilla or

Cartagena and ready to leap out on them from his hiding place on the east side of the Santa Marta cliffs. Captain Teal

was rapidly becoming the scourge of the Caribbean Sea. He affected to wear a square-tailed foxhunting jacket of red

and revelled in the nickname his crew had given him, Cap'n Redjack. All he was waiting for was the coming of

daylight and some unsuspecting ship to pass the headland in range of his guns. Now he sat in his tiny stateroom,

sipping Madeira wine and toying with an assortment of gold coins, mainly doubloons. The clink of pure, bright gold

was music to the ears of Cap'n Redjack Teal!

Ben and Ned slept out on the deck, as it was warm and humid in the shelter of the high rocks. The boy and his dog

stretched out amid rope coils piled on the forecastle, hoping to catch a passing breeze.

Ben had barely sunk into a slumber when he was awakened *by Ned. The black Labrador was whimpering in his sleep,

paws and ears twitching fitfully. The boy sat up and smiled. What dreams was the dog dreaming? First he would make

a moaning sound, then give a little yip, his nose would wrinkle and his flanks would quiver. Dreams, what strange

visitations they were.

Ben got up and went to stand in the prow, looking out past the cliffs at the dark sea. Then he saw something that he

knew was no dream.

The Flying Dutchman!

Standing out in the moonless night, surrounded by an eerie green radiance, there was the accursed ship, storm-torn

sails fluttering on some nameless wind, ice bedecking the rigging, its hull thick with barnacles and marine debris. It

turned slowly, broadside on, allowing phantom waves to wash it nearer to shore. Closer it drifted, closer.

The boy stood riveted with horror, unable to run, fear jamming his eyes wide open. He longed to scream, shout,

anything to break the dread spell. His mouth opened, but no sound came forth. Now the ghostly vessel was so near it

was almost upon him. He could see the awful form of Captain Vanderdecken lashed to the wheel, his long, salt-crusted

hair flowing out behind him, his tombstone-like amber teeth bared by bloodless lips in the deathly pallor of an ashen

face. Vanderdecken stared through mad, blood-flecked eyes at the lad and his dog, who had been cast away long years

ago from his ship by an angel from heaven. The fearsome apparition glared balefully at Ben, getting closer by the

moment.

Then Ned rose to his feet and began barking and baying out long, anguished howls, which echoed off the cliffs.

A voice rang out from the crew's accommodation. "Shut that dog up, someone. Where's the boy?"

There was the slap of bare feet upon the deck as Ludon, the mate, ran up onto the forepeak. He saw Ben standing out

on the bow, rigid, with Ned alongside him still barking madly. Ludon grabbed Ben's arm. "What's the matter with ye,

boy, can't ye control that animal—"

At the sight of someone seizing his friend, Ned hurled himself on the mate, knocking him flat. Suddenly Thuron was

among them. Ben shuddered and collapsed to the deck. The Frenchman picked him up like a baby, aiming a kick at

Ludon as he did. "Ben, lad, are you alright? What did you do to the boy, Ludon?"

Scrambling away from Ned, the mate protested. "I never did anything, Cap'n, on my oath. I heard the dog making a

noise and came to see—"

Thuron roared at the hapless Ludon. "Don't ever touch this boy, and keep away from the dog. These two are my luck.

Leave them both alone. Understood?"

Hurt and bewildered by the anger of his normally affable captain, Ludon slunk off, back to his bunk.

Ben regained consciousness on the bed in the captain's cabin, with Ned licking his face. He sat up, rapidly

communicating with him. "Did you see it? Vanderdecken was there, I saw him, he was coming after us, I'm sure of it.

Did you see the ship, Ned?"

The dog thrust his front paws into Ben's chest, knocking him back on the bed. "I saw it in my dreams, but I couldn't

break the spell of the nightmare. I couldn't wake myself, Ben. I could feel the Dutchman getting closer, nearer than he

had ever been since we were on his ship all those years ago. I knew you were in danger, I wanted to help you. Then

suddenly I started to bark for the angel to come and save us both. That must have done the trick. Though for an angel,

Ludon has bad breath and dirty feet!"

Ben remained flat on the bed and gave Ned a slight smile. "Thanks, mate, you're a true friend. Where's the captain?"

The dog allowed the boy to get up as he nodded toward the door. "Oh, him, he's in the crew's mess, giving them a

severe talking-to. Old Thuron doesn't like anyone messing with his two lucky friends—we're to be left alone by all

hands."

Ben shook his head regretfully. "I wish he hadn't done that. I like the crew of the Marie. They may be pirates, but they

aren't as bad as the crew of the Dutchman. They were wicked."

Ned licked Ben's hand. "Well, you're a lucky lad, and I'm a lucky dog. We'll just have to put up with it. Get some rest

now. Our cap'n said he'd stay out on deck. Go on, mate, sleep. I'll stay here and keep watch for both of us."

The boy scratched behind his faithful dog's ear. "I know you will, Ned. You're a good, trusty hound."

Ned winked at Ben. "Don't go to sleep right away. Keep scratching my ear, just there. Ooh, that feels wonderful!"

Eventually they both fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. Ben dreamt he was drifting amidst golden clouds in a glorious

dawn, high over a calm sea blue as a cornflower. Softly, like distant bells across a meadow, the angel's voice floated

into the corridors of his mind.

"Beware the walking dead by night,

banished by our Saviour's sight,

And when all faces turn away,

Leave the sea upon that day,

But shun the gold, thou honest heart,

Watch not a friend you loved depart!"

The next thing Ben knew was the sound of Ned, growling softly at a knock on the cabin door. Anaconda's giant frame

almost blocked out the pale dawn light as he stooped and entered, bearing a tray. Placing the contents on the bedside

table, he indicated two bowls of oatmeal, some fruit, and water for Ben and Ned.

"We sail now. Cap'n say you eat this." The big man turned and padded silently out.

Ned heard a dull bump against the ship's side and nodded to Ben. "Sounds like the anchor being hauled."

Ben began eating hurriedly. "I'll go and lend the crew a hand to make sail!"

Thuron watched as Ben swung nimbly from the rigging and landed lightly on deck next to his black Labrador. The

Frenchman admired the boy's agility. "A monkey couldn't have done that better than you, lad. Well now, my lucky

messmates, are ye ready to sail for France?"

The boy threw a salute. "Aye aye, sir!"

Ned wuffed and wagged his tail. Captain Thuron smiled happily. He turned and called orders to Pierre, who was at the

wheel. "Take her out steady beyond the cliffs, Bosun. Then set your course nor'east through the Caribbean, out 'twixt

Hispaniola and Puerto Rico into the Atlantic deeps!"

Ben felt a thrill of anticipation. Certainly there would be unknown perils out on the wide ocean—hardships, too. But

this was a voyage to another continent. His sense of adventure was stirred. He felt a kinship with the crewmen of La

Petite Marie as they struck up a farewell shanty. Ben felt like a true seafarer, out on his second voyage, halfway across

the world. Captain Thuron sang along with the rest as Ben hummed, not knowing the words, and Ned wagged his tail

in time with the music.

"Fare thee well, ye fair Susannah,

And to all the friends I know.

Adieu to the shore I might see no more,

I am sailing so far from you.

The seabirds are wheeling and crying,

And we're bound to cross the great main,

I must follow the sea, so think kindly of me,

Maybe one day I'll see thee again."

Percival Mounsey, the cook aboard the Devon Belle, was fastidious in his duty to Cap'n Redjack. The master of an

English privateer was always served breakfast first, so the cook had risen at dawn and hauled in a yellow-scaled

flatfish from a baited line he had hung off the stern rail on the previous night. Having cooked the fish to perfection on

his galley grill, he arranged it fussily on a silver platter with thin slices of lemon, a sprinkle of red pepper and a dash

of rock salt. He placed it on a tray, along with half a decanter of Madeira wine and two of the special thin malt biscuits

from Redjack's personal tin. Folding a serviette neatly, he put it in the captain's pewter goblet. Carrying the tray aloft

on the flat of his left palm, the plump little cook set off along the starboard deck for the captain's cabin. About halfway

along the deck, he stopped to admire the sun rising through a pink and pearl misted cloud. Mounsey sighed. He loved

the Caribbean and its exotic climate. That was when he saw the ship rounding the tip of the headland beyond the cliffs.

The cook dashed for'ard, still balancing the tray. He kicked at the two crewmen who were sleeping away their watch.

"Charlie! Bertie! Look, a ship!"

Captain Redjack Teal was seated at his dining table, clad in a silk dressing gown and a tasselled hat, awaiting his

breakfast. However, this morning proved a little different from others. Instead of the cook's gentle tap to warn him of

the meal's arrival, the cabin door burst open and the cook was pushed to one side as the two watchmen hurtled into the

room shouting, "Cap'n! Cap'n, sir—!"

Teal sprang up in a fury, his finger pointing at the doorway. "Out! Out of my cabin, confound your eyes, or I'll have

the hides flogged from your oafish backs. Out I say!"

Bertie spoke up hesitantly. "But, but, Cap'n, beggin' yore—"

The captain fixed him with an eye that would have frozen Jamaican rum on a warm day. "Outside ... now!" Both

crewmen knew better than to argue and stumbled out. Still standing outside balancing his tray, Mounsey gave them a

knowing look, then tapped gently on the door, which he had just shut behind them. Teal's voice called out languidly,

"Come."

The cook glided in smoothly, setting the tray carefully on Teal's table and rearranging a lemon slice as he spoke. "A

very good mornin' t'ye, sir. H'l wish to report two h'of the crew's watch, waitin' outside to see ye, sir."

The privateer captain poured himself some Madeira, moderating his voice to its usual aristocratic drawl. "Really, two

of the watch, y'say. Send the fellows in, please."

Mounsey called to Charlie and Bertie, both standing outside. "H'enter, an' close the door be'ind yew!"

Teal glanced over the rim of his goblet at the pair, standing awkwardly in his presence. Before either of them could

speak, he held up a hand for silence and began lecturing them. "Never taught to knock politely, were we? Now, repeat

after me: Bumpkins should always knock before entering the cabin of a captain and a gentleman of breeding. Repeat!"

Charlie and Bertie stumbled over some of the words, but they managed, after a fashion. Teal wiped his lips by dabbing

at them with the serviette.

"Politeness is the first rule to one's captain. Now, you there." He picked up his fork and pointed at Charlie. "What

exactly was it you wanted to report, eh? Speak up, man."

"Ship off the starboard bow, Cap'n, passin' the 'eadland. Looks like a French buccaneer, sir!"

Teal's fork dropped, clattering upon his plate. "Demn ye man, why didn't you say?"

Bertie piped up. "We was goin' to, sir, but you said—"

The gimlet eye froze him to silence as Teal reprimanded him. "Excuse me, but did I address you?"

Bertie shuffled his bare feet and stared hard at them. "No, sir."

The captain nodded. "Then hold y'tongue, sirrah!" Teal made it a point never to know the names of his crew. Such

things were beneath him. He stared at Charlie. "A demned froggy, eh? Buccaneer, y'say? Still in range, is he?"

Charlie kept his eyes front and centre. "Aye, sir!"

Redjack Teal rose from his chair. "Well, I'll teach the scoundrel to cross my bows. Cook, send in me dresser. You two,

report to the master gunner and tell him to turn out his crew on the double and await me orders."

Rocco Madrid had been wakened and called up on deck at first light. His three top crewmen, Pepe, Portugee and

Boelee, were grouped sheepishly on the afterdeck, avoiding their captain's disgusted looks.

Madrid drew his sword and prodded the long spar, which still smelled of oil and burnt canvas. He pointed the sword at

Portugee. "When was this thing found, and where exactly was it?"

The bosun tried to sound efficient. "Capitano, it was found less than a quarter hour ago. We pulled it from the water,

Boelee and I. Pepe knows exactly where it was."

Pepe cleared his throat nervously. "Sí, Capitano, the spar was drifting in our wake, I was lucky to spot it."

Turning on his heel, the Spaniard strode to the rail. He sheathed his sword and stared pensively at the water. The trio

watched him apprehensively, trying to gauge his mood. Much to their relief, he was smiling when he turned to face

them. "A decoy, eh, very clever. That spar tells me two things. One, the Marie is not headed for Jamaica and Port

Royal. Two, they were sending us the wrong way. So, what does this tell you, amigos?"

The three stared dumbly at him as his smile grew wider.

"Donkeys, you have not the brains among you to make a capitano. Thuron would not be fool enough to turn and sail

back to Cartagena. No, I think he's taken off at an angle, east, out to the sea. So, he will head for one of two places,

Hispaniola or Puerto Rico. Here's what I plan on doing. We will sail east also, right through the strait between the two

islands and out into the Atlantic. It doesn't matter which island he's chosen—when Thuron puts out to sea again, we'll

be waiting for him. Boelee, bring me my sea charts. Portugee, take the wheel and head Diablo due east. The French

fox will not escape me this time!"

Pepe stood by Portugee at the wheel, speaking in a low voice as the captain walked away. "How do we know Thuron

won't sail for the Leeward or the Windward Isles, or maybe for La Guira, Trinidad, even Curaçao, or right out to

Barbados?"

Portugee turned the wheel steadily, blinking as the sun caught his eyes. "We don't know, Pepe. Didn't you hear him?

We're donkeys with no brains, he's the capitano. So whatever he decides must be right. Unless you'd like to go tell him

you know better!"

Pepe shook his head vigorously. "I have no desire to be a dead man, amigo. The capitano knows best, this donkey will

obey his orders without question."

4

BEN HAD NEVER BEEN ABOARD A SHIP AT SEA that had been fired on. The first thing he heard was a distant

boom. Both he and Ned looked up to the sky, the dog sending him a puzzled thought. "That sounds like thunder, but

there's hardly a cloud anywhere in the sky."

Anaconda's deep voice rang out. "All hands down, we bein' fired on, Cap'n!"

Thuron was opening his telescope as he hurried to the stern rail when there was a tremendous splash in the water about

fifty yards astern. The Frenchman sighted his glass, shouting orders as he did so. "British privateer sailing out of Santa

Marta's east coast! Carrying enough cannon for a man-o'-war, curse him! Pierre, tighten the braces and run out

staysails port and starboard! He hasn't got our range yet. We'll need every stitch of canvas if the Marie's to outrun

him!"

A second cannon boom exploded. This time Ben heard the iron ball cleave the air with a whistling noise. Both he and

Ned were drenched with spray as the shot hit the waves, less than twenty yards from the stern.

Then the chase was on. A good stiff breeze took up any slack in the sails of La Petite Marie as she shot off like a

startled deer. A small, agile crewman named Gascon climbed to the stern lookout point with the captain's spyglass

rammed into his belt. Ben and Ned stood anxiously at Thuron's side, staring up at Gascon as he sighted the glass on

their attacker and yelled down. "They're comin' on fast, Cap'n, 'tis a twenty-two gunner, with four culverins in the

bows. I can just see the crew standing to with muskets!"

Despite the peril of their predicament, Thuron smiled grimly. "Hah! Typical privateer, overgunned and overmanned.

Our Marie sports only half their number of cannon, and we cut off our fenders yesterday. We'll outsail the fat-

bottomed Englander. He won't get any king's bounty out of Raphael Thuron, you can bet your boots on that, boy!"

Ned shot Ben a hasty observation. "Well, at least our cap'n isn't short of confidence. I like his style!"

Ben wiped salt spray from his eyes and addressed the captain. "I think we'll have to sail a lot faster than the privateer

to stay out of gun range, sir."

Thuron threw an arm around the boy's shoulders. "Aye, lad, but our Marie's a. fast little lady, and I've got my lucky

Ben and Ned with me. Don't worry, as long as we can keep those cannonballs from shooting our rudder away and any

chain shot from ripping off our masts, all he'll hit is our wake. I've outrun privateers before. Get down!"

Ben, Thuron and the dog flung themselves flat to the deck. There was a harsh, whirring noise and a resounding crack.

The captain lifted his head at the same time as Ben. Thuron nodded toward the stern rail. Hanging wrapped around the

ornate gallery rail, the wood of which was splintered and split, was a chain attached to a cannonball about the size of a

man's fist.

The Frenchman whistled soundlessly. "That was close. Here, lad, come and take a look at some chain shot!"

Keeping low, they crawled to the rail. Thuron reached up and unwound the object, hauling it aboard. It was like a bolas

— three lengths of chain joined at the centre to form a letter Y, with a small iron ball attached to the end of each

chain.

The captain weighed it in his big round hands. "British Royal Navy issue. Poor buccaneers like me cannot afford such

murderous, expensive toys. Look, here comes another! Stay on your feet, boy, it won't hit us. We're stretching our lead

on the sluggard!" Ben heard the deadly whirr and saw the second chain shot plow harmlessly into the sea two ship

lengths behind them.

Captain Redjack finally appeared on deck after breakfasting and having his dresser's attention. He flipped a lace

kerchief from his red velvet sleeve and flicked a spot of black powder from his oyster-silk knee breeches. Turning to

the master gunner, whose name had slipped his mind, he held out a well-manicured hand and spoke. "Confound ye,

man. Don't stand there gogglin', make y'report!"

Captain Redjack focussed the telescope, which the gunner handed him, on his quarry, studying the vessel as the gunner

reported. "She's a French buccaneer alright, Cap'n, sir. I tested 'er speed with a couple o' cannon shots. She's fast.

Though I managed to wrap a chain shot round 'er stern galley, sir."

Redjack took the glass from his eye and tapped it in his palm. "Faith, did ye now? Cowardly froggy, look at him,

runnin' like a spring hare. Mistah, er, steersman, I want ye to take us right within the gun range of yon fellow. Can y'do

that, eh?"

The steersman, a lanky, gloom-faced man, tugged his forelock. "She's 'igher out the water than us, sir. By 'er lines I'd

say the Frenchie was built fer speed. But I'll do me best, Cap'n."

The privateer captain stared down his nose at the steersman. "Don't do y'best, sirrah. Do a lot better'n that, eh? Three

golden guineas for the man who sets first foot on the pirates' deck. Three stripes from a rope's end for all hands if we

lose the villain. Demme, but if that isn't a fair offer, eh?"

The crew knew Redjack to be a man of his word. A hard-faced mate began bellowing orders. "Pile on extra spritsails

an' bowsails, take cutlasses an' loose those fenders. Jump to it, ye layabouts!"

Redjack smiled benevolently at the mate and held his arms wide to give him the benefit of his outfit: Oyster-silk

breeches, white stockings and silver-buckled high shoes, his cuffs and throat frothing with cream silk lace beneath a

freshly pressed and laundered red hunting jacket. "Oddsfish, that's the style, dress t'suit the occasion, I always say!"

Not daring to venture back up the mast again, Gascon crouched on the afterdeck viewing the Devon Belle through

Thuron's telescope. "The Britisher's pilin' on canvas, y'can see he's pickin' up more speed right away, Cap'n!"

Thuron nodded. "Just keep us running with the wind on an even keel, Ludon. We'll lose him before we're halfway to

Hispaniola and Puerto Rico."

The steersman, Ludon, called back to his captain. "Can't keep 'er runnin' due east, wind's freshenin' to the south. We'll

have to tack, Cap'n!"

Thuron gestured to Ned and Ben. "Watch me, I'll show you how to tack and skim." Thuron took the wheel from

Ludon and spun it expertly, explaining his tactics to Ben. "If we can't sail dead east, the next best thing is to tack. First

into the wind, then away from it, so the ship heels over a touch and skims sideways. That way our Marie keeps up her

speed. Sailing due east in a south wind would slow us down. Gascon, what's the privateer doing now?"

From behind the captain's back the lookout answered. "The Britisher's doin' the same as us, Cap'n, tackin' an' skimmin'

like a pondfly."

Beneath his foppish posturing, Captain Redjack Teal was no fool. At that moment, he was watching the French ship

keenly. He, too, had ordered the Devon Belle into a tacking manoeuvre while alerting his gunnery master to attend the

portside cannonry. Teal reckoned he had gained a small distance on the other vessel. He waited until the moment was

right, ready to take a gamble. The opportunity presented itself suddenly when he saw that the two vessels, whilst

tacking, were broadside on to each other. Standing alongside his master gunner, the privateer captain rapped out swift

orders: "Right, sharpish now, give her a full broadside, quick as y'like man. Now!"

Ten cannon rocked back on their carriages as they went off with one frightening explosion!

All hands aboard the Marie threw themselves flat as they heard the roar of approaching cannonballs. Ben gasped as

Ned hurled himself on his master's back, protecting him. Next moment there was horrendous crashing, smoke, flames

and the sound of screaming men.

Thuron was on his feet instantly, shouting, "Run south* run south with the wind. Leave off tacking!" He hauled the

dog off Ben. "Are you alright, boy?"

With the noise still ringing in his ears, Ben jumped up. "I'm fine, Cap'n, see to your ship!"

Ben and Ned were hard on the Frenchman's heels as he hastened about, checking the damage. Luckily no masts had

been chopped down by the cannonade, the rudder was intact and the Marie had not been holed. But the entire galley

had been blown to pieces, clear off the deck. Pierre, ashen-faced, staggered up clutching a wounded arm. "Three crew

dead, Cap'n. Galley an' everythin' in it, cook included, all gone. 'Tween decks is burnin', though not badly."

Thuron ripped a swathe of lining from his frock coat and bandaged Pierre's arm as he issued orders. "Get those flames

put out! Check all the rigging! Ludon, keep her hard south. Take us out of range!"

Ben saw the captain's brow crease and his eyes narrow. "Can we still outrun them, sir?"

Thuron stroked his beard and stared back at the Devon Belle. "Aye, at a pinch, lad, at a pinch. But I've thought of a

better way than running from the enemy. I'm going to stop him chasing us. Anaconda, remember Puerto Cortes?"

The giant's face lit up in a huge grin. "Aye, Cap'n, that's where we captured little Gerda from that Hollander. Shall I

have her brought aft?"

The Frenchman drew his cutlass. "Rig a block and tackle!"

Ned sent a puzzled thought to Ben. "Gerda can't be that little, not if they need a block and tackle to raise her. Ask him

who little Gerda is, Ben."

The boy asked, and Ned was all ears as Thuron explained. "Little Gerda is a strange gun we captured from a Hollander

merchant ship bound for a garrison at the tip of Yucatan. It has a long barrel, not wide enough to fit a full cannonball

but built to fire further than a cannon. You'll see."

Little Gerda was indeed a strange weapon. Ben helped to swing it onto the stern deck and set it up on a pivot, which

was intended for the bow culverin.

The captain stroked its long barrel approvingly. "I knew this would prove useful one day. See the barrel? It is meant

for long-range firing. Gerda's magazine will take twice the normal amount of gunpowder—her barrel has seven layers

of thick copper wire bound onto it, so it won't split under pressure. The vent is too small for a proper cannonball, so

can you guess what I'm going to use, Ben?"

The boy caught on instantly. He picked up the chain shot that Thuron had left lying by the cracked rail. "This would fit

into little Gerda's mouth, I think."

The Frenchman winked broadly at him. "Right, my lucky Ben! Let's give the Britisher his chain shot back as a

returned compliment. Anaconda, Gascon, set the gun up. We'll get it ready while we're still on the run!"

Ned and Ben scampered below on the captain's orders, where they collected any old soft lengths of cloth to act as

wadding and some palm oil to soak it in. On the way back they took the rammer from the for'ard culverin to tamp little

Gerda's shot down tight.

Between them, Thuron and Anaconda were raising the gun's trajectory and sighting it right.

A crewman aboard the Devon Belle stood dutifully by with tray, decanter and goblet. Captain Redjack Teal took his

morning measure of Madeira wine, asking a seaman who was relaying observations from another stationed in the

crow's nest, "You fellow, what's the froggy doin' now, eh?"

The seaman shouted up to the lookout. "Cap'n wants to know what the French vessel's doin'!"

The lookout yelled back down. "Runnin' due south with the wind, clearin' up the mess we made o' their midship

decks!"

The seaman reported back to Teal, who had already heard the lookout's reply. "She's runnin' due south, sir, makin'

runnin' repairs as she goes."

Sipping Madeira, Teal dabbed his lips and smiled. "Stap me, that's a good un, eh? Makin' runnin' repairs whilst runnin'

away. Very droll indeed!"

The lookout called down again. "I think they're riggin' a cannon up at the stern, can't make it out properly though, sir!"

The seaman turned to his captain. "He says, he thinks ..."

Redjack dismissed him with a haughty glance. "Go away, sirrah, y'sound like an echo in a cave. I heard him. Gunner,

get up an' see what that oaf's blitherin' about, will you?"

The master gunner climbed obediently up the mast into the crow's nest with the lookout. Shading his eyes, he peered at

the Marie.

Teal called up testily. "Give him the demned glass!"

The gunner took a sighting through the telescope lens. "Looks like a long-nosed culverin, sir. We're well outta range.

'Twon't shoot half this distance, Cap'n, sir!"

Teal held out his goblet for more wine. "Well, let the silly Frenchies amuse themselves by tryin', eh? Haw haw haw!"

There was a distant echo of a sharp crack, followed seconds later by a whirring scream, ending in a loud crash!

Shorn off by chain shot, the Devon Belle's foremast swayed crazily for a moment, then fell.

Aboard the Marie, a loud cheer went up from the crew. Ben and Ned danced jubilantly around the French captain, the

dog barking and the boy shouting joyfully. "You did it, Cap'n, what a shot! Chopped off their foremast!"

The captain stood nonchalantly, a stick with burning tow at its end still held in his hand. He flourished it and bowed.

"Raphael Thuron was once a gunner aboard the Star of Sudan, a corsair that was the terror of the Red Sea!"

Ned passed Ben a thought. "There's old Pierre coming up from amidships. Look at the face on him, you'd think it was

the Marie that'd had her mast shot off!"

Pierre's misgivings became clear when he spoke to his captain. "When the galley got hit, most of the supplies went

with it."

Thuron's face fell. "Is there anything left?"

Pierre shrugged. "Half a leakin' cask of water an' one sack of flour, that's all I salvaged."

Captain Thuron's happy mood evaporated promptly. "We'll last out until we make Hispaniola or Puerto Rico. Take the

wheel, Pierre. Back on the eastern course. Anaconda, you and I will work out a ration of water and flour for each man

until we can get more provisions."

Ned sent a sideways glance and a thought to Ben. "Maybe we're not so lucky for the cap'n. Tighten your belt, mate,

there's hard days lying ahead of us."

5

CAPTAIN REDJACK TEAL WAS not a happy man. He was, in fact, rather unhappy and, as such, made sure the

entire crew of the Devon Belle shared his feelings wholeheartedly. It was noon of the second day since Teal had lost a

foremast to his own chain shot. The French buccaneer vessel was now more than a day and a night ahead, off into the

wide blue Caribbean Sea. The British privateer had continued sailing in pursuit, but like a gull with an injured wing,

she had soon dropped far behind, sloughing awkwardly along whilst running repairs were carried out on the broken

mast. After severely chastising all hands as he had vowed he would, Redjack had taken to his cabin. There was not a

man aboard who had avoided six strokes of a tarred and knotted rope's end, three strokes for losing the quarry and an

added three for what their captain termed "lack of discipline and a sullen demeanour."

At a timid tap on the cabin door, Teal glanced up from his noonday goblet of Madeira. He snapped out briskly,

"Come!"

The bosun stumped in, wooden splints bound either side of a fractured leg. Tugging his forelock respectfully, he stood

wincing. Teal pretended to study a chart that was spread across the table. After what he judged a suitable period, the

captain sat back, studying his bosun disdainfully. "Struth, man, have ye no tongue in your mouth, eh? Don't just stand

there lookin' sorry for yourself. Speak!"

The bosun's Adam's apple bobbed nervously. "Beg to report, sir, the jury mast is now rigged an' in place, all shipshape

an' fit t'go under full sail again, Cap'n."

Redjack toyed with his goblet, staring at the bosun's injury. " 'Twill be some time before you can go under full sail

with that leg, eh?"

The bosun kept his eyes straight ahead and replied, "Aye, sir."

Teal sighed despairingly. "Lettin' a mast spar fall on y'leg like that. Lackaday dee, you're a foolish fellow. What are

ye?"

Still staring ahead, the man was forced to repeat, "A foolish fellow, sir!"

Rising in a world-weary fashion, Teal refilled his goblet to take out on deck with him. "Stir your stumps, then, let's go

an' take a look at what sort of a job's been made."

A shrill blast on the bosun's whistle sent the crew hurrying into four lines on the main deck. Without a second glance,

Teal swept by and went to inspect the new foremast. It was a section of common ash tree from the ship's lumber

stores, held by spikes and rope lashings to the original foremast stump, which was about four feet high. The ship's

carpenter and his mate, who had been applying coats of melted tar to the rope binding, stood respectfully to one side.

The captain circled the jury-rigged mast twice, peering closely at the work. "Hmm, not half bad, will it hold sail

without crackin', eh?"

The carpenter saluted. "Aye, sir, I reckon she'll take a blow!"

Teal, assuming the new mast was wood that they had picked up along the South American coast, smiled briefly at the

grizzled workman. "Good man! Though I wager ye'd sooner be usin' stout English timber, a trunk of ash from back

home, eh?"

Knowing what to do, the carpenter nodded cheerily. "Aye, sir!" He watched Teal strut off, wondering how a man

could become ship's captain without being able to identify a plain piece of English ash from the ship's stores, which

was what he had used.

Captain Redjack Teal went to stand on the afterdeck to give a speech to his crew waiting at rigid attention below on

the main deck. Now he was a stern father, berating his wayward children. "As captain of this, His Majesty's ship, and

as the bearer of the king's own letter of marque, I am bound by me duty t'keep the high seas free of pirates an' their ilk.

But my crew are failin' me! An' a demned sloppy lot ye are! Lettin' a confounded Frenchy get away like that, eh? Call

y'self gunners? I had him broadside on, an' all ye could do was wreck his worthless galley! Call y'selves marksmen?

There wasn't a single musket shot from us, no enterprisin' fellow tried to take out their steersman or captain! Then, if

y'please, we had a fool at the wheel who couldn't take us out o' the way of a single chain shot! He crippled us!"

All hands stared at the deck, as if the answer lay there. Teal continued working himself up into a fine old temper. "Call

y'selves English privateers, hah! Plowfield donkeys an' cabbage-furrow bumpkins, that's what y'are! But things are

goin' to change, I'm goin' t'make marines of ye, fightin' sailors that'd make the wives of England proud! No more rope's

end, 'tis the cat-o'-nine-tails for any man who doesn't jump to it. We're goin' to capture the Frenchman, or we're goin'

to send him'n his whole demned froggy crew to perdition an' a watery grave! Do ye hear me?"

All hands shouted as one man, "Aye, sir!"

He turned to the mate who was holding the Madeira goblet in waiting. Teal took several sips and mopped lightly at his

cheek with a kerchief. Berating a crew was tiring work. He was about to leave the deck when the mate reminded him.

"Permission to carry out burial at sea, Cap'n?"

The captain tried to look as if he had not forgotten. "Oh yes, quite. Chappie the mast fell on, wasn't it? Well, fetch him

out an' let's get on with it."

The corpse was borne to the amidships rail, wrapped tightly in sail canvas, weighted at the feet with holystones—

chunks of sandstone used for scouring the decks. The canvas was rough-stitched up the centre with twine, the last

stitch being put through the dead man's nose: a traditional seafaring way of making sure the man was really dead. Six

crewmen held the bundle, balanced on a greased plank, over the rail. Teal took the Bible and skimmed swiftly through

the regulation prayer for the dead, ending with a swift amen, which was echoed by the crew.

Then the six bearers began tipping the board up, reciting as they did:

"Let's hope Father Neptune

Has saved him a fine fortune,

An' all the pretty mermaids

Will sing a sweet 'n' slow tune.

For here goes some mother's son,

Now all the prayers are said,

With holystones round both heels,

Tip him overboard, mates, he's dead!"

There was a dull splash as the canvas parcel hit the waves and vanished down into the sea.

Captain Redjack straightened his cravat. "Put on all sail, Mr. Mate. Take her due east in pursuit. Let me know when

the Frenchman's sighted. Er, by the way, what was that fellow we just put down, eh?"

"That was Percival, Cap'n," the mate replied.

Teal looked faintly mystified. "Percival who?"

"Mounsey, your cook, sir."

The captain shook his head sadly. "Cook, y'say! Hmm, rather inconvenient. See if y'can find a good man to replace

him."

Three days had passed aboard La Petite Marie. The weather had stayed fair and the winds steady. Ben stood in line,

carrying two bamboo drinking cups. Beneath the makeshift canvas galley awning, Ludon and a crewman named Grest

were serving the water ration out to all hands. Ben held out the first cup, and Grest filled the ladle two thirds and

tipped it into the tow-headed boy's cup. Then Ben held out the second cup.

Grest eyed it, glaring at Ben. "One man, one measure, that's all anybody gets!"

Ludon whispered something to Grest, who wordlessly dipped the ladle and gave Ben a second measure.

Captain Thuron strode up. "Are you having any trouble, lad?"

Ben shook his head. "No trouble, Cap'n, just getting the water for me and Ned." The boy walked off, followed by his

dog.

The captain poked a thick finger in Grest's shoulder, making the man flinch. "That dog gets water, the same as any

man aboard. Make sure you serve him the proper measure, d'you hear?"

As Thuron strode off, Grest muttered. "Water for a dog? There's hardly enough to go round for ourselves!"

Thuron turned, having heard the remark. He smiled at Grest. "Hand me that ladle, friend."

Grest did as he was ordered. Thuron bent the metal ladle handle easily in his powerful hands. Still smiling, he placed

the bent ladle round Grest's neck and twisted both ends together. It was like an iron collar round the man's neck.

Thuron allowed the smile to slip from his face.

"The day you want to be captain, just let me know!"

Ned licked his bamboo cup dry. "Funny how you take a simple thing like a drink of water for granted, until there's not

much to be had."

Ben smiled into his dog's dark eyes, returning the message. "No sign of rain either, or we could've collected some by

spreading a sail and catching it. I wonder how far off Hispaniola and Puerto Rico are."

The black Labrador picked up the cup in his jaws. "I don't know. Let's go and ask the cap'n."

Thuron was standing in the bow with the glass to his eye. Ben and Ned went around by the starboard side, avoiding

those still in line for their water. Ned stopped at the back of the canvas-sheet galley, alerting Ben with a swift thought.

"Don't make any noise, mate. Come and listen to this."

Ludon and Grest were whispering to a man named Ricaud as they served him water. "When we were moored at Santa

Marta, Thuron kicked me, just because I tried to stop that cur from barking!" Ben overheard Ludon complaining. He

also heard Ned's indignant mental reply.

"Cur? Huh! Listen to that scurvy mongrel!"

Grest was in agreement with Ludon. "Aye, if that lad an' his dog are so lucky, then why are we runnin' from a

privateer, with hardly a bite to eat nor a drop to drink? Call that lucky?"

Ricaud was a whiner, Ben could tell by his voice. "A drop is right. How can a man survive on only this lousy dribble

of water? How much is left in that barrel, Grest?"

They heard Grest swish the water as he tipped the barrel. "Not enough to get us through tomorrow. We might be

sightin' land about then. I'll tell ye one thing, though, Thuron's out to cause trouble for me. I'm not staying aboard this

ship. Once I'm ashore I'll be off. There's plenty more vessels lookin' for crew round those two islands."

Ludon's voice answered him. "Let me know when ye jump ship. I'm not stayin' aboard to be kicked around. How about

you, Ricaud?"

There was a chuckle from Ricaud. "The great Cap'n Thuron wouldn't be so high'n'mighty without a crew. I'm with ye,

an' I'll put the word round. I wager there's more'n a few among us who'd be wanted by the authorities back in France."

Ludon sounded cautious. "You're right, mate, but don't let Pierre or the Anaconda know, they're loyal to Thuron. Just

ask around, easy-like, but make sure you talk to the right men."

Ned stared at Ben, transmitting his thoughts. "You go and see the cap'n. I'll keep my ears and eyes open around here.

Tell him what you've heard, Ben."

Thuron was scanning the horizon through his telescope and had his back to Ben. On hearing the boy's footsteps behind

him, the Frenchman turned. Ben felt embarrassed at having to tell his friend what he had heard. "Cap'n ... I... er ..."

The buccaneer stared into his companion's mysterious blue eyes: he saw ageless honesty mingled with storm-clouded

distant seas. He smiled to ease the boy's discomfort. "Speak up, lad. What's troubling you?"

Ben tried again. "It's the crew. They're ..."

The Frenchman nodded knowingly. "Planning to desert the Marie when we make landfall. Don't look so surprised, Ben

—it doesn't pay for a captain to be ignorant of his crew's feelings. No doubt you've heard the muttering and spotted the

hard glances. I've watched them, too, for a while. Ah, they aren't bad men, really, but they get like that from time to

time. Well, look at it their way. We've run from Rocco Madrid, been attacked by the privateers and now we're about to

run out of rations. What right-thinking seaman wouldn't want to leave such a vessel? The Caribbean isles' are friendly

and sunny, and there's other ships in their harbours for a man to make his berth in. Besides, some of this crew are

wanted men in France, most in the pirating trade are." He laughed. "I probably am myself, but I'm rich and willing to

take my chance."

Ben could not help but admire his friend's wisdom and easygoing outlook. Even so, he felt bound to ask the question,

"What do you plan on doing about it, sir?"

Thuron faced the sea and put the glass back to his eye. "Oh, I've made my plans, lad. The first is to sight land and get

all hands ashore in a place where I can keep my eye on them. Not some waterfront town full of taverns, but a nice

quiet cove with running water and a native village close by where we can trade for most of what we need. Trouble is

that I haven't spotted land yet. I know we've run a bit off course in the last day or two, but the islands can't be too far

off. Here, you take a peek. You're my lucky boy—mayhap you'll spy something."

Ben took the telescope, focussed it and searched the horizon bit by bit.

Thuron chuckled. "That's the way, use those lucky blue eyes of yours. I'll go and find Ned. Hope he hasn't signed up

with the deserters."

Ben kept his eye to the glass. "Shame on you for thinking such a thing, Cap'n. There's none more faithful than my

Ned!"

A distant speck on the horizon caught Ben's attention. He felt as though ice water were trickling down his back. Some

sixth sense told him that it was the Flying Dutchman. Swiftly he angled the lens away southward. A dark-purplish

smudge on the far skyline dispelled his fears. The boy's spirits soared. "Cap'n, I can see land! There, over to the

southeast!"

Thuron took the telescope and clapped it to his eye. "Where, Ben, where? I can't see a thing."

He returned the instrument to the boy, who immediately found the far-off smudge. "Crouch down, Cap'n, I'll keep the

glass steady. See it way over there?"

The Frenchman screwed his eye hard to the brass aperture. "Your eyes must be a lot better than mine, Ben, I don't see

a thing. No, wait . . . Aha, there 'tis! Tell Anaconda to alter our course two points south, then dead ahead. Ben, Ben,

my lucky shipmate, you've done it again. Land ho!"

The black Labrador sat stoically, listening to most of the crew grumbling and disputing over the stern rail. Suddenly

they heard the captain's joyful shout, and it worked like a charm. Everything became hustle and bustle as the crew

broke off to attend to their duties. Anaconda began singing in a deep, melodious voice.

"Haul away for the islands, mates,

That's the place to be.

Way haul away!

There's fish swim in the bay, me boys,

An' fruit on every tree.

Way haul away!

The livin's good, an' easy there,

So sunny an' so free.

A shady place to rest your head,

We'll anchor in the lee.

To me way, haul away!

Oh haul away, do,

All hands turn out an' hear me shout...

Away boat's crew!"

Ned, standing alongside the giant steersman, threw back his head and bayed. Ben laughed as he exchanged a thought

with the Labrador. "You'll have to learn the words, Ned!"

The dog sniffed and gave him a dignified glance. "Does a fiddler, a drummer or a guitar player have to know the

words? Ignorant boy, can't you see I'm providing a wonderful accompaniment to our friend here!"

With the westering sun crimsoning her sails from astern, La Petite Marie nosed into Guayama, a cove on the

southeastern coast of Puerto Rico. They dropped anchor outside the shallows, where she would not be left high and dry

on sandbanks by an ebbing tide. Captain Thuron ordered Pierre to lower the ship's jolly boat. It was a small craft and

would have to make the journey to shore four times.

Knowing that the bosun was loyal to him, the captain chose him to make the first trip. "Pierre, you and Anaconda will

take the first lot. Ben, you and Ned, go second; Ludon, you're third. I'll make the last trip ashore. Anaconda, stay

aboard the jolly boat and make the return journey each time. Leave your muskets aboard, everybody, cutlasses too.

Take only your knives. We don't want to show weapons—folk on the island might take it as an unfriendly gesture.

Give the order, Anaconda!"

Any protests about leaving guns and swords aboard were forgotten. The men felt their spirits rise as the giant black

steersman roared through cupped hands, "Away boat's crew!"

When Ben's turn came to go ashore, he seated himself in the prow of the little boat and sent a plea to Ned, who was

standing next to him. "Keep that tail still or you'll beat me to death before I can put a foot on firm ground!"

Ned flopped his head from side to side, answering, "Sorry but it's impossible, we dogs have naturally wagging tails. I'd

feel miserable keeping my beautiful tail still."

Pierre was waiting on shore with the first group, who had already gathered wood and lit a fire on the palm-fringed

beach. The loyal bosun called Ned and Ben to his side, where they stood slightly out of hearing of the other crewmen.

Pierre kept his voice low. "Our fire can be seen from the Marie. 'Twill be night shortly, the men won't go wandering

off in the dark."

Sounds of the tropical forest rang out behind them, strange noises of unidentifiable birds, beasts and reptiles, either

hunting or being hunted.

Ben drew closer to the firelight. "Have you found water yet?"

Pierre shook his head. "Tomorrow maybe. Here, have a coconut. There's plenty about under the palms." He cut

through the thick, fibrous husk, revealing a good-sized nut. Piercing it with his knife, the bosun gave it to the boy. Ben

sucked the clear, sweet milk down. It tasted delicious.

Ned's paw tapped him on the leg. "D'you fancy sharing that?"

Ben hugged the Labrador briefly. "Sorry, Ned, I'll get you one of your own right away."

By the time Captain Thuron came ashore, all hands were dozing around the fire. He joined Pierre, Ned and Ben, who

were drinking coconut milk and munching away at the white nut, and explained his plans in a low voice: "I've noticed

that already three hands have deserted since we made landfall here. Ludon, Grest and Ricaud. They're hiding out

somewhere inland by now. Anaconda has taken the jolly boat back to the Marie for the night—that way they won't get

any ideas about taking over the ship. He'll row back to shore in the morning. Pierre, you'll take the boat back then and

stand guard aboard the Marie during the day. We'll relieve you from time to time. I've smuggled some muskets and

cutlasses ashore in a sack. If it comes to a mutiny, we'll be ready, though I hope it won't. Ben, you and Ned take first

watch; I'll take over from you. Pierre, you relieve me for the last watch. I'm not sure what will happen tomorrow. I'll

just have to plan things as they come. Now I must get some rest. Stay awake, my lucky Ben, you and Ned keep a

weather eye on all hands."

Ben sat by the fire, tossing odd pieces of driftwood on the flames to keep it going as he stared into the dark mass of

trees and foliage skirting the beach. He wondered what the morning would bring. Ned lay next to him with a broken

coconut clutched between his forepaws, growling softly as he chewed away the soft white inner part from its hard

wooden shell. Ben listened to his comments.

"Gurr, this is good. Why didn't I try coconut before today? Like a soft bone, but sweet and juicy. Gurr, nice and

crunchy!"

The blue-eyed boy chuckled. "A coconut-eating dog—now I've seen it all! Do you think you could tear yourself away

from that nut for a moment? We're getting low on driftwood. There's plenty along the tide line. I'll stay here and keep

watch."

The black Labrador stood and stretched himself. "When I'm captain of my own ship, I'll make you go and get

driftwood. It's not an easy life, you know, fetching this and searching for that, while you sit by the fire."

Ben passed his friend a mock serious thought. "Right, mate. We'll call your ship the Black Dog, and you can order me

about day and night!"

Ned trotted off to the left along the beach, still grumbling. "Huh, don't think I won't. There'll be no idle boys aboard

my vessel. Oh, and another thing, she'll be called the Handsome Hound. I don't like the sound of the Black Dog!"

Ben watched him go. He knew why Ned had gone to the left. Ever since they had landed, both had avoided looking

out to the waters that lay on their right. Ben knew it was because both he and Ned could feel the presence of

Vanderdecken and the Flying Dutchman, hovering somewhere out in the seas. Feeling the hairs prickle on the back of

his neck, Ben looked at the fire, then at the snoring ship's company of La Petite Marie. They were no trouble at the

moment. Carefully avoiding a chance peek at the ebbing tide, he turned his attention to the dark, tangled forest.

Suddenly he felt sorry that the dog was not at his side. Something had moved in the gloom-cast undergrowth. He sat

quite still, hoping the captain or one of the crew would awaken to break the spell, which kept his eyes riveted on the

bushes fronting the tree line. There was the movement again, slow, silent and stealthy. Was it some wild jungle

predator, a jaguar perhaps, or a giant python stalking him? The shape partially materialised as it moved out of shelter

onto the pale, moon-washed sand. Ben wished it were a wild animal—that he could cope with. But this was the shape

of a man, sinister, dark and phantomlike, clad in a long black gown with a pointed hood that hid his features. It was

like looking at somebody with just a black hole for a face.

Fear numbed Ben's limbs and constricted his throat. He sat there, staring in horrified fascination as the eerie apparition

glided soundlessly toward him, hands outstretched. It drew nearer and nearer ...

6

EARLIER THAT SAME EVENING, THE DIABLO Del Mar had sailed into the straits that lay between Hispaniola

and Puerto Rico, the waters known as the Mona Passage. Rocco Madrid had made a slight change to his plans. He

called the mate, Boelee, and explained the scheme. "Why run straight out into the Atlantic, amigo? Would it not be

more sensible to take a look at the harbours of each island on either side of these straits first?"

Boelee knew better than to disagree with Madrid, so he agreed. "A good plan, Capitano. We may even see the

Frenchman's ship tied up in port. That would make things a lot easier than standing out in the ocean, awaiting a sea

battle!"

Stroking his moustache, the Spaniard looked critically across the expanse, from left to right. "Which island would you

visit first, Boelee? Hispaniola or Puerto Rico? Where's Thuron likely to make landfall, eh?"

The mate wanted to visit Hispaniola first. He knew of a few good taverns there. So he chose the opposite, certain that

Rocco Madrid would disagree. "If 'twere up to me, Capitano, I'd take a look at Puerto Rico."

Madrid stared down his long, aristocratic nose at Boelee. "But it isn't up to you, amigo. I'm the one whose word counts

aboard this ship. I say we go to Hispaniola first, to the Isle of Saona. It's the first likely landfall for any ship sailing

this way."

Boelee nodded deferentially. "As you wish, Capitano!" He said it too glibly, and Madrid eyed him suspiciously, then

on a whim changed his mind again. "Maybe your choice was a clever one, Boelee. Let's double-guess Thuron. We'll

put about for Mayagüez, a Puerto Rican harbour I know well. He'll probably think that we'd head for Saona. What are

you looking so down in the mouth for, amigo? You wanted to go to Puerto Rico. I heard you say so not a moment ago.

Am I not a kind master, to have granted your wish so readily?"

Boelee took the wheel from Portugee and turned the Diablo toward Mayagüez. Though Rocco Madrid was still

smiling from the little joke he had played on the mate, and though he swaggered confidently about the foredeck, his

mind was not easy. The Spaniard was torn by doubts as to the location of La Petite Marie—he seethed with resentment

toward Thuron. At all costs the gold must be retrieved. Rocco did not take into account that it was he who had cheated

the gold from the Frenchman in the first place. No! It was his gold, and he could not lose face in front of his crew by

letting it, and Thuron, slip through his fingers. Besides, some of the gold had really belonged to him—it had been his

stake in the game. Raphael Thuron and his crew had to pay for their boldness. He would punish them, yea, even unto

death!

The spectral figure halted in front of Ben and sat down. Enormous relief flooded the boy: this was no evil ghost, it was

only an old man. But what an old man!

Firelight reflected off his face as he pushed back his hood, revealing weather-lined features of immense serenity and

kindness. A thousand wrinkles creased his brown-gold skin as he smiled through dark Latin eyes set in deep cream-

coloured whites. Ben could see, without the least doubt, that this was a good and honest old fellow. His hair was

wispy, pure silver; the robe he wore was that of some religious order, and a wooden cross of polished coconut shell

hung from his neck on a cord. He spoke in Spanish, which the boy could readily understand.

"Peace be with you, my son. I am Padre Esteban. I hope that you and your friends mean no harm to me or my people."

Ben returned his smile. "No, Padre, we only need food and fresh water, so we can continue our voyage."

A thought from Ned flashed into Ben's mind as he saw Ned returning, dragging a large dead tree branch along the

sand: "I felt your fear. Who is the man? Where's he from?"

Ben replied mentally to the Labrador. "Come here and take a look at his face, Ned—he's a friend, Padre Esteban."

Ned released the branch and came to sit by Ben. "Padre Esteban, eh? He's more like a statue of a saint than a man. I

like him!"

The padre reached out a hand that was the colour of antique parchment. Stroking Ned's offered paw, he was silent for a

while. Then, staring at Ben, he shook his head in wonder. "Who taught you to speak to an animal?"

Somehow, the boy was not surprised that the charismatic old man had the wisdom to read his mind. He decided to tell

him the truth. "Nobody taught me. It was a gift from an angel. Could you really tell I was talking to my dog, Padre?"

The old priest never once took his eyes off Ben. "Oh yes, my son, you are called Ben, and this fine dog is Ned. But I

see by your eyes that you have not been a young boy for many, many years—yours has been a hard and difficult life."

Ben was shocked by Padre Esteban's perception. He felt as if he wanted to pour out his story to the wonderful old man.

The padre merely reached out and took Ben's hand in his. "I know, Ben, I know, but there is no need to burden an old

man with your history. I see great honesty in you. The evil of this world has not tainted your heart. I must go now, but

I will return at dawn. My people will see to the needs of your ship. Tell the captain we mean no harm to you." He

paused. "I must ask you to do something for me, Ben."

Squeezing the padre's hand lightly, the boy nodded. "Anything for you, Padre Esteban. What is it?"

The old man took the cross and its cord off and placed it about Ben's neck, tucking it inside his shirt. "Wear this. It

will protect both you and your dog from the one who pursues you. Remember it when you are in danger."

Ben took the cross in his hand. It glistened in the firelight. The depiction of the figure upon it had been carved

carefully into the wood and outlined with dark plant dye. When the boy looked up again, the old man had gone.

Ben told Thuron of his encounter with Padre Esteban, but he did not tell him of the cross or what the old man had seen

in his eyes. The Frenchman warmed his hands by the fire. "See, I knew that you two were lucky to me. Don't worry,

I'll pay the padre for anything he can give to us in the way of supplies. Well done, lad. You and Ned get some sleep

now. There's lots to do once day breaks!"

Dawn's first pale light was streaking the skies over a smooth and tranquil sea, and the Diablo Del Mar was little more

than three miles off the coast of Mayagüez. Rocco Madrid was roused from his cabin by a shout from Pepe, the

lookout. "Sail off the stern to starboard!"

The Spanish pirate captain hurried out on deck and clapped the telescope to his eye. "A fishing vessel! Portugee, come

about to meet it. I'll have words with the skipper."

Fear was the first reaction shown by the thin, tombstone-toothed Carib who skippered the small schooner-rigged

fishing craft. He knew he was facing a pirate vessel whose guns he could not outrun. The man had dealt with those of

The Brotherhood before. Hiding his terror behind a huge grin, he held up two large fish, shouting, "A good day to you,

friends. My fish are fresh caught during the night, the finest in all these waters. Will you buy some and help to feed my

poor wife and ten children, amigos?"

The Diablo loomed up alongside the small craft, dwarfing it. Rocco Madrid leaned over the midship rail and looked

down at the skipper. Producing a gold coin, he spun it toward the fisherman, who caught it with great alacrity and

waited in respectful silence to hear what the dangerous-looking pirate had to say.

Madrid held up another gold coin meaningfully. "Keep your fish, amigo. Where have ye been trawling? I mean you no

harm—all I want is information."

The skipper swept off his battered straw hat and bowed, testing the gold coin between his teeth as he did so. "What

can I tell you, señor? We are bound for Santo Domingo on Hispaniola after three days and nights fishing the waters

round the Isle of St. Croix. Ah, it is a hard life, yes?"

Madrid nodded. "Never mind your life story. If you want to earn that gold piece, and the one I have here, tell me: Did

you see any other ships since you've been out? I'm looking for a French buccaneer named La Petite Marie. "

Holding the hat flat against his chest, the skipper bowed again. "I cannot read the letters, señor, but we sighted a

vessel. Not as grand and large as your ship, but round in the bow and very fast-looking. She flew the skull and blades,

just as you do. A Brethren vessel, eh?"

Rocco's eyes lit up. "That's her! Where was she when you saw her, amigo? Tell me!"

The skipper waved his hat back over his shoulder. "Sailing toward the southeast coast, I think, maybe to Ponce,

Guayama or Arroyo, who knows ?"

The Spaniard stroked his moustache, slightly puzzled. "What would Thuron want around there? Hmm, maybe he has a

secret hiding place. I'll soon find out, though!" He pocketed the gold coin and drew his sword, pointing it at the

hapless fishing-boat skipper. "I know Hispaniola well. If you've lied to me, I'll find you. Ten children is a lot for a

widow to support, remember that."

Dismissing the fishing boat, he turned to Pepe. "Get my charts, I'll take charge of this operation!"

Pepe hurried off to the captain's cabin, where he gathered up charts, muttering to himself, "When did he never take

charge? But who am I to mention this, nothing but a donkey."

Aboard the Devon Belle, Captain Redjack Teal was also studying his charts whilst taking breakfast. His new cook, an

undersized seaman named Moore, stood nervously by, watching as Teal forked a minute portion of fish into his mouth.

The privateer captain pulled a face of disgust and spat the food onto the deck, then glared balefully at Moore. "Curse

your liver'n'lights, man, do ye call this cooked, eh?"

Moore tried to stand his ground and look respectful at the same time. He saluted and spoke with a thick Irish accent.

"'Twas boiled t'the best of me ability, Yer Honour!"

"Boiled!" Teal remarked, as though the word were an obscenity. "Boiled? Who the devil ever told ye I take boiled fish

t'break me fast, eh? Not another word, sirrah. Stand to attention! Clean this mess up. Take that demned fish out o' me

sight! Report t'the gunner for six strokes of a rope's end and thank your ignorant stars 'tain't the cat across your back. If

ye ever bring me boiled fish again, I'll have ye boiled alive in your own galley. Get out of me sight!"

After the unfortunate Moore had left the cabin, Teal quaffed several goblets of Madeira and stalked out on deck in

high bad humour. He called the mate to attend him. "You there, has land been sighted yet?"

The man tugged his forelock. "Nary a sightin' yet, Cap'n, but we should spot somethin' by midmorn, sir."

Teal could think of nothing to say except, "Well... well, make sure ye do! An' report t'me, straight off, d'ye hear?" He

thrust his telescope viciously at the mate. "Take this up t'the crow's nest, tell that lookout to keep his confounded eyes

skinned for land. Move y'self, man!"

He stalked off, exclaiming aloud, "Boiled fish? Can't abide the foul stuff. Worse than boiled mutton, if y'ask me, far

worse!"

By midmorning the entire crew of the Devon Belle were fervently hoping their captain would stay in his cabin until his

temper had calmed. Gillis, the captain's dresser, sat in Cook Moore's galley, sharing some boiled fish with his shipmate

and complaining bitterly. "Cap'n, is it? I've seen better cap'ns in charge of a saltfish barrow. Kicked me, he did, aye,

kicked me, an' for what? 'Cos one of his buttons was loose. Ain't nothin' in regulations says a man has t'get kicked for

a loose button, is there, cookie?"

Moore rubbed his rear end, still smarting from the gunner's knotted rope. "Only a kick? Sure now, weren't you the

lucky one. How does that boiled fish taste to ye?"

Gillis was about to reply when the call came loud and clear. "Land ho! East off the for'ard bow. Land hoooooo!"

The feeling of relief that swept over the Devon Belle was almost tangible in the air. Smiling faces were seen as

crewmen lined the bows to catch a sight of the headland when it became visible on the horizon. Shortly thereafter,

Redjack Teal strutted out onto the deck, freshly attired by Gillis in his favourite red hunting jacket and pristine linen

accessories. A naval officer's sword, complete with brass scabbard, clanked at his side.

Before all hands could busy themselves at their chores, Teal caught them with their backs to him, scanning the horizon

for land. He gave his crew a brisk lecture, like a schoolmaster censuring a class. "Nobody got any work t'do, eh?

Stand still there when I'm addressing ye, face me, straighten y'selves up!"

All hands braced themselves stiffly on the swaying deck, chins tucked in, staring straight ahead. Teal looked them over

contemptuously, speaking in his affected nasal drawl. "Right, listen t'me, gentlemen, an' I use the term loosely. From

me chart calculations I have brought this ship in sight of Puerto Rico, where we will engage the enemy. It will be

approximately early evenin' before we reach the coast. I fully intend to sail in like one of His Majesty's ships o' the

line, smart as paint, an' with guns bristlin'!"

Every man knew what was coming next as the captain let a moment's silence pass, then stamped his foot down hard.

"This vessel is a pigsty, a demned pigsty, d'ye hear me? First mate an' bosun, put all hands to holystonin' decks,

swabbin' out scuppers, coilin' lines an' polishin' brasses!"

Springing forward, the mate and bosun saluted. "Aye aye, sir!"

Wheeling sharply, Redjack turned his back on them and continued. "I'm goin' t'me cabin now, but I'll be back out at

midday. All hands will be ready for inspection, cleaned up an' lookin' like British sailors an' not like some farmyard

rabble. This afternoon, you sloppy men will take exercise, dancin' hornpipes an' singin' shanties. Any man not doin' so

with a cheerful demeanour will be punished. Is that understood?"

Without waiting to hear the crew's dutiful chant of "Aye aye, sir!" Teal strode purposefully off to his cabin, feeling the

collective glare of hatred from his crew directed at his back.

Handing the bosun a length of tarred and knotted rope, the mate selected a wooden belaying pin. Veins stood out on

his neck as he bellowed at the crew, "Don't stand there gawpin', get about it! You 'eard the cap'n!"

As all hands went about their tasks, the bosun and mate walked the deck, conversing in undertones. No love was lost

between either of the men and Teal—the bosun's voice was hoarse with indignation. "Playin' at bein' Royal Navy

again, are we? Blast his eyes, Teal wouldn't recognise a real privateer if one fell on him from the yardarm. How'd he

ever get to be a cap'n?"

The mate chuckled drily. "Aye, I've wrung more salt water out of me socks than he's ever sailed on. Did ye hear him

tellin' as how his calculations've brought us this far? He's done nothin' night'n'day but ask me where we are,"

The bosun flicked his rope end at a slacking deck scrubber. "I tell ye, mate, 'twill be funny if there ain't a sign o' that

Frenchie when we gets to Puerto Rico. Haha, what'll Teal do then, make the crew sing an' dance more 'ornpipes an'

shanties to conjure the buccaneer up? D'ye think the Frenchman will be at Puerto Rico?"

Spitting neatly over the side, the mate shook his head. "If he is, there'll be none more surprised than me. That ole

Frenchie's long gone, prob'ly off into the Atlantic Ocean. Cap'n my eye. I was told Teal ran off from England 'cos of

gamblin' debts. The eldest son of a noble family, eh?"

Entirely in agreement with his companion, the bosun winked. "An' not a ha'penny piece 'twixt the lot of 'em. I tell ye,

this ship's run by a pauper who knows more about the back an' front end of a horse than the bow an' stern of a ship!"

The mate tapped the belaying pin in his cupped hand. "Aye, an' 'tis poor seamen like us who have t'put up with the

likes o' Teal. Come on, we'd best see the men get this craft shipshape afore Redjack comes back on deck."

Running fair with a sprightly morning breeze, the Devon Belle edged closer to the island of Puerto Rico.

Padre Esteban was as good as his word. He entered the buccaneers' camp at daybreak, bringing with him two dozen of

his people. These were silent, dark-eyed, coffee-skinned locals carrying fearsome-looking machetes.

Ned sent a swift thought to Ben: "They look peaceful enough, but I wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of those

lads!"

Ben nodded. "Look at the supplies they've brought with them."

Besides a roasted goat, a pig and some chickens, the men brought smoked fish, a full honeycomb and an amazing

range of fruit and vegetables, plus a large sack of rough home-ground corn flour.

Pointing to a pile of empty gourds, the old padre explained. "For water, there are plenty of pools and streams about to

fill these vessels with. How are you this morning, my son?"

Ben smiled as he shook the old man's hand. "I am well, Padre. Thank you for your help. This is wonderful!"

Padre Esteban allowed Ned to stand with his front paws against his chest. He stroked the dog fondly. "The Lord has

always smiled on us. There is food aplenty for all on this bounteous isle. Ah, here comes your captain."

The Frenchman and the padre kissed cheeks in the Continental manner, on each side. It was obvious that the captain

had taken to the old fellow at first glance.

"I am Raphael Thuron, master of La Petite Marie. My friend, how can I thank you for all of this? Here, take these

gold coins I have with me, there's twenty of them—is that enough?"

Shaking his head, the old man pressed the gold back into Thuron's hand. "Gold brings trouble and death with it. The

food costs nothing to grow, it is given freely to friends with good hearts. Take and enjoy it, in the name of our Lord."

Ned licked Padre Esteban's hand as he communicated with Ben. "See, I told you last night, this old man is a saint!"

As if he had intercepted the message, the padre chuckled. "There are good men and bad men. All my life I have tried

to be good, but I am no saint. Just a man who likes to help others."

Ben had never seen a pirate weep, but he noticed that Thuron sniffed loudly and brushed a sleeve across his eyes.

"Well, you've certainly helped us, my friend. Pierre, signal the ship, we need to get all of this back aboard. Padre, are

you certain that there is nothing we can give you in return for all this good food? Anything?"

Padre Esteban had a quiet word with one of his men, a big fellow who looked like some type of village headman. He

shrugged and turned back to the Frenchman. "Perhaps if you have a bit of canvas and some iron nails to spare. They

are hard to come by, away from towns and ports."

Captain Thuron agreed happily to the simple request. "Ben, when you get back aboard the Marie, I want you and

Anaconda to load up any casks of nails we have and half of our spare canvas. Anaconda will row you and Ned back

here so you can present them to the padre."

All that day the jolly boat plied back and forth between the ship and shore. The entire crew of the Marie were sorry to

leave Guayama and the gentle old priest. Ben and Ned were the last to leave; Anaconda sat in the boat whilst they

made their farewells to Padre Esteban. The boy carried a message from his captain to the padre: "Cap'n Thuron says

that he hopes the nails and canvas will be useful to you. He also told me to tell you to watch out for three men who

have deserted the ship. They are called Ludon, Grest and Ricaud. Though what you will do if you find them I don't

know, Padre."

Ned passed a brief angry thought. "I know what I'd do with the rats. Deserters, huh!"

The old man shrugged. "They will be gone by now, to some large port on the island, where they will meet others of

their kind. Thank your captain for me, Ben. He is a good and honest man, a rare quality in a buccaneer. My son, I wish

you could stay, but I feel in my heart that you are not destined to abide here with me. Keep the cross by you and

remember what I said. It will protect you. Now go—I wish both you and your faithful Ned a happy life. I cannot wish

you long life, because I know you already possess that. But think of me now and then. I will pray for you both. Go

now, and the Lord be with you."

Ben would forget many things in the years to come, but he would never forget that sunny afternoon saying good-bye

to the old padre. Turquoise surf crested white as it boomed to break upon the golden sands of the beautiful island of

Puerto Rico. The tears from the old man's face were salty as the sea as he kissed the foreheads of the blue-eyed boy

and his dog. Bobbing up and down on the swell, the jolly boat drew away, with Anaconda plying the oars strongly.

Ben and Ned stared through the unashamed mist of sorrow-dewed eyes at the lone figure standing on the beach,

signing the air open-handed with a cross to speed them on their way.

7

THE SHIP'S CARPENTER OF THE DEVON BELLE practised a few chords on his fiddle and sat atop the capstan,

ready for the ordeal to come. Even more than the hardest chore, the crew hated and detested regulation shanty singing

and hornpipe dancing. None of them were skilled at dancing, and most of them had voices totally unsuited to singing.

But it was mandatory in the British Royal Navy that a captain could order his crew to sing and dance as an exercise.

Redjack Teal ignored the fact that they were privateers; he preferred Royal Navy customs and discipline.

Highly relieved that they were not part of the exercise, the mate and bosun stood by, ready with the rope end and

belaying pin to deal with reluctant singers and lackadaisical dancers. Suppressing a snigger, the bosun cast an eye over

the waiting crew. "Look at 'em, did ye ever see such a blushin' pack o' bearded beauties? They're enough to give any

maiden nightmares!"

Trying hard to keep a straight face, the mate replied. "I'll wager Teal tells the carpenter to play 'The Jolly Captain.' I

think 'tis the only shanty he knows."

The carpenter, who had overheard the conversation, spat over the side in disgust as he repeated the name of the tune. "

'Jolly Cap'n'? We're on the wrong ship t'be singin' about a jolly cap'n, mate. Stow it, here he comes!"

Teal appeared on deck. Drawing in a deep breath, he tapped his chest. "Wonderful day, eh? Sea air, nothin' quite like

it! Bracing. Makes a man want to sing an' dance! You there, er, Carpenter, give us a rousing tune. Hmm, let me see.

Ah, 'The Jolly Captain,' I like that one. All hands look lively now, no slackers or mumblers. Carry on, player. One,

two, . . ."

Teal tapped his foot in time to the music as the carpenter played. The crew were forced to dance awkwardly, imitating

the tasks of rope hauling and capstan turning as they bellowed the lyrics discordantly.

"Ho the wind is blowin' fair, lads,

An' the sun shines on the sea,

Adieu to all our sweethearts,

An' old England on the lee.

We'll sail the oceans over,

In a good ship tight'n'free,

We've got a jolly cap'n,

An' right happy men are we!

Hurrah hurrah hurrah, me boys,

For the king's royal family,

An' for the jolly cap'n,

Who takes good care o' me!

There's skilly in the galley, lads,

An' good ale in the cask,

From far Cathay to Greenland,

What more could sailors ask.

Through storm an' tropic weather,

We'll sing away each mile,

For merry men are we to see

Our jolly cap'n smile!"

Teal made a rolling motion with his hand and called to the carpenter, "That's the stuff, keep goin', man, play it again!"

He pointed at the mate and the bosun officiously. "You two there, see they all step lively. Any man not singin', give

'im somethin' to sing about, hot an' heavy!"

Further west along the coast from Guayama, the little settlement of Ponce basked in the noon heat with hardly a breeze

to ripple the tall palms. Captain Rocco Madrid had anchored the Diablo Del Mar just behind a small headland and

taken his crew ashore. In the village, he interrupted the locals at their siesta. To show them he was a man not to be

trifled with, he drew his sword and whipped off the head of a fighting cock that had pecked at him. The good folk of

Ponce did not scream or panic, they merely sat in the shade of their palmetto-thatched huts, staring at the pirates

silently.

Madrid glared back at them awhile, then turned and gave orders to Portugee and Boelee. "Take half a dozen crew and

search the other side of the headland for signs of the Frenchman. I'll deal with these villagers. Don't waste time. If

Thuron hasn't been here, we'll need to move on to Guayama swiftly."

When the men had left, Madrid pointed to an old fellow with calm, dignified features, who looked likely to be some

type of village patriarch. "Have any ships been here? Speak."

The man shrugged. "Not for a long time, señor."

Touching the man's throat with his sword point, the Spaniard loaded his voice with menace. "If you lie, I will kill you!"

The old man did not seem impressed. He sounded matter-of-fact. "What reason would I have to lie? No ship has been

here of late."

Rocco Madrid had encountered Caribs like this before. He knew the old man was speaking the truth. However, he felt

the need to assert his authority before he lost face to the patriarch's impassive stare.

Rocco sniffed the air and nodded toward a fire, which was tended by two women. "What are you cooking there?"

One of the women looked up from a cauldron she was stirring. "Stew, with goat meat, plantains and maize."

Rocco pricked the old man's throat with his blade. "Get me some, and my men, too!"

The patriarch's eyes looked sideways at the woman. "Give them the stew."

The woman moved to start serving, but Madrid flicked the sword tip beneath the old man's chin. "You will serve us!"

With a neat movement, the man slid away from the sword and stood erect gracefully. "I will serve you."

Pepe, the lookout, sat alongside Rocco, guzzling stew from an earthenware bowl. Smiling happily, he wiped grease

from his lips with the back of his hand. "Capitano, this is good stew, yes?"

The Spaniard looked disdainfully at the bowl, from which he had only taken a single small taste. "Good stew, no!"

The sudden explosion of a musket shot set parakeets to squawking in the trees. This was followed by a scream. Rocco

Madrid leapt up, sword at the ready, knocking the bowl from Pepe's hands. "Go and see what that is, quick!"

He signalled to three other crewmen. "Go with him!" Pulling a loaded musket from his broad belt, the Spaniard looked

at the old man, who was standing by the fire. "Who is out there?"

The old fellow licked stew from his fingers. "How would I know that, señor? I cannot be in two places at once."

Turning to the two women, the Carib said something in a completely strange tongue. The women smiled and nodded.

Rocco guessed it was some kind of insult, or fun they were poking at him. He pointed the pistol toward the old man's

head. "Speak again without my permission and I will kill you!"

The old man did not appear frightened by threats. "Death comes to us all sooner or later. We cannot escape it."

The pirate captain was about to pull the trigger, when Pepe came hurrying out of the thickets behind the huts.

"Capitano, look who we've found. Bring him out, Portugee!"

With his own belt knotted about his neck, Ludon, the former mate of the Marie, was dragged out of the bushes by

Portugee and the search party. Boelee gave Ludon a kick in the back that sent him sprawling at the Spaniard's feet.

Ludon let out a terror-stricken whimper. "Don't kill me ... please!"

Portugee yanked on the belt. "Shut your face, worm!"

Boelee put a booted foot on his prisoner's body. "Three of 'em, Capitano, they bumped right into us out there. They

tried to run away, but Maroosh shot one an' Rillo chopped the other one down with his cutlass. We saved this piece of

scum for you. Remember, this was the one who put a blade to your neck in the tavern at Cartagena."

Madrid grabbed Ludon by the hair and smiled into his face. "Of course! Welcome to our camp, amigo."

Tears cut dirty patterns through the dust on Ludon's cheeks. "I wouldn't have harmed ye, Cap'n. I ran away from that

accursed Thuron. I never wanted to be one of his crew, I swear on my life I didn't. Don't kill me, I beg ye!"

Madrid's smile grew even wider. "I won't kill you, amigo ... not yet. Put more wood on that fire, Pepe. This one is

going to tell me where Thuron and his ship are."

Ludon screamed and sobbed. "Oh don't, Cap'n, please don't! I'll tell ye where they are, ye don't have t'do that to me!"

Madrid turned away and spoke conversationally to his bosun. "They always lie, but the flames bring out the real truth.

Haul him over to the fire while I continue our little talk."

The old Carib man's voice cut across Ludon's moaning and pleading. "Señor, you will not do this in my village. You

will leave now, all of you. Go to your ship, or die here!"

Madrid gave the old man an insolent smile as he repeated, "Die? You dare to say that to me? Maroosh, blow that old

fool's brainpan out with your musket!"

Before Maroosh could raise the gun, he gasped and pulled a brightly feathered object from the side of his neck. It was

a dart, made from a long, sharp thorn. He stared stupidly at it and dropped the musket. His legs began to tremble, and

he sat down in the dust.

The Carib patriarch glanced at the treetops surrounding the village. His voice became flat and stern. "We saw your ship

long before you came here. Only fools do not take precautions. My hunters are hidden all about our village—they

never miss with their blowpipes. You, señor, I have suffered enough of your bad manners. Take your men and go.

Leave that one behind, he is already dead. Just as you will be if you choose to stay."

The pirates stared in horrified fascination at Maroosh, who was still sitting on the ground, trembling fitfully.

Rocco Madrid put up his sword and musket and began walking backward out of the village. "Boelee, get the crew

back to the Diablo. We can't stand against invisible Caribs with poison darts."

Dragging Ludon with them, all hands from the Diablo backed out of the village. What galled Rocco Madrid most was

the way the patriarch and his people carried on with their work, completely ignoring the Spaniard and his retreating

men. Rocco was inwardly seething, for the blood of Spanish grandees ran in his veins. Keeping face and demanding

respect, repaying insults and avenging slights were ingrained into his character.

Boelee watched his captain's face the moment they were back aboard ship. From the way a tic started up in Madrid's

left eyelid and his teeth began making a grinding sound, the mate knew Rocco Madrid had vengeance on his mind.

Scowling dangerously, Rocco strove to keep his voice normal. "Weigh the anchor and put on sail, load all portside

cannons. Portugee, take her round the headland, but don't set course for Guayama straight away. We're going to settle

accounts with those heathens and blast their village to splinters! Cannonballs are the best answer to poison darts. I'll

teach those savages a lesson in manners!"

There was thunder in the afternoon as the cannons of the Diablo Del Mar pounded the pitiful little settlement. Huts

disintegrated, palm trees snapped like matchsticks, and destruction, flames and smoke were everywhere. The Spaniard

laughed at the sight of high-flung debris still falling on the flattened ruins.

"Stand off and take us down the coast, Portugee. Bring our prisoner to my cabin, Boelee. Now I'll have words with

him!"

The patriarch and his people had deserted their village the moment they had first sighted the Diablo Del Mar rounding

the headland. Now they wandered out and stood onshore watching the stern of the departing pirate ship. It was not the

first time Brotherhood vessels had wrecked their huts. Nobody was harmed, for it was easy to hide from big, clumsy

cannons. Palmetto and bamboo grew in profusion, so it was a minor inconvenience to build more huts. The patriarch

put his arm around a sobbing woman. "Why do you weep? Are you hurt?"

She shook her head. "I forgot to take my goat—a tree fell on him and killed him."

The old man's face remained impassive. "You can have my goat. Yours will do for tonight's meal."

Ben was up in the rigging of the Marie, helping to trim the sails. Glancing down he could see the anchor appearing

through the clear waters as it was weighed. Ned stood wagging his tail, looking up at Ben and sending him thoughts.

"What's it like up there, mate? I'll bet you can see for miles."

The boy replied mentally. "You wouldn't like it, Ned. The masts sway a lot, and when I look down, the ship seems to

be quite still. But you do get a great view from up here. I can see the water change colour from green to blue over

toward the horizon, and I can see ..."

The remainder of the words were shouted out loud by Ben. "A ship! Ship ahoy, Cap'n!"

Thuron hurried to the forepeak, pulling his telescope out as he followed the direction that Ben was pointing. It took

only a moment to confirm the Frenchman's fears.

"Well spotted, lad. 'Tis the privateer! Get that anchor aboard, Anaconda. Take us west, but hug the coast. The

Englishman mightn't have seen us yet, and there's a chance we can give him the slip. Come out of that rigging, Ben!

All hands on deck!"

Thuron took the wheel from the giant steersman. "That breeze is blowing onshore, we'll have to tack a bit. What's that?

Sounds like thunder, did ye hear it, mate?"

Anaconda scanned the sky. "Ain't no thunder, Cap'n. Not a cloud anywhere. Not the privateer, neither. That

Englishman's not goin' to fire guns from so far off, no point in it."

Thuron had to agree. "Aye, we'd have seen the splashes of cannonballs falling short in the sea. Well, whatever it is,

we're getting out of here and heading for the Mona Passage 'twixt Hispaniola and this island, bound into the Atlantic."

Early evening shades were starting to tinge the eastern horizon cream and pink. Aboard the Devon Belle all hands sat

about, catching their breath and mopping away the sweat of their afternoon exercise, which had been hard and long.

Captain Red-jack Teal had decided they were slacking and had doubled the time they spent at singing shanties and

dancing hornpipes. Finally Teal went to his cabin, having had enough of watching the ridiculous prancing and off-key

singing. Besides, he had missed his midnoon ration of Madeira.

Putting aside the fiddle, the carpenter blew on his numbed fingertips. "If I have to play 'The Jolly Cap'n' one more

time, I'll throw meself overboard!"

Loosing the splints on either side of his injured leg, the bosun massaged his limb gently. "Hmm, the old leg's feelin'

better today."

The cook laughed bitterly. "Hah! That's all the dancin' ye never had to do!"

The bosun replied scornfully. "Dancin', did ye call that dancin' ? I've seen a duck on a hot plate dancin' better than you

lot—"

"I agree with ye, sirrah, demned sloppy lot, ain't they?" The captain had sneaked from his cabin and was standing close

by. He liked surprising his crew—it kept them alert. Now he took a sip from his goblet and remarked languidly, "Lack

a day, tired are we, lying about like a lot of half-paid skivvies. No meals to make, Cook, not a soul on watch, no

lookout, ship takin' care of itself, eh?"

The crew leapt up and tried to look busy. Everyone knew that Captain Redjack could always find work for idle hands.

Teal was thinking up a few more sarcastic remarks when a shout came from the topmast.

"Ship ahoy, 'tis the Frenchman, sir!"

Sprinting smartly up into the bows, Teal swept his glass over the coast until he caught sight of La Petite Marie. "Hah,

so 'tis! Skulkin' west an' huggin' the shore. A pound to an ounce o' China tea the Frenchie's makin' for the passage out

into the ocean, eh!"

He slammed the telescope shut decisively. "Well he ain't goin' t'make it! We'll take a point west an' cut the impudent

whelp off with a straight run for the headland at the channel mouth. Meet him almost bow on!"

Teal hurried the length of the ship, cuffing anyone who was not fast enough to move out of his path, then seized the

wheel from the steersman and spun it to alter course. "Leave this to a qualified captain, the froggy won't escape me

this time!"

The steersman protested. "But Cap'n, the wind's runnin' onshore, we'd have to tack to make your course!"

Teal looked at the man as if he had lost his mind. "So, d'ye think I know so little of navigatin' that I can't tack, eh?

Stand aside, sirrah, an' watch me!"

Trying to keep his voice reasonable and respectful, the steersman explained. "Beggin' y'pardon, sir, 'tis alright running

with the wind on a jury-rigged foremast. But if ye try tackin' her, the mast won't take it. 'Twill either snap or flop over,

whichever way the wind takes it, sir."

Redjack Teal's face turned the colour of his hunting jacket. He lashed out and slapped the steersman's face, hard.

"Demn your insolence, fellow! Who d'ye think you're talkin' to, eh, eh? Tellin' me how to steer me own vessel? Go

below an' polish the anchor chain. Mr. Mate, put a gag on this man, that'll curb his impudent tongue!"

Shoving a belaying pin sideways into the steersman's open mouth, the mate tied it there with a length of cord that went

tightly around the back of the man's neck. He led him off to the anchor-chain locker, whispering to him, "Sorry matey,

I've never had t'do a gaggin' before, but orders is orders. Thank y'stars Redjack never had ye flogged."

The steersman looked dumbly at the mate, tears running from his eyes at the injustice of the punishment.

Teal watched the foremast start to sway as he ran the ship side on to the wind. He called out, "Carpenter, attend me

quickly! Move, man!"

The ship's carpenter ambled up and tugged his forelock. "Sir?"

Teal nodded toward the awkwardly swaying foremast. "Can ye not do something t'stop that confounded thing wobblin'

about?"

The carpenter scratched behind his ear. "What d'ye want me to do, Cap'n? I did all I could to it in the first place."

Teal's knuckles showed white as he grasped the wheel. "Do anything t'keep it still. I know, take another man with ye

an' coils of rope. He'll climb the mainmast, you'll climb the foremast. Get as much rope 'twixt both masts as ye can,

then stick a boat oar through the ropes an' twist until they get good an' tight. That'll steady our foremast."

The carpenter had never heard such a stupid idea. Squinting his eyes, he scratched behind his ear again. "Beggin'

y'pardon, sir, but are ye sure 'twill work?"

Redjack looked from the anchor-chain locker to the carpenter. "D'ye wish to argue with your captain, sirrah?"

The man came to rigid attention. "No sir!"

Teal nodded. "Good. Then get on with it. I know 'twill work, I've heard of it done before. Jump to it!"

Joby, the carpenter's assistant, draped two coils of rope across his shoulders as he held a whispered conversation with

the carpenter. "What's goin' on? What're we supposed to be doin'?"

Adjusting the ropes on his own shoulders, the carpenter picked up a jolly-boat oar. "Redjack's orders! You've got to

climb the mainmast, an' I've got to climb the foremast. Cap'n says our job is to wind ropes between both masts. Then

he wants me to stick an oar through the ropes an' twist it round an' round 'til it gets tight. He reckons it'll brace the

foremast break so that the ship can tack properly. Up y'go, Joby!"

Shaking his head, Joby began climbing. "It won't work!" The carpenter shrugged. "You an' me both know that, but

who are we to argue with Redjack?"

Aboard the Diablo Del Mar, the lookout scrambled down from his watch point in the crow's nest. Dashing to Rocco

Madrid's cabin, he burst in, shouting, "Capitano, I've found the Frenchman, he's running up the coast, sailing straight in

our direction. Come an' look!"

Madrid grinned like a hungry wolf. Sheathing his sword, he winked at Ludon, who was bound, spread-eagled, to the

table. "A lucky day for you, amigo. We'll talk later."

The Marie was still a good distance off as the Spaniard watched her through his telescope. He spoke his thoughts

aloud to the lookout. "Has Thuron gone blind? Does he not see us, Pepe?"

Pepe picked at his yellowed teeth with a grubby fingernail. "Who knows? What do we do now, Capitano?"

Madrid's mind was racing, and now he formed a swift plan. "Portugee, steer us in closer to land. No use standing out

here in full view. Thuron looks as if he has all sail piled on, maybe he's fleeing from something. Who cares? We'll lie

in close to shore and spring out on him once he gets close enough. Boelee, get a boarding party ready, hooks and

grappling irons. If we're quick enough, we can take Thuron's vessel without firing a cannon. Pepe, make sure we're

showing no lights. 'Twill be dark soon. We'll sail out of the night an' pounce on him!"

Ben and Ned were on the stern deck with Captain Thuron, watching the privateer. Thuron pointed. "See, Ben, they've

changed course. I wager the Englishman is trying to cut us off before we reach the Mona Passage."

Ben looked anxiously at the Frenchman. "And will he, sir?"

Thuron chuckled. "Nay, lad, not with a jury-rigged foremast wobbling about—he could never outsail our Marie. Even

so, I could still give him the slip once 'tis dark."

Ned's paw scratched against Ben's leg, and he caught the dog's agitated thought. "Ben, I can feel the Dutchman up

ahead, can you?"

The boy patted his friend's back. "You must have sharper instincts than me. I can't feel a thing. Are you sure?"

Panting anxiously, the black Labrador pulled him along the deck toward the prow. "I'm not certain whether 'tis the

Dutchman or not. But I've got a very bad feeling that there's something waiting for us up yonder."

Ben trusted the dog's instincts. Letting go of Ned, he went back astern and spoke to Captain Thuron. "Sir, I feel there's

something not right with our course. Wouldn't it be better if we stood out to sea a bit more ?"

Thuron stared into the lad's strangely clouded eyes. "You look worried, Ben, what is it?"

The boy shook his head. "I don't know, sir, maybe there's hidden reefs along the coastline. I know I'd feel a lot safer

out in deep water. It's just a feeling I've got."

Thuron gazed at Ben a moment longer, then made a decision. "So be it, you're my lucky lad. Anaconda, take her out a

point. Mayhap we will be safer out there, and we'll still be out of range of the privateer's guns—he's trying to run

ahead of us and block the passage."

The giant Anaconda spun the wheel a half turn. "Aye aye, Cap'n, but we'll have to tack harder. That onshore wind is

startin' to blow heavy. A squall might be comin' up."

Pierre the bosun slapped Ben's back. "Better out at sea in rough weather where we can't be driven ashore. You'll make

a cap'n one day, boy!"

Ben smiled. "Oh, I'll leave that to Ned, he's always wanted to be master of his own ship. I'll be the cabin lad."

Pierre, Anaconda and Thuron roared with laughter at this remark.

Pepe called down from the crow's nest. "Capitano, the Frenchman is putting out to sea!" Madrid cursed under his

breath. Less than a mile off and his quarry was deserting the coastline.

He rapped out orders. "We can still cut him off, amigos. Portugee, take the Diablo out quickly. We should be able to

run alongside of Thuron. I'm certain he hasn't seen us yet. Take her out!"

Portugee tugged at the big steering wheel, but it moved only fractionally. He called out. "Boelee, bring some help, lend

a hand here, the wind's catchin' us side on! We're goin' landward!"

Madrid tapped his foot anxiously, berating the men as they fought to turn the stubborn wheel. "Fools! Didn't you feel

the wind getting up? Put your backs into it!"

There was a bump, and the Spaniard did a little sidestep to keep himself from falling when he heard Boelee groan.

"We're in the shallows, the hull's scraped bottom!"

Rocco Madrid drew his sword and slashed uselessly at the air. "Then get oars, pikes, poles, anything! Push her off

before Thuron escapes! You, you and you, get to the first bow cannon! Load with chain shot, I'll chip her mast off as

she comes by!"

Rain started to spatter the Diablo's decks as Madrid knelt at the cannon holding a glowing piece of towrope. He

squinted along the cannon barrel, sighting on the spot where the Marie would pass offshore in a moment. "We'll see

how fast our little French bird can fly with a broken wing. Hah! Here she comes now..."

Portugee and Boelee managed to get the Diablo off the sandbank at that precise moment. They wrestled with the wheel

as she turned slightly and her stern bumped off the underwater hazard. Rocco Madrid was knocked backward as he

fired the cannon.

8

AS HE GLIMPSED THE GUN flash from the corner of one eye, Ben heard the familiar shrieking whirr cut the night

air. He hurled himself flat. Ned bulled into the back of Thuron's knees, knocking him down beside Ben. Whump! The

noise was followed by a loud ripping sound.

Thuron leapt to his feet, roaring at his steersman. "Take her out! We're being fired upon!" Heeling out into the

rainswept Caribbean, the Marie sailed on a zigzag course, tacking to get out of danger.

Ned shook rain from his coat, thinking, "It couldn't have been the Flying Dutchman, Ben—ghosts can't fire

cannonballs." Ben answered his friend's thought. "That wasn't a cannon-ball, it was chain shot. I remember the sound

from when the privateer fired on us."

Thuron's strong hands hauled Ben upright. "Up ye come, lucky lad. Look at that!"

Ben saw the foresail directly overhead, now nothing but a mass of canvas tatters flapping wetly in the wind. Anaconda,

who had given the wheel over to Pierre, ambled along. He whistled softly at the sight of the wrecked sail.

"Someone tryin' to chop our mast, Cap'n. Who was it?"

Wiping raindrops from his telescope lens, Thuron swept the coast. "The Diablo. I'd forgotten about her. That fox

Madrid must have found our trail. Hah! His aim hasn't improved much. All he did was blow a hole in a foresail. If that

chain shot had hit its target, we'd have been without a foremast!"

Anaconda made a sobering observation. "Aye, Cap'n, an' if we'd been on an upswell instead of a downswell, you an'

your lucky mates would've been mashed to ribbons!"

The Frenchman, who could still retain his sense of humour even in the midst of a crisis, remarked drily, "Aye, an' then

Ned would have never been made captain of his own ship!"

Ned sent Ben an indignant thought through the ensuing laughter. "I fail to see the humour in that remark!"

The Frenchman grew serious as he took another sighting through his glass. "We've got trouble enough for any vessel

now, an English privateer to one side an' a Spanish pirate to t'other. Well, Mr. Anaconda, what would you do in a case

like this?"

The giant steersman gave a deep bass chuckle. "Cap'n, I'd be doin' the old Trinidad Shuffle."

Ben looked from one to the other. "What's the old Trinidad shuffle?"

Thuron winked at him. "I'm going to take the wheel. You tell him, mate."

Anaconda explained. " 'Tis dangerous, but clever if we can pull it off, Ben. We let Madrid chase us, but we sail dead

ahead, straight for the privateer. Madrid's sailing close behind us, see. We take in sail and let him. All he can see is our

stern, so in the dark he'll think he scored a hit an' chopped our mast, because we're travellin' slow. The Englander

should put about, not wanting to present his ship broadside to the Marie. At the last moment, we fire on both ships,

give Madrid a shot from our stern and one for the privateer from our bows. Then we hoist every stitch of sail and run

off west into the night. The Englander knows he's got no chance of catching the Marie, 'cos he's got a broken foremast.

But any privateer has more than enough cannon to outgun a pirate. The Diablo is a bigger, much richer-lookin' prize

than us—and now he's dead ahead. So, what would you do if you were the privateer, Ben?"

The boy replied promptly. "I'd attack the Spaniard!"

The lookout aboard the Devon Belle wiped rainwater from his eyes and called out to Captain Redjack Teal, who was

holding the wheel manfully. "The Frenchman, sir, she's 'eaded on a course straight for us! Cap'n, sir, there's another

ship sailin' in the Frenchie's wake! On me oath, sir, another ship!"

Teal's voice grew squeaky with excitement as he spun the wheel. "We're comin' about, can't sit broadside on to 'em

both!"

Joby and the carpenter were still aloft. They had rigged the ropes around both masts. From the top of the foremast to

three parts of the way up the mainmast the rope formed a coil six strands deep. The carpenter had thrust the oar

through the ropes and twisted it, taking up the slack until the thick hemp was almost as taut as a fiddle string. Suddenly

the Devon Belle came about quite sharply, the prow dipping deep and sending up a huge bow wave. Letting go of the

oar to steady himself, the unfortunate carpenter signed his own death warrant. Spinning like a propeller, the oar

smashed into the man's face, sending him flying from the foremast top. His body struck the rail and bounced off into

the night-dark depths of the Caribbean Sea.

Joby screeched, "Man overboard!"

Captain Teal gritted his teeth. Men who were foolish enough to fall overboard in the midst of action on a stormy sea

were of little concern to him. Teal winced and ducked low at the boom and flare of gunfire from the Marie's for'ard

end.

Rocco Madrid, from his vantage point at the Diablo's stern, was highly puzzled by the noise. "Pepe, what's the

Frenchman up to? Where's he firing?"

Pepe, who had been concentrating his attention on the Marie, shouted and gesticulated wildly from his high perch.

"Capitano! I can see a vessel dead ahead of the Frenchman, now—he's firing on it!"

It was at that moment that Anaconda fired off his stern cannon at the Spaniard, close in the Marie's wake. The Diablo's

bowsprit and ornate gallery rails exploded in a cascade of rope, iron and wood splinters.. At the same time, a shot from

the Marie's for'ard end chopped the Devon Belle's foremast off at the stump, and it hung crazily in the mess of ropes

holding it to the mainmast.

All was confusion, smoke and flame aboard both the Spaniard and the privateer. Thuron took advantage of the chaos

to perform his Trinidad Shuffle. Along with a new sail to replace the one damaged by the chain shot, every other stitch

of canvas aboard the Marie was brought into play for the daring manoeuvre. Thuron spun the wheel hard about as full

sail blossomed overhead. La Petite Marie heeled sharply over, her lower sail-tips brushing the waves. Ben could feel

Ned huddling against him as he crouched under a stairway, holding on tightly. The Marie's?, prow dipped deep against

the rollers, sending up a roaring bow wave. For a brief moment she teetered in the stormy sea, broadside on between

both the other two vessels. Then Thuron turned the wheel hard right and gave his Marie her head. Like an arrow from

a bow, the speedy ship shot off shoreward, with the gale ballooning her sails. Two cannon roared out, one from the

privateer, the other from the Spaniard. The cannonballs crossed each other's path in the Frenchman's wake and whizzed

off to splash into the dark Caribbean waters. Thuron laughed like a madman as his ship sped into the night.

Once out of range, he began tacking west to avoid the shore. With Ned howling at his heels, Ben ran out of hiding to

join in with the cheering crew.

Pierre took the wheel from his captain, shaking Thuron's hand heartily. "You did it, Cap'n! You did it!"

Falling on both knees, the Frenchman hugged Ned and Ben, still laughing as he replied to the bosun, "Nobody can

dance the old Trinidad Shuffle like Raphael Thuron!"

The Devon Belle's, master gunner hurried to his captain's side, pointing at the Diablo dead ahead. "If ye bring us

broadside, sir, we can blow 'er out the water!"

Redjack Teal roared at the unfortunate man. "Blow a prize like that out of the water? Look at her, sirrah, are ye mad?

With our guns mounted at her ports an' my colours flyin' from her masthead, she'd be the finest vessel in any sea! I

intend cap-turin' that ship for me own use. Let the Frenchie go, an' bad cess to him. We'll attend to that fellow as soon

as yon galleon's mine."

He beckoned to the mate. "Attend me closely. That ship's already turnin' to run off—'tis your duty to stop it gettin'

away. Take this wheel an' stick to her wake like treacle to bread, keep her close. Gunner, see if you can rig cannon to

fire either side of her, port'n'starboard. We'll chase her in to the shore an' pin her down. Then I'll take her. Demned fine

ship she is, eh!"

Rocco Madrid's normally sallow face paled further at the realisation that he was facing an English privateer. He

watched the Diablo trying to turn sluggishly as Boelee and Portugee wrestled with the wheel. Having no for'ard sheets

and bowsprit hampered the operation greatly. Boelee chanced a frightened glance as the ship began turning. "I've heard

tell o' that hellshark, 'tis an English privateer. See the coat 'er master wears? He's Capitano Redjack!"

Portugee almost let the wheel slip from his faltering grasp. "Redjack! They say he's worse than a Barbary corsair!"

Madrid's hand slid to his sword hilt as he hissed a warning. "Shut your mouths, I know who he is. Listen, this Redjack

has lost his foremast. Maybe he doesn't want to fight. Boelee, easy now, take us a point to starboard."

No sooner had the Diablo nosed a foot out of place than Teal's cannon boomed a warning shot to starboard,

accompanied by a crackle of musket fire peppering the Spaniard's stern.

Boelee brought her back on course smartly. "Capitano, that bad man has many, many more guns than us. If we try to

run, he will send the Diablo to the bottom."

Portugee was in full agreement with the mate. "How can we run without any bowsails? He will murder us all!"

Madrid focussed his telescope on the privateer less than a quarter of a mile behind. He saw the cannon bristling from

every port, the crew lining the rails with primed muskets, and the red-jacketed figure watching the for'ard culverins

being loaded with grapeshot, a deadly combination of musket balls, scrap iron and broken chain. Grapeshot could

sweep a deck with murderous effect. Two more culverins had been brought up from the stern. Four culverins loaded

with grapeshot at short range!

Madrid felt icy sweat trickle down his brow. This Redjack was a cold-blooded assassin! The Spaniard's mind was in a