The Angel's Command

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, seńor.”

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, seńor? 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. “Seńor, 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, seńor, 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 Redjack 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 cannonball, 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 racing turmoil as he turned to his men. “Keep a straight course. I’ll talk to this Redjack in the morning. Mayhap he’ll listen to a proposition. I’m going to my cabin. Keep dead ahead. Don’t upset him.”

With the onset of dawn the rain ceased. Mist floated across the soft, lapping sea, the sun rising like a great blood orange in the east, setting a wondrous hue of pale cerise over the Caribbean waters. Captain Thuron joined Ben and Ned, who were breakfasting off fruit and coconut milk on the forecastle deck. He sat with them, watching a backing breeze dissolve the light fog.

“A pretty sight, eh, Ben? I will miss these waters. Do you know where we are?”

The boy nodded. “Almost into the Mona Passage. We should sight the Isle of Mona off the port bow before midday, sir.”

Thuron’s bushy eyebrows raised. “Very good, how did you know?”

Ned looked up from the coconut he was gnawing at. “Tell the good captain that it was your faithful hound who informed you of our position. Go on!”

Ben smiled at his friend’s message as he addressed the captain. “Ned told me that he heard Anaconda saying it to Pierre when he relieved him at the wheel.”

Thuron ruffled Ned’s ears. “Do you really talk with this dog?”

Ben kept a straight face as he answered. “Oh, all the time, sir!”

The Frenchman chuckled. “I believe you, how could I not? You have such honest faces, both of you.”

Ned passed his friend another thought. “I’m the one with the honest face, really. You’ve grown to look quite furtive over the last few decades. But I’ve grown more innocent. Look: truth and honesty are stamped all over my noble features!” Ned panted. Letting his tongue loll, he waggled his ears.

Ben could not help laughing aloud. Thuron laughed with him.

“Tell me, what is Ned saying to you now, lad?”

The boy stroked his dog’s back. “Ned says he wants you to teach him the Trinidad Shuffle so he can use it sometime.”

Ned left off chewing his coconut to reprimand Ben. “Ooh, you dreadful fibber. I said no such thing!”

Thuron interrupted the mental conversation. “Tell him I’ll teach you both to catch flying fish—they come through these waters on their way to the Gulf of Mexico. Flying fish taste good, grilled with butter and oatmeal.”

Ned went back to tackling his coconut. “Flying fish! Huh, who does he think he’s fooling?”

Thuron pointed a stubby finger at the bows. “Look!” A flying fish was clearly visible, soaring level with the ship.

Ben leapt up. “There’s another! Ned, did you see that?”

The black Labrador stood on his back legs, with his front paws on the rail. He pulled back sharply as another fish flew briefly by and skimmed over the bow wave. “Whoops! Seems a shame to catch them. Do they really taste good? Ask the cap’n to teach us to catch a few, Ben!”

Most of the morning was spent leaning over the prow, watching the flying fish trapping themselves in a net that Thuron had spread from the peak to the bowsprit. Anaconda sang cheerily in his rich deep bass as he supervised the cook in the galley. Ben listened as he pulled a fish from the net and marvelled at the huge spreading fins it used to soar over the waters.

“Come on, come on, you flyin’ fish,

Fly up here into my dish.

Birds is birds, that’s how they act,

Fish is fish, an that’s a fact.

Foolish thing, I bet you wish

You knew if you was bird or fish!

Fly fly o’er the sea,

Spread your fins an’ come to me.

You flyin’ fish, come on, come on,

I’m a sailor an’ a hungry one.

In the air you sure look great,

But you taste much nicer on a plate.

Cook in the galley, warm that dish,

Here comes another little flyin’ fish!

Fly fly o’er the sea, Spread those fins an’ come to me.”

They had passed the Isle of Mona and Mayagüez when the cook hammered his ladle against a stove lid and shouted to all hands. “Fish is done, all cooked to a turn. If ye don’t come quick, the Anaconda will eat ‘em all!”

Ned raced ahead of Ben, sending a thought back to him. “Move yourself, youth. I believe every word the good cook says. Hope Anaconda saves a few for me!”

Thuron and the boy raced side by side, following Ned to the galley. All hands were jostling one another in line. Still relieved to have escaped both their foes, the men laughed and joked with one another.

Ben exchanged a thought with Ned. “What a difference between this and our first trip together with Vanderdecken aboard the Flying Dutchman.”

The black Labrador bristled. “Don’t even mention that hell-ship or mad Cap’n Vanderdecken and his crew of bullies. I’d sooner be aboard a good honest pirate ship like the Marie any day!”

Bowing to the dog’s wisdom, Ben washed all thoughts of the accursed Dutchman from his mind. Instead, he concentrated on the bright sunlit Caribbean day, his friend Raphael Thuron, the merry bustle of crewmen and the anticipation of tasting his first cooked flying fish.

Rocco Madrid was in deep trouble. The privateer had chased the Diablo Del Mar straight into the shallows of Puerto Rico’s palm-fringed shores. The Spaniard paced his cabin, wondering what the Englishman’s next move would be. Cowering in a corner with a rope around his neck that was secured to a deck ring, Ludon, former mate of the Marie, watched him with wide, frightened eyes. Both men knew they were in a fearful situation.

Through his cabin window Madrid could see the Devon Belle, not three ship lengths away. She was broadside on to the Diablo, cannon bristling, almost daring the Spaniard to take the first shot. Rocco Madrid had more sense than to try. He felt like a rat in a trap—it would be plain suicide to attempt any show of aggression. Redjack Teal had an awesome reputation for slaughter.

Portugee and Boelee came skulking into the cabin like a pair of naughty schoolboys about to be punished for some misdemeanour.

Boelee looked sheepishly from the privateer in the bay to his captain. “What are we going to do, Capitano?”

Madrid answered with a lot more confidence than he felt. “Do, amigos? We do nothing for the moment. The first hand is up to the Englishman to play.”

Portugee remarked with a scowl, “The only cards Redjack deals us will be wrapped around cannonballs. Unless you plan on makin’ a move, Capitano, we are all dead men!”

There was a rasp of steel leaving scabbard, and Portugee was suddenly backed against a bulkhead with the Spaniard’s sword at his throat. Madrid hissed venomously at him, “You’ll be a dead man sooner than you think if you let your tongue flap foolishly, amigo. I do the thinking aboard this ship without the advice of idiots. Leave this to me, I have a plan. Meanwhile, both of you get out on deck and close all the cannon ports. Boelee, run up a white flag of truce. Portugee, lock up all the muskets and swords. Keep all hands below deck, tell them to make no noise. Now go!”

The Spaniard aimed a kick at Ludon. “You! Keep your mouth shut until I tell you to talk. I have plans for you.”

Rocco Madrid came smartly out on deck the moment he saw a white flag fluttering from the Devon Belle’s masthead. Captain Redjack was standing amidships with a long, trumpet-ended megaphone to his lips. His voice carried clearly across the space between the vessels. Crewmen stood by with cocked muskets, ugly cannon snouts poked menacingly at the Diablo as Teal called out. “One false move an’ I open fire. Comprende?”

The Spaniard cupped both hands round his mouth and shouted back. “I understand English, seńor. What do you want?”

Teal’s reply was sharp and officious. “I am Captain Jonathan Ormsby Teal of His Majesty’s ship Devon Belle. I carry letters of marque an’ reprisal as a privateer. I require your complete an’ unconditional surrender. Immediately!”

Madrid kept his voice normal, though he was inwardly fuming at the foppish Englander’s high-handed manner. “Capitano, you have my word as a Spanish grandee that the first shot will not come from my vessel!”

Teal snorted contemptuously as he raised the hailer to his mouth. “Fire at your peril, sirrah! I’ll blast your lungs’n’lights to perdition an’ dye this bay red with your foul blood! Answer me! Do ye surrender now … eh?”

The Spaniard spread his arms placatingly. “I surrender, Capitano—only a fool would refuse your offer. But first I would talk with you. I have a proposition, amigo. One that could make you a very rich man—will you listen, seńor?”

Teal took a moment, whispering orders to his bosun, mate and master gunner, before making a reply. “A rich man, y’say? Stand fast, I’m comin’ over. Blink an eye an’ a dozen musketeers’ll blow it out!”

Rocco Madrid bowed elaborately. “No tricks, I promise! Let us talk like civilised men. I will await your arrival in my cabin with some fine wine for both of us. With your permission, Capitano, I will retire now.”

Twenty crew, armed with muskets and rifles, packed into the Devon Belle’s jolly boat. Teal sat in the stern, behind them. In his cabin, Madrid held tight to the scruff of Ludon’s neck as he loosed the rope. Thrusting Ludon to the window, the Spaniard pointed to Teal as he instructed his captive. “Hearken to me carefully. See the red-jacketed one? He can save both our lives. When I tell you to speak, you will lie to him, lie as you’ve never lied before, amigo. Tell the Englishman that La Petite Marie is carrying a vast fortune in gold. Ten, twenty times more than he took from me at Cartagena. You saw it yourself, with your own two eyes. Do this and you may live to be a rich fellow. Understand?”

Sighing with relief, Ludon nodded furiously. “Aye aye, Cap’n, ye can rely on me. I swear it on my mother’s grave!”

The Diablo’s decks were empty as Redjack Teal and his men came aboard. Teal murmured to his bosun, “Perfect! Take y’men an’ batten down the hatches, seal all doors except the Cap’n’s cabin. Kill any pirate that shows his face on deck. Send two fellows back to the Devon Belle with our jolly boat an’ the Spaniard’s. Bring back every available hand who ain’t mannin’ a cannon. Cut along now, quick an’ quiet as y’like!”

Teal strutted into the Spaniard’s cabin, hand on sword hilt. Rocco Madrid bowed courteously. “Welcome to my humble accommodation, Capitano. Some wine?”

Ignoring the decanter of port and goblets, the privateer drew a fancy silver-chased pistol and pointed it. “I’ll take your surrender first!”

Madrid drew his sword carefully and offered it over his forearm, hilt first. The privateer tested the blade’s balance nonchalantly and thrust it into his own belt. Still aiming the pistol, he sat at the cabin table, his eyes never leaving the Spaniard.

Ludon crept forward and filled the goblets. Crossing his legs and leaning back, Redjack took a sip and nodded toward Ludon. “An’ who, pray, is this fellow, eh?”

The Spaniard smiled slyly as he played his ace card. “This is the man who can make us our fortunes, seńor. He was first mate aboard the French buccaneer. Tell the English capitano what you saw, amigo.”

By evening the deal had been hammered out, more to Teal’s satisfaction than to the Spaniard’s. But Rocco Madrid accepted all terms, telling himself that he could always alter the balance at a later date. Unarmed, the entire crew of the Diablo Del Mar were marched up on deck in fours and made to wade ashore in the ebbing tide. Surrounded as they were by a fully armed and very hostile English crew, they were forced to comply sullenly.

Boelee and Portugee led the first lot. Chest high they waded toward the sandy beach. Portugee looked warily about. “I don’t like this, there’s sharks in these waters!”

Boelee gritted his teeth. “The real sharks are aboard our ship, but we don’t get any say in the matter. If Madrid’s playin’ us false, I’ll track him to the ends of the earth!”

Just then, Rocco Madrid appeared on deck alongside Teal. The Spaniard exchanged words with his lookout, Pepe. Before he went over the side, Pepe nodded and shook hands with both Madrid and Teal.

Boelee and Portugee were waiting as Pepe splashed ashore. They ran to meet him.

“What did the capitano have to say to you?” “Redjack, did he have anything to say? Tell us, Pepe!” The Diablo crewmen gathered around as the lookout explained. “Redjack, he said nothing, but the capitano told me to tell you all: We are joining forces with the privateer and sailing out into the ocean to capture Thuron’s ship!”

Boelee shook his head in disbelief. “Are you sure?” Pepe sat down on the warm sands. “Sí, amigos! Here is what will happen. We will crew the privateer ship; Capitano Redjack will take us in tow. He will command the Diablo after he has moved his own cannon aboard her and repaired the bowsprit. After we have taken Thuron’s vessel, Redjack will cut the Diablo loose to sail back to the Caribbean.”

Portugee gnawed thoughtfully at his lip. “But why do both ships need to sail about chasin’ Thuron, did he say?”

Pepe grinned as he related what his captain had told him. “That prisoner from the Marie, you know what he said? I will tell you. Thuron is quitting these waters, going back to his home in France. That is why he put in to Guayama. For years he has been burying all his booty there, and he went to dig it up before he crosses the ocean. The man saw it, a real treasure, chests an’ barrels of plunder. Our capitano made him talk—now he has made a bargain with Redjack. Good, no?”

All eyes were on Boelee. He was the most astute member of the Diablo’s crew, having served longest with Madrid. Sitting down, he pursed his lips and squinted one eye. Then he laughed. “Good, yes! Two ships can find Thuron out there a lot easier’n one could. Ho ho, that Rocco, he’s craftier than a sack o’ monkeys. I’ll wager he’s got a plan formed already. You mark my words, mates, Rocco Madrid’ll end up with all that booty, or my name ain’t Boelee!”

The crew set about building a driftwood fire on the shore as night set in. The Devon Belle’s crew towed the Diablo out and secured her alongside the privateer. Teal commanded the entire operation, striding about and giving orders as blocks and tackles hauled cannon between the two ships. Rocco Madrid sat in Teal’s cabin aboard the Devon Belle, sampling the Madeira while he formed bloodthirsty schemes for future days. Joby, who had now been promoted to carpenter, had a party at work replacing the bowsprit with timbers from the Devon Belle’s broken foremast as others laboured at rigging new foresails and bowlines.

One of the men nodded toward the pirates onshore. ” ‘Tain’t fair! Lookit that lot, layin’ about on the sand while we’re sloggin’ our guts out aboard this tub!”

“You were sayin’ ?”

The man turned to see Teal standing there. He bent his back to the task, apologising humbly. “Nothin’, Cap’n, never said a word, sir!”

9

LA PETITE MARIE had now passed through the Mona Passage, the channel between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico. Ben and Ned were in the captain’s cabin, getting a lesson in navigation from the Frenchman. A large, untidy chart was spread out on the bed, with books and a sextant holding down its scrolled corners.

Thuron indicated a spot on the map. “This is a simple old chart, rough but reliable. We are about here by my reckoning, see, Ben?”

The boy studied where Thuron was pointing. “We’re actually out in the Atlantic Ocean. Where do we go from here, Cap’n?”

Thuron stroked his beard. “Right across this chart and on to a second one which I have. This ocean is a strange place, boy, not much is known about it. Many ships have been lost and never heard from again. No one knows how deep the seas and oceans of this world are. When you sail the high seas on a vessel, I wager that you don’t think of what lies beneath its keel. Have you ever thought of that, Ben?”

Ned interjected his opinion into Ben’s thoughts. “Personaay!”

Ben stroked the black Labrador’s ears to silence him. “Hush, Ned, don’t interrupt. Listen to the cap’n!”

Thuron tapped at the deck with his foot. “Underneath our pitiful little ship lies a whole world. Valleys, hills, deserts and huge mountains!” He smiled into Ben’s startled blue eyes. “Never thought of that, have you, lad? But ‘tis a fact. One day men may go there to explore it. Hundreds of thousands of leagues, clear and visible near the surface, where daylight and the sun can penetrate, descending to shaded blues and greens, then on to where it is dark as a moonless night with no stars. But down, ever down to complete blackness, fathomless and silent as the grave, a realm of fish that are all sizes. Some no bigger than a babe’s fingernail, others massive, monsters of the deep who have lurked there since the earth was young!”

Ned lay on the bed, covering both ears with his paws and whining as he transmitted his thoughts to Ben. “Wait’ll I get my paws on land again. I’ll never go near any water, not even a duck pond!”

Ben stroked his dog soothingly as the captain continued. “Aye, and here are we, no more than a tiny splinter in the scale of things, bobbing up and down over the great deeps where the Bible says leviathans and behemoths dwell. We’re a tiny, bold species, Ben, no doubt about it!”

The boy nodded agreement. “I suppose we are, sir, but could you stop frightening Ned and tell me which way we’re bound?”

Thuron looked from the dog to the boy and chuckled. “I think ‘tis you and not Ned who is afeared. Where are we bound? Straight northeast. The only land ‘twixt here and France is some little islands they call the Azores. Come on, my lucky mates, we’ll go and tell Pierre to alter the course from due east.”

They followed the captain out on deck, where he gave orders to Pierre, who was at the helm. Obeying his captain’s command, the trusty Pierre turned the wheel. He frowned and turned it again, then turned it a bit more. “Cap’n, she’s not coming about, look!” Thuron watched his steersman turn the wheel once more.

Pierre shook his head in bewilderment. “I’ve turned this wheel so much that we should be heading south by now. Something’s wrong, Cap’n!”

Thuron took the wheel. “Here, let me try.” There was no resistance in the ship’s wheel; it spun freely. The Frenchman held it still and rested his forehead against one of the carved mahogany spokes, pondering the problem.

Ben could not help asking, “What’s wrong, sir?”

Thuron straightened up, shaking his head. “If I knew, I’d be able to tell ye, lad. But I have an idea what caused it. The Trinidad Shuffle. It couldn’t have been anything else. Our Marie isn’t a young girl anymore, she’s getting on to be an old lady—things start to wear and tear. That was a wild and stormy night, and we were caught ‘twixt two vessels. When I did the shuffle, it was a hard an’ punishing manoeuvre. I think that something broke, or cracked, or came loose. Between then and now, with all the steering we’ve had to do, a part of the rudder has been damaged. I’ll wager that’s what it is. Ben, go and fetch Anaconda.”

The giant black man was off duty, napping in his hammock, when Ben shook him gently. “Cap’n wants to see you, sir.”

Anaconda swung gracefully to the deck. Flashing a brief smile at the boy, he ducked neatly out of the cabin. Thuron was not a small man, but he had to lift his chin to meet the big fellow’s eyes.

“Our Marie had an accident while dancing the Trinidad Shuffle, my friend.”

Anaconda picked up a coil of rope as though it were a piece of string. “This old lady’s prob’ly hurt her rudder, Cap’n. I better take a look.”

He lashed the rope to the Marie’s stern bollard and dropped it into the sea. Going hand over hand, he lowered himself into the water, taking a deep breath before he submerged. They lost sight of Anaconda once he went under the curving after end.

Ned poked his head between the gallery rails. “Good job he hasn’t been listening to the cap’n talking about leviathans an’ behemoths, and all sorts of sea monsters lurking about down there!”

Ben returned his dog’s observation. “Oh, I think Anaconda could hold his own—have you seen the size of that knife he wears in the back of his belt? I’ve seen smaller swords. He’s been under quite a while now, though. I hope nothing’s happened to him, Ned.”

Pierre’s voice interrupted the thought. “He’s coming up!”

The handsome giant’s head showed through the smooth wake water, then broke the surface. Anaconda blinked, snorted and hauled himself neatly back aboard. “Need copper strip, hammer an’ nails, Cap’n—her rudder’s come adrift. It’s flapping about down there like a tavern sign.”

Thuron smiled with relief. “Thank the Lord for that, my friend. We’ve got strip an’ nails aplenty. Will it take ye long to repair?”

Anaconda shrugged his powerfully muscled shoulders. “Might take a few dives, but I can’t do it alone. My fingers are too thick for threading the strip between the break and the helm spindle. ‘Tis a narrow gap. Now if I had somebody down there with me, I could hold the rudder flap together. They could pass the copper strip through the narrow part. We’d start by nailing one side to the flap. I’d hold the rudder together, then when the other end of the strip was passed through, I’d secure it with another nail. One or two more nails through the strip either side, and she’d be good as new!”

Thuron began shedding his coat, giving orders to some crew members who had come to see what was wrong. “Bring another rope, a hammer, some copper strip and a handful of brass nails.”

Anaconda took hold of his captain’s hand. “Cap’n, your hand ain’t as big as mine, but look at those fingers. They’re stubby, an’ far too thick.”

Suddenly the crew began to disperse, as if they all had urgent duties to attend. Thuron watched them scurry off. “Ask a seaman to sail a ship, he’ll do it without question. But ask him to put a toe into the ocean, eh Pierre?”

The mate scoffed. “Most of ‘em can’t swim—they’re afeared o’ deep water, Cap’n. I’ll do it.”

Anaconda shook his head. “Last time I saw fingers like yours, Pierre, they were selling them as pork sausages on the quay at Cartagena. Let’s see your hand, Ben.”

One glance at the boy’s slender fingers was enough. Anaconda winked at him. “You’ll do!”

Thuron threw an arm about Ben’s shoulders. “Hold on there, he’s not going under the ocean. This lad’s my lucky boy!”

Ben slipped from under the captain’s arm. “Lucky enough to be the right one for the job, and lucky that I’m aboard the Marie when I’m needed. I’ll do it, Cap’n!”

Ned sprang up, placing his paws on Ben’s chest, communicating, “No, Ben, don’t do it, please!”

Ben took the dog’s head in both hands, staring into his friend’s dark, pleading eyes. “Someone has to help Anaconda or we’ll be rolling about the Atlantic this time next year. I know if you were me, you’d offer, Ned, but paws aren’t much use. Hands like mine are needed. Now don’t you fret, I’ll be careful, I promise!”

Thuron took Anaconda to one side. “My friend, keep your eye on the boy while you’re down there. I don’t want any harm coming to my lucky lad!”

The big steersman saluted. “Nor do I, Cap’n. He’ll be safe with me. Ben, mate, are ye ready to get wet?”

Throwing aside his shirt and kicking off both shoes, Ben coiled the extra rope over his shoulder. “Aye aye, ready!”

The sweet, cloying taste of port wine was not to Redjack Teal’s liking, so he sipped at a goblet of the paler, more subtle Madeira. He was highly pleased with himself: as a ship, the Diablo Del Mar was an enviable prize. Rocco Madrid’s former cabin, which was more like a stateroom, had been thoroughly cleaned out and furnished with Teal’s own possessions. It was, he felt, more fitting to an English gentleman’s taste. Again he tested Madrid’s sword, a classic Toledo blade far more elegant than his own Royal Navy-issue sword. Freshly laundered and attired, he struck several poses with his new weapon whilst watching himself in a long cheval mirror, probably plundered from some prosperous merchant craft by the Spaniard. Laying the sword aside, Teal picked up a scroll and strutted regally out on deck.

Rocco Madrid was aboard the Devon Belle when he spotted Teal. Negotiating the plank that had been fixed between the two vessels, he made straight for the Englishman.

Redjack permitted himself an affable smile. “Ah, there you are, a splendid afternoon, Cap’n Madrid, eh?”

Controlling his indignation, the Spaniard made a small formal bow. “Your Devon Bella, Capitano Teal, it is stripped bare. Why aren’t my crew allowed aboard to repair the mast, make everything ready for our voyage, provision her with victuals and water? Where is the French prisoner Ludon? My mate and bosun, the Diablo’s crew—why are they still left idling onshore ? Why do you not send the ship’s boat for them? They are needed to help out here.”

Still smiling cheerily, Teal tapped the Spaniard’s chest lightly with the scroll he carried. “Faith, sirrah, one thing at a time! What an excitable fellow ye are, t’be sure. The French chappie, I have him under guard in the chain locker. Can’t let him escape, can we, eh? As for the rest, all in good time, my friend, all in good time.”

Rocco Madrid glared suspiciously at Teal. “When, seńor? When?”

Teal adopted a look of mild surprise. “Why, now, Cap’n, within the hour if y’like. All ye had t’do was ask.”

Madrid felt he had gained a point with his confrontation. He decided to push his advantage with the foppish little peacock of an Englander. “We need to have our arms back. What use will we be, chasing a pirate ship without arms? Thuron is a formidable fighter.”

The smile left Captain Redjack’s face. “Your weapons will be returned when I feel it appropriate. As for cannon, this ship has enough for both of us. Don’t want to sink the Frenchie, do we, eh? Leave all that treasure on the ocean bed?”

Madrid heaved a frustrated sigh. “We will not catch Thuron by sitting here. He gets further away by the hour, seńor. Have I your permission to bring my crew aboard their ship?”

Teal nodded. “By all means, m’dear fellow. You there, bosun, lower the Devon Belle’s jolly boat for Cap’n Madrid to go ashore.”

Rocco Madrid climbed into the jolly boat. Seating himself, he looked quizzically up at Teal, who was leaning over the Diablo’s ornate midship rail. “Capitano, do I have to row this boat ashore by myself?”

The Englishman shrugged. “Of course, Cap’n. Leaves more room for crew on the return journey, don’t it!”

The Spaniard fitted the oars into the oarlocks and began paddling clumsily away. He had not got more than two boat lengths when Teal hailed him.

“You there, listen to this!” Teal unrolled the scroll and began reading aloud. “‘Under the authority granted to me by our Sovereign King, Charles the First, I take possession of this vessel by Letter of Marque and Reprisal. God save the King and protect England and confound her enemies!’”

The jolly boat wobbled as the Spaniard let go the oars and stood up shouting. “English pig, you are playing me false!”

Three rifle shots rang out, and Madrid fell backward in panic. Totally surprised that the shots had missed him, he knelt up cautiously to see Teal pointing at him.

“Count y’self lucky to be alive, ye Spanish dog! I don’t make bargains with scurvy pirates, nor do I trust ‘em! ‘Twould take too long to hang ye an’ all that filthy crew. I’m maroonin’ ye, sirrah, an’ ye best row for shore before that boat sinks. Bad cess to ye an’ all your ilk!”

Rocco Madrid gave vent to his spleen, roaring and cursing as the jolly boat began filling with water from the three musket balls that had pierced it below the waterline. “Redjack turncoat! Scum of the seas! I curse you to the fires of hell! May sharks tear out your lying tongue and fish feed on your misbegotten bones!”

Captain Redjack Teal gave his bosun a languid glance. “Rather excitable—Latin temperament, I shouldn’t wonder. Can’t lay at anchor here all day, listenin’ to pirates usin’ language like that, eh? One thing he did say was true, we’re losin’ time hangin’ round here. Take the Devon Belle in abaft of us, weigh anchor an’ make full sail!”

Rocco Madrid and his crew stood on the tide line in the late afternoon sun, watching the wind fill the sails of their former ship as she plowed off with Teal’s old craft in tow.

Pepe turned his anguished gaze on Madrid. “What are we going to do, Capitano?”

The Spaniard sat down on the sand and began dragging off his long boots. They were sloppy with seawater from his walk ashore from the jolly boat, which lay submerged a hundred yards off, where the shallows started. Madrid pointed out to it. “Boelee, Portugee, take some men and see if you can drag the boat up on dry land.”

Boelee remained motionless. Then he spat at Madrid’s back. “You don’t give Boelee orders anymore. A capitano without a ship, that’s what ye are. Go an’ get the boat yourself!”

Madrid scrambled upright and ran at Boelee, fist clenched. A mate aboard any pirate ship has to be hard and tough, and Boelee was one such man. Sidestepping the charge, he tripped Madrid, dealing him a hefty punch to the back of the neck as he went down.

The mate stood over him. “You ain’t no capitano, you’re a fool. Got yourself tricked by Redjack with your lies about Thuron carryin’ dug-up treasure. Now we’re all marooned high’n’dry without a proper weapon between us, save for our belt knives. Well, are ye gettin’ up to fight me, Madrid?”

Rocco Madrid’s hand flashed to his scabbard, but it was empty. He flinched as Boelee aimed a scornful kick at him.

The mate’s voice dripped contempt. “Stay down there where ye belong. Because if ye get up, I’ll kill ye with me bare hands!”

Rocco Madrid sat alone as evening fell, deserted by his crew, who had chosen Boelee as their new leader. All hands sat around the fire, which they had kept going since arriving ashore. Portugee, who was looked upon as second-in-command, gnawed on a broken coconut. He looked automatically to Boelee. “Well, what are we goin’ to do now?”

The mate pinched out a spark that had settled on his arm. “That Redjack is as big a fool as Madrid. Don’t he know ye can’t maroon a pirate on an isle as big as Puerto Rico? Brotherhood vessels put in to all the ports here. Mayagüez, Aguadilla, Arecibo, San Juan. I’ll wager we’re not far from Ponce. A couple o’ days’ march an’ we can sign up with the first ship we see there. Marooned? Huh, we ain’t marooned!”

This seemed to cheer most of the pirates—the prospect of a port with ships and taverns aplenty was far better than facing the misery of being marooned. Pepe nodded toward the figure of Rocco Madrid, sitting alone in the darkness about fifty yards from the company around the fire. “Will we take him along with us?”

Portugee was not in favour of the idea. “He can go to the teeth of hell in a handcart for all I care, eh, Boelee!”

Boelee spat into the fire. “Madrid’s bad luck to all of us now, mates. We can’t have him taggin’ along. He was a powerful man among The Brotherhood leaders. If’n I know Madrid, he’ll blame the loss o’ the Diablo on us, an’ I’m the first one he’ll come after. He’ll get me strung up for mutiny. There’s only one thing t’do with Capitano Rocco Madrid. Bury him here!”

A pall of silence fell over the crew. Portugee was overawed at the suggestion, his face showing pale in the firelight as he addressed Boelee. “Kill Madrid? Who would dare do such a thing?”

Boelee pulled the broad-bladed dagger from his belt and twirled it expertly. “Well, seein’ as how you’re all so chicken-hearted, I’ll do the job! But when we get to a port, every man jack of ye better keep his mouth shut about it. I’ll say that Madrid was slain by the privateers when we lost the Diablo. Anyone says different an’ I’ll gut him! So, turn your backs or close your eyes if ye don’t want to see the deed done. Madrid’s only a treacherous worm, we’re better off without him!”

Flat on his stomach, Boelee crawled away from the fire with the knife clenched in his teeth. Away from the firelight, his path described a wide half circle. All that could be heard was the surf pounding up onto the shore and the odd crackle of blazing driftwood from the fire. Ahead of him, Boelee could see the Spaniard’s back—he was sitting drooped over, as though he had dozed off. Boelee wriggled noiselessly forward, transferring the knife from mouth to hand. He held it tight, ready for a hard upward thrust between the former captain’s ribs. Closer he edged, closer, until Madrid’s back was within striking distance. Coming up on his knees, Boelee locked his free arm around the Spaniard’s neck.

Rocco Madrid’s head lolled to one side just as Boelee felt the light tickle of coloured feathers against his forearm. With a horrified gurgle he released his quarry and stumbled backward.

Four poisoned darts had ended the life of Rocco Madrid: one behind his ear and three in his cheek. The Spaniard lay huddled grotesquely on the sand, his body still warm. Panting and sobbing raggedly, Boelee stumbled across the beach to the fire.

Portugee grabbed hold of him as Boelee, too, fell, both legs still kicking convulsively as he tried to clutch at the sharp bamboo sliver sticking from his throat.

The ancient, bearded patriarch whose village they had destroyed appeared at the edge of the firelight. His gaze swept the petrified crew. “You are back. Only fools would want to return after what you did here!”

He strode off into the dark as the drums started up. Thonk thonk thonk thonk! A hollow ceaseless rattling sound. Silent as moon shadows, the Carib hunters, their bodies striped with dark plant dyes, closed in on what had once been the crew of the Diablo Del Mar.

10

CAPTAIN THURON HAD BEEN RIGHT: IT WAS another world beneath the surface of the sea. Golden sun rays turned to faint curtains of pastel blues and greens as they lanced down into the depths and small bubbles rose in silvery cascades from the barnacle-crusted hull of the Marie. A few tiny, fat, jewel-coloured fish that were travelling beneath the ship nosed harmlessly against Ben’s cheek. Pulling themselves down the line tied to the stern, Ben and Anaconda descended to the rudder. Owing to the shadow cast upon the water by the ship and the curve of the hull, it was rather gloomy, though the broken rudder was fairly visible. Ben’s long tow-coloured hair swayed softly around in a shifting halo as he secured his rope to the end of the spindle that stuck out below the rudder. Anaconda secured the neck of the bag that held their equipment to the rope, leaving their hands free to work. Still grasping the stern line, they inspected the damage.

The big man waggled his hand at Ben, who produced some copper strip and the hammer from the sack. Anaconda signalled with one finger. Ben rummaged a nail out and passed it to him while holding the end of the strip against one side of the big oblong rudder. Gripping the rope with his legs, Anaconda half knocked the nail through the copper strip and into the rudder timber, then dropped the hammer back into the sack and pointed upward. Ben transmitted a thought to Ned up on deck. “We’re coming up for air!”

The dog’s reply flashed though his mind. “Thank goodness for that, I thought you’d both decided to be fishes!”

The two broke the surface, blinking and gasping for air. Thuron sat on the deck with his legs between the gallery rails and called over the side, “Are you both alright? What’s it like down there?”

Ben called up to him. “It will take a couple of dives, but we’ve got one end of the strip fixed with a nail.”

The Frenchman made as if to rise. “Well done! D’you need more help? I’ll come down an’ lend ye a hand!”

Anaconda shook his head. “There’s only room for me an’ the boy, Cap’n. You’d be in the way.”

Ben was in agreement. “Aye, you stay up there, sir. Stop Ned from taking over the ship. He’s keen to be a cap’n, you know.”

The black Labrador glared at Ben from between the rails. “Aye, and I won’t stand impudence from my crew, young feller!”

They submerged again, this time for Ben to thread the copper strip between the back of the rudder and the spindle. However, there was a buildup of barnacles and green, hairlike seaweed. The boy used Anaconda’s knife to clear it, then began poking the strip through, fraction by fraction. It was difficult, the soft copper bending every time it hit a snag. Twice more the pair had to go up for air, but on the third descent, Ben’s fingers, now cold and slippery from the green weeds, managed to thread the strip through. Anaconda half fixed it from the other side with a nail, then they were up again for more air.

Ben waved to Thuron. “We’ve got it, sir. Now we only have to stretch the strip tight and get more nails in it on both sides!”

Thuron smiled gratefully. “Pierre, tell the cook to make these lads a good hot bowl o’ soup apiece. It must be cold down there, working as long as those two have.” He waved as they submerged once more.

This time Anaconda took six nails in his mouth. He began to work swiftly, though it was extremely difficult. Ben held tight to the rudder, trying to prevent it from moving, his body shaking as each hammer blow struck. Suddenly the hammer slipped from Anaconda’s grasp, and his hand hit the nail head hard: Blood gouted out like a red ribbon into the sea. Ben gestured through the shadowed water that they should go up, but the giant grinned and shook his head, signalling that there was only one more nail to go. Gamely, he spat the last nail into his hand and began nailing the last bit of strip to the rudder. It went home with four hefty whacks. Anaconda pointed upward—then everything happened at once.

Up on deck, the ship’s wheel, which was unmanned to allow the rudder repairs, took the bite of the newly repaired rudder. The wheel spun half a turn, sending the rudder crashing into Ben’s head. Through a pain-filled mist of semiconsciousness, he let go of the rope and floated up. Looking back, he saw the big steersman reach a hand up toward him, when a massive, dark shape struck Anaconda. For a moment the water was a seething mass of bubbling crimson, and then something lashed sharply, stinging the back of Ben’s leg. He lost all his senses, whirling upside down in red-streaked blackness as Ned’s wild baying and calling echoed inside his brain. “Ben! Howoooooh! Beeeeeen!”

Thuron saw the blood and bubbles rising. Clamping a knife in his mouth, he dodged around the howling dog and dived over the rail without a backward glance. Ben was dangling upside down underwater, the broken rope wrapped about his leg. A crimson trail plunged down into the misty depths. There was no sign of Anaconda. The Frenchman grabbed the boy and the rope, tugging furiously as he saw other massive, dark shapes homing in on them both.

They were dragged from the sea by a crew hauling frenziedly on the rope. Thuron never once let go of Ben or the rope; his whole body wrapped around both. As the pair were manhandled over the stern rail, a huge head, its razor-toothed mouth agape, cleared the surface a handsbreadth away from the Frenchman’s foot.

Pierre flung a boat hook after it, shouting, “Sharks! Sharks!”

Several of the crewmen, who were armed with loaded pistols, fired at the sinister fins, which had begun circling the Marie. A musket exploded in the air as Pierre knocked one man’s arm up. “No, don’t fire! You’ll hit Anaconda, you fool!”

Thuron was thumping Ben’s back as seawater poured from the senseless boy’s mouth. The Frenchman looked up, his face a picture of tragedy and shock, and screamed, “Anaconda is gone, Pierre, he’s gone!”

The firing ceased, and all hands stared at one another in disbelief. Anaconda gone?

Ben lay on the bed in Captain Thuron’s cabin with Ned alongside him, trying to reach his friend. However, the dog’s thoughts could not penetrate the boy’s fevered mind. Disjointed images of storming seas and large waves crashing upon rockbound shores, the Flying Dutchman, with Vanderdecken at the helm and lit all about with the eerie green light of St. Elmo’s Fire wreathing its rigging. Ned tried to interpose calming thoughts into Ben’s delirium, licking the boy’s hands and whining softly. “Ben, Ben, it’s me, Ned. You’re safe now, mate. Lie still, rest now!”

Thuron brought a little brandy mixed with sugar and warm water. Ned watched as he poured a few drops between Ben’s lips. The Frenchman spoke his thoughts aloud to the dog as he ministered to the boy. “There now, that’ll help him, I think. He’s had a bad time, Ned. I’ll stay here with you until he looks better. Thank the Lord he wasn’t taken by those hellfish. Poor Anaconda, we’ll never see him again. Apart from you and Ben, he was the best friend I ever had, rest his soul!”

Thuron settled down in a chair and put his feet up on the end of the bed, assuring the Labrador in a weary voice, “At least our Ben’s safe, eh, boy? Don’t you fret now, he’ll be fresh as a coat o’ paint by tomorrow.”

With her rudder back in working order, La Petite Marie sailed northeast, out into the nighttime vastness of the mighty Atlantic Ocean. Raphael Thuron was asleep, one elbow on the table, his cheek resting in an open palm. Ned, too, stretched on the bed with his head lolling across the boy’s feet. Ben drifted in and out of slumber, quiet and still for the most part. Then strange spectres began haunting his mind. Were his eyes open or not? The boy was not sure, but he could see through the ornate, oblong stern window. The sea was moon-flecked and smooth, yet far out it appeared stormy. Cold sweat poured from Ben’s brow. There in the distance, riding the gale, the Flying Dutchman was coming toward the Marie. Ben lay there, robbed of all power of speech or movement, watching the ghost ship getting larger and closer. He could not even pass a thought to his dog. Vanderdecken’s wild, despairing face banished everything from his mind. Ben could see him standing at the Dutchman’s wheel. Lifting a corpselike finger, he beckoned the boy to come to him, staring at Ben with eyes like chips of tombstone marble that pierced his entire being. Now the Flying Dutchman was sailing level with the Marie. Tap! Tap! The accursed captain’s finger rapped upon the windowpane, calling, signalling Ben to come aboard his vessel. The petrified boy suddenly realised he had no grip on reality, no control of his limbs. Was he still lying on the bed, or was he sitting up, getting out of bed and walking trancelike toward the apparition outside the window? Vanderdecken smiled triumphantly, exposing long yellow teeth as his black lips curled back, his beckoning finger, like a swaying serpent, calling his victim to him.

The feeling seeped slowly into Ned’s mind as his eyes opened blearily. Then he felt his hackles rise, and he came wide awake. He leapt up with a sharp bark, and Vanderdecken turned his attention upon the dog, glaring and hissing viciously. In that moment, Thuron was wakened by the bark. He saw Ben, momentarily free of the spell, snap the thong that held a carved coconut-wood cross around his neck. Thuron dropped to the cabin floor as Ben threw the cross at the thing hovering outside; then the Frenchman grabbed the chair by a leg and flung it with all his might from flat on his back.

11

AMID THE RENDING crash of glass and wood, a high-pitched, keening screech ensued. Ned was standing with his paws up on the sill, barking out at a calm night sea. Shakily, Thuron pulled himself over to where Ben was sitting on the cabin floor.

He grabbed the boy and hugged him tight. “Ben, are you alright? What in the name of heaven and hell was that thing at the window? Was it a man or a fiend?”

Before Ned could think out a warning, Ben had spoken. “It was Captain Vanderdecken of the Flying Dutchman!”

Thuron ran to the smashed window. Regardless of the broken glass and splintered frame, he leaned out and scanned the empty ocean.

Turning slowly, he looked from the dog to the boy. “I think you’ve got something to tell me, lad!”

Ned sent a swift thought to Ben. “Well, you’ve already told him who it was—are you going to let him know the rest?”

Still facing the captain, Ben answered his dog’s question. “He saved my life, we can trust him. I’d best tell him everything. He’ll understand, I know he will.”

The black Labrador closed his eyes resignedly. “I hope he will!”

The crewman Gascon, who had not gone with the other three deserters, was taking his turn at the wheel. He had heard Ned’s bark and the window breaking. Looking astern, he saw the captain’s chair, with the cross on its thong tangled about it, floating off into the night. Tying the ship’s wheel on course with the helm line, Gascon hurried to the captain’s cabin door. He was about to knock when he heard voices clearly from within. Carefully he pressed an ear to the door and listened. Ben was speaking to Thuron. What Gascon heard that night chilled his very soul into a terror-stricken silence.

Captain Redjack Teal had found some good old ripe cheese in the cupboard. Along with a goblet of Madeira and a few of his special biscuits, it provided an excellent midday snack. There was a respectful tap at the door. Dabbing his lips fastidiously with a silken kerchief, he called, “Come!”

The bosun stumped in, dragging the prisoner Ludon behind him. He threw the man to the floor and saluted by touching a many-thonged whip to his temple. “Gave ‘im two strokes, sir, just as ye ordered.”

Teal stood, adjusting Rocco Madrid’s sword about his waist. “Hmm, good man. Carry on!”

The bosun saluted again. “Aye aye, Cap’n!” He left the cabin, closing the door carefully behind him.

Ludon cowered on the floor, sobbing and hugging himself.

Teal sounded bored as he poured himself another “Oh, stop that blubberin’, sirrah, y’sound like a pig with the colic. Don’t look so demned sorry for yourself, man!”

Ludon turned a tear-stained face up to Teal, whining piteously. “You had me whipped, sir, for no reason at all!”

Redjack wrinkled his nose. It was hard to understand the rough English that Ludon had picked up in Caribbean ports. “Lack-a-day, fellow, I never do things without any reason. I never had ye really flogged, just two strokes o’ the cat. So now ye know what it tastes like, eh? I did it to show ye I mean business. I want the truth, an’ no lies. Of course ye can lie away an’ think you’re foolin’ me, but that’d mean ten strokes for every little fib. Hmm, imagine that!”

Ludon shivered and sat up straight to stop the weight of his shirt from touching the wounds on his back. “I’ll tell ye the truth, sir, on me oath I will. Just ask the questions an’ I’ll do me best to answer ye!”

Teal sat down again and studied the prisoner closely. “Of course ye will. Now, tell me, where exactly is your captain Thuron bound for?”

Ludon answered promptly. “He is sailing back to the place of his birth in France, somewhere called Arcachon, sir. Thuron was always talking of giving up the buccaneering life. Now that he has enough gold, he plans to live like a true gentleman there. with land and a chateau, sir.”

Teal tapped his chair arm pensively. “How much gold does he possess, and don’t give me any hoary old tales of buried treasure. How much exactly, eh?”

Ludon swallowed hard. “I cannot say exact, but about fully the weight of a man the size of your bosun, sir.”

Teal drew his sword and tapped the prisoner’s back lightly. Ludon grimaced and arched his back. Teal chuckled. “That’d be a good fortune for any man, if ‘twere in coin. Nice solid gold coin can be spent anywhere. All these fabulous stone, strings o’ pearls an’ fancy rings usually turn out t’be fakes, or highly identifiable. Give me gold coin anytime, eh!”

Rooting out a chart, he spread it across the table and studied it. “France y’say, let me see. Ah, here ‘tis, Arcachon, just off the Bay of Biscay. D’ye know, methinks I’ll give your buccaneer captain a run for his money.”

Ludon ignored his aching back for a moment. “Sir, you mean you’d chase Thuron clear across the Atlantic Ocean to the French coast?”

Teal warmed to his new idea. “But of course! I’ve got a handsome new ship, plenty of supplies an’ the promise of a fortune. I’ll overtake the rascal long before he ever enters French waters, an’ hang him from his own yardarm! Then I’ll put about for England, imagine that, eh! Captain Jonathan Ormsby Teal, comin’ home with three ships an’ a fine selection of gold coin. I’ll rename this vessel the Royal Champion an’ take the other two in tow. Stap me liver, I’ll make a pretty picture, sailin’ up the Thames River with the men cheerin’ an’ the ladies flutterin’ their fans an’ kerchiefs. Hah, confound me breeches if I ain’t promoted to admiral within the very year!”

Ludon kept silent, hoping that the Marie could outrun Teal, at least until they were both in French waters. With France and England always at war with each other, there was a chance things could work out well for him. It was likely that they could all be captured by the French Navy. Thuron and his crew would be hanged as pirates, Teal and his men would either end up on the gallows beside them or be held in prison for ransom by the English. If he could lay hands on the gold, it would be a simple matter to bribe a French naval captain to accept a fabricated story. He could pose as a Caribbean merchant, taken captive by the English privateer and robbed of his gold. Once ashore in France he planned on vanishing over the border into Spain. Rich men can live happily anywhere.

Teal was right—plenty of gold coin was the answer to everything.

Once Teal had ordered a set course, gossip soon got round the ship. The privateers were greatly cheered by the news of seeing home again. The mate, the bosun and the master gunner discussed it in the galley over mugs of grog and hot water, but scepticism had set in after their initial cheeriness, particularly with the bosun. “Huh, we’ll never catch the Frenchie— that ship’s as swift as a flea over butter. She’s already outsailed us once.”

Swilling his mug around, the mate took a sip. “Aye, right enough, but this time she doesn’t know we’re chasin’ her. Who ever heard of a ship pursuin’ another from the Caribbean t’the Bay o’ Biscay?”

Nodding his grizzled head, the master gunner agreed. “Right, matey, the last thing that froggy will expect t’see is Teal in a big new vessel comin’ after him.”

The bosun was determined to keep up a gloomy outlook. “An what’ll that give us, a chance to fight an’ get killed afore we ever see England an’ home again? Take my word, mates, Teal’s doin’ all this to get hold of the buccaneer’s treasure. But what’ll we get out of it, eh? Not a penny piece. Look at me, I’d have been better off servin’ in the Royal Navy on a ship o’ the line instead of on a lousy privateer. At least I’d receive half pension for this broken leg o’ mine!”

The mate scoffed. “That ain’t a broken leg—’twas only sprained when that spar fell on it.”

Full of self-pity, the bosun moved his leg and winced. “Well, it feels as if it’s still broke! Wouldn’t it be nice if a spar fell on Teal or, better still, a full mast? We’d be free men then, an’ we could sail to Dover, sink the ship an’ split the treasure atween us!”

Nudging him sharply, the master gunner murmured, “Stow that talk. If Teal hears ye’ve been fermentin’ a mutiny, you’re a dead man. Hush now, here comes Cookie!”

The Irish cook bustled into the galley, muttering aloud. “Goin’ home to dear old England, is it? Nobody’s mentioned dear old Ireland! I’d sooner see the darlin’ Liffey flowin’ through Dublin than London an’ the Thames River. An’ have ye heard the man givin’ out his orders like a Wexford washerwoman with tuppence t’spend on a Monday…”

He went into an imitation of Teal’s foppish accent, which brought smiles to the faces of his shipmates. “You there, cook, demn yer eyes! Where’s me Madeira, eh? An’ y’call this a fresh fish, sirrah? ‘Twas fresh when the Bible was written. Take the confounded thing out o’ me sight! I’ll have ye flogged an’ keelhauled if ye look at me like that again. Out o’ me sight, ye insolent cockroach, be off!”

Ludon sat on the deck beneath the galley window, listening to all that was said and storing it in his mind for future reference: talk of mutiny, murder and ship scuttling, disrespect of the captain. What was it the cook had likened Teal to? A Wexford washerwoman. Wouldn’t Redjack be pleased to hear that when the time came!

Ludon was not quite sure what form his plan would take nor when he would be able to put it into effect. But all he saw and heard was of value to him. After all, was he not but one lowly prisoner in the midst of enemies?

12

DAWN’S WELCOMING LIGHT FLOODED THROUGH the cabin as fresh ocean breezes ruffled the edges of charts on the captain’s table. Ben and Ned sat on the bed anxiously watching the Frenchman, to whom Ben had related the whole tale.

Thuron pondered the fantastic narrative, stroking his rough beard for quite a while before speaking. “If any man had told me all this, I would have had him locked up as a mad person. But I know you are telling me the truth, Ben. From the first time I looked into those strange eyes of yours, I knew you were different from anyone I had ever met. Who can tell, maybe some odd fate has brought us together. I am not sufficiently educated to question it—I believe you.”

Ben sighed with relief, feeling as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his heart.

Ned sent him a thought. “Thank goodness our captain is a man we can trust, eh mate ?”

Unthinkingly, the boy answered aloud. “He certainly is, Ned!”

Thuron smiled, gazing into the dog’s trustful eyes. “This fellow can understand everything I say, I’m sure of it. I could tell you were just talking together—what was he saying to you, lad?”

Ben told the captain, who seemed immensely pleased. “I wish I could speak with Ned. He looks a handsome and intelligent fellow. Hahaha! Look at him, he heard me!”

The black Labrador stood up on the bed and struck a pose, which he hoped looked both handsome and intelligent. Ben laughed along with the Frenchman. “I’m afraid you can’t hold conversations with Ned, a. ‘, but he can nod yes or no to anything you need to ask him. Right, Ned?” The dog nodded to affirm this.

Thuron’s eyes lit up. “That’s a very valuable thing to know. Thank you, my friends. I am a fortunate fellow to have such wonderful companions. But we’ll keep it our secret. The crew wouldn’t understand.”

Ben agreed. “Except maybe Pierre. He’s a good man, too, Cap’n.”

Thuron nodded. “They’re all good men in their own ways, but Anaconda was the best of them. I can’t tell you how I miss that giant of a man, may his soul find peace. He was a slave, you know—we ran away together, deserted from a corsair galley many years ago in the Indian Ocean, just off the coast of Madagascar. We were together for a long time. When I got my first ship, I wanted to make him the mate. But Anaconda wouldn’t hear of it. All he wanted was to be steersman. I remember him saying, ‘I will command your ship’s wheel and take you wherever you want to go. You are my captain, and my friend for life!’ And that’s the way it was until yesterday. Ah, my poor friend, my poor friend, my heart grieves for him.”

Ben had to turn his face away as the French buccaneer captain wept openly. Ned whined and laid his head in Thuron’s lap.

“Sail ho, to the southeast. Sail ho!”

Brushing a sleeve roughly across his eyes, Thuron quickly straightened up to the lookout’s call. “Sail! Let’s hope ‘tis not an enemy.”

All hands were crowded to the rail as the Frenchman sighted through his telescope at the distant vessel. He nodded knowingly and spoke to Pierre. “Good job I saw him before he hauled up a decoy flag. I’d know that one anywhere. ‘Tis the Barbary corsair, Flame of Tripoli Only one captain, Al-Kurkuman, flies a flag with a red scimitar on a gold background. Hoho, look, he’s striking his colours and running up a Portuguese merchant flag, the rascal. Who does he think he’s fooling?”

As the Flame of Tripoli altered course to intercept the Marie, Ben could see that its sails were blood red. He tugged on Thuron’s sleeve. “Cap’n, does he mean to do us harm?”

Thuron put away the telescope. “Only if he gets the chance, lad. Al-Kurkuman’s a slaver. He’s bound for the Isle of Cuba with a cargo of misery purchased from the coasts of Mozambique. I can’t abide traffickers in human flesh, Ben, but we’ve got to be diplomatic with Al-Kurkuman. He’s dangerous to any he thinks are weaker than himself. Leave this to me—I can handle him. Pierre, run out all cannon and arm all hands! Stand ready and wait on my word!”

As the Flame of Tripoli hove nearer, Ben saw the captain known as Al-Kurkuman. He was everything a Barbary corsair should be, an Arabian Indian of mixed blood. He glittered in the sunlight, draped in chains, necklaces, beads, rings and bangles, all of pure gold. Clad in light-green silk, wearing a black turban mounted with a ruby, he stood boldly out on the prow and grinned—even his teeth were plated with beaten gold.

Ned passed Ben a thought. “If he fell in the water, he’d go straight to the bottom, carrying all that weight. I’ll never dress like that. When I’m captain, a simple, thin gold collar will be enough for me!”

Ben patted his dog. “That’s very sensible of you!”

They both started as a loud bang issued from the Marie. Thuron had touched off a cannon, sending a shot roaring across the other ship’s bows as a sign that the Marie stood armed and ready for trouble if need be.

Al-Kurkuman did not even flinch as the cannonball whizzed by overhead. He grinned even wider, bowing and touching his chest, lips and forehead with an open hand.

Thuron returned a short courteous bow, smiling as he called out, “The fair winds and calm waters be always at your back, Captain Kurkuman. The Indian Ocean is far off. Have you lost your way, my friend?”

The Flame of Tripoli came almost alongside as she backed water. Looking as if he had found a long lost brother, Al-Kurkuman replied, “Thuron, old comrade, I took you for a fat little French merchantman—accept my humble apologies!”

Captain Thuron nodded at his cannon array and the men crowding the rigging, all fully armed. He continued the game. “I am like yourself, O illustrious one, a dove with sharp teeth. What news have you of this great world?”

Gold jewellery jingled as the Barbary corsair shrugged. “Nothing surprising, it is full of men, both bad and good. Tell me, have you crossed the wake of a Greek Navy vessel? She has been trailing me ever since I put into Accra for supplies. Why would the Greek captain want to detain an honest merchant like Al-Kurkuman, I ask you, old friend?”

It was Thuron’s turn to shrug. “Life is a mystery. How would I know? The Greeks are a suspicious people. Where are you bound?”

“To Belém in the South Americas,” Al-Kurkuman lied. “I carry farming implements to the settlers there. And you?”

“To the Isle of Malta with a cargo of wax to make candles.” Thuron returned the lie with a straight face. “It was good to cross your path and meet an old friend again. I must go. May the spirits of the seas guide you on your way, Al-Kurkuman!”

The Barbary corsair smiled like a shark with gold teeth. “Peace be unto you, Raphael Thuron, and may the djinns of paradise attend you. A moment, friend. That boy, the puny whelp you have there, will you sell him to me? Fattened up a bit, he would fetch a coin or two in the markets of Marrakech.”

Thuron gave Ben a playful cuff. “Who, this wretch? Alas, friend, how could I sell my own son, though he eats more than he is worth and he suffers the sickness of the brain.”

Al-Kurkuman looked sourly at the boy, then laughed. “Then starve him, beat him well and educate him. Maybe next time we meet I will trade you another for him!”

Without another word from their captains, both ships went their ways. Thuron kept his men armed and all cannon still loaded and showing until they were out of range.

• Thuron watched Ben and Ned. He could tell they were conversing. “Well, lad, what did you make of all that?”

The boy came near and whispered to the Frenchman. “Ned’s a bit put out that Al-Kurkuman didn’t notice him. He thought the least he could do was to offer a bid for the handsome, intelligent dog. What do you think, Cap’n?”

Thuron replied in a whisper, “Tell Ned that if Al-Kurkuman had bought him, he’d be on the dinner table tonight.”

The boy watched Ned stalk off with his tail in the air. “He’s very offended, Cap’n. You shouldn’t have said that—his feelings are hurt now.”

The Frenchman chuckled. “I’ll get the cook to make it up to poor Ned. Meanwhile, let’s run up the French flag and get our Marie looking like a peaceful merchantman.”

Ben looked at him, puzzled. “But why, sir?”

Thuron ruffled the lad’s hair. “I’ve got a feeling we might meet the Greek Navy ship. Don’t want her thinking we’re buccaneers, do we? Lend a hand disguising our cannon ports, then take a turn on lookout for our Greek friends.”

That afternoon Ben stood in the crow’s nest armed with the captain’s telescope, sweeping the empty leagues of ocean for’ard and aft. All that could be seen was a tiny dot off to the northwest, which was the receding Barbary corsair. Ben liked the lookout post. He had learned to enjoy its giddy motion, the boundless azure arch of sky above, cloudless now, broken by the odd sight of a winging albatross or predatory skua. Below him the deck shifted alarmingly, always rolling from side to side. He saw Thuron emerge from the galley and present Ned with a scraggy mutton bone. Good old Ned, his faithful friend.

Ben was taken by surprise as the head of a crewman called Mallon appeared over the edge of his perch. The buccaneer winked at him. “Cap’n sent me up to relieve you for a spell, lad.” He climbed up alongside the boy. “No sign of sail yet?”

Ben handed him the telescope. “None at all, except the slaveship, but she’s nearly over the horizon now.”

Mallon shook his head. “That un’s a bad vessel, an’ Al-Kurkuman’s an evil captain. Real pirates, that lot!”

Ben stared out over the waves. “Cap’n said he was a Barbary corsair. We’re called buccaneers, aren’t we?”

Mallon shrugged. “Pirates is what we’re all called, lad. There’s buccaneers, filibusters, freebooters, ladrones, pickaroons, corsairs an’ sea dogs, most bad an’ a few good. But ‘tis the likes of Al-Kurkuman who gets us all tarred with the same brush. One pirate’s the same as another to a privateer or navy cap’n—they’d hang us all!”

Ben looked askance at Mallon. “Surely they wouldn’t hang us?”

The buccaneer laughed grimly. “Of course they would, the law’s the law. There’s no such thing as a good pirate. We’re all gallows bait. Those privateers are the worst—they’re nought but pirates like us, with a letter o’ marque to make their crimes legal. Have ye ever seen a pirate hung, lad?”

Ben shook his head hastily. “Never, have you?”

Mallon nodded. “Aye, one time I was ashore in the Bahamas without a ship. I saw a pirate, man named Firejon, executed by order of the governor. ‘Twas a fancy affair. All the ladies an’ gentry turned out in their coaches to witness it. I stood in the crowd. Firejon was a bad ‘un—there was a big price on his head.

“British Royal Navy had sunk his ship an’ brought him ashore in chains. Some said hangin’ was too good for Firejon, ‘cos of his terrible crimes. So they flogged him first, then sat him in a cell for two days on bread and water. There they gave him a rope, so he could make a noose for his own neck. I tell ye, the hanging ‘twas an awful sight to see. The governor refused to let Firejon wear chains or manacles.”

Ben was fascinated and horrified at the same time. “Why was that?”

Mallon pursed his lips. “So he wouldn’t hang quickly with the weight of ‘em to pull him. down. A local preacher wrote out a poem that they made Firejon read aloud from the scaffold afore they turned him off. I can still remember that poem word for word. Would ye like to hear me say it, Ben?”

Without waiting for a reply, Mallon launched into the verse.

“Come all ye mothers’ sons who sail the sea,

Attend to this last tale that I will tell.

Embark not on a life of piracy,

‘Tis but a dreadful trip which ends in hell.

Those honest ships you plunder, loot and sink,

Good vessels at your mercy, which you wreck,

For gold to waste, in taverns where ye drink,

Will one day drop the noose about your neck.

For once I was a wicked buccaneer,

I scorned the laws of man and God on high,

But now, with none to weep or mourn me here,

Upon this gallows I am bound to die.

Take warning now by my untimely end,

A judgement day must come to everyone.

Too late for me my evil ways to mend,

O Lord have mercy now my days are done!”

Mallon paused for effect, then continued. “Then the soldiers set up a roll upon their drums …”

Suddenly Ben felt queasy. Grasping a ratline, he swung out of the crow’s nest and began climbing down. “I think I’ve heard enough, thanks!”

Mallon brought the telescope up to his eye and peered aft. “Sail abaft, Cap’n. I think ‘tis a Greek man-o’-war!”

Ben felt far more frightened than he had at sighting the Barbary corsair. Suddenly he knew why Raphael Thuron wanted to give up being a pirate and live peacefully ashore.

Ned looked up from the remains of his mutton bone. “I thought you were used to shipboard life, mate. You look seasick to me. Here, Cap’n, come and take a peep at this boy!”

Thuron had not heard Ned, but he saw that Ben was pale and unsteady. The Frenchman threw an arm about the boy’s shoulders. “What ails ye, shipmate?”

Ben tried to straighten himself up. “I’ll be alright, sir.”

Thuron glanced up at the man in the crow’s nest and back to Ben. “Hah, you’ve been listening to that sack of woe and misery. I’ll wager he told ye all about a pirate hanging. Did he recite his favourite poem, too?”

Ben wiped a forearm across his sweat-beaded forehead. “Aye, Cap’n, he did, it was a dreadful thing—”

“Rubbish!” Thuron interrupted the boy. “He made it all up from gossip that he’s heard. Take no notice of Misery Mallon. How he ever got to be a buccaneer I’ll never know. They say he was a preacher once, but the congregation banished him for stealing money from the offertory box. I’d have flung him overboard long ago, but he’d frighten the fishes with his tales of horrible pirate executions!”

Ben managed a smile. “But what about the Greek Navy vessel?”

Ned was standing with his paws on the rail, watching the approaching ship. Thuron scratched fondly behind the dog’s ears. “You leave that to me an’ Ned. We’ll take care of it, won’t we, fellow?”

The dog nodded his head as he contacted Ben by thought. “Aye, don’t worry, Ben, I’ll take off my cutlass, hide my brass earrings and cover up all these tattoos. They’ll think I’m just a harmless old cabin hound!”

Ben tugged at his dog’s wagging tail. “Good idea. No one will ever know you’re Naughty Ned, terror of the high seas!”

The Greek ship was named the Achilles. Smart as a new pin, it was rigged out with even more guns than a privateer and carried archers as well as musketeers. They lined the decks, all hands fit and ready for action. The Achilles stood off, broadside to the Marie, cannon loaded and pointing right at her.

Thuron hailed the captain in a world-weary voice. “What d’you want, bothering honest merchants? Aren’t there enough pirates and rascals to chase?”

The Greek captain, who wore a white linen kilt and a long blue stocking cap, replied in excellent French. “A merchantman, eh? What cargo do you carry, sir?”

Thuron threw him a disgusted glance. “None. We were boarded and robbed by a Spanish pirate. Woven cane chairs, that’s what the villain took, a full cargo of them. May his bottom get splinters in it every time he sits down, curse him!”

The Greek captain laughed. “Pirates will steal anything, sir. You were lucky to escape alive. So you have nothing aboard?”

The Frenchman gave an eloquent shrug. “Nothing, Captain, you can come and see for yourself.”

The Greek stared hard at Thuron for a moment, as if making up his mind whether or not to search the Marie. Ben could feel his legs trembling. Then Ned began barking and showing his teeth ferociously.

The Achilles’ captain shook his head. “No no, you have had enough trouble already. But what are you doing in these waters, sir?”

Thuron put on a hopeful expression. “I have heard there is good work to be picked up coastin’ the Mediterranean!”

The Greek made a deprecatory gesture. “You would do better cruising my home waters, the Aegean Sea. There are more islands there, and the trade is good. Tell me, though, in your travels, have you seen a red-sailed ship, the Flame of Tripoli? She’s somewhere in these waters, I’m sure. Have you caught sight of her?”

Thuron answered truthfully. “We encountered that vessel early this morning, Captain. She’s a slaver, taking a cargo of slaves to the Americas. Her master even wanted to purchase my son here, didn’t he, Ben?”

The boy nodded dumbly and allowed Thuron to continue. “Luckily we were unladen and gave her the slip. By now that slaver will be gone over the horizon, sailing due northwest.

“You could run him down in two days’ hard sailing, Captain. Slavers are evil men. I hope you catch him and string him up, aye, and all his crew!”

The Greek captain saluted. “Be sure I will, sir. Any man who trades in human beings needs hanging. Good day to you!”

Thuron saluted back. “Good day to you and good hunting, sir!”

The Achilles waited until the Marie had gone by. Then she altered course and began piling on sail to chase the slaver.

Thuron let out a sigh of relief. “I wonder why he didn’t board and search us?”

Ben exchanged thoughts with Ned, then explained to the captain in a murmur that the rest of the crew could not hear. “Ned could tell by his eyes that he was afraid of dogs. That’s why Ned barked and showed his teeth. ‘Twas just a simple thing, Cap’n, but it changed the Greek’s mind—he was scared of being bitten if he came aboard.”

Thuron picked the black Labrador up bodily and kissed him. “You clever lucky dog, what are you, eh?”

Ned wriggled furiously, sending outraged thoughts to Ben. “Uuurgh! Tell this great whiskery lump t’put me down. I’ll never kiss any of my crew when I’m captain. Most undignified!”

13

THERE ARE few diversions or amusements for seamen under sail across an entire ocean—other than hard, monotonous routine. Gossip and talk, known as scuttlebutt, provided the main release of feelings for the crew of the Diablo Del Mar, now renamed the Royal Champion. The usual run of conversation centred on the injustices all hands were forced to endure under a captain such as Redjack Teal. This fitted in quite nicely with Ludon’s scheme, giving him leeway to widen the gap of disaffection between the crew and their captain.

Though Ludon was not an educated man, he knew that the policy of divide and conquer was a workable idea. He looked and listened constantly, finding opportunities to carry tales back and forth in secret. There was nowhere a prisoner at sea could escape to. Accordingly, the mate, who would not tolerate idle hands aboard, had given Ludon the job of cook’s assistant. He served meals to the common seamen on the mess deck and, much to the cook’s relief, was employed to fetch and carry meals to the captain—a heavensent gift to the lone conspirator.

Life aboard the Royal Champion became increasingly difficult, owing to Ludon’s scheming. If a man grumbled about his victuals, suddenly Teal was made aware of it. Being a disciplinarian, Teal would mete out harsh punishment on the offender. This made the crew resentful and surly, particularly when Ludon would let slip that the captain regarded his crew as ignorant, wayward oafs. Amidst a welter of truths, half-truths and downright lies, every man aboard became suspicious of his own shipmates.

One evening, Ludon was serving the day’s meal out on the mess deck. He studiously avoided putting out food wherever there was an empty seat. The bosun growled. “Ahoy there, Frenchie, fill those plates for the gun crew!”

Ludon paused. “But they are not here.”

Bad-temperedly, the bosun slammed his knife down on the tabletop. “I said fill those plates! Who are you to say who’ll eat an’ who won’t? Here comes the gun crew now.”

Sitting down to the table, the master gunner held up his hands, all swollen red and scratched. “Lookit that, we’ve had t’boil an’ scrape out every gun barrel aboard, musket an’ cannon. Been hard at it since dawn! See Taffy’s hand there, all bandaged up. He got it jammed in a culverin bore. Wonder he never lost it!”

The bosun inspected the grimy, blood-soaked bandage. “I’d keep a fresh wrappin’ on that hand every day if’n I was you, Taffy. Save it goin’ poison on ye. Ah well, that’ll learn ye. t’keep your gun barrels clean, Gunny.”

With his spoon halfway to his mouth, the grizzled old master gunner exploded with indignation. “My guns have always been clean. I’ve served twenty years as master gunner an’ no cap’n has ever accused me of havin’ a dirty gun aboard!”

Almost apologetically, the bosun replied, “Then why did Redjack punish you an’ your men?”

The one called Taffy gestured with his bandaged hand. ” ‘Cos someone tipped a pail o’ rubbish over the cannon nearest to Teal’s cabin door!”

Cramming the loaded spoon into his mouth, the master gunner chewed furiously with his few remaining teeth, speaking through a full mouth. “Just let me get my hands on the scum who did it!” He spat out a lump of half-chewed meat. “Garrgh! Is this supposed t’be salt pork? Tastes more like a dead horse out of a glue boiler!”

He glared at Ludon. “Have ye got nothin’ better’n this to feed hungry men, eh?”

The French prisoner shrugged. “Cook says ‘tis all he has, but your captain, he dines well enough on fresh fish. He is not short of fancy biscuits or Madeira to go with it.”

Pushing his plate away, the bosun spoke sneeringly. “When was it ever different? The crew gets the slops while the cap’n dines like a lord. Here, Frenchie, take this garbage an’ toss it over the side.”

Pointing a finger in Ludon’s face, the master gunner snarled, “An’ keep it clear o’ my cannon, or else …”

Ludon scraped the leftovers into a pot and stalked out of the mess-deck cabin.

When he had gone, the bosun’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded toward the door, muttering low. “I don’t trust that ‘un. I been noticin’ lately, the Frenchie’s ears wiggle like a little pig whenever we’re talkin’. Take it from me, mates, guard your tongues while he’s about!”

The mate stared oddly at the bosun. “D’ye think that Frenchie’s carryin’ tales back to Redjack?”

Taffy answered for the mate. ” ‘Twouldn’t surprise me—he’s got the looks of a rat. What more could ye expect of a buccaneer deserter who sold out to that Spanish pirate?”

Stabbing his knife into the tabletop, the bosun looked around at all hands. “So, What’re we goin’ to do about it, mates?”

Being a fair-minded fellow, the master gunner replied. “Nothin’ without proof. Ye can’t condemn a man just because of his looks. There’s been many a mistake made like that.”

Joby, the dead carpenter’s mate, picked up the fiddle that had once belonged to his former friend and twiddled a few chords on the instrument. It seemed to break the tense atmosphere.

The old master gunner cracked a gap-toothed grin. “Come on, Joby, sing us a song. I’m fed up o’ sittin’ here lissenin’ to talk of mutiny an’ murder. Cheer us up, mate!”

Joby smiled brightly. “Shall I play ‘The Jolly Cap’n’?” He ducked swiftly as several chunks of ship’s biscuit were hurled at him, then twiddled another chord or two. “I’ve put new words to it, listen.”

Off he went, singing an insulting imitation of the original.

“Ho the wind will never blow, me lads,

So we’ve got to row the boat,

An’ as for Cap’n Teal, the pig,

I’d like to slit his throat.

He wears a fine red jacket

An’ drinks Madeira wine,

Why should we call him captain

When we could call him swine!

Hurrah hurrah hurrah, me boys,

He feeds us nought but swill,

An’ makes us taste the rope’s end,

That’s why all hands look ill!

His father was a pig, me lads,

An’ his mother was a sow,

They sent him off a sailin’

We’re lumbered with him now …”

Joby’s voice trailed away, and the fiddle gave a discordant screech as the bow trailed over its strings.

Captain Teal stood in the open doorway. His buckled shoes clacked against the deck as he strode up to the table. Teal’s voice shook with barely controlled rage as he faced the unfortunate Joby. “Greatly amusin’, I’m sure. Well, carry on playin’, man!”

Placing the instrument on the table, Joby swallowed hard. ” ‘Twas only by way of a little joke, sir.”

Teal picked up the fiddle, weighing it in one hand. The crewmen watched him in dumb silence as he suddenly flung it at the bulkhead. When it hit the floor, he jumped on it with both feet, stamping and kicking savagely at the dead carpenter’s favourite instrument. It shattered and smashed, chips of wood, pegs and bow strings scattering over the mess-deck floor.

Redjack Teal stood amid the wreckage, his eyes narrowed to mean slits. “A little joke, eh? Demn your insolence, fellow!”

Teal’s accusing gaze fixed both the bosun and the master gunner. Spittle sprayed the air as he yelled at them. “Anythin’ to say about the victuals, eh eh? Meat’s like a dead horse! Crew eatin’ slops! What’s the matter, gentlemen, cat got your tongues? Nothin’ t’say about how I dine like a lord? Speak up, demn your eyes!”

Both the bosun and the gunner held their horrified silence.

Redjack suddenly went calm. He smiled slyly at them. “Next thing ye’ll be talkin’ mutiny behind me back.”

Shaking his head, the master gunner called out hoarsely. “Beg your pardon, Cap’n, but we’ve never said a mutinous word agin ye—”

Teal interrupted by drawing his silver-mounted pistol and cocking the hammer. “Have ye not indeed? Well, me brave boys, I’m goin’ t’make sure ye don’t get the chance. Mr. Mate, attend me here!”

The mate sprang upright and saluted. “Aye, sir!”

The captain pointed to Joby, the bosun and the master gunner with his pistol barrel. “Take these men in charge. They are to be put aboard the Devon Belle, one at each masthead. Half ration of ship’s biscuit’n’water for a week. That’ll cure ‘em of any mutinous mutterin’s against me!”

The men picked up the pieces of sailcloth that they used as cloaks in rough weather, but Teal shook his head. “Go as y’are, barefoot, too. Hard lessons must be learned the hard way. Mr. Mate, see them to their posts, if y’please!”

Obediently the mate touched his forelock. “Aye aye, Cap’n.”

“No, wait!” Teal tapped his chin thoughtfully with the pistol sight. “Bring our froggy prisoner here, will ye?”

Two crewmen escorted the puzzled-looking Ludon into the cabin. Redjack smiled benevolently at him. “Ah, there y’are, monsieur. I’ve decided you shall go along an’ spend a week aboard the Devon Belle with these three rascals, on half rations of hardtack biscuit’n’water.”

Ludon took one glance at the grim-faced trio, then fell on his knees, grabbing Teal’s red jacket hem. “But Cap’n, sir, what wrong have I done ye?”

Teal dragged himself free, sending Ludon sprawling with a kick. “Tellin’ tales an’ causin’ disaffection among me crew, sirrah, that’s what you’re guilty of. Take ‘em away!”

The three crewmen were marched out by the mate, followed by two other sailors dragging Ludon, who was sobbing pitifully. “No, no, Cap’n, sir, you cannot do this to me!”

Teal uncocked his pistol, chuckling at his cruel scheme. “Ye mealymouthed toad, I’ll show ye what I can’t an’ can do aboard me own ship!”

Aboard La Petite Marie, Ben was putting the finishing touches to the repairs he had made to the window in the captain’s cabin. Canvas sheet was not as good for letting in light as the original glass windows, but it kept spray and wind out. Using the hilt of a heavy dagger, he knocked the final nail into the pleated canvas edge. Ned entered the cabin and looked around, sending a thought to his friend. “Bit dark in here, isn’t it?”

Ben put aside the dagger. “Aye, but ‘twill do well enough. At least we won’t see the Flying Dutchman through it.”

Ned remembered what he had come for. “Oh, I think the cap’n wants to see you, Ben. He’s up in the bows.”

As they made their way along the deck, Ben looked back over his shoulder. He passed a mental message to Ned. “See that fellow Gascon? He crossed himself and spat over the side after we’d passed. I wonder what’s wrong with him?”

The black Labrador waved his tail airily. “Oh, him, he’s my least favourite man aboard this ship. He glares at me a lot, I don’t know why. I’ve never done him any harm.”

Thuron was shouting from his position in the bows. “Ben, come here, there’s something I want you to see!” The boy mounted the bowsprit and locked his legs around it.

The Frenchman gave him the telescope, pointing. “Dead ahead, you can just make it out—land, lad. That’s the islands of the Azores. Now point your glass downward and take a look into the ocean. What d’you see, Ben?”

Scanning the surface on either side of the bow wave, Ben tried his best to see something distinctive. “Nothing really, sir, just a sort of white blotch now and then, but it’s pretty far below us. Is that what you mean?”

Ned was frantically passing messages to Ben. “White blot, what kind of white blot, tell me?”

Thuron provided the answer. “Remember, I told you there was a whole world beneath the ocean. What you see are the tips of mountains, huge tall peaks. We’re sailing over the great ridge, a sunken range of mountains that runs from Greenland almost to the earth’s southern tip. Wait until you see the Azores—I think they’re part of those mountains. Just higher peaks than the rest, sticking up out of the seas to form islands.”

Ben lifted the telescope until he sighted on the rocky peaks of the Azores in the distance. “This world is a marvellous thing, Cap’n. It’s so vast!”

La Petite Marie dropped anchor that afternoon in a deep lagoon of the main island. Ben and Ned marvelled at the lush tropical greenery that clung to the mountainous rocks around them.

Pierre lowered the jolly boat and invited them aboard with the party that was going ashore. “Come on, you two, we’ll get some fruit and fresh water.”

Ben and Ned sat either side of Pierre in the stern. The boy noticed Gascon crouching in the bows and flashed a quick thought to his dog. “I wonder what he’s up to? He’s looking pretty furtive.”

Ned wrinkled his forehead. “Huh, hope he falls overboard and drowns!”

Ben frowned at the black Labrador. “Ned! That’s not a very charitable thought.”

Ned sniffed. “I don’t care, I don’t like that fellow and he doesn’t like me, or you. I can sense it.”

Pierre was unaware of the conversation and chatted away happily. “Lots of good fruit and vegetables growin’ on these islands, Ben. They’re long-dead volcanoes, and the soil is rich.”

They spent the remainder of the afternoon foraging on the slopes, gathering quantities of the island’s produce, some familiar, some new to them, but all wonderful. Some of the crewmen found a little waterfall that cascaded down into a pond on the mossy ledges. Ben and Ned joined them in the crystal-clear water, bathing and splashing each other, laughing like a band of children. For the boy and his dog it was a golden day to remember, far from the rigours of seafaring and the fear of the Flying Dutchman haunting their dreams.

They returned to the Marie in the late evening to find a grim-faced Thuron awaiting their arrival. He nodded as he checked the boat’s crew. “Gascon isn’t with you. I suspected as much!”

Pierre looked bewildered. “I hadn’t noticed he was missing!”

The captain slung a musket across his shoulder and picked up his cutlass. “Oh, Gascon has jumped ship alright. Ben, you stay here with Ned. Pierre, take four men to row the boat. I’m going to hunt that rascal down!”

Ben could not understand the captain’s reasoning. “But why not just let him go, sir? He’s not much use.”

Thuron explained. “If ‘twere just that Gascon is a surly and idle man, he could go for all I care. But while you were on the island, I checked my gold and found that someone has helped himself to it. That can only be one man—Gascon! He can’t run far on the Azores. Pierre and I will have him back here, ready to sail at dawn tomorrow.”

Ned stood with his paws on the rail, watching the departing jolly boat as he imparted a thought. “You see, I told you I didn’t like that Gascon!”

Ben fondled the dog’s silky ear. “What a good judge of men you are, sir. I’ll wager that when you become captain, you won’t have crew like him aboard your ship.”

Ned regarded the boy huffily. “Your humour is misplaced, sir!”

Later they sat together on the afterdeck with the crew. A pale moon was reflected in the calm waters of the lagoon, and not a breeze stirred anywhere. It was warm from the day’s heat.

A crewman was singing softly.

“Come, my love, gentle one, hearken to me,

For I’ll bring you a fortune someday.

I’m nought but a man who must follow the sea,

Let me tell you ere I sail away.

When the wind stirs the rigging,

And the white sail’s on high,

My heart is as sad as the long seagull’s cry.

Wait for me, pray for me, ‘til once again,

I sail back to you o’er the wide ocean’s main.

And what will I bring for you, ma belle amour?

A bracelet of jewels so fine,

Some silk from Cathay, that I know you’ll adore

And a ring on your finger to shine.

So be true to your sailor,

Wipe the tears from your eye,

For when I return you will nevermore cry.

With my feet on the land, and my love by my side,

‘Tis farewell to sailing, I’ll make you my bride.”

Ben gazed up at the star-strewn skies, passing Ned a thought. “That’s a pretty little melody, eh mate?”

Ned panted as though he were chuckling. “Aye, but just look at the singer. He’s a whiskery old doormat with an eye patch and only one tooth in his head. I think any poor girl would run a mile at the sight of him returning!”

The boy threw a playful headlock on his dog. “Shame on you, sir, criticising others, just because you’re a handsome dog!”

Ned cocked an eye toward Ben. “Cruel but beautiful, that’s me!”

It was not on the next dawn but three days later that an anxious Ben saw the jolly boat’s return. Gascon’s hands were bound behind him, and the crew had to haul him aboard. Thuron looked tired and worn out. All hands gathered to see what he would do. Pierre whispered to Ben. “Slippery as an eel, that Gascon, but we caught him in the end. Cap’n ain’t too pleased at losing three days.”

Ben experienced a moment of horror as Thuron drew his dagger. He faced the deserter and shouted to the crew.

“Look!” With a few slashes he sliced through the felon’s pockets and coat lining. Gold coins glinted in the late-afternoon sun as they clinked upon the deck. Taking Gascon by one ear, Thuron shook him roughly. “Couldn’t wait for the share-out, could you, rat? I should have let you run off with the other three at Puerto Rico. At least they never thieved from the captain and shipmates! Take this scum out of my sight. Put him in the anchor-chain locker until I decide what to do with him!”

As he was dragged off by the bosun and several others, Gascon began shouting. “Throw me in the sea an’ let me swim ashore. I know all about you an’ your lucky friends, Thuron. I ain’t stayin’ aboard this ship. She’s cursed, I tell ye, cursed!”

Pierre silenced Gascon with a hefty blow to the jaw. He bundled the half-conscious deserter into the chain locker. Barring the door, Pierre growled a warning. “Shut your lyin’ mouth an’ be thankful you’re still alive, thief. Cap’n should’ve run ye through with that dagger!”

Thuron glanced at the sky, judging the breeze. “We’ll haul anchor an’ sail at tomorrow’s dawn.”

It was warm that night, and Ben and Ned settled down to sleep on the open deck. The black Labrador gave thoughtful voice to his opinion. “Pierre was right, the cap’n should’ve slain that villain!”

Ben replied, “That sounds a bit ruthless, mate.”

Ned closed his eyes, adding a final comment. “I’ve got a bad feeling about Gascon. I think there’s going to be big trouble for us while he’s aboard this ship.”

14

CAPTAIN REDJACK TEAL HAD NOT PUT IN AT the Azores. Sailing under fair weather and favourable winds, he set a course straight for the Bay of Biscay and the coast of France. Unknowingly, the Royal Champion, with the Devon Belle still in tow, had passed up the chance of catching La Petite Marie unawares, lying as she was in a single-exit lagoon with her captain absent ashore. As usual, Teal was seated in his cabin being attended upon hand and foot. He had just finished a breakfast of fresh fish, biscuits and Madeira. A crewman was busily polishing his captain’s buckled shoes, whilst another brushed vigorously at the red hunting jacket, which Teal had donned. Redjack had just placed his white-stockinged feet into the shoes when a knock sounded. He primped at the crisp white stock overlying his shirt. “Come!”

The mate entered and saluted respectfully. “Come to report a man missin’, Cap’n, the French prisoner.”

Teal held his arms wide as a crewman belted the Spanish sword and scabbard about his waist. “Really? I’m surprised he lasted this long, eh!”

The mate looked at him questioningly. “Sir?”

Looking away from the cheval glass, the privateer captain shook his head pityingly. “Oh, use your head, sirrah! A demned froggy informer, alone on a ship with three English lads he’d been tellin’ tales about. I’d have wagered a side of gammon to a pig’s snout that he’d have had a fatal mishap long since, eh! How do I look?”

The mate tried to sound enthusiastic at Teal’s attire. “Ye cut a good dash, sir, all shipshape an’ Bristol fashion!”

Teal sniffed. “Confound Bristol, London’s the place t’be seen. Faith! Are ye goin’ to leave your captain standin’ here all day, or will ye attend the door an’ let me out on me own deck? Move y’self, man!”

Once on deck, Teal swept the starboard horizon with his telescope. Highly satisfied with what he saw, the privateer smiled brightly at his steersman. “Hah, just as I thought, Cape Ortegal on the Spanish coast. Admirable navigation, even though I do say it meself! Keep her out from the coast ‘twixt Gijon an’ Santander. We’ll skirt the Gulf o’ Gascony, then up to the Arcachon Basin, eh! Mr. Mate, ye can fetch those three ruffians here from the Devon Belle. Have ‘em report t’me.”

There was a definite spring to Teal’s step as he strode the deck. He felt pleased with himself.

The three miscreants—the bosun, Joby and the master gunner—had murdered Ludon some time during the previous night. They had climbed down from their masthead perches and cornered the informer. It was all done swiftly, a quick rap over the head with a belaying pin, and the unconscious Ludon was hurled overboard with a necklace of holystones to hasten him underwater. Now they stood ashen-faced and resigned in front of their captain, who, they were certain, would inflict extreme punishments on them.

Redjack circled the trio, looking them up and down. Much to their amazement, he winked at them and laughed. “Frenchie went missin’ durin’ the night when ‘twas nice an’ dark, eh? Strange fellow… Did any of ye see him takin’ his midnight dip?”

The bosun acted as spokesman for his mates. “No, sir, we was too busy keepin’ life’n’limb together atop the masts, sir. None of us seen nothin’, Cap’n.”

Teal nodded approvingly. “Well said, true blue an’ never betray one’s shipmates, eh? That’s the British way, m’lads! Methinks ye’ve had enough of mastheads an’ half rations. A happy ship’s what’s needed, so I’m returnin’ ye to duties aboard the Royal Champion. Be good men, behave yourselves, an’ serve king an’ captain loyally. Well, what have ye got to say for yourselves, eh?”

The trio could scarce believe Teal’s change of heart. They tugged furiously at their forelocks, chanting, “Aye aye, Cap’n! Thankee, sir!”

But Teal had strode off toward his cabin.

Joby stood openmouthed—he had fully expected to be hanged for murder. “Well blow me down, Cap’n’s changed tack for the better!”

The master gunner nodded his grizzled head. “Aye, an’ so would I if ‘n I was sailin’ in these waters. Spain an’ France ain’t friendly to English vessels, especially privateers. Old Redjack’s goin’ to need every man jack of us in case of attack, that’s what I say!”

The bosun agreed wholeheartedly. “Redjack wouldn’t look too happy with a Spanish or French man-o’-war comin’ at him. Not with a bosun an’ a master gunner out o’ commission. What say you, Joby?”

The former carpenter’s mate grinned. “Let’s go an’ see what Cookie’s got in the pot. My stomach’s stickin’ to me spine with ‘unger!”

The bosun threw an arm around Joby’s shoulder. “Good idea. There should be plenty o’ vittles in the galley. There’s one mouth less to feed—the Frenchie’s!”

They hurried off to the galley, laughing like children.

By nightfall the Royal Champion had passed Gijon and was halfway to Santander, running at full sail, with the Devon Belle tagging behind like a puppy dog.

Redjack pored over the charts in his cabin, humming the melody of “The Jolly Captain.” He felt that now, more than at any other time in his life, luck and good fortune were at last smiling down on him. What a tale would be told around the taverns and fashionable coffeehouses of London! Redjack Teal arriving home with a fine Spanish galleon and two others in tow, carrying with him a fortune in gold coin, the weight of a man!

He would become a legend in his own lifetime.

Morning sunlight glittered over the ocean as La Petite Marie weighed anchor and sailed. Raphael Thuron stood at the wheel, grinning at the antics of Ben, who, with his dog’s assistance, was taking a turn at steering the vessel.

The Frenchman encouraged his lucky friends. “Hold her steady, that’s the way! Now take her a point east. Not too far, Ben! Watch Ned, he’s got the hang of it!”

The black Labrador stood on his hind legs, both forepaws resting on the wheel, chiding Ben. “You heard the cap’n—hold her steady, mate, like I’m doing. If I weren’t going t’be a cap’n one day, I think I’d make a first-class steersdog!”

Ben tried to keep from laughing as he steadied the wheel. “Sorry, Ned, I can’t help it if I’m only a clumsy human!”

Mallon and another buccaneer named Corday were hauling up pails of seawater and swilling the midships decks. Hearing Thuron’s laughter, they turned to watch the boy and his dog at the wheel. Mallon shook his head. “Just look at that, mate. It ain’t right. I never heard of a lad an’ a hound at the wheel of a ship, have you?”

Corday lowered his voice. “I’m beginnin’ to think there’s some truth in what Gascon’s been saying.”

Mallon eyed his shipmate. “Tell me.”

Corday emptied his pail, watching the water run off through the scuppers. “Gascon says those two are Jonahs, an’ bad luck to all hands aboard. He says that—”

Pierre’s hand descended hard on Corday’s shoulder. “Who says what? Come on, man, spit it out!”

Both Mallon and Corday went silent. Pierre folded his brawny arms, staring sternly at them. “Only fools listen to the scuttlebutt of a thief an’ a deserter. Better not let the cap’n hear you say a word agin Ben an’ his dog. Now get on with your work an’ stop tittle-tattlin’. If ye’ve got anythin’ bad to say about anybody, then say it about me. But say it to my face!”

The loyal Pierre strode off, leaving the subdued pair to continue their chore in silence.

Ben and Ned were still having fun at the wheel when Pierre called the captain to one side and whispered in his ear, “I think ‘twould be a good idea if you or I steered the Marie, Cap’n. Either that or let the crew take their turn at the helm.”

Thuron raised his eyebrows quizzically. “What? Don’t ye like my lucky friends guiding our vessel? Look at them, Pierre, those two will be as good as Anaconda was someday. What’s the matter with ye, man?”

The bosun of the Marie averted his eyes. “There’s a bit o’ talk goin’ around, Cap’n. Some of the crew don’t like it.”

Any good humour the Frenchman felt suddenly evaporated. “They don’t like it, eh? Then they’ll just have to endure it. I’m master aboard the Marie, and ‘tis I who gives the orders! But what don’t they like, Pierre? What’s all the talk about?”

Pierre shifted his feet awkwardly. “I know it sounds foolish, Cap’n, but the rumour is that Ben and Ned are a pair of Jonahs—bad luck to all hands.”

Thuron immediately relieved his two friends at the helm, taking the wheel himself. “That’s enough for one day, mates. Go to the cabin and tidy my charts away, will ye ? We need to look shipshape for our homecoming to France.”

Ben saluted smartly. “Aye aye, Cap’n. When we’ve cleaned the cabin up, I’ll get you something to eat from the galley.”

A frown creased Thuron’s brow. “No, don’t do that, lad. Stay in the cabin with Ned. Stay away from the crew for a bit. Don’t ask questions, Ben, just do as I say.”

A bewildered glance passed between the boy and his dog, but Ben obeyed without comment. The Frenchman watched the pair wander off to his cabin. An uneasy feeling crept over him. Had someone found out about Ben and Ned? It was a worrying problem to contemplate. Most seamen were not very well educated, but practically all of them were superstitious, particularly buccaneers. If a crew began believing rumours about having a Jonah aboard, there would be no question of reasoning with them. No matter how well a captain treated his men, there would be no stopping them once their superstitions took hold. Both he and his two lucky friends would be in grave danger.

The black Labrador peered through the partially open cabin door as he communicated with Ben. “Here comes the cap’n. I wonder what’s wrong. He looks worried.”

The Frenchman entered and sat down on the bed, then beckoned to them both. “Close that door. I must speak to you.”

Ned pushed the door shut with his forepaws. Ben stared anxiously at the captain. “What’s the matter, sir?”

Thuron spoke earnestly. “What you told me, Ben, about your past life. Have you repeated anything to the crew?”

Ben shook his head vigorously. “No sir, not even to Pierre. I wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone, except you!”

The captain sighed heavily. “I believe you, lad. But the men are talking among themselves. They say that you and Ned are two Jonahs, bad luck for the Marie and all aboard her.”

Ned connected a thought to Ben. “I knew it! Didn’t I tell you that Gascon would cause trouble for us?”

Ben turned to Thuron. “Ned thinks that it’s Gascon who’s been putting the word about.”

The Frenchman patted the black Labrador’s back. “Aye, and I think he’s right. Do ye remember Gascon shouting out when Pierre was locking him up? He said this ship was cursed.”

Ben agreed. “Yes, but he couldn’t possibly know about me and Ned. What are we going to do about it, sir?”

Thuron thought a moment before he answered. “There’s not a great deal we can do. Ben, I want you and Ned to keep yourselves away from all hands—stay in this cabin. With a bit of luck things may just die down naturally. We’re not too far from France now. Perhaps they’ll forget all this silly talk. With the prospect of seeing home again, and with having some gold in their pockets, all hands may forget about cursed ships and Jonahs. Will you do that for me, lad?”

Ben grasped his friend’s big strong hand. “Of course I will, and so will Ned. We won’t let you down, Cap’n!”

Thuron stood up and made for the door. “Well said, Ben. I knew I could trust you. I’ll have Pierre bring your food from the galley. Remember now, with the exception of Pierre and me, you must talk to nobody.”

Lying with his chin on the floor, Ned watched the door close. “Just when I was learning to be a steersdog!”

Ben scratched behind the dog’s ear soothingly. “Cheer up, mate, we’ll be in the Bay of Biscay by this time tomorrow, and in a day or two more we’ll be on dry land.”

Over the next few days, the boy and his dog remained confined within the captain’s cabin. It was not a pleasant time for either one. Ben had a strong feeling of impending doom, reinforced by constant nightmares of Captain Vanderdecken and his accursed ship, the Flying Dutchman. Both Ben and Ned became afraid to sleep—every time they dropped into a slumber, the visions came pouring in. Nightmares of being back aboard that hellish “raft, of the icy, mountainous seas off Cape Horn battering and pounding away at the ship. Ice-crusted ropes keening an eerie dirge as hurricane-force winds ripped and tattered sails into shreds. Faces, leering, scarred, cruel and merciless, of dead men walking the decks like zombies. An angry sky, with black and purple storm-bruised clouds boiling out of it. And Vanderdecken! His tortured mind giving voice to the curses and oaths he was bellowing aloud at the heavens. “Ben! Ben, lad! Are ye alright? What ails ye?”

The boy opened his eyes to see the homely face of Pierre hovering above him as he received Ned’s thought. “Thank goodness for Pierre. I was so trapped by that awful dream, I couldn’t move a muscle to wake you!”

Ben sat up, rubbing his eyes. “I’m alright, thank you, Pierre. It was nothing but a horrible dream.”

The bosun placed fresh water and two bowls of hot stew beside the bed. “Don’t worry, mate, everything will be alright. Don’t pay any attention to crew’s gossip. They’re only simple, ignorant men who know no better. A bit like myself, I suppose.”

The boy felt a real kinship, and pity, for Thuron’s bosun. “You’re not an ignorant man, Pierre. You’ve always been good to me and Ned—Cap’n Thuron and you are the only real friends we have.”

Pierre poured water for them both to drink. “You lie back now, mate. Try an’ get some sleep. Me an’ the cap’n won’t let ye down. Only one more night after this an’ you two will set foot on French soil. I’ll wager you’ll both make lots o’ new friends there. I’ve got to go now. Don’t open the door to anyone except me or the cap’n.”

When they had eaten, Ben and Ned felt more relaxed. They fell asleep on the big cabin bed, the dog with his paws across the boy’s legs. Ben felt himself floating in his dreams. Up and away he went, with Ned at his side, high into the soft night skies. Below he could see La Petite Marie, lying like a toy amid the shifting, moon-silvered waves. A euphoric calm descended upon Ben, and he felt almost like an infant, basking in the cradle of heaven, surrounded by pale glimmering stars, one of which was drifting slowly toward him. As it drew closer, he saw that it was an angel, the same one who had delivered him and Ned from the Dutchman! Like soft peals of bells across distant meadows, the beautiful vision’s voice caressed his mind.

“Take not the gold of lawless men,

And heed now what I say:

When thy feet touch land, ‘tis then

That thou must haste away.

Leave behind that life and walk,

Look not back at the sea,

Whilst retribution brings the Hawk,

New times unfold for thee.”

Morning brought with it a misty drizzle and a light fog, but there was no wind to speak of. Ben woke to see Captain Thuron laying out columns of gold coin on the table.

Ned passed a thought as he, too, came awake. “Aye aye, mate, what’s going on here?”

Ben repeated the Labrador’s question to the Frenchman.

Thuron left off arranging the golden coins, his expression grave. “We’ve got trouble aboard, lad! I’m a trusting fool not to have believed ‘twould come to this. The crew have released Gascon. I think there’s about to be a mutiny!”

Ben bit his lip. “It’s all about me and Ned, isn’t it, sir?”

The captain straightened a stack of gold with his thumb. “Aye, though I don’t know how they found out about you an’ the Flying Dutchman. Leave this to me, though. The closeness of France and their shares of the booty might soften them up a bit.”

There was a light rap on the cabin door, and Pierre entered, carrying a cutlass and a primed musket. “The crew want words with ye, Cap’n. All hands are out on deck. Gascon an’ Mallon are the ringleaders.”

Thuron rose, sweeping two of the coin stacks into either pocket. “Ben, you an’ Ned stay here. Come on, Pierre, we’ll see what this is all about!”

The crew of La Petite Marie seemed reluctant to meet their captain’s eye. They huddled on the midships deck, sheepish and sullen. Thuron grasped the rail of the afterdeck, staring down at them. “Well, lads, what is it, eh? I’ve never harmed a man for speaking his mind.”

Gascon and Mallon held a brief whispered conference, then Gascon stepped forward, pointing up at the captain’s cabin. “That lad an’ his dog, we want ‘em both off this ship. They’re bad luck, you know they are!”

Thuron shrugged and smiled. “Now don’t talk foolish. How would I know a thing like that?”

Mallon nodded toward Gascon. “He was at the helm when the boy started yellin’ out in his sleep, ain’t that right, mate?”

Gascon folded his arms, looking very smug. “Aye, you can’t fool me, Thuron. I saw ye go into the cabin, so I listened at the door. Hah, ye didn’t know that, did ye? I heard every word that accursed brat told ye. All about how he escaped from the Flying Dutchman many years ago, an’ here he is today, large as life an’ not a day older. The curse o’ Satan’s upon both the boy an’ his dog. They’re Jonahs! If they stay aboard all we’ll see of France is the bottom o’ the Bay o’ Biscay. Ye can’t deny the fact—every man jack here is with me’n Mallon, an’ I warn ye, we’re all armed!”

The captain descended to the middle of the stairs leading to the deck. Emptying his pockets, he set out two stacks of gold coins and beckoned to both ringleaders. “Ned an’ Ben have been with us since Cartagena. They’ve been lucky for me— you’ve all heard me say so, many times. Before you do something you’ll regret, take a look at this gold. There’s your share, Gascon, even though ye were a thief an’ a deserter. That other share is yours, Mallon. Go on, take it!”

Both men scurried forward and claimed their shares. Thuron watched them filling their pockets. “Every man aboard will get the same. By tomorrow morn ye’ll all be on French soil, headed wherever the fancy takes ye—home, or the nearest tavern. Now, is that bad luck? Did a Jonah do that to ye?”

Gascon drew his musket and pointed it at the captain. “Aye, ‘tis bad luck for us, I’m a wanted man in France, an’ so are most of this crew. We’re taking over the ship an’ sailing her to Spanish waters. We’ll scuttle her off the coast of Guernica. That way we can take our own chances, either to stop in Spain or cross the border into France.”

Thuron appealed to the men in a reasonable voice. “Why did ye not tell me this before? I would have scuttled the Marie off the coast of Arcachon. I know of some quiet spots around there. But if ye want to sail for Spain an’ sink her there, so be it. I’ll come with ye an’ not begrudge any hard feelings that’ve passed between us, eh?”

Mallon set his lips in a stubborn line. “Not with that boy an’ the dog aboard, we ain’t takin’ no chances!”

All this time Pierre had been at the helm. Now he suddenly spun the wheel and called out aloud, “We’re headed for Spain, sure enough. Hoist all sail! The French Navy is comin’, four men-o’-war under full sail!”

15

TWO DAYS previous to the happenings aboard the Marie, Redjack Teal had arrived off the coast of Arcachon. The privateer sailed close to the shore so he could check on his bearings.

Teal stood on deck, tapping the chart as he viewed the coastline. “Demn me if that ain’t a piece o’ first-class navigatin’, eh! There’s the port of Arcachon with its inlet, an’ that great harbour which lies in the basin beyond. Bassin d’Arcachon, just like it says on me chart here. Remarkable!”

He waggled an imperious finger at the mate. “You there, take her offshore an’ a few points south. ‘Tis quieter on that stretch of coast. Can’t dawdle here, eh, don’t want the locals gogglin’ from the town at us. Haw haw haw!”

The mate touched his forelock. “Aye aye, Cap’n. Helmsman, take ‘er about an’ watch your stern on Devon Belle’s forepeak. Two points south. Move yourselves afore this mist clears an’ we’re spotted. Jump to it!”

Unfortunately, the Royal Champion and the Devon Belle had been seen: blocked from Teal’s view by the harbour entrance, four French Navy ships lay close to the quay. The biggest and most fearsome of these vessels was a newly constructed destroyer, Le Falcon Des Monts, its captain none other than the illustrious fleet marechal Guy Falcon Saint Jean Des Monts, victor of many sea battles. The naming of his new ship, the largest gunboat yet built by the French Navy, was in tribute to the fleet marechal’s impressive record. The other three craft were ships of the line, all men-o’-war. All four ships had lain in the Arcachon Basin at the marechal’s request. Now he wished to take his new command out to sea on a naval exercise to test the new warship’s performance. That morning, together with his three other captains, the marechal had sat in his stateroom, discussing plans and strategies for the forthcoming manoeuvres. Charts were spread across the table. The captains listened respectfully to their marechal, under whose command they were proud to serve. He was a tall, sombre man, prematurely grey, with a stern countenance, his keen dark eyes, weather-lined face, tight lips and aquiline features denoting a strong air of authority.

The conference was about over when there was a knock upon the door. A naval lieutenant entered, shepherding two of the local townsmen in front of him. He beckoned toward the fleet commander. “Tell the marechal what you saw. Speak up, you have nothing to fear.”

The elder of the two jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Sir, we were out on the hills this morning, on the point by the harbour entrance, looking for gull eggs. I chanced to look seaward. It was misty, but I saw a ship out there.”

The marechal’s eyebrows rose. “What was this ship like, sir?”

Impressed at being addressed as “sir,” the townsman answered as accurately as he could. “It looked like a Spanish galleon, a big one, sir. But it was flying English colours. Even though it was misty, I could see it had more deck guns than a merchant would carry.”

The marechal nodded, his interest quickening. “Well done, sir. This ship, which way was it bound?”

The townsman pointed. “To the right, er south, sir, down toward the Gulf of Gascony. About just over an hour ago, sir.”

Clapping the man’s shoulder, the marechal gave him a smile. “My thanks. You did well, sir! Lieutenant, see that these fellows get a ham apiece and a basket of eggs between them.”

The moment the door closed behind the men, the marechal turned to his captains. “It seems as though we have either a pirate or an English privateer in our territorial waters, gentlemen. Forget the manoeuvre plans we discussed. The best baptism for my new ship should be one of blood and fire! You will make way under full sail. I will lead the flotilla. Stand by for my commands as we go. Action is the order of the day, gentlemen!”

Less than an hour later, the four French warships cleared the point with he Falcon Des Monts in the lead, guns at the ready, white sails billowing, the fleur-de-lis flag streaming from her stern. Smiling with satisfaction, the marechal noted his own personal banner waving out from the foremast peak: a falcon with wings outspread upon a field of green, the symbol of his family name. None of the sailors called it a falcon, though. It was known by the title their marechal had earned in many sea battles, and the name by which they referred to him … the Hawk!

Ben felt the Marie list sideways as she slid into a sharp southerly turn, then heard the shout from Pierre. Ned pushed past him as he opened the cabin door. Dashing out on deck, he passed a message to Ben. “Four men-o’-war, eh? Come on, mate. Let’s see what’s going on!”

All animosity between the crew and Thuron was momentarily forgotten. The Frenchman was roaring orders for extra sail and sighting anxiously through his telescope at the four warships astern of them. He handed Ben the glass, shaking his head and furrowing his brows. “Look, lad, ‘tis the French Navy, an’ they’re comin’ on fast!”

As Ben peered at the lead vessel, he felt icy fear clamp its cold hand in sudden shock on top of his head. The feeling was transmitted to Ned, who communicated urgently: “What is it, Ben, what d’you see?”

The four last lines of the angel’s poem pounded through the black Labrador’s brain, like hammers striking an anvil.

“Leave behind that life and walk,

Look not back at the sea,

Whilst retribution brings the Hawk,

New times unfold for thee!”

This thought was reinforced by Ben’s message. “That big ship in front, it’s flying a hawk upon its flag!”

Thuron grabbed Ben’s hand. “Come with me, lad. Bring Ned too!”

Hurrying them both into his cabin, Thuron slammed the door. He knelt by the bed and hauled out two heavy-packed canvas bags, tied together by their necks. Ben watched as the captain wrapped the bags in a sailcloth. He could tell by the dull clink that they were filled with gold coin.

“What do you need those for, Cap’n?”

The Frenchman placed the bags on the bed. “This is my share o’ the gold, Ben. Some of it is for you and Ned!”

The boy stared dubiously at the bags. “But we don’t need gold, Cap’n. Besides, Ned and I never earned it.”

Ben was surprised at the force with which Thuron seized him by both arms and shook him. “Listen, lad, this gold is ours—mine an’ yours. I’ve got to get you both ashore somehow!”

Ben saw the desperation in his friend’s eyes. “Is it that bad, Cap’n? Can’t we outsail them? We’ve done it before.”

The Frenchman relaxed his grip. “Not this time, lucky lad, we’ve got no chance at all. They’d chase us, surround our Marie an’ sink us all, ship an’ crew!”

Ben clenched his fists resolutely. “Then let’s stand and fight them—you know a few tricks. Remember the Trinidad Shuffle?”

Thuron smiled sadly and ruffled Ben’s hair. “Ben, Ben, ‘tis no use, lad. You know as well as I that we’ve played out our string. That’s why I want you an’ Ned off the Marie, before she goes down. Now here’s what you must do. As soon as I can, I’ll try an’ slip ye ashore in the longboat with that gold. Wherever you come ashore, Ben, wait for me. They’ll probably engage us long before we reach Spain, but I’ll note where ye go ashore. If the Marie goes down, I’ll try to keep her offshore, just far enough for me an’ Pierre to swim for land. Now I must go back on deck, lad. Remember what I said.”

Further down the coast, just off a small town called Mimizan-Plage, the Royal Champion and the Devon Belle lay at anchor. Redjack Teal was taking Madeira in his cabin when the lookout banged urgently on the door and shouted from outside. “Cap’n, ‘tis La Petite Marie! She’s just crossed the horizon behind us to the north.”

Teal swiftly donned his red jacket, calling back, “Good man, which way’s she headed?”

The reply came without delay. “South, sir, about a point off where we’re lyin’, headed this way, though!”

Without waiting for assistance, the privateer buckled on his own sword and hurried out, muttering to himself, “South, eh? Me luck’s holdin’ well. Come t’me, Thuron, I’ll stretch your neck an’ empty your pockets for ye!”

The mate and the bosun were swinging ropes’ ends and bellowing out orders, galvanizing the crew into life. “Open ports, roll out all cannon!” “Make sail, step lively now, buckoes. Full sail!”

The crew of the Marie were more intent on what lay in their wake than what lay ahead of them. Thuron took the opportunity to smuggle the gold from his cabin and drop it in the ship’s jolly boat. He called out an order to his helmsman. “Pierre, take the Marie in closer to shore! I’ll fetch the boy an’ his dog.”

Ben and the black Labrador emerged from the cabin as Thuron began loosing the jolly-boat stays. Just then Gascon and Mallon came running, with loaded muskets brandished. Whilst Mallon covered Pierre, Gascon pointed his weapon at the captain, snarling, “What’s goin’ on here, What’re ye up to, Thuron?”

The captain gave Ned and Ben a broad wink before turning to answer Gascon. “I’m putting the lad an’ his hound ashore— maybe then our luck’ll change. Ye said yourself that they were Jonahs. Now put that pistol away an’ keep your eye on the navy ships, see if they’re closing in on us. Go on!”

Gascon slunk off at the sound of his captain’s voice being raised in anger. Before Ben could resist, the Frenchman lifted him up and dumped him into the boat. Ned leapt in beside his master.

Thuron let go the ropes, and the jolly boat splashed down into the sea. The captain leaned over the side, instructing Ben in a hoarse, urgent whisper. “Our gold is under the stern seat, wrapped with some sailcloth. Ye can see the coast from here, lad. Don’t waste time, row for it fast as ye can. Set a course for yonder hill on the shore—see, the one with the trees growin’ atop it.”

He blinked a few times, then managed a broad smile. “Ben an’ Ned, my two lucky friends, may your luck go with ye. Remember now, wait for me, until this time tomorrow at least. Go now!”

Ben took one last look at Raphael Thuron, the buccaneer captain. Then, turning his back on the Marie, he gripped the oars and began plying them. He was lost for any words to say as tears sprang unbidden to his clouded eyes. The boy felt a great leaden weight in his chest. Ned sat in the prow, facing the coast and not looking back. The black Labrador shared every thought and feeling with Ben. They had both seen the mark of fate stamped upon Thuron’s face and knew they would never see him again.

Gascon came dashing out of the captain’s cabin, pointing at the jolly boat and bellowing to all hands. “The gold’s gone, ‘tis in the boat. Stop them!”

Ben threw himself flat, and Ned crouched low. A rattle of musket shot peppered the water around them. Thuron slew Gascon with a mighty cutlass slash as he roared aloud, “Get away, Ben! Row for your life, lad!”

Out of the blue came a great whoosh and a bang, followed by a splintering crash. The guns of Le Falcon Des Monts had shot the Marie’s stern away. With cannon blazing, the French Navy vessels sailed in on their target. Fanning out, the three men-o’-war pounded the buccaneer vessel broadsides, whilst their flagship sailed straight in, raking the decks from astern with chain shot and musket fire from the sharpshooters in the rigging. Pierre’s body was draped across the wheel, his dead hand still clutching it. Masts crashed amid blazing sails and smouldering cordage. La Petite Marie began settling in the water as salvo after salvo of cannon blasted holes in her from port and starboard. Trapped beneath a fallen jib spar, Captain Thuron’s sightless eyes stared up at the sun through the black smoke of destruction that surrounded his ship. Settling back like a crippled seabird, the Marie began to sink stern first.

Navy cannon continued to batter her as her prow rose clear of the waves. She hovered for a moment, then with a monstrous hissing and gurgling slid backward into the depths and was gone forever.

Aboard his flagship, the Hawk held up a hand. “Cease fire!” He turned to a lookout who had climbed down from the topmast to report. “Well, what is it?”

The man saluted. “Marechal, there is another ship, a gunboat flying English colours!”

The Hawk’s aquiline nose quivered, and his eyes lit up. “So, an Englishman eh, where away?”

The lookout replied. “To the south, Marechal. She was hugging the coast, waiting on the other ship, I think. When she spied us, she veered off and began sailing further south, sir.”

The Hawk drew his telescope and scanned the seas ahead. “Ah yes, there it is, a Spanish galleon sailing under English colours—she has a smaller vessel in tow.”

He strode to the forepeak, acknowledging with curt nods the crew, who were cheering his first victory in the new ship. On the forecastle, the Hawk gave orders to his officers. “Well, gentlemen, I know my ship’s firepower. There is one less enemy in French waters now. Let us see how we sail under speed. I intend to capture the English ships before they can make it into Spanish waters. We will not sink them—they will be taken as prizes. Inform the other captains that I will go under full sail in the vanguard. Tell them to follow with all speed and await my commands!”

Ben had not turned his head to look back. He was not just heeding the angel’s warning; other demons were closing in on him, too. He lay in the bottom of the jolly boat, oblivious of his surroundings. The roar and boom of French Navy cannon blended with those far-off noises of Cape Horn—crashing seas, tearing rigging and howling storm. Vanderdecken laughing madly, bound to the helm for eternity and being swept off into the maelstrom of oceans at the world’s end. Spine-chilling recollections, mixed with the demise of the Marie, mingled in the boy’s mind until he lost all sense of reality.

It was Ned’s blunt, rough claws that brought him to his senses. The faithful dog was scratching at his back, sending out frantic, urgent warnings. “Ben, wake up! Move, Ben, move. We’re sinking!”

The boy spluttered as his face struck the bottom of the jolly boat. Coughing and spitting seawater, he sat up. Ned seized his shirtsleeve and tugged at it with his teeth. “Come on, mate, we’ll have to swim for it. This boat’s full of musket holes— we’re lucky we weren’t hit!”

Recovering himself, Ben realised the predicament they were in. He grabbed the dog’s collar, heaved him overboard and leapt into the sea alongside him. Taking a bearing on the shore, which was only a few hundred yards off, he kicked out. “Straight ahead, Ned, it’s not so far!”

For the first time in his life, Captain Redjack Teal knew the meaning of fear: four French Navy warships were bearing down on him. The master gunner came hurrying up, carrying a stick topped by a smouldering mixture of tar and rope. He looked hopefully to Teal.

“I could load the stern culverins with chain shot, Cap’n. May’ap we could clip the big feller’s foremast. That’d slow him down a touch, sir.”

Teal snatched the stick and flung it into the sea. “Ye demned idiot, yonder’s the French Navy! Can’t y’see the guns they’re sportin’, man? Hah, that scoundrel’s just longin’ t’see a puff o’ smoke from even a musket an’ he’ll blow us to doll rags! Get the mud out of your eyes, man. Did ye see what they did to Thuron?”

He watched miserably as the new ship tacked, circling out to come round in a curve ahead of him. The other three vessels manoeuvred to close the trap, one to port, the other to starboard, whilst the remaining one stayed close behind in his wake. The privateer stamped his elegantly shod foot in temper. Life was so unjust! After pursuing a fortune in gold from the Caribbean, right across an ocean, his dreams of wealth and glory had been cruelly snatched away in just a few short hours. Add to this the indignity of being taken by the French without a single shot being fired. The entire episode was an utter debacle! He sprinted to the stern at the sight of the bosun and mate loosing the stern ropes. “What’n the name of jackasses are ye about there?”

The mate saluted, trying to sound helpful. “Er, we were castin’ the Devon Belle adrift, sir. She might make that Frenchie behind us run afoul of her, sir—that’d give us a chance of escape.”

Teal was nearly out of his mind. He became quite petulant. Kicking the mate on his shin, he sprayed him with spittle as he ranted and shouted into the man’s face. “That ship is mine, mine, d’ye hear?”

He rounded on the unsuspecting bosun and kicked him also. “I’m the captain of these ships, or haven’t ye noticed, eh? Demned ass of a gunner, wantin’ to fire on four battleships, this other buffoon thinkin’ we can turn an’ run away. Has everybody aboard lost their confounded minds—”

“Englishman, strike your colours and slack sail!” An officer was hailing him with a megaphone from the ship behind. Teal’s shoulders sagged. It was all over.

He turned to the mate, who was rubbing his shin. “Strike y’colours, take in all sail. I’ll be in me cabin.”

The Hawk sat in his stateroom, the crimsoning twilight giving its new woodwork a rosy hue. He listened carefully to the information his officers had gathered from the crew of the Royal Champion. It was always best talking to the men before interviewing the master. They had less reason to lie than their captain did.

He sat back and mulled over what he had heard, his fingers tapping a tattoo upon the tabletop. Then he signalled to a waiting lieutenant. “I will see the Englishman now.”

Trying feebly to resist two burly gunners, Teal was swiftly frog-marched into the marechal’s presence. The privateer looked indignant and dishevelled; the gunners held his arms tightly, preventing him from tidying himself up.

He immediately began to protest. “Sirrah, is this any way to treat the captain of one of His Britannic Majesty’s vessels? Tell these ruffians to release me instantly. I’ll not be laid hands upon in such a demned rough manner!”

The marechal glanced up from some papers he was studying. His unblinking gaze, coupled with the haughty way he looked a man up and down, had Teal feeling both unnerved and embarrassed.

The privateer attempted to pull himself free, but the two gunners held him easily. He tried to sound reasonable. “Sir, I appeal to you, order these rogues to unhand me. I, sir, am like you, an officer and a gentleman!”

The marechal reduced him to silence with a baleful glare. “You dare compare yourself with me, you scum?”

He waved Teal’s own parchmented credentials at him and spat out the word vindictively. “Privateer! A filthy mercenary, carrying a letter of marque or reprisal. There is no lower form of life on land or sea. You are a prisoner of war and will be treated as such!”

Captain Redjack Teal suddenly wilted beneath his captor’s scorn. He whined like a bully who had just had the tables turned on him. “I was only carryin’ out my king’s orders, sir. You cannot punish an innocent man for that!”

The marechal snorted. “I do not intend punishing you— that is for a military tribunal to decide. Whether you hang or go to the guillotine is immaterial to me. Stop weeping, man! They may spare your life and assign you with your crew to the convict working parties at Marseilles. There you can do a lifetime’s penance rebuilding the harbour walls under the lash of your gaolers. Take him away!”

A short time later, Teal found himself belowdecks in the Hawk’s new vessel, chained by the ankle to the rest of his crew. They chuckled wickedly as the bosun tugged the chain and sent him flat on the deck. “Well, look who’s here, mates, ‘tis the Jolly Cap’n. Up on your feet, Redjack, an’ dance a hornpipe for us!” Teal cowered, trying to pull himself off into a corner, but the mate dragged him out by his manacled foot. “Ye powdered popinjay, didn’t ye hear the man? He said dance, so come on, step lively now, let’s see ye dance!”

Two marines, pacing the grating overhead of the prisoners’ accommodation, winced at the sounds of Teal’s sobs and screams for mercy. One of them shrugged casually. “I think that crew did not love their captain very much.”

For full two days, that boy and dog

Did sit upon the shore bereaved,

No food nor drink would pass their lips,

As for lost friends they grieved.

Sad tears which fell like April rain

Were soaked into the earth and lost,

And only two from all that crew

Were left to count the cost.

Pursued by foes, both live and dead,

From Caribbean to Biscay’s Bay,

Commanded by an angel’s word

To turn and walk away.

What trials and perils lie ahead,

Decreed by heaven and the fates?

The Flying Dutchman haunts the seas,

As her accursed captain waits … and waits!