The Angel's Command (11 page)

Madrid gave the old man an insolent smile as he repeated, “Die? You dare to say that to me? Maroosh, blow that old fool's brainpan out with your musket!”

Before Maroosh could raise the gun, he gasped and pulled a brightly feathered object from the side of his neck. It was a dart, made from a long, sharp thorn. He stared stupidly at it and dropped the musket. His legs began to tremble, and he sat down in the dust.

The Carib patriarch glanced at the treetops surrounding the village. His voice became flat and stern. “We saw your ship long before you came here. Only fools do not take precautions. My hunters are hidden all about our village—they never miss with their blowpipes. You, señor, I have suffered enough of your bad manners. Take your men and go. Leave that one behind, he is already dead. Just as you will be if you choose to stay.”

The pirates stared in horrified fascination at Maroosh, who was still sitting on the ground, trembling fitfully.

Rocco Madrid put up his sword and musket and began walking backward out of the village. “Boelee, get the crew back to the
Diablo.
We can't stand against invisible Caribs with poison darts.”

Dragging Ludon with them, all hands from the
Diablo
backed out of the village. What galled Rocco Madrid most was the way the patriarch and his people carried on with their work, completely ignoring the Spaniard and his retreating men. Rocco was inwardly seething, for the blood of Spanish grandees ran in his veins. Keeping face and demanding respect, repaying insults and avenging slights were ingrained into his character.

Boelee watched his captain's face the moment they were back aboard ship. From the way a tic started up in Madrid's left eyelid and his teeth began making a grinding sound, the mate knew Rocco Madrid had vengeance on his mind.

Scowling dangerously, Rocco strove to keep his voice normal. “Weigh the anchor and put on sail, load all portside cannons. Portugee, take her round the headland, but don't set course for Guayama straight away. We're going to settle accounts with those heathens and blast their village to splinters! Cannonballs are the best answer to poison darts. I'll teach those savages a lesson in manners!”

There was thunder in the afternoon as the cannons of the
Diablo Del Mar
pounded the pitiful little settlement. Huts disintegrated, palm trees snapped like matchsticks, and destruction, flames and smoke were everywhere. The Spaniard laughed at the sight of high-flung debris still falling on the flattened ruins.

“Stand off and take us down the coast, Portugee. Bring our prisoner to my cabin, Boelee. Now I'll have words with him!”

 
The patriarch and his people had deserted their village the moment they had first sighted the
Diablo Del Mar
rounding the headland. Now they wandered out and stood onshore watching the stern of the departing pirate ship. It was not the first time Brotherhood vessels had wrecked their huts. Nobody was harmed, for it was easy to hide from big, clumsy cannons. Palmetto and bamboo grew in profusion, so it was a minor inconvenience to build more huts. The patriarch put his arm around a sobbing woman. “Why do you weep? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “I forgot to take my goat—a tree fell on him and killed him.”

The old man's face remained impassive. “You can have my goat. Yours will do for tonight's meal.”

Ben was up in the rigging of the
Marie,
helping to trim the sails. Glancing down he could see the anchor appearing through the clear waters as it was weighed. Ned stood wagging his tail, looking up at Ben and sending him thoughts. “What's it like up there, mate? I'll bet you can see for miles.”

The boy replied mentally. “You wouldn't like it, Ned. The masts sway a lot, and when I look down, the ship seems to be quite still. But you do get a great view from up here. I can see the water change colour from green to blue over toward the horizon, and I can see . . .”

The remainder of the words were shouted out loud by Ben. “A ship! Ship ahoy, Cap'n!”

Thuron hurried to the forepeak, pulling his telescope out as he followed the direction that Ben was pointing. It took only a moment to confirm the Frenchman's fears.

“Well spotted, lad. 'Tis the privateer! Get that anchor aboard, Anaconda. Take us west, but hug the coast. The Englishman mightn't have seen us yet, and there's a chance we can give him the slip. Come out of that rigging, Ben! All hands on deck!”

Thuron took the wheel from the giant steersman. “That breeze is blowing onshore, we'll have to tack a bit. What's that? Sounds like thunder, did ye hear it, mate?”

Anaconda scanned the sky. “Ain't no thunder, Cap'n. Not a cloud anywhere. Not the privateer, neither. That Englishman's not goin' to fire guns from so far off, no point in it.”

Thuron had to agree. “Aye, we'd have seen the splashes of cannonballs falling short in the sea. Well, whatever it is, we're getting out of here and heading for the Mona Passage 'twixt Hispaniola and this island, bound into the Atlantic.”

 
Early evening shades were starting to tinge the eastern horizon cream and pink. Aboard the
Devon Belle
all hands sat about, catching their breath and mopping away the sweat of their afternoon exercise, which had been hard and long. Captain 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.”