The Angel's Command (17 page)

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, sir, 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?”