The Angel's Command (21 page)

 
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 maréchal 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 maréchal'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 maréchal'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 maréchal 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 maréchal, 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 maréchal 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 maréchal'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 maréchal 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 maréchal 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 maréchal 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
Le 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 maréchal 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 maréchal 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.

 
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!”