The Angel's Command (22 page)

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. “Maréchal, 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, Maréchal. 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 battle-ships, 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 maréchal'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 maréchal 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 maréchal 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 maréchal 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!