The Angel's Command (3 page)

The Spaniard picked up his sword. “No, I'll get it myself. I like to select my own meat. You keep an eye on my gold.”

Members of the two crews went along, tempted by the sight of the beef. There was a lull in the game. Ned explained to Ben about Rocco Madrid's dishonesty. “My eyes are quicker than most—I saw him palm the pea. After he's shuffled the shells about, there's nothing under any of them. Then when he has to pick up his own shell, he palms the pea back onto the table, as if it had been lying under the shell. That Spaniard is quick and clever.”

Thuron had been watching the boy and the dog looking silently at each other. He finished chewing and spoke. “I was hoping your Ned would change my luck, Ben, but it seems I'm bound to lose. Blast his eyes, Madrid has all the luck today! Hey, boy, are you listening to me?”

Moving slightly closer, Ben murmured out of the corner of his mouth so that the remaining crew members of the
Diablo Del Mar,
at the other side of the table, could not hear. “Don't look at me, sir, keep your eyes straight ahead and listen to what I say . . .”

Rocco Madrid had carved the beef with his own sword. He ate it at the bar and drank a glass of red wine. Fastidiously wiping his lips on a silk kerchief, he returned to the gaming table, where Thuron sat waiting. Placing his sword back on the table, Madrid smiled affably. “So then, my good amigo, you wish to continue playing.
Bueno.
Maybe the little pea will come your way this time.”

Madrid placed the pea upon the table and covered it with the centre one of the three down-turned walnut shells. Ben watched closely as the Spaniard's long fingers began deftly moving the shells, right to left, left to right, centre to side, side to centre. Then he saw the trick. The shells were moving so fast that he almost missed it. Rocco shifted the shells so skilfully that at one point the shell with the pea beneath it went slightly over the lip of the table. The pea was flicked out into his lap, almost faster than the eye could follow.

Ned's thought cut into Ben's mind. “See, I told you! Now all he has to do is drop his hand and jam the pea between his fingers, while our friend is sitting there deciding which shell to choose. When he makes his pick, there'll be nothing beneath it. The Spaniard will make his choice then, skilfully dropping in the pea as he overturns the shell, and there he has it, a winner again, eh?”

Ben patted the black Labrador's head. “Not this time though.”

Rocco sat back, the same thin smile on his lips as he announced confidently, “Make your play, Capitano Thuron. How much this time?”

Thuron's first mate and his bosun had edged their way around the table until they were standing on either side of Rocco Madrid. Thuron leaned forward, eyeing the sly Spaniard levelly. “That gold there, your side o' the table. How much d'ye reckon you've got there, my friend?”

Rocco shrugged. “Who knows, amigo, it would take quite a time to count it all up. So, are you going to play?”

Thuron smiled then. “Aye, I'm going to play. There's more gold aboard my ship, you know that. So let's stop messing about with small wagers. I'm going to bet all I've got against what lies on this table. One chance, winner takes all!”

Rocco Madrid could not resist the invitation. “You are a real gambler, amigo. I accept your wager, eh!” He looked up to his crew for approval, immediately sensing all was not well as he saw the bosun and first mate of
La Petite Marie
hemming him in.

Thuron had one hand beneath the table. He smiled roguishly at his adversary. “There's a dagger either side of you and a loaded musket pointed at your belly from my side. I'm betting there's no pea under any of those three shells. Don't move a muscle, Cap'n Madrid! Ben, lad, turn the shells over!” The boy swiftly did as he was bid. There was, of course, no pea. Sweat ran in rivulets down the Spaniard's sallow face.

The entire tavern had grown silent. All that could be heard was the crackle of beef drippings spilling onto the fire. There was death in Thuron's voice. “Sit still, Madrid. You don't want to get that pea lying in your lap covered with blood. You,
Diablo
crew, don't be foolish. There's no sense in dying because your captain's a cheat. Stay still and you won't come to any harm. The game's over, I win! Anaconda, pick up that gold!”

Captain Thuron's steersman, Anaconda, was a black giant with a huge shaven head. He shrugged off a linen shirt, displaying awesome muscles. With a few swift moves he swept the gold coins inside his shirt and knotted it into an impromptu carrier.

Rocco Madrid's lips scarcely moved as he sneered at Raphael Thuron. “You will not get away with this, my friend!”

Thuron stood, his musket still pointed at the Spaniard. “Oh yes I will . . . my friend. Right, lads, back out, stern first. Anybody makes a move, take no notice of them. Just kill their capitano. Ben, you'd best come with me, for the good of your health. Bring my lucky dog too!”

Ben felt Ned's thought penetrate his mind. “Do as he says, mate. This place isn't safe anymore!”

Once they were out on the quayside, the entire crew of
La Petite Marie
took to their heels and ran for it. Ben and Ned found themselves up front, with Thuron and his giant steersman. A cart of oranges was overturned, and some chickens broke loose from their cages as the mass of fleeing pirates dashed through the crowd. The singing girls began screaming, and the snake performer dropped his reptiles.

Thuron bawled toward a trim three-masted vessel lying bow onto the harbour. “Make sail! Make sail! We're coming aboard! Make sail there!”

As he clattered up the steep gangplank, Ben could see the crew members on watch clambering into the rigging, whilst others loosed the ship's headropes. There was a small culverin in the bows. The captain roared out orders for it to be loaded. He knelt by the little swivel cannon, beckoning Ben to his side. “We'll blow them off the quay if they try to follow. Hand me that tow!”

Ben saw the thick, smouldering rope end and passed it over to Thuron.

Ned sent a thought to Ben. “I hadn't figured on going to sea again, ever!”

The boy replied mentally to his dog. “We've no choice. It's either that or stay in Cartagena and get killed.” He turned to Thuron. “D'you think they'll follow us, Cap'n?”

The Frenchman held the burning tow near the culverin's touch hole, nodding. “Maybe not right away, boy, but he'll be coming after us. Rocco Madrid lost a lot of face today. By the way, how did you know he was cheating? I just thought I was extra unlucky today.”

Ben knew it would be futile trying to explain about Ned, so he lied. “I've seen that game played before. As soon as I came to your table, I saw Captain Madrid palming the pea. Where are we bound, sir?”

Raphael Thuron threw an arm around the boy's shoulder. “Home to la belle France, thanks to you. I'm finally set for good. This pirating life is too dangerous, my friend!”

2

ONCE
LA PETITE MARIE
HAD BEEN poled away from the harbour wall, Anaconda swung her about to face the freshening breeze, taking the ship out into the Caribbean. The all too familiar memory of a swaying deck beneath his feet brought back dreadful memories of the
Flying Dutchman
to Ben. He lay flat on the deck facedown, pictures of Vanderdecken and his villainous crew flashing before his mind.

Ned lay down beside him, flashing urgent thoughts. “Don't let it get the better of you, Ben. Vanderdecken's a bad thing to think of. Cap'n Thuron's our friend, a good man.”

One of the passing crew put a hand to Ben's back and shook him. “What ails ye, lad? Come on now, up on yer feet!”

Ned stood over Ben, the dog's hackles bristling as he growled viciously. Thuron pushed the man aside.

“Leave the boy alone. Maybe he's seasick already. Ben, are you feeling ill?”

Wiping cold sweat from his brow, Ben lifted his head. “I'll be alright, Cap'n. I was frightened back there.”

The Frenchman nodded. “I was too, boy. Rocco Madrid has a formidable reputation. He's also got almost twice as many crew. Only a fool wouldn't have been afraid. You'll be alright. Go aft, take Ned with you, lie down in my cabin. I won't let anything happen to you, Ben, you're my luck. Both of you.”

 
The big cabin at the ship's stern was cool and comfortable. Ben lay down on the broad, velvet-quilted bed and fell into a dreamless slumber. Ned jumped up beside him and laid his head across the boy's feet. “Hmm, I wonder how far away France is. A good distance, probably.”

La Petite Marie
was now under full sail, plowing the blue-green waters of the mighty Caribbean Sea.

 
Evening rolls of purple cloud were striping the crimson sky as the sound of an opening cabin door roused Ben. Ned nuzzled his leg. “Wake up! Here's food!” The crewman who followed Thuron into the cabin placed a bowl of fresh water down alongside a plate of stew. He loaded the rest onto the bedside table before leaving.

Thuron sat by the table. “Ben, here boy, eat up, I made the stew myself.”

Ben sat on the edge of the bed alongside the table. There was a bowl of stew, some fresh fruit, and water to drink, and he tucked in heartily.

Thuron watched him eat. The Frenchman chuckled and ruffled the boy's hair. “Not feeling ill anymore, eh? 'Tis hard to tell who has the better appetite, you or old Ned there.”

The dog, who was licking a plate clean, shot Ben a thought. “Huh, who's he calling old? I'm nought but a pup yet.”

Ben replied mentally. “Aye, a fat hungry pup!”

Ned growled. “Fat yourself, tubby youth!”

The captain's stubby finger turned Ben's chin until their gazes met. There was sea in the boy's clouded blue eyes—ancient deeps and far horizons lurked in them. Raphael Thuron stared into the young fellow's calm face. “You're a strange lad, Ben, where are ye from?”

Ben averted his eyes and picked up a slice of pineapple. “From the Tierra del Fuego, sir.”

The Frenchman raised his eyebrows in surprise. “The land of fire down at the tip of this big country! That's a great distance from Cartagena, lad. How came ye to travel so far?”

Ben did not like lying to the captain, but necessity had forced him to be untruthful with anyone who wanted to know of his mysterious life. “I was a shepherd boy helping an old sheepherder down there. He told me that he had found me on the shores, after a shipwreck. I worked with him . . . Ned was his dog. Early one spring the shepherd died in an accident, so I wandered off with Ned. We've been travelling over four years. We visited many places before reaching Cartagena.”

Thuron shook his head in wonderment. “You must have been little more than a babe when the sheepherder found you on the shore. What was the name of the ship you came from?”

Ben shrugged. “The sheepherder never told me. He said that the vessel must have sunk in a storm. I don't remember anything, apart from living in his hut, rounding up sheep with Ned and enduring the awful weather down there. Have you always been a seaman, Cap'n?”

Ned's thought flashed through Ben's mind. “I liked the way you changed the subject there, mate. That was a clever touch, too, saying I belonged to the old shepherd. What our friend doesn't know can't hurt him.”

Ben kept his eyes on Thuron, who began telling of himself. “Aye, I've been seafaring since I was younger than you, Ben. I was born in a place called Arcachon, on the French coast. I didn't want to be a poor peasant like my father, so I ran off one day and joined the crew of a merchant ship. On our voyage to Cádiz we were attacked by Spanish pirates. They slew most of our crew but kept me as galley boy. Since then, I've spent most of my life aboard one vessel or another. If I'd been weak, I'd be dead by now. But here you see me, Raphael Thuron, master of my own ship,
La Petite Marie,
a French buccaneer!”

Ben looked up at the captain. “You must be very proud of yourself, sir.”

The Frenchman poured himself a glass of water, swirled it about reflectively, then shook his head. “Proud, d'ye say? I'll tell ye something now, Ben, that I've never told any living soul. I'm ashamed of what I've made of my life. Ashamed!” He kept swirling the water, his eyes fixed on its motion. “Me, the older son of an honest, religious family. Oh, I was a wild one, not like my younger brother Mattieu. It was my parents' hope that one day I would reform and make them proud by becoming a priest. My younger brother Mattieu was more suited to that sort of thing. He was a good boy, though I often got him into trouble. Being a farmworker like my father was a gloomy alternative. So I ran off to sea, and here I am all these years later, a man living outside of the law, buccaneering. But no more. This wicked trade has seen the last of Raphael Thuron. I'm done with it all, boy. Finished, d'ye hear!”