The Angel's Command (44 page)

As he pondered his answer, Ben passed Ned a message. “This is a good man, it would be wrong to tell him lies. If we're to help him and his children, it's best to tell the truth.”

Ned replied, “Right, mate, but don't mention the angel.”

Ben gently released his arm from the father's grip. “I have news to tell you, both good and sad, Mattieu.”

The priest stared deep into Ben's mysterious blue eyes. “You know my name?”

The boy met his gaze. “Your brother told me of you when I first met him. He was one of the finest men I ever knew.” Ben's eyes betrayed what he was holding back.

Turning away, Father Mattieu Thuron watched the receding tide. “Something tells me that you're going to say Raphael is dead!”

There was no way to soften the blow. Ben took a deep breath. “That's my sad duty, Father. Captain Raphael Thuron is dead.”

A silence followed, in which the priest's lips moved slowly as he offered up prayers for his brother's soul. Ben and Ned sat quietly watching. Wiping a frayed cuff across his eyes, Father Mattieu turned back to Ben and said a single world. “Captain?”

Ben tossed a twig upon the fire. “Aye, a captain. Would it surprise you to know that he was a buccaneer?”

Ben thought for a moment that the priest was weeping again, but he was chuckling and shaking his head.

“It wouldn't surprise me in the least, my friend. Raphael was always a wild one—I'll wager he made a fine buccaneer.”

Ben cheered up, remembering his days aboard
La Petite Marie.
“Cap'n Thuron was the terror of the Caribbean, but let me tell you, we—my name's Ben, that's Ned, my dog—we were proud to serve under your brother.”

Lit by a full moon, night crept in as Ben sat by the fire on the shore with Ned and Father Mattieu. He related the full tale, from the tavern in Cartagena to the Gulf of Gascony. The priest's eyes shone with excitement, imagining great adventures of palm-fringed islands, Spanish pirates, privateers and a chase across the boundless ocean.

When he had finished the narrative, Ben took a deep drink from the water canteen, listening to Ned's approval.

“Well told, mate, what a great yarn. I'm glad you never mentioned our angel or anything about Veron and the Razan. It was pretty convincing how you said that we'd been hiding and scavenging about the coastline most of the summer. Couldn't have done better myself!”

Father Mattieu shook the boy's hand warmly. “Thank you, Ben, I can tell that you liked Raphael a great deal. I will grieve and pray for him. Thank heaven he was not captured and executed like a common criminal. He died like a true captain, going down with his beloved ship. But what a man my brother was, eh? The places he saw, the adventures he had—I almost wish I'd sailed with him. Raphael packed more into one lifetime than most men do into ten! But I have my little parish to look after, my poor children to attend to . . .” Whilst the good father chatted on aimlessly, Ben noticed an odd change in his view of the bay.

Ned suddenly stood up alert. “Ben, listen, the angel!”

The boy heard the heavenly being speaking a line of the poem: “You must help him help his children. Behold!”

Both Ben and Ned felt their eyes drawn to one spot.

The tide had ebbed fully, leaving a long stretch of beach and shallow offshore water. A cloud floating alone in the clear night sky obscured the moon. However, there was a hole in the centre of the cloud, which allowed the moonlight to shine downward in one pale shaft of silver light. Right from the skies to the bay's surface it went, spotlighting a small circle of water.

Again the angel spoke: “You must help him to help his children. Behold!”

Ned was tugging the rope at the prow of the fishing boat. Ben sprang to his feet, shouting at the priest. “Come quickly, Father, we need your help with the boat!”

The priest arose and grabbed the rope with Ned and Ben. “What is it, Ben, what do you need the boat for?”

The boy bent his shoulder as he heaved the craft forward. “Save your breath, Father! Just get it to the water and trust me. There's no time to argue!”

It was a long hard haul over the wet beach to the water's edge. Panting and blowing, the two strained at the rope, dragging the fishing smack behind. Ben kept his eyes firmly on the sphere of light, blinking away the sweat that ran smartingly down to blur his gaze. Even when they reached the water, the boat's keel still scraped on the sand. It came free as they waded in knee-deep. Ben heaved Ned aboard as the priest gathered up his sopping cassock and scrambled in amongst the slithering mackerel. “Where to now, Ben?”

The boy pointed at the thin column of moonlight. “Straight ahead, see the patch of light on the water? There!”

Before they actually reached the spot, Ned sighted a nub of timber poking up above the surface. Barking wildly, he threw a thought to Ben. “It's the little mast of the
Marie
's jolly boat!”

Ben lay in the bow, paddling furiously with both hands until he got hold of the mast. “Father, come here. Hold on to this and don't let go whatever you do!”

Father Mattieu obeyed promptly, seizing the timber as though his life depended on it. Ben took the bow rope and knotted it about his waist, then plunged into the dark waters, gasping with shock as his head struck the jolly boat's keel. It was sitting squarely on the seabed. He felt about swiftly. This pointed bit was the bows. Pulling himself along, he found the stern. His shin barked against the after-end seat. He felt for the sailcloth wrapping and pulled it aside. There it was in a big canvas bag—Captain Raphael Thuron's fortune in gold!

Bubbles started streaming from between Ben's lips, as he desperately tried to hold his breath in. Loosing the rope from his waist, he tied it in a hasty noose. The boy's head pounded unmercifully as he strained to lift the bag of gold. It moved just enough for him to sweep the noose underneath and pull tight. Ben shot to the surface, spluttering and spitting seawater. The priest relinquished his hold on the mast and helped the boy climb awkwardly into the boat.

Ned danced around his master. “You've got it, you've got it! Er, have you, mate?”

Ben burst into laughter, shouting aloud, “I've got it, I've got the gold!”

Between them, Ben and the father heaved the canvas bag up, until it was suspended underwater. Ben lashed the rope securely around the fishing smack's mast. The weight of the gold made the little vessel lean over crazily as they took it into the shallower waters. Ned watched as they both jumped over the side, landing waist-deep in the sea. Father Mattieu sang out as they each gripped an end of the sack: “Up she comes, Ben, right. One . . . two . . . threeeeee!”

A dull clink of wet coins sounded as the bag landed amongst the priest's catch of mackerel.

 
More wood was added to the fire. Ben drank fresh water to rid his mouth of the acrid salt taste. Ned flicked away a spark with his paw, chuckling mentally.

“Hoho, look at the father. I don't suppose he's ever seen more than two gold coins together in his life. Haha, and I'll bet that those two belonged to somebody else!”

Firelight flickered off the shiny coins as they trickled through the priest's fingers. His eyes were as wide as organ stops. “All this gold, Ben, there's a vast fortune here. D'you realise, we're rich, friend, we're rich!”

Ben shook his head. “No, friend,
you're
rich. That gold is your brother's last gift to you. What'll you do with it?”

Father Mattieu shuddered with delight as he stuffed handfuls of gold coins back into the canvas bag. “A church, I'll build a lovely church, with pews, bells, steeple, altar. I'll call it Saint Raphael's!”

Ben smiled. “I'm sure the Lord won't mind.”

The father lay flat on his back, stretching his arms wide. “A farm, too, with cows, pigs, chickens, sheep, fields and crops. Around the farm we'll have cottages for my parishioners, my children. The church will stand in the centre of the farm . . . But listen to me, planning to do this and that. You must share this golden fortune with me, Ben. It would still be lying on the bottom of the sea if it weren't for you!”

The boy refused flatly. “No, Father, Ned and I don't need gold. I won't touch a single piece of it. I told your brother I wouldn't, and I must keep that promise in memory of him.”

Ned passed his master a rueful plea. “Couldn't we just keep a few coins, say enough to buy us a week or two of good meals?”

Ben's reply brooked no argument. “The angel never meant us to have any. The answer's no, mate. Father Mattieu can make better use of it than we ever would.”

The father took Ben's hand. “If you won't take some gold, then what can I do to help you? Would you like to come and live in my new parish with me? Anything.”

Ben clasped his friend's hand warmly. “There are reasons why I can't stay anywhere too long. Besides, I'm a wanted person, a buccaneer, that's why I was planning on escaping to Spain. Now if Ned and I only had a boat . . .”

Father Mattieu cleaned his frying pan in the sand and placed it in the fishing smack along with his other belongings and some bread, herbs and onions. He handed the bow rope to Ned, who took it in his jaws.

“Take this boat. There's food, water and fish to go with it. Take it, both of you, and take my blessing with you!”

With its one small square-rigged sail spread, Ben steered the fishing smack out into the sea when the tide rolled in an hour before dawn. Both he and Ned looked back at Father Mattieu Thuron standing waist-deep in the water, arms spread wide as he called out to them. “May the good Lord bless you for what you have done for me and my children. Go now, my friends, and may the angels watch over you both!”

Ben passed Ned a fleeting thought. “Well, at least one of them will!”

Ben pulled the tiller, sending the little craft toward the Spanish mainland. From out of the east, rosy hues of dawn seeped out into the Bay of Biscay. Looking back, Ben and Ned watched Father Mattieu wading ashore, the bearer of good fortune returning to his parish. The strange boy from the sea and his faithful dog turned their faces to the new day and the perils of the unknown.

Ben felt Ned's thoughts. “Where we are bound, mate, only heaven knows.”

The boy pressed his cheek against the black Labrador's soft fur. “I don't care, as long as we're together, Ned.”

 
Soon the fishing smack was nought but a tiny dot on the face of the world's great and mysterious waters.

IT IS SAID THAT IN THE BIG HOUSE OF Adamo Bregon, Comte of Veron, a picture hangs on the wall of the dining hall. This fascinating and beautiful artwork is greatly admired by all who see it. Within a gilt-embossed frame a boy stands with a black Labrador dog sitting by his side. The dog looks gentle and intelligent, its soft dark eyes friendly. An animal that anyone would be proud to own. The boy is poorly clad in the manner of one who follows the sea. Barefoot, with frayed and worn canvas breeches and a tattered calico shirt. His unruly tow-coloured hair is ruffled by the breeze. But it is the lad's clouded blue eyes that draw the onlooker closer. No matter where you stand in that room, those strange eyes are looking straight at you. The boy is leaning on some rocks, with cold mountainous seas heaving behind him. Lightning rips through a storm-battered sky. In one corner, riding the wild waves, is a dim depiction of an unmanned sailing ship, its rigging illuminated by the eerie green light of St. Elmo's fire. Many visitors ask why the picture was not painted in a rural landscape with the mountains as a background. After all, Veron is many leagues from the sea. The artist will only say that he saw the picture in the eyes of the boy, who was once as close to him as a brother. If you saw the eyes for yourself, you would readily believe him. In the lower right-hand corner of the picture, the artist has signed his name.

Dominic de la Sabada Bregon