The Angel's Command (5 page)

Ben had barely sunk into a slumber when he was awakened by Ned. The black Labrador was whimpering in his sleep, paws and ears twitching fitfully. The boy sat up and smiled. What dreams was the dog dreaming? First he would make a moaning sound, then give a little yip, his nose would wrinkle and his flanks would quiver. Dreams, what strange visitations they were.

Ben got up and went to stand in the prow, looking out past the cliffs at the dark sea. Then he saw something that he knew was no dream.

The
Flying Dutchman!

Standing out in the moonless night, surrounded by an eerie green radiance, there was the accursed ship, storm-torn sails fluttering on some nameless wind, ice bedecking the rigging, its hull thick with barnacles and marine debris. It turned slowly, broadside on, allowing phantom waves to wash it nearer to shore. Closer it drifted, closer.

The boy stood riveted with horror, unable to run, fear jamming his eyes wide open. He longed to scream, shout, anything to break the dread spell. His mouth opened, but no sound came forth. Now the ghostly vessel was so near it was almost upon him. He could see the awful form of Captain Vanderdecken lashed to the wheel, his long, salt-crusted hair flowing out behind him, his tombstone-like amber teeth bared by bloodless lips in the deathly pallor of an ashen face. Vanderdecken stared through mad, blood-flecked eyes at the lad and his dog, who had been cast away long years ago from his ship by an angel from heaven. The fearsome apparition glared balefully at Ben, getting closer by the moment.

Then Ned rose to his feet and began barking and baying out long, anguished howls, which echoed off the cliffs.

A voice rang out from the crew's accommodation. “Shut that dog up, someone. Where's the boy?”

There was the slap of bare feet upon the deck as Ludon, the mate, ran up onto the forepeak. He saw Ben standing out on the bow, rigid, with Ned alongside him still barking madly. Ludon grabbed Ben's arm. “What's the matter with ye, boy, can't ye control that animal—”

At the sight of someone seizing his friend, Ned hurled himself on the mate, knocking him flat. Suddenly Thuron was among them. Ben shuddered and collapsed to the deck. The Frenchman picked him up like a baby, aiming a kick at Ludon as he did. “Ben, lad, are you alright? What did you do to the boy, Ludon?”

Scrambling away from Ned, the mate protested. “I never did anything, Cap'n, on my oath. I heard the dog making a noise and came to see—”

Thuron roared at the hapless Ludon. “Don't ever touch this boy, and keep away from the dog. These two are my luck. Leave them both alone. Understood?”

Hurt and bewildered by the anger of his normally affable captain, Ludon slunk off, back to his bunk.

 
Ben regained consciousness on the bed in the captain's cabin, with Ned licking his face. He sat up, rapidly communicating with him. “Did you see it? Vanderdecken was there, I saw him, he was coming after us, I'm sure of it. Did you see the ship, Ned?”

The dog thrust his front paws into Ben's chest, knocking him back on the bed. “I saw it in my dreams, but I couldn't break the spell of the nightmare. I couldn't wake myself, Ben. I could feel the Dutchman getting closer, nearer than he had ever been since we were on his ship all those years ago. I knew you were in danger, I wanted to help you. Then suddenly I started to bark for the angel to come and save us both. That must have done the trick. Though for an angel, Ludon has bad breath and dirty feet!”

Ben remained flat on the bed and gave Ned a slight smile. “Thanks, mate, you're a true friend. Where's the captain?”

The dog allowed the boy to get up as he nodded toward the door. “Oh, him, he's in the crew's mess, giving them a severe talking-to. Old Thuron doesn't like anyone messing with his two lucky friends—we're to be left alone by all hands.”

Ben shook his head regretfully. “I wish he hadn't done that. I like the crew of the
Marie.
They may be pirates, but they aren't as bad as the crew of the
Dutchman.
They were wicked.”

Ned licked Ben's hand. “Well, you're a lucky lad, and I'm a lucky dog. We'll just have to put up with it. Get some rest now. Our cap'n said he'd stay out on deck. Go on, mate, sleep. I'll stay here and keep watch for both of us.”

The boy scratched behind his faithful dog's ear. “I know you will, Ned. You're a good, trusty hound.”

Ned winked at Ben. “Don't go to sleep right away. Keep scratching my ear, just there. Ooh, that feels wonderful!”

Eventually they both fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. Ben dreamt he was drifting amidst golden clouds in a glorious dawn, high over a calm sea blue as a cornflower. Softly, like distant bells across a meadow, the angel's voice floated into the corridors of his mind.

 
The next thing Ben knew was the sound of Ned, growling softly at a knock on the cabin door. Anaconda's giant frame almost blocked out the pale dawn light as he stooped and entered, bearing a tray. Placing the contents on the bedside table, he indicated two bowls of oatmeal, some fruit, and water for Ben and Ned.

“We sail now. Cap'n say you eat this.” The big man turned and padded silently out.

Ned heard a dull bump against the ship's side and nodded to Ben. “Sounds like the anchor being hauled.”

Ben began eating hurriedly. “I'll go and lend the crew a hand to make sail!”

Thuron watched as Ben swung nimbly from the rigging and landed lightly on deck next to his black Labrador. The Frenchman admired the boy's agility. “A monkey couldn't have done that better than you, lad. Well now, my lucky messmates, are ye ready to sail for France?”

The boy threw a salute. “Aye aye, sir!”

Ned wuffed and wagged his tail. Captain Thuron smiled happily. He turned and called orders to Pierre, who was at the wheel. “Take her out steady beyond the cliffs, Bosun.

Then set your course nor'east through the Caribbean, out 'twixt Hispaniola and Puerto Rico into the Atlantic deeps!”

Ben felt a thrill of anticipation. Certainly there would be unknown perils out on the wide ocean—hardships, too. But this was a voyage to another continent. His sense of adventure was stirred. He felt a kinship with the crewmen of
La Petite Marie
as they struck up a farewell shanty. Ben felt like a true seafarer, out on his second voyage, halfway across the world. Captain Thuron sang along with the rest as Ben hummed, not knowing the words, and Ned wagged his tail in time with the music.

 
Percival Mounsey, the cook aboard the
Devon Belle,
was fastidious in his duty to Cap'n Redjack. The master of an English privateer was always served breakfast first, so the cook had risen at dawn and hauled in a yellow-scaled flatfish from a baited line he had hung off the stern rail on the previous night. Having cooked the fish to perfection on his galley grill, he arranged it fussily on a silver platter with thin slices of lemon, a sprinkle of red pepper and a dash of rock salt. He placed it on a tray, along with half a decanter of Madeira wine and two of the special thin malt biscuits from Redjack's personal tin. Folding a serviette neatly, he put it in the captain's pewter goblet. Carrying the tray aloft on the flat of his left palm, the plump little cook set off along the starboard deck for the captain's cabin. About halfway along the deck, he stopped to admire the sun rising through a pink and pearl misted cloud. Mounsey sighed. He loved the Caribbean and its exotic climate. That was when he saw the ship rounding the tip of the headland beyond the cliffs. The cook dashed for'ard, still balancing the tray. He kicked at the two crewmen who were sleeping away their watch.

“Charlie! Bertie! Look, a ship!”

Captain Redjack Teal was seated at his dining table, clad in a silk dressing gown and a tasselled hat, awaiting his breakfast. However, this morning proved a little different from others. Instead of the cook's gentle tap to warn him of the meal's arrival, the cabin door burst open and the cook was pushed to one side as the two watchmen hurtled into the room shouting, “Cap'n! Cap'n, sir—!”

Teal sprang up in a fury, his finger pointing at the doorway. “Out! Out of my cabin, confound your eyes, or I'll have the hides flogged from your oafish backs. Out I say!”

Bertie spoke up hesitantly. “But, but, Cap'n, beggin' yore—”

The captain fixed him with an eye that would have frozen Jamaican rum on a warm day. “Outside . . . now!” Both crewmen knew better than to argue and stumbled out. Still standing outside balancing his tray, Mounsey gave them a knowing look, then tapped gently on the door, which he had just shut behind them. Teal's voice called out languidly, “Come.”

The cook glided in smoothly, setting the tray carefully on Teal's table and rearranging a lemon slice as he spoke. “A very good mornin' t'ye, sir. H'I wish to report two h'of the crew's watch, waitin' outside to see ye, sir.”

The privateer captain poured himself some Madeira, moderating his voice to its usual aristocratic drawl. “Really, two of the watch, y'say. Send the fellows in, please.”

Mounsey called to Charlie and Bertie, both standing outside. “H'enter, an' close the door be'ind yew!”

Teal glanced over the rim of his goblet at the pair, standing awkwardly in his presence. Before either of them could speak, he held up a hand for silence and began lecturing them. “Never taught to knock politely, were we? Now, repeat after me: Bumpkins should always knock before entering the cabin of a captain and a gentleman of breeding. Repeat!”

Charlie and Bertie stumbled over some of the words, but they managed, after a fashion. Teal wiped his lips by dabbing at them with the serviette.

“Politeness is the first rule to one's captain. Now, you there.” He picked up his fork and pointed at Charlie. “What exactly was it you wanted to report, eh? Speak up, man.”

“Ship off the starboard bow, Cap'n, passin' the 'eadland. Looks like a French buccaneer, sir!”

Teal's fork dropped, clattering upon his plate. “Demn ye man, why didn't you say?”

Bertie piped up. “We was goin' to, sir, but you said—”

The gimlet eye froze him to silence as Teal reprimanded him. “Excuse me, but did I address you?”

Bertie shuffled his bare feet and stared hard at them. “No, sir.”

The captain nodded. “Then hold y'tongue, sirrah!” Teal made it a point never to know the names of his crew. Such things were beneath him. He stared at Charlie. “A demned froggy, eh? Buccaneer, y'say? Still in range, is he?”

Charlie kept his eyes front and centre. “Aye, sir!”

Redjack Teal rose from his chair. “Well, I'll teach the scoundrel to cross my bows. Cook, send in me dresser. You two, report to the master gunner and tell him to turn out his crew on the double and await me orders.”

 
Rocco Madrid had been wakened and called up on deck at first light. His three top crewmen, Pepe, Portugee and Boelee, were grouped sheepishly on the afterdeck, avoiding their captain's disgusted looks.

Madrid drew his sword and prodded the long spar, which still smelled of oil and burnt canvas. He pointed the sword at Portugee. “When was this thing found, and where exactly was it?”

The bosun tried to sound efficient. “Capitano, it was found less than a quarter hour ago. We pulled it from the water, Boelee and I. Pepe knows exactly where it was.”

Pepe cleared his throat nervously. “Sí, Capitano, the spar was drifting in our wake, I was lucky to spot it.”

Turning on his heel, the Spaniard strode to the rail. He sheathed his sword and stared pensively at the water. The trio watched him apprehensively, trying to gauge his mood. Much to their relief, he was smiling when he turned to face them. “A decoy, eh, very clever. That spar tells me two things. One, the
Marie
is not headed for Jamaica and Port Royal. Two, they were sending us the wrong way. So, what does this tell you, amigos?”

The three stared dumbly at him as his smile grew wider.

“Donkeys, you have not the brains among you to make a capitano. Thuron would not be fool enough to turn and sail back to Cartagena. No, I think he's taken off at an angle, east, out to the sea. So, he will head for one of two places, Hispaniola or Puerto Rico. Here's what I plan on doing. We will sail east also, right through the strait between the two islands and out into the Atlantic. It doesn't matter which island he's chosen—when Thuron puts out to sea again, we'll be waiting for him. Boelee, bring me my sea charts. Portugee, take the wheel and head
Diablo
due east. The French fox will not escape me this time!”

Pepe stood by Portugee at the wheel, speaking in a low voice as the captain walked away. “How do we know Thuron won't sail for the Leeward or the Windward Isles, or maybe for La Guira, Trinidad, even Curaçao, or right out to Barbados?”

Portugee turned the wheel steadily, blinking as the sun caught his eyes. “We don't know, Pepe. Didn't you hear him? We're donkeys with no brains, he's the capitano. So whatever he decides must be right. Unless you'd like to go tell him you know better!”

Pepe shook his head vigorously. “I have no desire to be a dead man, amigo. The capitano knows best, this donkey will obey his orders without question.”