The Angel's Command (8 page)

Ben tried again. “It's the crew. They're . . .”

The Frenchman nodded knowingly. “Planning to desert the
Marie
when we make landfall. Don't look so surprised, Ben—it doesn't pay for a captain to be ignorant of his crew's feelings. No doubt you've heard the muttering and spotted the hard glances. I've watched them, too, for a while. Ah, they aren't bad men, really, but they get like that from time to time. Well, look at it their way. We've run from Rocco Madrid, been attacked by the privateers and now we're about to run out of rations. What right-thinking seaman wouldn't want to leave such a vessel? The Caribbean isles are friendly and sunny, and there's other ships in their harbours for a man to make his berth in. Besides, some of this crew are wanted men in France, most in the pirating trade are.” He laughed. “I probably am myself, but I'm rich and willing to take my chance.”

Ben could not help but admire his friend's wisdom and easygoing outlook. Even so, he felt bound to ask the question, “What do you plan on doing about it, sir?”

Thuron faced the sea and put the glass back to his eye. “Oh, I've made my plans, lad. The first is to sight land and get all hands ashore in a place where I can keep my eye on them. Not some waterfront town full of taverns, but a nice quiet cove with running water and a native village close by where we can trade for most of what we need. Trouble is that I haven't spotted land yet. I know we've run a bit off course in the last day or two, but the islands can't be too far off. Here, you take a peek. You're my lucky boy—mayhap you'll spy something.”

Ben took the telescope, focussed it and searched the horizon bit by bit.

Thuron chuckled. “That's the way, use those lucky blue eyes of yours. I'll go and find Ned. Hope he hasn't signed up with the deserters.”

Ben kept his eye to the glass. “Shame on you for thinking such a thing, Cap'n. There's none more faithful than my Ned!”

A distant speck on the horizon caught Ben's attention. He felt as though ice water were trickling down his back. Some sixth sense told him that it was the
Flying Dutchman.
Swiftly he angled the lens away southward. A dark-purplish smudge on the far skyline dispelled his fears. The boy's spirits soared. “Cap'n, I can see land! There, over to the southeast!”

Thuron took the telescope and clapped it to his eye. “Where, Ben, where? I can't see a thing.”

He returned the instrument to the boy, who immediately found the far-off smudge. “Crouch down, Cap'n, I'll keep the glass steady. See it way over there?”

The Frenchman screwed his eye hard to the brass aperture. “Your eyes must be a lot better than mine, Ben, I don't see a thing. No, wait . . . Aha, there 'tis! Tell Anaconda to alter our course two points south, then dead ahead. Ben, Ben, my lucky shipmate, you've done it again. Land ho!”

The black Labrador sat stoically, listening to most of the crew grumbling and disputing over the stern rail. Suddenly they heard the captain's joyful shout, and it worked like a charm. Everything became hustle and bustle as the crew broke off to attend to their duties. Anaconda began singing in a deep, melodious voice.

 
Ned, standing alongside the giant steersman, threw back his head and bayed. Ben laughed as he exchanged a thought with the Labrador. “You'll have to learn the words, Ned!”

The dog sniffed and gave him a dignified glance. “Does a fiddler, a drummer or a guitar player have to know the words? Ignorant boy, can't you see I'm providing a wonderful accompaniment to our friend here!”

With the westering sun crimsoning her sails from astern,
La Petite Marie
nosed into Guayama, a cove on the south-eastern coast of Puerto Rico. They dropped anchor outside the shallows, where she would not be left high and dry on sandbanks by an ebbing tide. Captain Thuron ordered Pierre to lower the ship's jolly boat. It was a small craft and would have to make the journey to shore four times.

Knowing that the bosun was loyal to him, the captain chose him to make the first trip. “Pierre, you and Anaconda will take the first lot. Ben, you and Ned, go second; Ludon, you're third. I'll make the last trip ashore. Anaconda, stay aboard the jolly boat and make the return journey each time. Leave your muskets aboard, everybody, cutlasses too. Take only your knives. We don't want to show weapons—folk on the island might take it as an unfriendly gesture. Give the order, Anaconda!”

Any protests about leaving guns and swords aboard were forgotten. The men felt their spirits rise as the giant black steersman roared through cupped hands, “Away boat's crew!”

When Ben's turn came to go ashore, he seated himself in the prow of the little boat and sent a plea to Ned, who was standing next to him. “Keep that tail still or you'll beat me to death before I can put a foot on firm ground!”

Ned flopped his head from side to side, answering, “Sorry but it's impossible, we dogs have naturally wagging tails. I'd feel miserable keeping my beautiful tail still.”

 
Pierre was waiting on shore with the first group, who had already gathered wood and lit a fire on the palm-fringed beach. The loyal bosun called Ned and Ben to his side, where they stood slightly out of hearing of the other crewmen.

Pierre kept his voice low. “Our fire can be seen from the
Marie.
'Twill be night shortly, the men won't go wandering off in the dark.”

Sounds of the tropical forest rang out behind them, strange noises of unidentifiable birds, beasts and reptiles, either hunting or being hunted.

Ben drew closer to the firelight. “Have you found water yet?”

Pierre shook his head. “Tomorrow maybe. Here, have a coconut. There's plenty about under the palms.” He cut through the thick, fibrous husk, revealing a good-sized nut. Piercing it with his knife, the bosun gave it to the boy. Ben sucked the clear, sweet milk down. It tasted delicious.

Ned's paw tapped him on the leg. “D'you fancy sharing that?”

Ben hugged the Labrador briefly. “Sorry, Ned, I'll get you one of your own right away.”

 
By the time Captain Thuron came ashore, all hands were dozing around the fire. He joined Pierre, Ned and Ben, who were drinking coconut milk and munching away at the white nut, and explained his plans in a low voice: “I've noticed that already three hands have deserted since we made landfall here. Ludon, Grest and Ricaud. They're hiding out somewhere inland by now. Anaconda has taken the jolly boat back to the
Marie
for the night—that way they won't get any ideas about taking over the ship. He'll row back to shore in the morning. Pierre, you'll take the boat back then and stand guard aboard the
Marie
during the day. We'll relieve you from time to time. I've smuggled some muskets and cutlasses ashore in a sack. If it comes to a mutiny, we'll be ready, though I hope it won't. Ben, you and Ned take first watch; I'll take over from you. Pierre, you relieve me for the last watch. I'm not sure what will happen tomorrow. I'll just have to plan things as they come. Now I must get some rest. Stay awake, my lucky Ben, you and Ned keep a weather eye on all hands.”

Ben sat by the fire, tossing odd pieces of driftwood on the flames to keep it going as he stared into the dark mass of trees and foliage skirting the beach. He wondered what the morning would bring. Ned lay next to him with a broken coconut clutched between his forepaws, growling softly as he chewed away the soft white inner part from its hard wooden shell. Ben listened to his comments.

“Gurr, this is good. Why didn't I try coconut before today? Like a soft bone, but sweet and juicy. Gurr, nice and crunchy!”

The blue-eyed boy chuckled. “A coconut-eating dog—now I've seen it all! Do you think you could tear yourself away from that nut for a moment? We're getting low on driftwood. There's plenty along the tide line. I'll stay here and keep watch.”

The black Labrador stood and stretched himself. “When I'm captain of my own ship, I'll make you go and get driftwood. It's not an easy life, you know, fetching this and searching for that, while you sit by the fire.”

Ben passed his friend a mock serious thought. “Right, mate. We'll call your ship the
Black Dog,
and you can order me about day and night!”

Ned trotted off to the left along the beach, still grumbling. “Huh, don't think I won't. There'll be no idle boys aboard my vessel. Oh, and another thing, she'll be called the
Handsome Hound.
I don't like the sound of the
Black Dog
!”

Ben watched him go. He knew why Ned had gone to the left. Ever since they had landed, both had avoided looking out to the waters that lay on their right. Ben knew it was because both he and Ned could feel the presence of Vanderdecken and the
Flying Dutchman,
hovering somewhere out in the seas. Feeling the hairs prickle on the back of his neck, Ben looked at the fire, then at the snoring ship's company of
La Petite Marie.
They were no trouble at the moment. Carefully avoiding a chance peek at the ebbing tide, he turned his attention to the dark, tangled forest.

Suddenly he felt sorry that the dog was not at his side. Something had moved in the gloom-cast undergrowth. He sat quite still, hoping the captain or one of the crew would awaken to break the spell, which kept his eyes riveted on the bushes fronting the tree line. There was the movement again, slow, silent and stealthy. Was it some wild jungle predator, a jaguar perhaps, or a giant python stalking him? The shape partially materialised as it moved out of shelter onto the pale, moonwashed sand. Ben wished it were a wild animal—that he could cope with. But this was the shape of a man, sinister, dark and phantomlike, clad in a long black gown with a pointed hood that hid his features. It was like looking at somebody with just a black hole for a face.

Fear numbed Ben's limbs and constricted his throat. He sat there, staring in horrified fascination as the eerie apparition glided soundlessly toward him, hands outstretched. It drew nearer and nearer . . .

6

EARLIER THAT SAME EVENING, THE
Diablo Del Mar
had sailed into the straits that lay between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico, the waters known as the Mona Passage. Rocco Madrid had made a slight change to his plans. He called the mate, Boelee, and explained the scheme. “Why run straight out into the Atlantic, amigo? Would it not be more sensible to take a look at the harbours of each island on either side of these straits first?”

Boelee knew better than to disagree with Madrid, so he agreed. “A good plan, Capitano. We may even see the Frenchman's ship tied up in port. That would make things a lot easier than standing out in the ocean, awaiting a sea battle!”

Stroking his moustache, the Spaniard looked critically across the expanse, from left to right. “Which island would you visit first, Boelee? Hispaniola or Puerto Rico? Where's Thuron likely to make landfall, eh?”

The mate wanted to visit Hispaniola first. He knew of a few good taverns there. So he chose the opposite, certain that Rocco Madrid would disagree. “If 'twere up to me, Capitano, I'd take a look at Puerto Rico.”

Madrid stared down his long, aristocratic nose at Boelee. “But it isn't up to you, amigo. I'm the one whose word counts aboard this ship. I say we go to Hispaniola first, to the Isle of Saona. It's the first likely landfall for any ship sailing this way.”

Boelee nodded deferentially. “As you wish, Capitano!”

He said it too glibly, and Madrid eyed him suspiciously, then on a whim changed his mind again. “Maybe your choice was a clever one, Boelee. Let's double-guess Thuron. We'll put about for Mayagüez, a Puerto Rican harbour I know well. He'll probably think that we'd head for Saona. What are you looking so down in the mouth for, amigo? You wanted to go to Puerto Rico. I heard you say so not a moment ago. Am I not a kind master, to have granted your wish so readily?”

Boelee took the wheel from Portugee and turned the
Diablo
toward Mayagüez. Though Rocco Madrid was still smiling from the little joke he had played on the mate, and though he swaggered confidently about the foredeck, his mind was not easy. The Spaniard was torn by doubts as to the location of
La Petite Marie—
he seethed with resentment toward Thuron. At all costs the gold must be retrieved. Rocco did not take into account that it was he who had cheated the gold from the Frenchman in the first place. No! It was his gold, and he could not lose face in front of his crew by letting it, and Thuron, slip through his fingers. Besides, some of the gold had really belonged to him—it had been his stake in the game. Raphael Thuron and his crew had to pay for their boldness. He would punish them, yea, even unto death!