The Angel's Command (9 page)

 
The spectral figure halted in front of Ben and sat down. Enormous relief flooded the boy: this was no evil ghost, it was only an old man. But what an old man!

Firelight reflected off his face as he pushed back his hood, revealing weather-lined features of immense serenity and kindness. A thousand wrinkles creased his brown-gold skin as he smiled through dark Latin eyes set in deep cream-coloured whites. Ben could see, without the least doubt, that this was a good and honest old fellow. His hair was wispy, pure silver; the robe he wore was that of some religious order, and a wooden cross of polished coconut shell hung from his neck on a cord. He spoke in Spanish, which the boy could readily understand.

“Peace be with you, my son. I am Padre Esteban. I hope that you and your friends mean no harm to me or my people.”

Ben returned his smile. “No, Padre, we only need food and fresh water, so we can continue our voyage.”

A thought from Ned flashed into Ben's mind as he saw Ned returning, dragging a large dead tree branch along the sand: “I felt your fear. Who is the man? Where's he from?”

Ben replied mentally to the Labrador. “Come here and take a look at his face, Ned—he's a friend, Padre Esteban.”

Ned released the branch and came to sit by Ben. “Padre Esteban, eh? He's more like a statue of a saint than a man. I like him!”

The padre reached out a hand that was the colour of antique parchment. Stroking Ned's offered paw, he was silent for a while. Then, staring at Ben, he shook his head in wonder. “Who taught you to speak to an animal?”

Somehow, the boy was not surprised that the charismatic old man had the wisdom to read his mind. He decided to tell him the truth. “Nobody taught me. It was a gift from an angel. Could you really tell I was talking to my dog, Padre?”

The old priest never once took his eyes off Ben. “Oh yes, my son, you are called Ben, and this fine dog is Ned. But I see by your eyes that you have not been a young boy for many, many years—yours has been a hard and difficult life.”

Ben was shocked by Padre Esteban's perception. He felt as if he wanted to pour out his story to the wonderful old man.

The padre merely reached out and took Ben's hand in his. “I know, Ben, I know, but there is no need to burden an old man with your history. I see great honesty in you. The evil of this world has not tainted your heart. I must go now, but I will return at dawn. My people will see to the needs of your ship. Tell the captain we mean no harm to you.” He paused. “I must ask you to do something for me, Ben.”

Squeezing the padre's hand lightly, the boy nodded. “Anything for you, Padre Esteban. What is it?”

The old man took the cross and its cord off and placed it about Ben's neck, tucking it inside his shirt. “Wear this. It will protect both you and your dog from the one who pursues you. Remember it when you are in danger.”

Ben took the cross in his hand. It glistened in the firelight. The depiction of the figure upon it had been carved carefully into the wood and outlined with dark plant dye. When the boy looked up again, the old man had gone.

Ben told Thuron of his encounter with Padre Esteban, but he did not tell him of the cross or what the old man had seen in his eyes. The Frenchman warmed his hands by the fire. “See, I knew that you two were lucky to me. Don't worry, I'll pay the padre for anything he can give to us in the way of supplies. Well done, lad. You and Ned get some sleep now. There's lots to do once day breaks!”

 
Dawn's first pale light was streaking the skies over a smooth and tranquil sea, and the
Diablo Del Mar
was little more than three miles off the coast of Mayagüez. Rocco Madrid was roused from his cabin by a shout from Pepe, the lookout. “Sail off the stern to starboard!”

The Spanish pirate captain hurried out on deck and clapped the telescope to his eye. “A fishing vessel! Portugee, come about to meet it. I'll have words with the skipper.”

 
Fear was the first reaction shown by the thin, tombstone-toothed Carib who skippered the small schooner-rigged fishing craft. He knew he was facing a pirate vessel whose guns he could not outrun. The man had dealt with those of The Brotherhood before. Hiding his terror behind a huge grin, he held up two large fish, shouting, “A good day to you, friends. My fish are fresh caught during the night, the finest in all these waters. Will you buy some and help to feed my poor wife and ten children, amigos?”

The
Diablo
loomed up alongside the small craft, dwarfing it. Rocco Madrid leaned over the midship rail and looked down at the skipper. Producing a gold coin, he spun it toward the fisherman, who caught it with great alacrity and waited in respectful silence to hear what the dangerous-looking pirate had to say.

Madrid held up another gold coin meaningfully. “Keep your fish, amigo. Where have ye been trawling? I mean you no harm—all I want is information.”

The skipper swept off his battered straw hat and bowed, testing the gold coin between his teeth as he did so. “What can I tell you, señor? We are bound for Santo Domingo on Hispaniola after three days and nights fishing the waters round the Isle of St. Croix. Ah, it is a hard life, yes?”

Madrid nodded. “Never mind your life story. If you want to earn that gold piece, and the one I have here, tell me: Did you see any other ships since you've been out? I'm looking for a French buccaneer named
La Petite Marie.
”

Holding the hat flat against his chest, the skipper bowed again. “I cannot read the letters, señor, but we sighted a vessel. Not as grand and large as your ship, but round in the bow and very fast-looking. She flew the skull and blades, just as you do. A Brethren vessel, eh?”

Rocco's eyes lit up. “That's her! Where was she when you saw her, amigo? Tell me!”

The skipper waved his hat back over his shoulder. “Sailing toward the southeast coast, I think, maybe to Ponce, Guayama or Arroyo, who knows?”

The Spaniard stroked his moustache, slightly puzzled. “What would Thuron want around there? Hmm, maybe he has a secret hiding place. I'll soon find out, though!” He pocketed the gold coin and drew his sword, pointing it at the hapless fishing-boat skipper. “I know Hispaniola well. If you've lied to me, I'll find you. Ten children is a lot for a widow to support, remember that.”

Dismissing the fishing boat, he turned to Pepe. “Get my charts, I'll take charge of this operation!”

Pepe hurried off to the captain's cabin, where he gathered up charts, muttering to himself, “When did he never take charge? But who am I to mention this, nothing but a donkey.”

 
Aboard the
Devon Belle,
Captain Redjack Teal was also studying his charts whilst taking breakfast. His new cook, an undersized seaman named Moore, stood nervously by, watching as Teal forked a minute portion of fish into his mouth. The privateer captain pulled a face of disgust and spat the food onto the deck, then glared balefully at Moore. “Curse your liver'n'lights, man, do ye call this cooked, eh?”

Moore tried to stand his ground and look respectful at the same time. He saluted and spoke with a thick Irish accent. “'Twas boiled t'the best of me ability, Yer Honour!”

“Boiled!” Teal remarked, as though the word were an obscenity. “Boiled? Who the devil ever told ye I take boiled fish t'break me fast, eh? Not another word, sirrah. Stand to attention! Clean this mess up. Take that demned fish out o' me sight! Report t'the gunner for six strokes of a rope's end and thank your ignorant stars 'tain't the cat across your back. If ye ever bring me boiled fish again, I'll have ye boiled alive in your own galley. Get out of me sight!”

After the unfortunate Moore had left the cabin, Teal quaffed several goblets of Madeira and stalked out on deck in high bad humour. He called the mate to attend him. “You there, has land been sighted yet?”

The man tugged his forelock. “Nary a sightin' yet, Cap'n, but we should spot somethin' by midmorn, sir.”

Teal could think of nothing to say except, “Well . . . well, make sure ye do! An' report t'me, straight off, d'ye hear?” He thrust his telescope viciously at the mate. “Take this up t'the crow's nest, tell that lookout to keep his confounded eyes skinned for land. Move y'self, man!”

He stalked off, exclaiming aloud, “Boiled fish? Can't abide the foul stuff. Worse than boiled mutton, if y'ask me, far worse!”

By midmorning the entire crew of the
Devon Belle
were fervently hoping their captain would stay in his cabin until his temper had calmed. Gillis, the captain's dresser, sat in Cook Moore's galley, sharing some boiled fish with his shipmate and complaining bitterly. “Cap'n, is it? I've seen better cap'ns in charge of a saltfish barrow. Kicked me, he did, aye, kicked me, an' for what? 'Cos one of his buttons was loose. Ain't nothin' in regulations says a man has t'get kicked for a loose button, is there, cookie?”

Moore rubbed his rear end, still smarting from the gunner's knotted rope. “Only a kick? Sure now, weren't you the lucky one. How does that boiled fish taste to ye?”

Gillis was about to reply when the call came loud and clear. “Land ho! East off the for'ard bow. Land hoooooo!”

The feeling of relief that swept over the
Devon Belle
was almost tangible in the air. Smiling faces were seen as crewmen lined the bows to catch a sight of the headland when it became visible on the horizon. Shortly thereafter, Redjack Teal strutted out onto the deck, freshly attired by Gillis in his favourite red hunting jacket and pristine linen accessories. A naval officer's sword, complete with brass scabbard, clanked at his side.

Before all hands could busy themselves at their chores, Teal caught them with their backs to him, scanning the horizon for land. He gave his crew a brisk lecture, like a schoolmaster censuring a class. “Nobody got any work t'do, eh? Stand still there when I'm addressing ye, face me, straighten y'selves up!”

All hands braced themselves stiffly on the swaying deck, chins tucked in, staring straight ahead. Teal looked them over contemptuously, speaking in his affected nasal drawl. “Right, listen t'me, gentlemen, an' I use the term loosely. From me chart calculations I have brought this ship in sight of Puerto Rico, where we will engage the enemy. It will be approximately early evenin' before we reach the coast. I fully intend to sail in like one of His Majesty's ships o' the line, smart as paint, an' with guns bristlin'!”

Every man knew what was coming next as the captain let a moment's silence pass, then stamped his foot down hard. “This vessel is a pigsty, a demned pigsty, d'ye hear me? First mate an' bosun, put all hands to holystonin' decks, swabbin' out scuppers, coilin' lines an' polishin' brasses!”

Springing forward, the mate and bosun saluted. “Aye aye, sir!”

Wheeling sharply, Redjack turned his back on them and continued. “I'm goin' t'me cabin now, but I'll be back out at midday. All hands will be ready for inspection, cleaned up an' lookin' like British sailors an' not like some farmyard rabble. This afternoon, you sloppy men will take exercise, dancin' hornpipes an' singin' shanties. Any man not doin' so with a cheerful demeanour will be punished. Is that understood?”

Without waiting to hear the crew's dutiful chant of “Aye aye, sir!” Teal strode purposefully off to his cabin, feeling the collective glare of hatred from his crew directed at his back.

Handing the bosun a length of tarred and knotted rope, the mate selected a wooden belaying pin. Veins stood out on his neck as he bellowed at the crew, “Don't stand there gawpin', get about it! You 'eard the cap'n!”

As all hands went about their tasks, the bosun and mate walked the deck, conversing in undertones. No love was lost between either of the men and Teal—the bosun's voice was hoarse with indignation. “Playin' at bein' Royal Navy again, are we? Blast his eyes, Teal wouldn't recognise a real privateer if one fell on him from the yardarm. How'd he ever get to be a cap'n?”

The mate chuckled drily. “Aye, I've wrung more salt water out of me socks than he's ever sailed on. Did ye hear him tellin' as how his calculations've brought us this far? He's done nothin' night'n'day but ask me where we are.”

The bosun flicked his rope end at a slacking deck scrubber. “I tell ye, mate, 'twill be funny if there ain't a sign o' that Frenchie when we gets to Puerto Rico. Haha, what'll Teal do then, make the crew sing an' dance more 'ornpipes an' shanties to conjure the buccaneer up? D'ye think the Frenchman will be at Puerto Rico?”

Spitting neatly over the side, the mate shook his head. “If he is, there'll be none more surprised than me. That ole Frenchie's long gone, prob'ly off into the Atlantic Ocean. Cap'n my eye. I was told Teal ran off from England 'cos of gamblin' debts. The eldest son of a noble family, eh?”

Entirely in agreement with his companion, the bosun winked. “An' not a ha'penny piece 'twixt the lot of 'em. I tell ye, this ship's run by a pauper who knows more about the back an' front end of a horse than the bow an' stern of a ship!”

The mate tapped the belaying pin in his cupped hand. “Aye, an' 'tis poor seamen like us who have t'put up with the likes o' Teal. Come on, we'd best see the men get this craft shipshape afore Redjack comes back on deck.”

Running fair with a sprightly morning breeze, the
Devon Belle
edged closer to the island of Puerto Rico.

Padre Esteban was as good as his word. He entered the buccaneers' camp at daybreak, bringing with him two dozen of his people. These were silent, dark-eyed, coffee-skinned locals carrying fearsome-looking machetes.