The Angel's Command (16 page)

Thuron saw the blood and bubbles rising. Clamping a knife in his mouth, he dodged around the howling dog and dived over the rail without a backward glance. Ben was dangling upside down underwater, the broken rope wrapped about his leg. A crimson trail plunged down into the misty depths. There was no sign of Anaconda. The Frenchman grabbed the boy and the rope, tugging furiously as he saw other massive, dark shapes homing in on them both.

They were dragged from the sea by a crew hauling frenziedly on the rope. Thuron never once let go of Ben or the rope; his whole body wrapped around both. As the pair were manhandled over the stern rail, a huge head, its razor-toothed mouth agape, cleared the surface a handsbreadth away from the Frenchman's foot.

Pierre flung a boat hook after it, shouting, “Sharks! Sharks!”

Several of the crewmen, who were armed with loaded pistols, fired at the sinister fins, which had begun circling the
Marie.
A musket exploded in the air as Pierre knocked one man's arm up. “No, don't fire! You'll hit Anaconda, you fool!”

Thuron was thumping Ben's back as seawater poured from the senseless boy's mouth. The Frenchman looked up, his face a picture of tragedy and shock, and screamed, “Anaconda is gone, Pierre, he's gone!”

The firing ceased, and all hands stared at one another in disbelief. Anaconda gone?

 
Ben lay on the bed in Captain Thuron's cabin with Ned alongside him, trying to reach his friend. However, the dog's thoughts could not penetrate the boy's fevered mind. Disjointed images of storming seas and large waves crashing upon rockbound shores, the
Flying Dutchman,
with Vanderdecken at the helm and lit all about with the eerie green light of St. Elmo's Fire wreathing its rigging. Ned tried to interpose calming thoughts into Ben's delirium, licking the boy's hands and whining softly. “Ben, Ben, it's me, Ned. You're safe now, mate. Lie still, rest now!”

Thuron brought a little brandy mixed with sugar and warm water. Ned watched as he poured a few drops between Ben's lips. The Frenchman spoke his thoughts aloud to the dog as he ministered to the boy. “There now, that'll help him, I think. He's had a bad time, Ned. I'll stay here with you until he looks better. Thank the Lord he wasn't taken by those hellfish. Poor Anaconda, we'll never see him again. Apart from you and Ben, he was the best friend I ever had, rest his soul!”

Thuron settled down in a chair and put his feet up on the end of the bed, assuring the Labrador in a weary voice, “At least our Ben's safe, eh, boy? Don't you fret now, he'll be fresh as a coat o' paint by tomorrow.”

 
With her rudder back in working order,
La Petite Marie
sailed northeast, out into the nighttime vastness of the mighty Atlantic Ocean. Raphael Thuron was asleep, one elbow on the table, his cheek resting in an open palm. Ned, too, stretched on the bed with his head lolling across the boy's feet. Ben drifted in and out of slumber, quiet and still for the most part. Then strange spectres began haunting his mind. Were his eyes open or not? The boy was not sure, but he could see through the ornate, oblong stern window. The sea was moon-flecked and smooth, yet far out it appeared stormy. Cold sweat poured from Ben's brow. There in the distance, riding the gale, the
Flying Dutchman
was coming toward the
Marie.
Ben lay there, robbed of all power of speech or movement, watching the ghost ship getting larger and closer. He could not even pass a thought to his dog. Vanderdecken's wild, despairing face banished everything from his mind. Ben could see him standing at the
Dutchman
's wheel. Lifting a corpselike finger, he beckoned the boy to come to him, staring at Ben with eyes like chips of tombstone marble that pierced his entire being. Now the
Flying Dutchman
was sailing level with the
Marie. Tap! Tap!
The accursed captain's finger rapped upon the windowpane, calling, signalling Ben to come aboard his vessel. The petrified boy suddenly realised he had no grip on reality, no control of his limbs. Was he still lying on the bed, or was he sitting up, getting out of bed and walking trancelike toward the apparition outside the window? Vanderdecken smiled triumphantly, exposing long yellow teeth as his black lips curled back, his beckoning finger, like a swaying serpent, calling his victim to him.

The feeling seeped slowly into Ned's mind as his eyes opened blearily. Then he felt his hackles rise, and he came wide awake. He leapt up with a sharp bark, and Vanderdecken turned his attention upon the dog, glaring and hissing viciously. In that moment, Thuron was wakened by the bark. He saw Ben, momentarily free of the spell, snap the thong that held a carved coconut-wood cross around his neck. Thuron dropped to the cabin floor as Ben threw the cross at the thing hovering outside; then the Frenchman grabbed the chair by a leg and flung it with all his might from flat on his back.

11

AMID THE RENDING CRASH OF GLASS and wood, a high-pitched, keening screech ensued. Ned was standing with his paws up on the sill, barking out at a calm night sea. Shakily, Thuron pulled himself over to where Ben was sitting on the cabin floor.

He grabbed the boy and hugged him tight. “Ben, are you alright? What in the name of heaven and hell was that thing at the window? Was it a man or a fiend?”

Before Ned could think out a warning, Ben had spoken. “It was Captain Vanderdecken of the
Flying Dutchman!
”

Thuron ran to the smashed window. Regardless of the broken glass and splintered frame, he leaned out and scanned the empty ocean.

Turning slowly, he looked from the dog to the boy. “I think you've got something to tell me, lad!”

Ned sent a swift thought to Ben. “Well, you've already told him who it was—are you going to let him know the rest?”

Still facing the captain, Ben answered his dog's question. “He saved my life, we can trust him. I'd best tell him everything. He'll understand, I know he will.”

The black Labrador closed his eyes resignedly. “I hope he will!”

The crewman Gascon, who had not gone with the other three deserters, was taking his turn at the wheel. He had heard Ned's bark and the window breaking. Looking astern, he saw the captain's chair, with the cross on its thong tangled about it, floating off into the night. Tying the ship's wheel on course with the helm line, Gascon hurried to the captain's cabin door. He was about to knock when he heard voices clearly from within. Carefully he pressed an ear to the door and listened. Ben was speaking to Thuron. What Gascon heard that night chilled his very soul into a terror-stricken silence.

 
Captain Redjack Teal had found some good old ripe cheese in the cupboard. Along with a goblet of Madeira and a few of his special biscuits, it provided an excellent midday snack. There was a respectful tap at the door. Dabbing his lips fastidiously with a silken kerchief, he called, “Come!”

The bosun stumped in, dragging the prisoner Ludon behind him. He threw the man to the floor and saluted by touching a many-thonged whip to his temple. “Gave 'im two strokes, sir, just as ye ordered.”

Teal stood, adjusting Rocco Madrid's sword about his waist. “Hmm, good man. Carry on!”

The bosun saluted again. “Aye aye, Cap'n!” He left the cabin, closing the door carefully behind him.

Ludon cowered on the floor, sobbing and hugging himself.

Teal sounded bored as he poured himself another drink. “Oh, stop that blubberin', sirrah, y'sound like a pig with the colic. Don't look so demned sorry for yourself, man!”

Ludon turned a tear-stained face up to Teal, whining piteously. “You had me whipped, sir, for no reason at all!”

Redjack wrinkled his nose. It was hard to understand the rough English that Ludon had picked up in Caribbean ports. “Lack-a-day, fellow, I never do things without any reason. I never had ye really flogged, just two strokes o' the cat. So now ye know what it tastes like, eh? I did it to show ye I mean business. I want the truth, an' no lies. Of course ye can lie away an' think you're foolin' me, but that'd mean ten strokes for every little fib. Hmm, imagine that!”

Ludon shivered and sat up straight to stop the weight of his shirt from touching the wounds on his back. “I'll tell ye the truth, sir, on me oath I will. Just ask the questions an' I'll do me best to answer ye!”

Teal sat down again and studied the prisoner closely. “Of course ye will. Now, tell me, where exactly is your captain Thuron bound for?”

Ludon answered promptly. “He is sailing back to the place of his birth in France, somewhere called Arcachon, sir. Thuron was always talking of giving up the buccaneering life. Now that he has enough gold, he plans to live like a true gentleman there, with land and a château, sir.”

Teal tapped his chair arm pensively. “How much gold does he possess, and don't give me any hoary old tales of buried treasure. How much exactly, eh?”

Ludon swallowed hard. “I cannot say exact, but about fully the weight of a man the size of your bosun, sir.”

Teal drew his sword and tapped the prisoner's back lightly. Ludon grimaced and arched his back. Teal chuckled. “That'd be a good fortune for any man, if 'twere in coin. Nice solid gold coin can be spent anywhere. All these fabulous stone, strings o' pearls an' fancy rings usually turn out t'be fakes, or highly identifiable. Give me gold coin anytime, eh!”

Rooting out a chart, he spread it across the table and studied it. “France y'say, let me see. Ah, here 'tis, Arcachon, just off the Bay of Biscay. D'ye know, methinks I'll give your buccaneer captain a run for his money.”

Ludon ignored his aching back for a moment. “Sir, you mean you'd chase Thuron clear across the Atlantic Ocean to the French coast?”

Teal warmed to his new idea. “But of course! I've got a handsome new ship, plenty of supplies an' the promise of a fortune. I'll overtake the rascal long before he ever enters French waters, an' hang him from his own yardarm! Then I'll put about for England, imagine that, eh! Captain Jonathan Ormsby Teal, comin' home with three ships an' a fine selection of gold coin. I'll rename this vessel the
Royal Champion
an' take the other two in tow. Stap me liver, I'll make a pretty picture, sailin' up the Thames River with the men cheerin' an' the ladies flutterin' their fans an' kerchiefs. Hah, confound me breeches if I ain't promoted to admiral within the very year!”

Ludon kept silent, hoping that the
Marie
could outrun Teal, at least until they were both in French waters. With France and England always at war with each other, there was a chance things could work out well for him. It was likely that they could all be captured by the French Navy. Thuron and his crew would be hanged as pirates, Teal and his men would either end up on the gallows beside them or be held in prison for ransom by the English. If he could lay hands on the gold, it would be a simple matter to bribe a French naval captain to accept a fabricated story. He could pose as a Caribbean merchant, taken captive by the English privateer and robbed of his gold. Once ashore in France he planned on vanishing over the border into Spain. Rich men can live happily anywhere.

Teal was right—plenty of gold coin was the answer to everything.

Once Teal had ordered a set course, gossip soon got round the ship. The privateers were greatly cheered by the news of seeing home again. The mate, the bosun and the master gunner discussed it in the galley over mugs of grog and hot water, but scepticism had set in after their initial cheeriness, particularly with the bosun. “Huh, we'll never catch the Frenchie—that ship's as swift as a flea over butter. She's already outsailed us once.”

Swilling his mug around, the mate took a sip. “Aye, right enough, but this time she doesn't know we're chasin' her. Who ever heard of a ship pursuin' another from the Caribbean t'the Bay o' Biscay?”

Nodding his grizzled head, the master gunner agreed. “Right, matey, the last thing that froggy will expect t'see is Teal in a big new vessel comin' after him.”

The bosun was determined to keep up a gloomy outlook. “An what'll that give us, a chance to fight an' get killed afore we ever see England an' home again? Take my word, mates, Teal's doin' all this to get hold of the buccaneer's treasure. But what'll we get out of it, eh? Not a penny piece. Look at me, I'd have been better off servin' in the Royal Navy on a ship o' the line instead of on a lousy privateer. At least I'd receive half pension for this broken leg o' mine!”

The mate scoffed. “That ain't a broken leg—'twas only sprained when that spar fell on it.”

Full of self-pity, the bosun moved his leg and winced. “Well, it feels as if it's still broke! Wouldn't it be nice if a spar fell on Teal or, better still, a full mast? We'd be free men then, an' we could sail to Dover, sink the ship an' split the treasure atween us!”