The Angel's Command Read online

  The mate’s voice dripped contempt. “Stay down there where ye belong. Because if ye get up, I’ll kill ye with me bare hands!”

  Rocco Madrid sat alone as evening fell, deserted by his crew, who had chosen Boelee as their new leader. All hands sat around the fire, which they had kept going since arriving ashore. Portugee, who was looked upon as second-in-command, gnawed on a broken coconut. He looked automatically to Boelee. “Well, what are we goin’ to do now?”

  The mate pinched out a spark that had settled on his arm. “That Redjack is as big a fool as Madrid. Don’t he know ye can’t maroon a pirate on an isle as big as Puerto Rico? Brotherhood vessels put in to all the ports here. Mayagüez, Aguadilla, Arecibo, San Juan. I’ll wager we’re not far from Ponce. A couple o’ days’ march an’ we can sign up with the first ship we see there. Marooned? Huh, we ain’t marooned!”

  This seemed to cheer most of the pirates—the prospect of a port with ships and taverns aplenty was far better than facing the misery of being marooned. Pepe nodded toward the figure of Rocco Madrid, sitting alone in the darkness about fifty yards from the company around the fire. “Will we take him along with us?”

  Portugee was not in favour of the idea. “He can go to the teeth of hell in a handcart for all I care, eh, Boelee!”

  Boelee spat into the fire. “Madrid’s bad luck to all of us now, mates. We can’t have him taggin’ along. He was a powerful man among The Brotherhood leaders. If’n I know Madrid, he’ll blame the loss o’ the Diablo on us, an’ I’m the first one he’ll come after. He’ll get me strung up for mutiny. There’s only one thing t’do with Capitano Rocco Madrid. Bury him here!”

  A pall of silence fell over the crew. Portugee was overawed at the suggestion, his face showing pale in the firelight as he addressed Boelee. “Kill Madrid? Who would dare do such a thing?”

  Boelee pulled the broad-bladed dagger from his belt and twirled it expertly. “Well, seein’ as how you’re all so chicken-hearted, I’ll do the job! But when we get to a port, every man jack of ye better keep his mouth shut about it. I’ll say that Madrid was slain by the privateers when we lost the Diablo. Anyone says different an’ I’ll gut him! So, turn your backs or close your eyes if ye don’t want to see the deed done. Madrid’s only a treacherous worm, we’re better off without him!”

  Flat on his stomach, Boelee crawled away from the fire with the knife clenched in his teeth. Away from the firelight, his path described a wide half circle. All that could be heard was the surf pounding up onto the shore and the odd crackle of blazing driftwood from the fire. Ahead of him, Boelee could see the Spaniard’s back—he was sitting drooped over, as though he had dozed off. Boelee wriggled noiselessly forward, transferring the knife from mouth to hand. He held it tight, ready for a hard upward thrust between the former captain’s ribs. Closer he edged, closer, until Madrid’s back was within striking distance. Coming up on his knees, Boelee locked his free arm around the Spaniard’s neck.

  Rocco Madrid’s head lolled to one side just as Boelee felt the light tickle of coloured feathers against his forearm. With a horrified gurgle he released his quarry and stumbled backward.

  Four poisoned darts had ended the life of Rocco Madrid: one behind his ear and three in his cheek. The Spaniard lay huddled grotesquely on the sand, his body still warm. Panting and sobbing raggedly, Boelee stumbled across the beach to the fire.

  Portugee grabbed hold of him as Boelee, too, fell, both legs still kicking convulsively as he tried to clutch at the sharp bamboo sliver sticking from his throat.

  The ancient, bearded patriarch whose village they had destroyed appeared at the edge of the firelight. His gaze swept the petrified crew. “You are back. Only fools would want to return after what you did here!”

  He strode off into the dark as the drums started up. Thonk thonk thonk thonk! A hollow ceaseless rattling sound. Silent as moon shadows, the Carib hunters, their bodies striped with dark plant dyes, closed in on what had once been the crew of the Diablo Del Mar.

  10

  CAPTAIN THURON HAD BEEN RIGHT: IT was another world beneath the surface of the sea. Golden sun rays turned to faint curtains of pastel blues and greens as they lanced down into the depths and small bubbles rose in silvery cascades from the barnacle-crusted hull of the Marie. A few tiny, fat, jewel-coloured fish that were travelling beneath the ship nosed harmlessly against Ben’s cheek. Pulling themselves down the line tied to the stern, Ben and Anaconda descended to the rudder. Owing to the shadow cast upon the water by the ship and the curve of the hull, it was rather gloomy, though the broken rudder was fairly visible. Ben’s long tow-coloured hair swayed softly around in a shifting halo as he secured his rope to the end of the spindle that stuck out below the rudder. Anaconda secured the neck of the bag that held their equipment to the rope, leaving their hands free to work. Still grasping the stern line, they inspected the damage.

  The big man waggled his hand at Ben, who produced some copper strip and the hammer from the sack. Anaconda signalled with one finger. Ben rummaged a nail out and passed it to him while holding the end of the strip against one side of the big oblong rudder. Gripping the rope with his legs, Anaconda half knocked the nail through the copper strip and into the rudder timber, then dropped the hammer back into the sack and pointed upward. Ben transmitted a thought to Ned up on deck. “We’re coming up for air!”

  The dog’s reply flashed through his mind. “Thank goodness for that, I thought you’d both decided to be fishes!”

  The two broke the surface, blinking and gasping for air. Thuron sat on the deck with his legs between the gallery rails and called over the side, “Are you both alright? What’s it like down there?”

  Ben called up to him. “It will take a couple of dives, but we’ve got one end of the strip fixed with a nail.”

  The Frenchman made as if to rise. “Well done! D’you need more help? I’ll come down an’ lend ye a hand!”

  Anaconda shook his head. “There’s only room for me an’ the boy, Cap’n. You’d be in the way.”

  Ben was in agreement. “Aye, you stay up there, sir. Stop Ned from taking over the ship. He’s keen to be a cap’n, you know.”

  The black Labrador glared at Ben from between the rails. “Aye, and I won’t stand impudence from my crew, young feller!”

  They submerged again, this time for Ben to thread the copper strip between the back of the rudder and the spindle. However, there was a buildup of barnacles and green, hairlike seaweed. The boy used Anaconda’s knife to clear it, then began poking the strip through, fraction by fraction. It was difficult, the soft copper bending every time it hit a snag. Twice more the pair had to go up for air, but on the third descent, Ben’s fingers, now cold and slippery from the green weeds, managed to thread the strip through. Anaconda half fixed it from the other side with a nail, then they were up again for more air.

  Ben waved to Thuron. “We’ve got it, sir. Now we only have to stretch the strip tight and get more nails in it on both sides!”

  Thuron smiled gratefully. “Pierre, tell the cook to make these lads a good hot bowl o’ soup apiece. It must be cold down there, working as long as those two have.” He waved as they submerged once more.

  This time Anaconda took six nails in his mouth. He began to work swiftly, though it was extremely difficult. Ben held tight to the rudder, trying to prevent it from moving, his body shaking as each hammer blow struck. Suddenly the hammer slipped from Anaconda’s grasp, and his hand hit the nail head hard: Blood gouted out like a red ribbon into the sea. Ben gestured through the shadowed water that they should go up, but the giant grinned and shook his head, signalling that there was only one more nail to go. Gamely, he spat the last nail into his hand and began nailing the last bit of strip to the rudder. It went home with four hefty whacks. Anaconda pointed upward—then everything happened at once.

  Up on deck, the ship’s wheel, which was unmanned to allow the rudder repairs, took the bite of the newly repaired rudder. The wheel spun half a turn, sendi
ng the rudder crashing into Ben’s head. Through a pain-filled mist of semiconsciousness, he let go of the rope and floated up. Looking back, he saw the big steersman reach a hand up toward him, when a massive, dark shape struck Anaconda. For a moment the water was a seething mass of bubbling crimson, and then something lashed sharply, stinging the back of Ben’s leg. He lost all his senses, whirling upside down in red-streaked blackness as Ned’s wild baying and calling echoed inside his brain. “Ben! Howoooooh! Beeeeeen!”

  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 ne
ver 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?”