The Angel's Command fd-2 Read online

  two are Jonahs, an' bad luck to all hands aboard. He says that—"

  Pierre's hand descended hard on Corday's shoulder. "Who says what? Come on, man, spit it

  out!"

  Both Mallon and Corday went silent. Pierre folded his brawny arms, staring sternly at them.

  "Only fools listen to the scuttlebutt of a thief an' a deserter. Better not let the cap'n hear you

  say a word agin Ben an' his dog. Now get on with your work an' stop tittle-tattlin'. If ye've got

  anythin' bad to say about anybody, then say it about me. But say it to my face!"

  The loyal Pierre strode off, leaving the subdued pair to continue their chore in silence.

  Ben and Ned were still having fun at the wheel when Pierre called the captain to one side and

  whispered in his ear, "I think 'twould be a good idea if you or I steered the Marie, Cap'n.

  Either that or let the crew take their turn at the helm."

  Thuron raised his eyebrows quizzically. "What? Don't ye like my lucky friends guiding our

  vessel? Look at them, Pierre, those two will be as good as Anaconda was someday. What's the

  matter with ye, man?"

  The bosun of the Marie averted his eyes. "There's a bit o' talk goin' around, Cap'n. Some of

  the crew don't like it."

  Any good humour the Frenchman felt suddenly evaporated. "They don't like it, eh? Then

  they'll just have to endure it. I'm master aboard the Marie, and 'tis I who gives the orders! But

  what don't they like, Pierre? What's all the talk about?"

  Pierre shifted his feet awkwardly. "I know it sounds foolish, Cap'n, but the rumour is that Ben

  and Ned are a pair of Jonahs—bad luck to all hands."

  Thuron immediately relieved his two friends at the helm, taking the wheel himself. "That's

  enough for one day, mates. Go to the cabin and tidy my charts away, will ye ? We need to

  look shipshape for our homecoming to France."

  Ben saluted smartly. "Aye aye, Cap'n. When we've cleaned the cabin up, I'll get you

  something to eat from the galley."

  A frown creased Thuron's brow. "No, don't do that, lad. Stay in the cabin with Ned. Stay away

  from the crew for a bit. Don't ask questions, Ben, just do as I say."

  A bewildered glance passed between the boy and his dog, but Ben obeyed without comment.

  The Frenchman watched the pair wander off to his cabin. An uneasy feeling crept over him.

  Had someone found out about Ben and Ned? It was a worrying problem to contemplate. Most

  seamen were not very well educated, but practically all of them were superstitious, particularly

  buccaneers. If a crew began believing rumours about having a Jonah aboard, there would be

  no question of reasoning with them. No matter how well a captain treated his men, there

  would be no stopping them once their superstitions took hold. Both he and his two lucky

  friends would be in grave danger.

  The black Labrador peered through the partially open cabin door as he communicated with

  Ben. "Here comes the cap'n. I wonder what's wrong. He looks worried."

  The Frenchman entered and sat down on the bed, then beckoned to them both. "Close that

  door. I must speak to you."

  Ned pushed the door shut with his forepaws. Ben stared anxiously at the captain. "What's the

  matter, sir?"

  Thuron spoke earnestly. "What you told me, Ben, about your past life. Have you repeated

  anything to the crew?"

  Ben shook his head vigorously. "No sir, not even to Pierre. I wouldn't breathe a word to

  anyone, except you!"

  The captain sighed heavily. "I believe you, lad. But the men are talking among themselves.

  They say that you and Ned are two Jonahs, bad luck for the Marie and all aboard her."

  Ned connected a thought to Ben. "I knew it! Didn't I tell you that Gascon would cause trouble

  for us?"

  Ben turned to Thuron. "Ned thinks that it's Gascon who's been putting the word about."

  The Frenchman patted the black Labrador's back. "Aye, and I think he's right. Do ye

  remember Gascon shouting out when Pierre was locking him up? He said this ship was

  cursed."

  Ben agreed. "Yes, but he couldn't possibly know about me and Ned. What are we going to do

  about it, sir?"

  Thuron thought a moment before he answered. "There's not a great deal we can do. Ben, I

  want you and Ned to keep yourselves away from all hands—stay in this cabin. With a bit of

  luck things may just die down naturally. We're not too far from France now. Perhaps they'll

  forget all this silly talk. With the prospect of seeing home again, and with having some gold in

  their pockets, all hands may forget about cursed ships and Jonahs. Will you do that for me,

  lad?"

  Ben grasped his friend's big strong hand. "Of course I will, and so will Ned. We won't let you

  down, Cap'n!"

  Thuron stood up and made for the door. "Well said, Ben. I knew I could trust you. I'll have

  Pierre bring your food from the galley. Remember now, with the exception of Pierre and me,

  you must talk to nobody."

  Lying with his chin on the floor, Ned watched the door close. "Just when I was learning to be

  a steersdog!"

  Ben scratched behind the dog's ear soothingly. "Cheer up, mate, we'll be in the Bay of Biscay

  by this time tomorrow, and in a day or two more we'll be on dry land."

  Over the next few days, the boy and his dog remained confined within the captain's cabin. It

  was not a pleasant time for either one. Ben had a strong feeling of impending doom,

  reinforced by constant nightmares of Captain Vanderdecken and his accursed ship, the Flying

  Dutchman. Both Ben and Ned became afraid to sleep—every time they dropped into a

  slumber, the visions came pouring in. Nightmares of being back aboard that hellish "raft, of

  the icy, mountainous seas off Cape Horn battering and pounding away at the ship. Ice-crusted

  ropes keening an eerie dirge as hurricane-force winds ripped and tattered sails into shreds.

  Faces, leering, scarred, cruel and merciless, of dead men walking the decks like zombies. An

  angry sky, with black and purple storm-bruised clouds boiling out of it. And Vanderdecken!

  His tortured mind giving voice to the curses and oaths he was bellowing aloud at the heavens.

  "Ben! Ben, lad! Are ye alright? What ails ye?"

  The boy opened his eyes to see the homely face of Pierre hovering above him as he received

  Ned's thought. "Thank goodness for Pierre. I was so trapped by that awful dream, I couldn't

  move a muscle to wake you!"

  Ben sat up, rubbing his eyes. "I'm alright, thank you, Pierre. It was nothing but a horrible

  dream."

  The bosun placed fresh water and two bowls of hot stew beside the bed. "Don't worry, mate,

  everything will be alright. Don't pay any attention to crew's gossip. They're only simple,

  ignorant men who know no better. A bit like myself, I suppose."

  The boy felt a real kinship, and pity, for Thuron's bosun. "You're not an ignorant man, Pierre.

  You've always been good to me and Ned—Cap'n Thuron and you are the only real friends we

  have."

  Pierre poured water for them both to drink. "You lie back now, mate. Try an' get some sleep.

  Me an' the cap'n won't let ye down. Only one more night after this an' you two will set foot on

  French soil. I'll wager you'll both make lots o' new friends there. I've got to go now. Don't

  open the door to anyone except me or the cap'n."

  When they had eaten, Ben and Ned felt
more relaxed. They fell asleep on the big cabin bed,

  the dog with his paws across the boy's legs. Ben felt himself floating in his dreams. Up and

  away he went, with Ned at his side, high into the soft night skies. Below he could see La

  Petite Marie, lying like a toy amid the shifting, moon-silvered waves. A euphoric calm

  descended upon Ben, and he felt almost like an infant, basking in the cradle of heaven,

  surrounded by pale glimmering stars, one of which was drifting slowly toward him. As it drew

  closer, he saw that it was an angel, the same one who had delivered him and Ned from the

  Dutchman! Like soft peals of bells across distant meadows, the beautiful vision's voice

  caressed his mind.

  "Take not the gold of lawless men,

  And heed now what I say:

  When thy feet touch land, 'tis then

  That thou must haste away.

  Leave behind that life and walk,

  Look not back at the sea,

  Whilst retribution brings the Hawk,

  New times unfold for thee."

  Morning brought with it a misty drizzle and a light fog, but there was no wind to speak of.

  Ben woke to see Captain Thuron laying out columns of gold coin on the table.

  Ned passed a thought as he, too, came awake. "Aye aye, mate, what's going on here?"

  Ben repeated the Labrador's question to the Frenchman.

  Thuron left off arranging the golden coins, his expression grave. "We've got trouble aboard,

  lad! I'm a trusting fool not to have believed 'twould come to this. The crew have released

  Gascon. I think there's about to be a mutiny!"

  Ben bit his lip. "It's all about me and Ned, isn't it, sir?"

  The captain straightened a stack of gold with his thumb. "Aye, though I don't know how they

  found out about you an' the Flying Dutchman. Leave this to me, though. The closeness of

  France and their shares of the booty might soften them up a bit."

  There was a light rap on the cabin door, and Pierre entered, carrying a cutlass and a primed

  musket. "The crew want words with ye, Cap'n. All hands are out on deck. Gascon an' Mallon

  are the ringleaders."

  Thuron rose, sweeping two of the coin stacks into either pocket. "Ben, you an' Ned stay here.

  Come on, Pierre, we'll see what this is all about!"

  The crew of La Petite Marie seemed reluctant to meet their captain's eye. They huddled on the

  midships deck, sheepish and sullen. Thuron grasped the rail of the afterdeck, staring down at

  them. "Well, lads, what is it, eh? I've never harmed a man for speaking his mind."

  Gascon and Mallon held a brief whispered conference, then Gascon stepped forward, pointing

  up at the captain's cabin. "That lad an' his dog, we want 'em both off this ship. They're bad

  luck, you know they are!"

  Thuron shrugged and smiled. "Now don't talk foolish. How would I know a thing like that?"

  Mallon nodded toward Gascon. "He was at the helm when the boy started yellin' out in his

  sleep, ain't that right, mate?"

  Gascon folded his arms, looking very smug. "Aye, you can't fool me, Thuron. I saw ye go into

  the cabin, so I listened at the door. Hah, ye didn't know that, did ye? I heard every word that

  accursed brat told ye. All about how he escaped from the Flying Dutchman many years ago,

  an' here he is today, large as life an' not a day older. The curse o' Satan's upon both the boy an'

  his dog. They're Jonahs! If they stay aboard all we'll see of France is the bottom o' the Bay o'

  Biscay. Ye can't deny the fact—every man jack here is with me'n Mallon, an' I warn ye, we're

  all armed!"

  The captain descended to the middle of the stairs leading to the deck. Emptying his pockets,

  he set out two stacks of gold coins and beckoned to both ringleaders. "Ned an' Ben have been

  with us since Cartagena. They've been lucky for me— you've all heard me say so, many times.

  Before you do something you'll regret, take a look at this gold. There's your share, Gascon,

  even though ye were a thief an' a deserter. That other share is yours, Mallon. Go on, take it!"

  Both men scurried forward and claimed their shares. Thuron watched them filling their

  pockets. "Every man aboard will get the same. By tomorrow morn ye'll all be on French soil,

  headed wherever the fancy takes ye—home, or the nearest tavern. Now, is that bad luck? Did

  a Jonah do that to ye?"

  Gascon drew his musket and pointed it at the captain. "Aye, 'tis bad luck for us, I'm a wanted

  man in France, an' so are most of this crew. We're taking over the ship an' sailing her to

  Spanish waters. We'll scuttle her off the coast of Guernica. That way we can take our own

  chances, either to stop in Spain or cross the border into France."

  Thuron appealed to the men in a reasonable voice. "Why did ye not tell me this before? I

  would have scuttled the Marie off the coast of Arcachon. I know of some quiet spots around

  there. But if ye want to sail for Spain an' sink her there, so be it. I'll come with ye an' not

  begrudge any hard feelings that've passed between us, eh?"

  Mallon set his lips in a stubborn line. "Not with that boy an' the dog aboard, we ain't takin' no

  chances!"

  All this time Pierre had been at the helm. Now he suddenly spun the wheel and called out

  aloud, "We're headed for Spain, sure enough. Hoist all sail! The French Navy is comin', four

  men-o'-war under full sail!"

  15

  TWO DAYS previous to the happenings aboard the Marie, Redjack Teal had arrived off the

  coast of Arcachon. The privateer sailed close to the shore so he could check on his bearings.

  Teal stood on deck, tapping the chart as he viewed the coastline. "Demn me if that ain't a

  piece o' first-class navigatin', eh! There's the port of Arcachon with its inlet, an' that great

  harbour which lies in the basin beyond. Bassin d'Arcachon, just like it says on me chart here.

  Remarkable!"

  He waggled an imperious finger at the mate. "You there, take her offshore an' a few points

  south. 'Tis quieter on that stretch of coast. Can't dawdle here, eh, don't want the locals gogglin'

  from the town at us. Haw haw haw!"

  The mate touched his forelock. "Aye aye, Cap'n. Helmsman, take 'er about an' watch your

  stern on Devon Belle's fore-peak. Two points south. Move yourselves afore this mist clears an'

  we're spotted. Jump to it!"

  Unfortunately, the Royal Champion and the Devon Belle had been seen: blocked from Teal's

  view by the harbour entrance, four French Navy ships lay close to the quay. The biggest and

  most fearsome of these vessels was a newly constructed destroyer, Le Falcon Des Monts, its

  captain none other than the illustrious fleet marechal Guy Falcon Saint Jean Des Monts, victor

  of many sea battles. The naming of his new ship, the largest gunboat yet built by the French

  Navy, was in tribute to the fleet marechal's impressive record. The other three craft were ships

  of the line, all men-o'-war. All four ships had lain in the Arcachon Basin at the marechal's

  request. Now he wished to take his new command out to sea on a naval exercise to test the

  new warship's performance. That morning, together with his three other captains, the marechal

  had sat in his stateroom, discussing plans and strategies for the forthcoming manoeuvres.

  Charts were spread across the table. The captains listened respectfully to their marechal, under

  whose command they were proud to serve. He was a tall, sombre man, prematurel
y grey, with

  a stern countenance, his keen dark eyes, weather-lined face, tight lips and aquiline features

  denoting a strong air of authority.

  The conference was about over when there was a knock upon the door. A naval lieutenant

  entered, shepherding two of the local townsmen in front of him. He beckoned toward the fleet

  commander. "Tell the marechal what you saw. Speak up, you have nothing to fear."

  The elder of the two jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. "Sir, we were out on the hills this

  morning, on the point by the harbour entrance, looking for gull eggs. I chanced to look

  seaward. It was misty, but I saw a ship out there."

  The marechal's eyebrows rose. "What was this ship like, sir?"

  Impressed at being addressed as "sir," the townsman answered as accurately as he could. "It

  looked like a Spanish galleon, a big one, sir. But it was flying English colours. Even though it

  was misty, I could see it had more deck guns than a merchant would carry."

  The marechal nodded, his interest quickening. "Well done, sir. This ship, which way was it

  bound?"

  The townsman pointed. "To the right, er south, sir, down toward the Gulf of Gascony. About

  just over an hour ago, sir."

  Clapping the man's shoulder, the marechal gave him a smile. "My thanks. You did well, sir!

  Lieutenant, see that these fellows get a ham apiece and a basket of eggs between them."

  The moment the door closed behind the men, the marechal turned to his captains. "It seems as

  though we have either a pirate or an English privateer in our territorial waters, gentlemen.

  Forget the manoeuvre plans we discussed. The best baptism for my new ship should be one of

  blood and fire! You will make way under full sail. I will lead the flotilla. Stand by for my

  commands as we go. Action is the order of the day, gentlemen!"

  Less than an hour later, the four French warships cleared the point with he Falcon Des Monts

  in the lead, guns at the ready, white sails billowing, the fleur-de-lis flag streaming from her

  stern. Smiling with satisfaction, the marechal noted his own personal banner waving out from

  the foremast peak: a falcon with wings outspread upon a field of green, the symbol of his

  family name. None of the sailors called it a falcon, though. It was known by the title their

  marechal had earned in many sea battles, and the name by which they referred to him ... the