The Angel's Command

by Brian Jacques

  The boy replied promptly. “I’d attack the Spaniard!”

  The lookout aboard the Devon Belle wiped rainwater from his eyes and called out to Captain Redjack Teal, who was holding the wheel manfully. “The Frenchman, sir, she’s ’eaded on a course straight for us! Cap’n, sir, there’s another ship sailin’ in the Frenchie’s wake! On me oath, sir, another ship!”

  Teal’s voice grew squeaky with excitement as he spun the wheel. “We’re comin’ about, can’t sit broadside on to ’em both!”

  Joby and the carpenter were still aloft. They had rigged the ropes around both masts. From the top of the foremast to three parts of the way up the mainmast the rope formed a coil six strands deep. The carpenter had thrust the oar through the ropes and twisted it, taking up the slack until the thick hemp was almost as taut as a fiddle string. Suddenly the Devon Belle came about quite sharply, the prow dipping deep and sending up a huge bow wave. Letting go of the oar to steady himself, the unfortunate carpenter signed his own death warrant. Spinning like a propeller, the oar smashed into the man’s face, sending him flying from the foremast top. His body struck the rail and bounced off into the night-dark depths of the Caribbean Sea.

  Joby screeched, “Man overboard!”

  Captain Teal gritted his teeth. Men who were foolish enough to fall overboard in the midst of action on a stormy sea were of little concern to him. Teal winced and ducked low at the boom and flare of gunfire from the Marie’s for’ard end.

  Rocco Madrid, from his vantage point at the Diablo’s stern, was highly puzzled by the noise. “Pepe, what’s the Frenchman up to? Where’s he firing?”

  Pepe, who had been concentrating his attention on the Marie, shouted and gesticulated wildly from his high perch. “Capitano! I can see a vessel dead ahead of the Frenchman, now—he’s firing on it!”

  It was at that moment that Anaconda fired off his stern cannon at the Spaniard, close in the Marie’s wake. The Diablo ’s bowsprit and ornate gallery rails exploded in a cascade of rope, iron and wood splinters. At the same time, a shot from the Marie’s for’ard end chopped the Devon Belle’s foremast off at the stump, and it hung crazily in the mess of ropes holding it to the mainmast.

  All was confusion, smoke and flame aboard both the Spaniard and the privateer. Thuron took advantage of the chaos to perform his Trinidad Shuffle. Along with a new sail to replace the one damaged by the chain shot, every other stitch of canvas aboard the Marie was brought into play for the daring manoeuvre. Thuron spun the wheel hard about as full sail blossomed overhead. La Petite Marie heeled sharply over, her lower sailtips brushing the waves. Ben could feel Ned huddling against him as he crouched under a stairway, holding on tightly. The Marie’s prow dipped deep against the rollers, sending up a roaring bow wave. For a brief moment she teetered in the stormy sea, broadside on between both the other two vessels. Then Thuron turned the wheel hard right and gave his Marie her head. Like an arrow from a bow, the speedy ship shot off shoreward, with the gale ballooning her sails. Two cannon roared out, one from the privateer, the other from the Spaniard. The cannonballs crossed each other’s path in the Frenchman’s wake and whizzed off to splash into the dark Caribbean waters. Thuron laughed like a madman as his ship sped into the night.

  Once out of range, he began tacking west to avoid the shore. With Ned howling at his heels, Ben ran out of hiding to join in with the cheering crew.

  Pierre took the wheel from his captain, shaking Thuron’s hand heartily. “You did it, Cap’n! You did it!”

  Falling on both knees, the Frenchman hugged Ned and Ben, still laughing as he replied to the bosun, “Nobody can dance the old Trinidad Shuffle like Raphael Thuron!”

  The Devon Belle’s master gunner hurried to his captain’s side, pointing at the Diablo dead ahead. “If ye bring us broadside, sir, we can blow ’er out the water!”

  Redjack Teal roared at the unfortunate man. “Blow a prize like that out of the water? Look at her, sirrah, are ye mad? With our guns mounted at her ports an’ my colours flyin’ from her masthead, she’d be the finest vessel in any sea! I intend capturin’ that ship for me own use. Let the Frenchie go, an’ bad cess to him. We’ll attend to that fellow as soon as yon galleon’s mine.”

  He beckoned to the mate. “Attend me closely. That ship’s already turnin’ to run off—’tis your duty to stop it gettin’ away. Take this wheel an’ stick to her wake like treacle to bread, keep her close. Gunner, see if you can rig cannon to fire either side of her, port’n’starboard. We’ll chase her in to the shore an’ pin her down. Then I’ll take her. Demned fine ship she is, eh!”

  Rocco Madrid’s normally sallow face paled further at the realisation that he was facing an English privateer. He watched the Diablo trying to turn sluggishly as Boelee and Portugee wrestled with the wheel. Having no for’ard sheets and bowsprit hampered the operation greatly. Boelee chanced a frightened glance as the ship began turning. “I’ve heard tell o’ that hellshark, ’tis an English privateer. See the coat ’er master wears? He’s Capitano Redjack!”

  Portugee almost let the wheel slip from his faltering grasp. “Redjack! They say he’s worse than a Barbary corsair!”

  Madrid’s hand slid to his sword hilt as he hissed a warning. “Shut your mouths, I know who he is. Listen, this Redjack has lost his foremast. Maybe he doesn’t want to fight. Boelee, easy now, take us a point to starboard.”

  No sooner had the Diablo nosed a foot out of place than Teal’s cannon boomed a warning shot to starboard, accompanied by a crackle of musket fire peppering the Spaniard’s stern.

  Boelee brought her back on course smartly. “Capitano, that bad man has many, many more guns than us. If we try to run, he will send the Diablo to the bottom.”

  Portugee was in full agreement with the mate. “How can we run without any bowsails? He will murder us all!”

  Madrid focussed his telescope on the privateer less than a quarter of a mile behind. He saw the cannon bristling from every port, the crew lining the rails with primed muskets, and the red-jacketed figure watching the for’ard culverins being loaded with grapeshot, a deadly combination of musket balls, scrap iron and broken chain. Grapeshot could sweep a deck with murderous effect. Two more culverins had been brought up from the stern. Four culverins loaded with grapeshot at short range!

  Madrid felt icy sweat trickle down his brow. This Redjack was a cold-blooded assassin! The Spaniard’s mind was in a racing turmoil as he turned to his men. “Keep a straight course. I’ll talk to this Redjack in the morning. Mayhap he’ll listen to a proposition. I’m going to my cabin. Keep dead ahead. Don’t upset him.”

  With the onset of dawn the rain ceased. Mist floated across the soft, lapping sea, the sun rising like a great blood orange in the east, setting a wondrous hue of pale cerise over the Caribbean waters. Captain Thuron joined Ben and Ned, who were breakfasting off fruit and coconut milk on the forecastle deck. He sat with them, watching a backing breeze dissolve the light fog.

  “A pretty sight, eh, Ben? I will miss these waters. Do you know where we are?”

  The boy nodded. “Almost into the Mona Passage. We should sight the Isle of Mona off the port bow before midday, sir.”

  Thuron’s bushy eyebrows raised. “Very good, how did you know?”

  Ned looked up from the coconut he was gnawing at. “Tell the good captain that it was your faithful hound who informed you of our position. Go on!”

  Ben smiled at his friend’s message as he addressed the captain. “Ned told me that he heard Anaconda saying it to Pierre when he relieved him at the wheel.”

  Thuron ruffled Ned’s ears. “Do you really talk with this dog?”

  Ben kept a straight face as he answered. “Oh, all the time, sir!”

  The Frenchman chuckled. “I believe you, how could I not? You have such honest faces, both of you.”

  Ned passed his friend another thought. “I’m the one with the honest face, really. You’ve grown to look quite furtive over the last few decades. But I’ve grown mor
e innocent. Look: truth and honesty are stamped all over my noble features!” Ned panted. Letting his tongue loll, he waggled his ears.

  Ben could not help laughing aloud. Thuron laughed with him.

  “Tell me, what is Ned saying to you now, lad?”

  The boy stroked his dog’s back. “Ned says he wants you to teach him the Trinidad Shuffle so he can use it sometime.”

  Ned left off chewing his coconut to reprimand Ben. “Ooh, you dreadful fibber. I said no such thing!”

  Thuron interrupted the mental conversation. “Tell him I’ll teach you both to catch flying fish—they come through these waters on their way to the Gulf of Mexico. Flying fish taste good, grilled with butter and oatmeal.”

  Ned went back to tackling his coconut. “Flying fish! Huh, who does he think he’s fooling?”

  Thuron pointed a stubby finger at the bows. “Look!” A flying fish was clearly visible, soaring level with the ship.

  Ben leapt up. “There’s another! Ned, did you see that?”

  The black Labrador stood on his back legs, with his front paws on the rail. He pulled back sharply as another fish flew briefly by and skimmed over the bow wave. “Whoops! Seems a shame to catch them. Do they really taste good? Ask the cap’n to teach us to catch a few, Ben!”

  Most of the morning was spent leaning over the prow, watching the flying fish trapping themselves in a net that Thuron had spread from the peak to the bowsprit. Anaconda sang cheerily in his rich deep bass as he supervised the cook in the galley. Ben listened as he pulled a fish from the net and marvelled at the huge spreading fins it used to soar over the waters.

  “Come on, come on, you flyin’ fish,

  Fly up here into my dish.

  Birds is birds, that’s how they act,

  Fish is fish, an that’s a fact.

  Foolish thing, I bet you wish

  You knew if you was bird or fish!

  Fly fly o’er the sea,

  Spread your fins an’ come to me.

  You flyin’ fish, come on, come on,

  I’m a sailor an’ a hungry one.

  In the air you sure look great,

  But you taste much nicer on a plate.

  Cook in the galley, warm that dish,

  Here comes another little flyin’ fish!

  Fly fly o’er the sea,

  Spread those fins an’ come to me.”

  They had passed the Isle of Mona and Mayagüez when the cook hammered his ladle against a stove lid and shouted to all hands. “Fish is done, all cooked to a turn. If ye don’t come quick, the Anaconda will eat ’em all!”

  Ned raced ahead of Ben, sending a thought back to him. “Move yourself, youth. I believe every word the good cook says. Hope Anaconda saves a few for me!”

  Thuron and the boy raced side by side, following Ned to the galley. All hands were jostling one another in line. Still relieved to have escaped both their foes, the men laughed and joked with one another.

  Ben exchanged a thought with Ned. “What a difference between this and our first trip together with Vanderdecken aboard the Flying Dutchman.”

  The black Labrador bristled. “Don’t even mention that hellship or mad Cap’n Vanderdecken and his crew of bullies. I’d sooner be aboard a good honest pirate ship like the Marie any day!”

  Bowing to the dog’s wisdom, Ben washed all thoughts of the accursed Dutchman from his mind. Instead, he concentrated on the bright sunlit Caribbean day, his friend Raphael Thuron, the merry bustle of crewmen and the anticipation of tasting his first cooked flying fish.

  Rocco Madrid was in deep trouble. The privateer had chased the Diablo Del Mar straight into the shallows of Puerto Rico’s palm-fringed shores. The Spaniard paced his cabin, wondering what the Englishman’s next move would be. Cowering in a corner with a rope around his neck that was secured to a deck ring, Ludon, former mate of the Marie, watched him with wide, frightened eyes. Both men knew they were in a fearful situation.

  Through his cabin window Madrid could see the Devon Belle, not three ship lengths away. She was broadside on to the Diablo, cannon bristling, almost daring the Spaniard to take the first shot. Rocco Madrid had more sense than to try. He felt like a rat in a trap—it would be plain suicide to attempt any show of aggression. Redjack Teal had an awesome reputation for slaughter.

  Portugee and Boelee came skulking into the cabin like a pair of naughty schoolboys about to be punished for some misdemeanour.

  Boelee looked sheepishly from the privateer in the bay to his captain. “What are we going to do, Capitano?”

  Madrid answered with a lot more confidence than he felt. “Do, amigos? We do nothing for the moment. The first hand is up to the Englishman to play.”

  Portugee remarked with a scowl, “The only cards Redjack deals us will be wrapped around cannonballs. Unless you plan on makin’ a move, Capitano, we are all dead men!”

  There was a rasp of steel leaving scabbard, and Portugee was suddenly backed against a bulkhead with the Spaniard’s sword at his throat. Madrid hissed venomously at him, “You’ll be a dead man sooner than you think if you let your tongue flap foolishly, amigo. I do the thinking aboard this ship without the advice of idiots. Leave this to me, I have a plan. Meanwhile, both of you get out on deck and close all the cannon ports. Boelee, run up a white flag of truce. Portugee, lock up all the muskets and swords. Keep all hands below deck, tell them to make no noise. Now go!”

  The Spaniard aimed a kick at Ludon. “You! Keep your mouth shut until I tell you to talk. I have plans for you.”

  Rocco Madrid came smartly out on deck the moment he saw a white flag fluttering from the Devon Belle’s masthead. Captain Redjack was standing amidships with a long, trumpet-ended megaphone to his lips. His voice carried clearly across the space between the vessels. Crewmen stood by with cocked muskets, ugly cannon snouts poked menacingly at the Diablo as Teal called out. “One false move an’ I open fire. Comprende?”

  The Spaniard cupped both hands round his mouth and shouted back. “I understand English, señor. What do you want?”

  Teal’s reply was sharp and officious. “I am Captain Jonathan Ormsby Teal of His Majesty’s ship Devon Belle. I carry letters of marque an’ reprisal as a privateer. I require your complete an’ unconditional surrender. Immediately!”

  Madrid kept his voice normal, though he was inwardly fuming at the foppish Englander’s high-handed manner. “Capitano, you have my word as a Spanish grandee that the first shot will not come from my vessel!”

  Teal snorted contemptuously as he raised the hailer to his mouth. “Fire at your peril, sirrah! I’ll blast your lungs’n’lights to perdition an’ dye this bay red with your foul blood! Answer me! Do ye surrender now . . . eh?”

  The Spaniard spread his arms placatingly. “I surrender, Capitano—only a fool would refuse your offer. But first I would talk with you. I have a proposition, amigo. One that could make you a very rich man—will you listen, señor?”

  Teal took a moment, whispering orders to his bosun, mate and master gunner, before making a reply. “A rich man, y’say? Stand fast, I’m comin’ over. Blink an eye an’ a dozen musketeers’ll blow it out!”

  Rocco Madrid bowed elaborately. “No tricks, I promise! Let us talk like civilised men. I will await your arrival in my cabin with some fine wine for both of us. With your permission, Capitano, I will retire now.”

  Twenty crew, armed with muskets and rifles, packed into the Devon Belle’s jolly boat. Teal sat in the stern, behind them. In his cabin, Madrid held tight to the scruff of Ludon’s neck as he loosed the rope. Thrusting Ludon to the window, the Spaniard pointed to Teal as he instructed his captive. “Hearken to me carefully. See the red-jacketed one? He can save both our lives. When I tell you to speak, you will lie to him, lie as you’ve never lied before, amigo. Tell the Englishman that La Petite Marie is carrying a vast fortune in gold. Ten, twenty times more than he took from me at Cartagena. You saw it yourself, with your own two eyes. Do this and you may live to be a rich fellow. Understan
d?”

  Sighing with relief, Ludon nodded furiously. “Aye aye, Cap’n, ye can rely on me. I swear it on my mother’s grave!”

  The Diablo’s decks were empty as Redjack Teal and his men came aboard. Teal murmured to his bosun, “Perfect! Take y’men an’ batten down the hatches, seal all doors except the cap’n’s cabin. Kill any pirate that shows his face on deck. Send two fellows back to the Devon Belle with our jolly boat an’ the Spaniard’s. Bring back every available hand who ain’t mannin’ a cannon. Cut along now, quick an’ quiet as y’like!”

  Teal strutted into the Spaniard’s cabin, hand on sword hilt. Rocco Madrid bowed courteously. “Welcome to my humble accommodation, Capitano. Some wine?”

  Ignoring the decanter of port and goblets, the privateer drew a fancy silver-chased pistol and pointed it. “I’ll take your surrender first!”

  Madrid drew his sword carefully and offered it over his forearm, hilt first. The privateer tested the blade’s balance nonchalantly and thrust it into his own belt. Still aiming the pistol, he sat at the cabin table, his eyes never leaving the Spaniard.

  Ludon crept forward and filled the goblets. Crossing his legs and leaning back, Redjack took a sip and nodded toward Ludon. “An’ who, pray, is this fellow, eh?”

  The Spaniard smiled slyly as he played his ace card. “This is the man who can make us our fortunes, señor. He was first mate aboard the French buccaneer. Tell the English capitano what you saw, amigo.”

  By evening the deal had been hammered out, more to Teal’s satisfaction than to the Spaniard’s. But Rocco Madrid accepted all terms, telling himself that he could always alter the balance at a later date. Unarmed, the entire crew of the Diablo Del Mar were marched up on deck in fours and made to wade ashore in the ebbing tide. Surrounded as they were by a fully armed and very hostile English crew, they were forced to comply sullenly.