The Angel's Command

by Brian Jacques

  Aboard his flagship, the Hawk held up a hand. “Cease fire!” He turned to a lookout who had climbed down from the topmast to report. “Well, what is it?”

  The man saluted. “Maréchal, there is another ship, a gunboat flying English colours!”

  The Hawk’s aquiline nose quivered, and his eyes lit up. “So, an Englishman eh, where away?”

  The lookout replied. “To the south, Maréchal. She was hugging the coast, waiting on the other ship, I think. When she spied us, she veered off and began sailing further south, sir.”

  The Hawk drew his telescope and scanned the seas ahead. “Ah yes, there it is, a Spanish galleon sailing under English colours—she has a smaller vessel in tow.”

  He strode to the forepeak, acknowledging with curt nods the crew, who were cheering his first victory in the new ship. On the forecastle, the Hawk gave orders to his officers. “Well, gentlemen, I know my ship’s firepower. There is one less enemy in French waters now. Let us see how we sail under speed. I intend to capture the English ships before they can make it into Spanish waters. We will not sink them—they will be taken as prizes. Inform the other captains that I will go under full sail in the vanguard. Tell them to follow with all speed and await my commands!”

  Ben had not turned his head to look back. He was not just heeding the angel’s warning; other demons were closing in on him, too. He lay in the bottom of the jolly boat, oblivious of his surroundings. The roar and boom of French Navy cannon blended with those far-off noises of Cape Horn—crashing seas, tearing rigging and howling storm. Vanderdecken laughing madly, bound to the helm for eternity and being swept off into the maelstrom of oceans at the world’s end. Spine-chilling recollections, mixed with the demise of the Marie, mingled in the boy’s mind until he lost all sense of reality.

  It was Ned’s blunt, rough claws that brought him to his senses. The faithful dog was scratching at his back, sending out frantic, urgent warnings. “Ben, wake up! Move, Ben, move. We’re sinking!”

  The boy spluttered as his face struck the bottom of the jolly boat. Coughing and spitting seawater, he sat up. Ned seized his shirtsleeve and tugged at it with his teeth. “Come on, mate, we’ll have to swim for it. This boat’s full of musket holes—we’re lucky we weren’t hit!”

  Recovering himself, Ben realised the predicament they were in. He grabbed the dog’s collar, heaved him overboard and leapt into the sea alongside him. Taking a bearing on the shore, which was only a few hundred yards off, he kicked out. “Straight ahead, Ned, it’s not so far!”

  For the first time in his life, Captain Redjack Teal knew the meaning of fear: four French Navy warships were bearing down on him. The master gunner came hurrying up, carrying a stick topped by a smouldering mixture of tar and rope. He looked hopefully to Teal.

  “I could load the stern culverins with chain shot, Cap’n. May’ap we could clip the big feller’s foremast. That’d slow him down a touch, sir.”

  Teal snatched the stick and flung it into the sea. “Ye demned idiot, yonder’s the French Navy! Can’t y’see the guns they’re sportin’, man? Hah, that scoundrel’s just longin’ t’see a puff o’ smoke from even a musket an’ he’ll blow us to doll rags! Get the mud out of your eyes, man. Did ye see what they did to Thuron?”

  He watched miserably as the new ship tacked, circling out to come round in a curve ahead of him. The other three vessels manoeuvred to close the trap, one to port, the other to starboard, whilst the remaining one stayed close behind in his wake. The privateer stamped his elegantly shod foot in temper. Life was so unjust! After pursuing a fortune in gold from the Caribbean, right across an ocean, his dreams of wealth and glory had been cruelly snatched away in just a few short hours. Add to this the indignity of being taken by the French without a single shot being fired. The entire episode was an utter debacle! He sprinted to the stern at the sight of the bosun and mate loosing the stern ropes. “What’n the name of jackasses are ye about there?”

  The mate saluted, trying to sound helpful. “Er, we were castin’ the Devon Belle adrift, sir. She might make that Frenchie behind us run afoul of her, sir—that’d give us a chance of escape.”

  Teal was nearly out of his mind. He became quite petulant. Kicking the mate on his shin, he sprayed him with spittle as he ranted and shouted into the man’s face. “That ship is mine, mine, d’ye hear?”

  He rounded on the unsuspecting bosun and kicked him also. “I’m the captain of these ships, or haven’t ye noticed, eh? Demned ass of a gunner, wantin’ to fire on four battle-ships, this other buffoon thinkin’ we can turn an’ run away. Has everybody aboard lost their confounded minds—”

  “Englishman, strike your colours and slack sail!” An officer was hailing him with a megaphone from the ship behind. Teal’s shoulders sagged. It was all over.

  He turned to the mate, who was rubbing his shin. “Strike y’colours, take in all sail. I’ll be in me cabin.”

  The Hawk sat in his stateroom, the crimsoning twilight giving its new woodwork a rosy hue. He listened carefully to the information his officers had gathered from the crew of the Royal Champion. It was always best talking to the men before interviewing the master. They had less reason to lie than their captain did.

  He sat back and mulled over what he had heard, his fingers tapping a tattoo upon the tabletop. Then he signalled to a waiting lieutenant. “I will see the Englishman now.”

  Trying feebly to resist two burly gunners, Teal was swiftly frog-marched into the maréchal’s presence. The privateer looked indignant and dishevelled; the gunners held his arms tightly, preventing him from tidying himself up.

  He immediately began to protest. “Sirrah, is this any way to treat the captain of one of His Britannic Majesty’s vessels? Tell these ruffians to release me instantly. I’ll not be laid hands upon in such a demned rough manner!”

  The maréchal glanced up from some papers he was studying. His unblinking gaze, coupled with the haughty way he looked a man up and down, had Teal feeling both unnerved and embarrassed.

  The privateer attempted to pull himself free, but the two gunners held him easily. He tried to sound reasonable. “Sir, I appeal to you, order these rogues to unhand me. I, sir, am like you, an officer and a gentleman!”

  The maréchal reduced him to silence with a baleful glare. “You dare compare yourself with me, you scum?”

  He waved Teal’s own parchmented credentials at him and spat out the word vindictively. “Privateer! A filthy mercenary, carrying a letter of marque or reprisal. There is no lower form of life on land or sea. You are a prisoner of war and will be treated as such!”

  Captain Redjack Teal suddenly wilted beneath his captor’s scorn. He whined like a bully who had just had the tables turned on him. “I was only carryin’ out my king’s orders, sir. You cannot punish an innocent man for that!”

  The maréchal snorted. “I do not intend punishing you—that is for a military tribunal to decide. Whether you hang or go to the guillotine is immaterial to me. Stop weeping, man! They may spare your life and assign you with your crew to the convict working parties at Marseilles. There you can do a lifetime’s penance rebuilding the harbour walls under the lash of your gaolers. Take him away!”

  A short time later, Teal found himself belowdecks in the Hawk’s new vessel, chained by the ankle to the rest of his crew. They chuckled wickedly as the bosun tugged the chain and sent him flat on the deck. “Well, look who’s here, mates, ’tis the Jolly Cap’n. Up on your feet, Redjack, an’ dance a hornpipe for us!”

  Teal cowered, trying to pull himself off into a corner, but the mate dragged him out by his manacled foot. “Ye powdered popinjay, didn’t ye hear the man? He said dance, so come on, step lively now, let’s see ye dance!”

  Two marines, pacing the grating overhead of the prisoners’ accommodation, winced at the sounds of Teal’s sobs and screams for mercy. One of them shrugged casually. “I think that crew did not love their captain very much.”

  For full two days, that boy and
dog

  Did sit upon the shore bereaved,

  No food nor drink would pass their lips,

  As for lost friends they grieved.

  Sad tears which fell like April rain

  Were soaked into the earth and lost,

  And only two from all that crew

  Were left to count the cost.

  Pursued by foes, both live and dead,

  From Caribbean to Biscay’s Bay,

  Commanded by an angel’s word

  To turn and walk away.

  What trials and perils lie ahead,

  Decreed by heaven and the fates?

  The Flying Dutchman haunts the seas,

  As her accursed captain waits . . . and waits!

  BOOK TWO

  THE RAZAN

  16

  IT WAS A GREY DAY. THE WEATHER was neither cold nor warm, but windless and dull. Drizzle fell in swathing curtains from a sky the hue of much-watered milk. Ben and Ned had been walking inland for several days, avoiding villages and anyplace where people lived. They crouched in the lee of a rock jutting out of a field, huddling together, unable to escape the enveloping wetness. Ben imparted a thought to Ned. “D’you think they’ll still be searching for survivors from the Marie?”

  The black Labrador shook his head. “Well, there’s been no sign of anybody since dawn. We’re alone out here. Those villagers will be back home now and the sailors back aboard their ships. We must get something to eat, Ben—a couple of sour apples and two turnips are all we’ve had since we left the coast.”

  Blowing rainwater from the tip of his nose, Ben agreed. “Aye, my stomach’s been growling worse than you, mate. See up ahead there, top of that slope a few fields away? It looks like woodland to me. Shall we give it a try?”

  Ned raised his head and squinted into the rain. “Why not? At least we’ll get some decent shelter under the trees. I’m not fond of this country, it’s too quiet altogether. Come on, all we’re doing is getting wetter sitting here.”

  The sound of water squelching and splashing from the grass and earth beneath their feet was muffled by the downfall as they ran across the eerily silent landscape. It was tough going for tired limbs as they made their way uphill. Breathless and saturated, Ben and Ned finally arrived beneath the shelter of the trees on a thickly wooded hilltop. A variety of white beam, juneberry, elm, beech and various conifers grew in profusion to provide a fairly dry covering overhead. The two friends sat with their backs against a broad elm on the fringe, gazing out over the dismal countryside.

  A shudder passed through Ben as he rubbed his hands up and down both arms. “Huh, what I wouldn’t give for a cheery old fire, that rain has chilled my bones!”

  Ned settled down, chin on paws. “A good old fire, eh? I’ll let you know if I come across one. Maybe it’ll brighten up by midnoon and we’ll take a proper look around. Meanwhile, I’m tired. Let’s take a nap for an hour or two.”

  Ben lay down by the dog’s side. As they watched the rain drifting down out in the open, weariness overcame the pair, and, eyelids drooping, they dropped into slumber.

  Ben was not aware of how long he had slept. He woke shivering to the feel of Ned’s rough tongue licking his hand. It was almost dark.

  The boy complained, rubbing his eyes. “What did you wake me for, mate? I was having a nice sleep there. Nice but cold. Brrrr!”

  The Labrador’s mental message reached him. “That good old fire you were going on about, it’s not too far from here.”

  Ben stood up, peering into the thick, darkening woodlands. “Where? I can’t see it.”

  Ned pointed with his nose, like a hunting dog. “Over that way somewhere. I can’t see it either, but I can smell it.

  Let’s go easy now, we don’t know what sort of person lit the fire. Follow me, but quietly, Ben, quietly.”

  Ben trailed in his dog’s path, through bush and foliage and round the gnarled trunks of big, ancient trees. Ned halted after a while, sheltering himself behind an oak. “There it is—told you I could smell fire.”

  Ben stood on tiptoe to get a clear view of the distant light. He could make out a small pedlar’s cart, its shafts resting on the ground in a small clearing. The two friends crept forward until both could see properly. A man was sleeping by the fire, and there was no sign of a horse or donkey to pull the cart. A girl in her midteens was sitting chained to a cartwheel, a scarf bound round her mouth as a gag.

  Unwittingly, Ben trod on a dry twig. It snapped underfoot. The man, a big fat fellow, grunted in his sleep and rolled over onto his back. He began snoring loudly, but the girl saw them. She locked eyes with Ben.

  The boy held a finger to his lips, hearing Ned’s thought. “Not much use telling her to be quiet—she’s got no choice with that gag on. Look, her eyes are moving up and down. She’s nodding toward something. Let’s get a bit closer!”

  A wooden club with a leather-bound handle lay close by the sleeping man. Ben knew immediately that the girl’s eyes were signalling him to use the club on the man. He looked at Ned. “What shall we do?”

  The dog’s thoughts were not in the least hesitant. “That’s a pretty girl the fat rogue’s keeping prisoner. Wallop him with the club, Ben. That way we’ll be able to free her, and he’ll get a sound night’s sleep. Go on!”

  Bent almost double, the boy inched forward into the firelight. The girl was urging him on, nodding her head furiously. Ben was unsure what force it would take to stun the big fat man, but he lifted the club and gave the fellow’s head a sharp rap. The man sat bolt upright, one hand rubbing his head, the other shooting out to grab the boy’s leg as he roared angrily. “You little murderer, what the h—”

  Ben swung the club overarm, closing his eyes as he heard the loud bonk it made on the man’s skull. Ned trotted into the firelight, nodding his approval. “That’s more like it, mate. Get that gag out of the maid’s mouth!”

  Throwing down the club, Ben swiftly knelt and undid the scarf. The girl was indeed pretty—almond-skinned, doe-eyed and slender with a mass of black curls framing her face. Ben was taken aback by the vehemence in her voice.

  “That lard barrel has the key to these shackles on a string around his neck. Get them here before he wakes up. Quick!”

  Lifting the man’s head, Ben pulled the string over it and took the key, then undid the lock that held her wrists chained to the metal wheel rim. No sooner was she free than the girl bounded over, grabbed the club and whacked it down hard twice on the unconscious man’s ankle. He moaned softly. She raised the club high, her voice harsh.

  “Here, I’ll give you something to whine about!”

  Ben caught her arm and wrenched the club from her. “What are you trying to do, kill him?”

  Taking several long, burning branches from the fire, the girl bound them together like a torch. “Hah! That’d be no bad thing, he deserves killin’. Let’s get out of here!”

  Grabbing a small bag from the cart, she tossed it to Ben. “Here, you carry the food!”

  Ned ran hard on her heels, exchanging thoughts. “She’s a fierce one, mate, I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her. See the way she swung that club!”

  “Maybe she did it with good reason, Ned. Anyhow, at least we’ve got food and the means to make a fire. I wish she’d slow down. Whew! That girl can certainly run!”

  It was quite a while before the girl stopped running. She chose a spot deep in the woods, surrounded by trees and backed by an outcropping of several tall rocks. “Get wood for a fire before this torch burns down to nothing!”

  Wordlessly, Ben and Ned foraged around for dry wood. As she built the fire, the girl took the branches of dead pine that Ned was carrying in his mouth.

  She beckoned Ben to sit beside her and stroked Ned. “This is a good clever dog, I like him. What’s his name?”

  The boy began opening the bag she had taken from the cart. “I’m Ben, and he’s called Ned. What’s your name?”

  She snatched the bag from him. “Karayna, but
they call me Karay.” She took a small stale loaf of wheat bread from the bag. Breaking it into three equal pieces, she handed one to Ben, threw the other to Ned, and began tearing at her own portion.

  Ben watched her face in the firelight—she was indeed very nice-looking. “You were pretty hard on the man, Karay. Why?”

  She rubbed at her wrist where the chain had chafed it. “Huh, that miserable gut bucket! We were in prison together, at Léon, but we broke out and stole the cart. Since then he’s used me like a horse, making me pull the cart and get his food for him. He chained me to the cart every night, said he was going to sell me in the mountains on the Spanish border. Don’t worry about that fat worm anymore—he won’t find it so easy to get along with a broken ankle. Nobody treats me like that and gets away with it!”

  Ben chewed on the hard bread thoughtfully. “What were you both doing in prison?”

  Karay elbowed him smartly in the ribs. “That’s no business of yours. But, if y’must know, I was a singer and he was a clown. We went from town to town, entertaining on market days. He’d mingle with the crowd while I sang, and I’d do the same when he was doing his act.”

  Ben frowned. “Mingle with the crowd. What for?”

  She smiled scornfully at him. “To pick pockets and purses, of course. I’m good at it, you see. ’Twas that fat greasy ass who got us caught, not me. Anyhow, what are you and your dog doing wandering this forest?”

  Ben stared into the fire. “Oh, nothing really, just wandering.”

  Karay laughed. “Hahaha, who d’ye think you’re tryin’ to fool? I bet you two are the ones those sailors and townsfolk were searching for. Came off that pirate ship the navy sunk. I heard them talking in the jailhouse.”

  Ben felt a flash of resentment toward the outspoken girl. “No, we didn’t, and anyhow, I don’t want to talk about it!”