The captain dashed out onto the deck, with Ben and Ned hard on his heels. Crewmen with worried faces clattered up from the mess deck, carrying weapons and priming muskets as they made their way to the stern rail. Thuron pulled a telescope from his coat lining and sighted on the dark smudge to the rear, which was all they could see of Cartagena. He swung the glass to and fro, halting as he caught sight of sail.
“Rocco Madrid and the Diablo Del Mar! Well, he didn’t waste much time, did he? Stand by all hands, we’re in for a sea chase. Load those cannon, Anaconda, I’ll take the wheel. Come on, Ben, bring Ned too—I’m going to need all the luck ye can bring me!”
Captain Rocco Madrid called up to his lookout. “Have they sighted us yet, Pepe?”
Loud and clear, the lookout bellowed back. “Sí, Capitano, they are piling on sail to escape us!”
Rocco’s bosun, Portugee, handed the wheel over to his captain. “Shall I roll out all the cannon an’ give ’em a full salute? Capitano, we can outgun the Marie easily.”
Madrid narrowed his eyes until they were wicked slits. “No, no, Thuron has the gold. He is of no use to me on the bottom of the sea with his ship. Diablo will outrun them, we’ll take the Marie an’ her crew alive. I want to sail into Cartagena with everyone aboard that ship hanging from their own yardarms. Our Brotherhood on shore will know then: No man takes gold from Rocco Madrid and lives to tell the tale!”
Rocco’s first mate, a fat Hollander called Boelee, spoke up. “Even the brat an’ his dog?”
The Spaniard drew out his telescope and scanned the distant ship. “Especially the brat an’ his dog, amigo. Lessons must be taught by making hard examples.”
Aboard La Petite Marie, Thuron was roaring orders. “Pile on every stitch of canvas there! Up the rigging, every man jack of ye! Pierre, Ludon, climb out onto the bows an’ chop away those rope fenders. She’ll cut the waves cleaner with a sharp prow!”
Pierre, the bosun, and Ludon, the mate, scrambled over the bows with cutlasses held in their teeth.
Ben looked anxiously at the Frenchman, voicing his thoughts aloud. “Are you sure we can outrun them, Cap’n?”
Thuron smiled grimly. “We’ve got to, or we’re all dead men. Don’t worry, boy, my ship may be smaller, but she’s faster, I’m sure of it. With me at the helm, Madrid will get a run for his gold. That big, awkward tub of his was never built for sea chases. Our Marie will show him a clean pair of heels, providing he doesn’t use his cannon. ’Tis my job to keep us out of his range until he tires of the chase, though I’m certain that Spaniard doesn’t want to sink us. If Madrid does get us within distance, he’ll try to snap off our masts.”
Ned was struck by an idea, which he imparted to Ben. “It’ll be dark in an hour or two, so why don’t we make sure the ship isn’t showing any lights to give away our position?”
Ben immediately passed on the suggestion to Thuron. The Frenchman was wholly in agreement. “A good thought, lad. Go and cover the ports and douse any lanterns you can find. I can probably lose him in the dark. Anaconda, take the wheel. Let’s go below and study the charts, Ben. Then maybe we can be like the fox—stop running and hide!”
After dousing every available lantern and curtaining the galley ports so that the glow from the stove would not betray their position, Ben and Ned went to the captain’s cabin. Thuron had a chart spread out on the bed. He tapped the point of a dagger against a spot on the coast. “There, Santa Marta, that’s where we’ll hide.”
Ben studied the chart: Santa Marta was just north up the coastline from Cartagena. He turned to the Frenchman. “But sir, that’s back the way we came.”
Ned put his paws on the bed and scanned the map, thinking, “So it is!”
But the captain explained his strategy. “Madrid doesn’t know we’re bound across the ocean to France. He thinks we’re on a sea chase, north across the Caribbean. So I’ll take a sweep east and turn south just after twilight.”
Ben caught on to the plan quickly. “Clever! Madrid will be searching ahead and we’ll side-slip him. He’ll go sailing off into the sea while we head back to land—a good idea, sir!”
Ned sent out a sobering thought. “Pretty risky though!”
The boy was taken slightly aback when Thuron replied as if he had heard the dog, though it was pure coincidence. “’Tis risky, I grant you. If Madrid or his crew spots us, we’re done for. But I’m willing to take the chance. There’s a high, rocky point that sticks out into the waters around Santa Marta. If we can get by the Diablo unnoticed, we’ll lie in the lee of it and be well hidden.”
Rocco Madrid stared into the reddening horizon, watching day fade into night. He called up to Pepe. “Have you still got them in sight, amigo?”
Pepe scrambled down, grunting with the exertion. “Only just, Capitano. I will want your seeing glass to keep track properly. I only need a lantern or galley stove glint to tell me where La Petite Marie lies.”
The Spaniard handed over his telescope. “Be careful with it.”
Pepe began his laborious ascent of the mast, grumbling. “I’ll miss something to eat, being stuck up there.”
Rocco heard him and replied humourlessly, “You’ll eat when I say. Move from that crow’s nest and you’ll have to eat supper through a slit in your neck!”
Pepe reached his lookout post and swept the seas ahead through the telescope. “I see them, Capitano, their galley fire is shining out like a beacon!”
Ben watched the wooden spar bob away on the waves to the port side of the ship. A heap of old sailcloth, soaked in lamp oil, blazed merrily on the spar’s topside. He patted Ned’s head fondly. “If I was wearing a hat, I’d take it off to you, mate. That lighted spar is a stroke of genius!”
The Labrador stood with his front paws against the port rail, sniffing as he returned the thought. “If I was human I’d be an admiral now. Suppose you’ll tell our cap’n that it was your idea, eh?”
Ben shook his head. “I won’t even mention it.”
Ned dropped his ears comically. “Oh, go on, tell him and get all the glory for yourself. I know what it’s like to lead a dog’s life, all work and no praise.”
Ben lightly kissed the top of his dog’s head. “There, you’re getting my praise now. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Ned. The world’s smartest dog, that’s you!”
Thuron emerged from his cabin and pointed to the decoy light. “Hah! That’s a great trick. Was it your idea, Ben?”
The boy answered, speaking the truth. “No sir, it was good Saint Ned who thought of it!”
The Frenchman cuffed Ben playfully. “Don’t make me laugh. Sound carries far on open waters, you know.”
Moonless dark fell over the softly soughing waves, and clouds cloaked most of the stars. Rocco Madrid handed the wheel over to Boelee and went to the foot of the mast. He called up in a hoarse whisper. “Where is the Marie now, Pepe?”
Pepe’s nervous whisper reached his ears. “I cannot see her anymore, Capitano. I had your glass on the galley light and poof! It went out. Someone must have closed the galley door.”
Madrid’s teeth grinding together made an audible noise. “Idiot, you mean you’ve lost her. She must have put on even more sail. We’ll keep a straight course. I think we’re right in Thuron’s wake. He’s heading for Jamaica and Port Royal, I’m sure he is. Boelee, set your course due north. Portugee, keep her under full sail. We’ll sight him by daylight tomorrow, there’s nowhere to hide on the open sea. I’ll be in my cabin. Wake me an hour before dawn.”
The Spaniard stalked off to his cabin, leaving the three crewmen searching the night-dark horizon. Rocco Madrid would not be a pleasant captain to sail with if they lost La Petite Marie.
Ben helped Captain Thuron’s crew to slacken sail as the dark, humped cliffs of Santa Marta hove into view. Ned watched as the giant steersman, Anaconda, took the vessel carefully into the western lee side of the towering rocks. Thuron gave orders for the anchor to be dropped. He chuckled softly as the boy joined hi
m on deck. “Our Marie is safe here for the night. I’ll wager that the Diablo is bound at full speed for Kingston or Port Royal—where else would a Brotherhood vessel head for in the Caribbean? First thing tomorrow we’ll slip round the headland and make a straight run east, out of this sea and into the Atlantic Ocean. Then ’tis France and home, eh, boy?”
Ben threw the captain a smart salute. “Aye aye, sir!”
3
AROUND ON THE EASTERN SIDE OF
the Santa Marta cliffs, little more than two miles from where the Marie was anchored, lay another ship, the Devon Belle. She was a privateer, carrying a letter of marque from the king of England, Charles the First. Little more than pirates themselves, privateers preyed upon other pirates and ships that were hostile to the privateer’s own homeland. They were common to many countries—France, Spain, Portugal and the Netherlands. Devon Belle was a British privateer. King Charles had signed a licence for her captain to raid and plunder any foreign ship he chose, on the pretext that a vessel not flying a British flag was either a pirate or an enemy. Carrying his letter of marque, the privateer captain would attack and conquer all before him, taking charge of all treasures and booty he captured. Very profitable ventures for the English Crown, which took a large share of the spoils. Privateer captains usually posed as officers of the British Navy, pretending that they were clearing the seas of pirates and keeping the world’s shipping lanes free for honest seafarers.
Captain Jonathan Ormsby Teal was such a man. Elegant, suave and well educated, the ambitious eldest son of an impoverished noble family, he had chosen to make his living on the high seas and had taken to the trade like a duck to water. His ship, though small, bristled with armament, cannon barrels poking from every port, for’ard, aft and amidships. At present he was playing his favourite game, lying in wait for any craft sailing out of Barranquilla or Cartagena and ready to leap out on them from his hiding place on the east side of the Santa Marta cliffs. Captain Teal was rapidly becoming the scourge of the Caribbean Sea. He affected to wear a square-tailed foxhunting jacket of red and revelled in the nickname his crew had given him, Cap’n Redjack. All he was waiting for was the coming of daylight and some unsuspecting ship to pass the headland in range of his guns. Now he sat in his tiny stateroom, sipping Madeira wine and toying with an assortment of gold coins, mainly doubloons. The clink of pure, bright gold was music to the ears of Cap’n Redjack Teal!
Ben and Ned slept out on the deck, as it was warm and humid in the shelter of the high rocks. The boy and his dog stretched out amid rope coils piled on the forecastle, hoping to catch a passing breeze.
Ben had barely sunk into a slumber when he was awakened by Ned. The black Labrador was whimpering in his sleep, paws and ears twitching fitfully. The boy sat up and smiled. What dreams was the dog dreaming? First he would make a moaning sound, then give a little yip, his nose would wrinkle and his flanks would quiver. Dreams, what strange visitations they were.
Ben got up and went to stand in the prow, looking out past the cliffs at the dark sea. Then he saw something that he knew was no dream.
The Flying Dutchman!
Standing out in the moonless night, surrounded by an eerie green radiance, there was the accursed ship, storm-torn sails fluttering on some nameless wind, ice bedecking the rigging, its hull thick with barnacles and marine debris. It turned slowly, broadside on, allowing phantom waves to wash it nearer to shore. Closer it drifted, closer.
The boy stood riveted with horror, unable to run, fear jamming his eyes wide open. He longed to scream, shout, anything to break the dread spell. His mouth opened, but no sound came forth. Now the ghostly vessel was so near it was almost upon him. He could see the awful form of Captain Vanderdecken lashed to the wheel, his long, salt-crusted hair flowing out behind him, his tombstone-like amber teeth bared by bloodless lips in the deathly pallor of an ashen face. Vanderdecken stared through mad, blood-flecked eyes at the lad and his dog, who had been cast away long years ago from his ship by an angel from heaven. The fearsome apparition glared balefully at Ben, getting closer by the moment.
Then Ned rose to his feet and began barking and baying out long, anguished howls, which echoed off the cliffs.
A voice rang out from the crew’s accommodation. “Shut that dog up, someone. Where’s the boy?”
There was the slap of bare feet upon the deck as Ludon, the mate, ran up onto the forepeak. He saw Ben standing out on the bow, rigid, with Ned alongside him still barking madly. Ludon grabbed Ben’s arm. “What’s the matter with ye, boy, can’t ye control that animal—”
At the sight of someone seizing his friend, Ned hurled himself on the mate, knocking him flat. Suddenly Thuron was among them. Ben shuddered and collapsed to the deck. The Frenchman picked him up like a baby, aiming a kick at Ludon as he did. “Ben, lad, are you alright? What did you do to the boy, Ludon?”
Scrambling away from Ned, the mate protested. “I never did anything, Cap’n, on my oath. I heard the dog making a noise and came to see—”
Thuron roared at the hapless Ludon. “Don’t ever touch this boy, and keep away from the dog. These two are my luck. Leave them both alone. Understood?”
Hurt and bewildered by the anger of his normally affable captain, Ludon slunk off, back to his bunk.
Ben regained consciousness on the bed in the captain’s cabin, with Ned licking his face. He sat up, rapidly communicating with him. “Did you see it? Vanderdecken was there, I saw him, he was coming after us, I’m sure of it. Did you see the ship, Ned?”
The dog thrust his front paws into Ben’s chest, knocking him back on the bed. “I saw it in my dreams, but I couldn’t break the spell of the nightmare. I couldn’t wake myself, Ben. I could feel the Dutchman getting closer, nearer than he had ever been since we were on his ship all those years ago. I knew you were in danger, I wanted to help you. Then suddenly I started to bark for the angel to come and save us both. That must have done the trick. Though for an angel, Ludon has bad breath and dirty feet!”
Ben remained flat on the bed and gave Ned a slight smile. “Thanks, mate, you’re a true friend. Where’s the captain?”
The dog allowed the boy to get up as he nodded toward the door. “Oh, him, he’s in the crew’s mess, giving them a severe talking-to. Old Thuron doesn’t like anyone messing with his two lucky friends—we’re to be left alone by all hands.”
Ben shook his head regretfully. “I wish he hadn’t done that. I like the crew of the Marie. They may be pirates, but they aren’t as bad as the crew of the Dutchman. They were wicked.”
Ned licked Ben’s hand. “Well, you’re a lucky lad, and I’m a lucky dog. We’ll just have to put up with it. Get some rest now. Our cap’n said he’d stay out on deck. Go on, mate, sleep. I’ll stay here and keep watch for both of us.”
The boy scratched behind his faithful dog’s ear. “I know you will, Ned. You’re a good, trusty hound.”
Ned winked at Ben. “Don’t go to sleep right away. Keep scratching my ear, just there. Ooh, that feels wonderful!”
Eventually they both fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. Ben dreamt he was drifting amidst golden clouds in a glorious dawn, high over a calm sea blue as a cornflower. Softly, like distant bells across a meadow, the angel’s voice floated into the corridors of his mind.
“Beware the walking dead by night,
banished by our Saviour’s sight,
And when all faces turn away,
Leave the sea upon that day,
But shun the gold, thou honest heart,
Watch not a friend you loved depart!”
The next thing Ben knew was the sound of Ned, growling softly at a knock on the cabin door. Anaconda’s giant frame almost blocked out the pale dawn light as he stooped and entered, bearing a tray. Placing the contents on the bedside table, he indicated two bowls of oatmeal, some fruit, and water for Ben and Ned.
“We sail now. Cap’n say you eat this.” The big man turned and padded silently out.
Ned heard a dull
bump against the ship’s side and nodded to Ben. “Sounds like the anchor being hauled.”
Ben began eating hurriedly. “I’ll go and lend the crew a hand to make sail!”
Thuron watched as Ben swung nimbly from the rigging and landed lightly on deck next to his black Labrador. The Frenchman admired the boy’s agility. “A monkey couldn’t have done that better than you, lad. Well now, my lucky messmates, are ye ready to sail for France?”
The boy threw a salute. “Aye aye, sir!”
Ned wuffed and wagged his tail. Captain Thuron smiled happily. He turned and called orders to Pierre, who was at the wheel. “Take her out steady beyond the cliffs, Bosun.
Then set your course nor’east through the Caribbean, out ’twixt Hispaniola and Puerto Rico into the Atlantic deeps!”
Ben felt a thrill of anticipation. Certainly there would be unknown perils out on the wide ocean—hardships, too. But this was a voyage to another continent. His sense of adventure was stirred. He felt a kinship with the crewmen of La Petite Marie as they struck up a farewell shanty. Ben felt like a true seafarer, out on his second voyage, halfway across the world. Captain Thuron sang along with the rest as Ben hummed, not knowing the words, and Ned wagged his tail in time with the music.
“Fare thee well, ye fair Susannah,
And to all the friends I know.
Adieu to the shore I might see no more,
I am sailing so far from you.
The seabirds are wheeling and crying,
And we’re bound to cross the great main,
I must follow the sea, so think kindly of me,
Maybe one day I’ll see thee again.”
Percival Mounsey, the cook aboard the Devon Belle, was fastidious in his duty to Cap’n Redjack. The master of an English privateer was always served breakfast first, so the cook had risen at dawn and hauled in a yellow-scaled flatfish from a baited line he had hung off the stern rail on the previous night. Having cooked the fish to perfection on his galley grill, he arranged it fussily on a silver platter with thin slices of lemon, a sprinkle of red pepper and a dash of rock salt. He placed it on a tray, along with half a decanter of Madeira wine and two of the special thin malt biscuits from Redjack’s personal tin. Folding a serviette neatly, he put it in the captain’s pewter goblet. Carrying the tray aloft on the flat of his left palm, the plump little cook set off along the starboard deck for the captain’s cabin. About halfway along the deck, he stopped to admire the sun rising through a pink and pearl misted cloud. Mounsey sighed. He loved the Caribbean and its exotic climate. That was when he saw the ship rounding the tip of the headland beyond the cliffs. The cook dashed for’ard, still balancing the tray. He kicked at the two crewmen who were sleeping away their watch.