The Command - Brian Jacques - Flying Dutchman 02

Aboard the Marie, a loud cheer went up from the crew. Ben and Ned danced jubilantly around the French captain, the dog barking and the boy shouting joyfully. “You did it, Cap’n, what a shot! Chopped off their foremast!”

The captain stood nonchalantly, a stick with burning tow at its end still held in his hand. He flourished it and bowed. “Raphael Thuron was once a gunner aboard the Star of Sudan, a corsair that was the terror of the Red Sea!”

Ned passed Ben a thought. “There’s old Pierre coming up from amidships. Look at the face on him, you’d think it was the Marie that’d had her mast shot off!”

Pierre’s misgivings became clear when he spoke to his captain. “When the galley got hit, most of the supplies went with it.”

Thuron’s face fell. “Is there anything left?”

Pierre shrugged. “Half a leakin’ cask of water an’ one sack of flour, that’s all I salvaged.”

Captain Thuron’s happy mood evaporated promptly. “We’ll last out until we make Hispaniola or Puerto Rico. Take the wheel, Pierre. Back on the eastern course. Anaconda, you and I will work out a ration of water and flour for each man until we can get more provisions.”

Ned sent a sideways glance and a thought to Ben. “Maybe we’re not so lucky for the cap’n. Tighten your belt, mate, there’s hard days lying ahead of us.”

5

CAPTAIN REDJACK TEAL WAS not a happy man. He was, in fact, rather unhappy and, as such, made sure the entire crew of the Devon Belle shared his feelings wholeheartedly. It was noon of the second day since Teal had lost a foremast to his own chain shot. The French buccaneer vessel was now more than a day and a night ahead, off into the wide blue Caribbean Sea. The British privateer had continued sailing in pursuit, but like a gull with an injured wing, she had soon dropped far behind, sloughing awkwardly along whilst running repairs were carried out on the broken mast. After severely chastising all hands as he had vowed he would, Redjack had taken to his cabin. There was not a man aboard who had avoided six strokes of a tarred and knotted rope’s end, three strokes for losing the quarry and an added three for what their captain termed “lack of discipline and a sullen demeanour.”

At a timid tap on the cabin door, Teal glanced up from his noonday goblet of Madeira. He snapped out briskly, “Come!”

The bosun stumped in, wooden splints bound either side of a fractured leg. Tugging his forelock respectfully, he stood wincing. Teal pretended to study a chart that was spread across the table. After what he judged a suitable period, the captain sat back, studying his bosun disdainfully. “Struth, man, have ye no tongue in your mouth, eh? Don’t just stand there lookin’ sorry for yourself. Speak!”

The bosun’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. “Beg to report, sir, the jury mast is now rigged an’ in place, all shipshape an’ fit t’go under full sail again, Cap’n.”

Redjack toyed with his goblet, staring at the bosun’s injury. ” ‘Twill be some time before you can go under full sail with that leg, eh?”

The bosun kept his eyes straight ahead and replied, “Aye, sir.”

Teal sighed despairingly. “Lettin’ a mast spar fall on y’leg like that. Lackaday dee, you’re a foolish fellow. What are ye?”

Still staring ahead, the man was forced to repeat, “A foolish fellow, sir!”

Rising in a world-weary fashion, Teal refilled his goblet to take out on deck with him. “Stir your stumps, then, let’s go an’ take a look at what sort of a job’s been made.”

A shrill blast on the bosun’s whistle sent the crew hurrying into four lines on the main deck. Without a second glance, Teal swept by and went to inspect the new foremast. It was a section of common ash tree from the ship’s lumber stores, held by spikes and rope lashings to the original foremast stump, which was about four feet high. The ship’s carpenter and his mate, who had been applying coats of melted tar to the rope binding, stood respectfully to one side.

The captain circled the jury-rigged mast twice, peering closely at the work. “Hmm, not half bad, will it hold sail without crackin’, eh?”

The carpenter saluted. “Aye, sir, I reckon she’ll take a blow!”

Teal, assuming the new mast was wood that they had picked up along the South American coast, smiled briefly at the grizzled workman. “Good man! Though I wager ye’d sooner be usin’ stout English timber, a trunk of ash from back home, eh?”

Knowing what to do, the carpenter nodded cheerily. “Aye, sir!” He watched Teal strut off, wondering how a man could become ship’s captain without being able to identify a plain piece of English ash from the ship’s stores, which was what he had used.

Captain Redjack Teal went to stand on the afterdeck to give a speech to his crew waiting at rigid attention below on the main deck. Now he was a stern father, berating his wayward children. “As captain of this, His Majesty’s ship, and as the bearer of the king’s own letter of marque, I am bound by me duty t’keep the high seas free of pirates an’ their ilk. But my crew are failin’ me! An’ a demned sloppy lot ye are! Lettin’ a confounded Frenchy get away like that, eh? Call y’self gunners? I had him broadside on, an’ all ye could do was wreck his worthless galley! Call y’selves marksmen? There wasn’t a single musket shot from us, no enterprisin’ fellow tried to take out their steersman or captain! Then, if y’please, we had a fool at the wheel who couldn’t take us out o’ the way of a single chain shot! He crippled us!”

All hands stared at the deck, as if the answer lay there. Teal continued working himself up into a fine old temper. “Call y’selves English privateers, hah! Plowfield donkeys an’ cabbage-furrow bumpkins, that’s what y’are! But things are goin’ to change, I’m goin’ t’make marines of ye, fightin’ sailors that’d make the wives of England proud! No more rope’s end, ‘tis the cat-o’-nine-tails for any man who doesn’t jump to it. We’re goin’ to capture the Frenchman, or we’re goin’ to send him’n his whole demned froggy crew to perdition an’ a watery grave! Do ye hear me?”

All hands shouted as one man, “Aye, sir!”

He turned to the mate who was holding the Madeira goblet in waiting. Teal took several sips and mopped lightly at his cheek with a kerchief. Berating a crew was tiring work. He was about to leave the deck when the mate reminded him. “Permission to carry out burial at sea, Cap’n?”

The captain tried to look as if he had not forgotten. “Oh yes, quite. Chappie the mast fell on, wasn’t it? Well, fetch him out an’ let’s get on with it.”

The corpse was borne to the amidships rail, wrapped tightly in sail canvas, weighted at the feet with holystones—chunks of sandstone used for scouring the decks. The canvas was rough-stitched up the centre with twine, the last stitch being put through the dead man’s nose: a traditional seafaring way of making sure the man was really dead. Six crewmen held the bundle, balanced on a greased plank, over the rail. Teal took the Bible and skimmed swiftly through the regulation prayer for the dead, ending with a swift amen, which was echoed by the crew.

Then the six bearers began tipping the board up, reciting as they did:

“Let’s hope Father Neptune

Has saved him a fine fortune,

An’ all the pretty mermaids

Will sing a sweet ‘n’ slow tune.

For here goes some mother’s son,

Now all the prayers are said,

With holystones round both heels,

Tip him overboard, mates, he’s dead!”

There was a dull splash as the canvas parcel hit the waves and vanished down into the sea.