The Command - Brian Jacques - Flying Dutchman 02

Madrid nodded. “Never mind your life story. If you want to earn that gold piece, and the one I have here, tell me: Did you see any other ships since you’ve been out? I’m looking for a French buccaneer named La Petite Marie. ”

Holding the hat flat against his chest, the skipper bowed again. “I cannot read the letters, seńor, but we sighted a vessel. Not as grand and large as your ship, but round in the bow and very fast-looking. She flew the skull and blades, just as you do. A Brethren vessel, eh?”

Rocco’s eyes lit up. “That’s her! Where was she when you saw her, amigo? Tell me!”

The skipper waved his hat back over his shoulder. “Sailing toward the southeast coast, I think, maybe to Ponce, Guayama or Arroyo, who knows ?”

The Spaniard stroked his moustache, slightly puzzled. “What would Thuron want around there? Hmm, maybe he has a secret hiding place. I’ll soon find out, though!” He pocketed the gold coin and drew his sword, pointing it at the hapless fishing-boat skipper. “I know Hispaniola well. If you’ve lied to me, I’ll find you. Ten children is a lot for a widow to support, remember that.”

Dismissing the fishing boat, he turned to Pepe. “Get my charts, I’ll take charge of this operation!”

Pepe hurried off to the captain’s cabin, where he gathered up charts, muttering to himself, “When did he never take charge? But who am I to mention this, nothing but a donkey.”

Aboard the Devon Belle, Captain Redjack Teal was also studying his charts whilst taking breakfast. His new cook, an undersized seaman named Moore, stood nervously by, watching as Teal forked a minute portion of fish into his mouth. The privateer captain pulled a face of disgust and spat the food onto the deck, then glared balefully at Moore. “Curse your liver’n’lights, man, do ye call this cooked, eh?”

Moore tried to stand his ground and look respectful at the same time. He saluted and spoke with a thick Irish accent. “‘Twas boiled t’the best of me ability, Yer Honour!”

“Boiled!” Teal remarked, as though the word were an obscenity. “Boiled? Who the devil ever told ye I take boiled fish t’break me fast, eh? Not another word, sirrah. Stand to attention! Clean this mess up. Take that demned fish out o’ me sight! Report t’the gunner for six strokes of a rope’s end and thank your ignorant stars ‘tain’t the cat across your back. If ye ever bring me boiled fish again, I’ll have ye boiled alive in your own galley. Get out of me sight!”

After the unfortunate Moore had left the cabin, Teal quaffed several goblets of Madeira and stalked out on deck in high bad humour. He called the mate to attend him. “You there, has land been sighted yet?”

The man tugged his forelock. “Nary a sightin’ yet, Cap’n, but we should spot somethin’ by midmorn, sir.”

Teal could think of nothing to say except, “Well… well, make sure ye do! An’ report t’me, straight off, d’ye hear?” He thrust his telescope viciously at the mate. “Take this up t’the crow’s nest, tell that lookout to keep his confounded eyes skinned for land. Move y’self, man!”

He stalked off, exclaiming aloud, “Boiled fish? Can’t abide the foul stuff. Worse than boiled mutton, if y’ask me, far worse!”

By midmorning the entire crew of the Devon Belle were fervently hoping their captain would stay in his cabin until his temper had calmed. Gillis, the captain’s dresser, sat in Cook Moore’s galley, sharing some boiled fish with his shipmate and complaining bitterly. “Cap’n, is it? I’ve seen better cap’ns in charge of a saltfish barrow. Kicked me, he did, aye, kicked me, an’ for what? ‘Cos one of his buttons was loose. Ain’t nothin’ in regulations says a man has t’get kicked for a loose button, is there, cookie?”

Moore rubbed his rear end, still smarting from the gunner’s knotted rope. “Only a kick? Sure now, weren’t you the lucky one. How does that boiled fish taste to ye?”

Gillis was about to reply when the call came loud and clear. “Land ho! East off the for’ard bow. Land hoooooo!”

The feeling of relief that swept over the Devon Belle was almost tangible in the air. Smiling faces were seen as crewmen lined the bows to catch a sight of the headland when it became visible on the horizon. Shortly thereafter, Redjack Teal strutted out onto the deck, freshly attired by Gillis in his favourite red hunting jacket and pristine linen accessories. A naval officer’s sword, complete with brass scabbard, clanked at his side.

Before all hands could busy themselves at their chores, Teal caught them with their backs to him, scanning the horizon for land. He gave his crew a brisk lecture, like a schoolmaster censuring a class. “Nobody got any work t’do, eh? Stand still there when I’m addressing ye, face me, straighten y’selves up!”

All hands braced themselves stiffly on the swaying deck, chins tucked in, staring straight ahead. Teal looked them over contemptuously, speaking in his affected nasal drawl. “Right, listen t’me, gentlemen, an’ I use the term loosely. From me chart calculations I have brought this ship in sight of Puerto Rico, where we will engage the enemy. It will be approximately early evenin’ before we reach the coast. I fully intend to sail in like one of His Majesty’s ships o’ the line, smart as paint, an’ with guns bristlin’!”

Every man knew what was coming next as the captain let a moment’s silence pass, then stamped his foot down hard. “This vessel is a pigsty, a demned pigsty, d’ye hear me? First mate an’ bosun, put all hands to holystonin’ decks, swabbin’ out scuppers, coilin’ lines an’ polishin’ brasses!”

Springing forward, the mate and bosun saluted. “Aye aye, sir!”

Wheeling sharply, Redjack turned his back on them and continued. “I’m goin’ t’me cabin now, but I’ll be back out at midday. All hands will be ready for inspection, cleaned up an’ lookin’ like British sailors an’ not like some farmyard rabble. This afternoon, you sloppy men will take exercise, dancin’ hornpipes an’ singin’ shanties. Any man not doin’ so with a cheerful demeanour will be punished. Is that understood?”

Without waiting to hear the crew’s dutiful chant of “Aye aye, sir!” Teal strode purposefully off to his cabin, feeling the collective glare of hatred from his crew directed at his back.

Handing the bosun a length of tarred and knotted rope, the mate selected a wooden belaying pin. Veins stood out on his neck as he bellowed at the crew, “Don’t stand there gawpin’, get about it! You ‘eard the cap’n!”

As all hands went about their tasks, the bosun and mate walked the deck, conversing in undertones. No love was lost between either of the men and Teal—the bosun’s voice was hoarse with indignation. “Playin’ at bein’ Royal Navy again, are we? Blast his eyes, Teal wouldn’t recognise a real privateer if one fell on him from the yardarm. How’d he ever get to be a cap’n?”

The mate chuckled drily. “Aye, I’ve wrung more salt water out of me socks than he’s ever sailed on. Did ye hear him tellin’ as how his calculations’ve brought us this far? He’s done nothin’ night’n’day but ask me where we are,”

The bosun flicked his rope end at a slacking deck scrubber. “I tell ye, mate, ‘twill be funny if there ain’t a sign o’ that Frenchie when we gets to Puerto Rico. Haha, what’ll Teal do then, make the crew sing an’ dance more ‘ornpipes an’ shanties to conjure the buccaneer up? D’ye think the Frenchman will be at Puerto Rico?”

Spitting neatly over the side, the mate shook his head. “If he is, there’ll be none more surprised than me. That ole Frenchie’s long gone, prob’ly off into the Atlantic Ocean. Cap’n my eye. I was told Teal ran off from England ‘cos of gamblin’ debts. The eldest son of a noble family, eh?”