The Command - Brian Jacques - Flying Dutchman 02

An’ for the jolly cap’n,

Who takes good care o’ me!

There’s skilly in the galley, lads,

An’ good ale in the cask,

From far Cathay to Greenland,

What more could sailors ask.

Through storm an’ tropic weather,

We’ll sing away each mile,

For merry men are we to see

Our jolly cap’n smile!”

Teal made a rolling motion with his hand and called to the carpenter, “That’s the stuff, keep goin’, man, play it again!” He pointed at the mate and the bosun officiously. “You two there, see they all step lively. Any man not singin’, give ‘im somethin’ to sing about, hot an’ heavy!”

Further west along the coast from Guayama, the little settlement of Ponce basked in the noon heat with hardly a breeze to ripple the tall palms. Captain Rocco Madrid had anchored the Diablo Del Mar just behind a small headland and taken his crew ashore. In the village, he interrupted the locals at their siesta. To show them he was a man not to be trifled with, he drew his sword and whipped off the head of a fighting cock that had pecked at him. The good folk of Ponce did not scream or panic, they merely sat in the shade of their palmetto-thatched huts, staring at the pirates silently.

Madrid glared back at them awhile, then turned and gave orders to Portugee and Boelee. “Take half a dozen crew and search the other side of the headland for signs of the Frenchman. I’ll deal with these villagers. Don’t waste time. If Thuron hasn’t been here, we’ll need to move on to Guayama swiftly.”

When the men had left, Madrid pointed to an old fellow with calm, dignified features, who looked likely to be some type of village patriarch. “Have any ships been here? Speak.”

The man shrugged. “Not for a long time, seńor.”

Touching the man’s throat with his sword point, the Spaniard loaded his voice with menace. “If you lie, I will kill you!”

The old man did not seem impressed. He sounded matter-of-fact. “What reason would I have to lie? No ship has been here of late.”

Rocco Madrid had encountered Caribs like this before. He knew the old man was speaking the truth. However, he felt the need to assert his authority before he lost face to the patriarch’s impassive stare.

Rocco sniffed the air and nodded toward a fire, which was tended by two women. “What are you cooking there?”

One of the women looked up from a cauldron she was stirring. “Stew, with goat meat, plantains and maize.”

Rocco pricked the old man’s throat with his blade. “Get me some, and my men, too!”

The patriarch’s eyes looked sideways at the woman. “Give them the stew.”

The woman moved to start serving, but Madrid flicked the sword tip beneath the old man’s chin. “You will serve us!”

With a neat movement, the man slid away from the sword and stood erect gracefully. “I will serve you.”

Pepe, the lookout, sat alongside Rocco, guzzling stew from an earthenware bowl. Smiling happily, he wiped grease from his lips with the back of his hand. “Capitano, this is good stew, yes?”

The Spaniard looked disdainfully at the bowl, from which he had only taken a single small taste. “Good stew, no!”

The sudden explosion of a musket shot set parakeets to squawking in the trees. This was followed by a scream. Rocco Madrid leapt up, sword at the ready, knocking the bowl from Pepe’s hands. “Go and see what that is, quick!”

He signalled to three other crewmen. “Go with him!” Pulling a loaded musket from his broad belt, the Spaniard looked at the old man, who was standing by the fire. “Who is out there?”

The old fellow licked stew from his fingers. “How would I know that, seńor? I cannot be in two places at once.”

Turning to the two women, the Carib said something in a completely strange tongue. The women smiled and nodded.

Rocco guessed it was some kind of insult, or fun they were poking at him. He pointed the pistol toward the old man’s head. “Speak again without my permission and I will kill you!”

The old man did not appear frightened by threats. “Death comes to us all sooner or later. We cannot escape it.”

The pirate captain was about to pull the trigger, when Pepe came hurrying out of the thickets behind the huts. “Capitano, look who we’ve found. Bring him out, Portugee!”

With his own belt knotted about his neck, Ludon, the former mate of the Marie, was dragged out of the bushes by Portugee and the search party. Boelee gave Ludon a kick in the back that sent him sprawling at the Spaniard’s feet.

Ludon let out a terror-stricken whimper. “Don’t kill me … please!”

Portugee yanked on the belt. “Shut your face, worm!”

Boelee put a booted foot on his prisoner’s body. “Three of ‘em, Capitano, they bumped right into us out there. They tried to run away, but Maroosh shot one an’ Rillo chopped the other one down with his cutlass. We saved this piece of scum for you. Remember, this was the one who put a blade to your neck in the tavern at Cartagena.”

Madrid grabbed Ludon by the hair and smiled into his face. “Of course! Welcome to our camp, amigo.”

Tears cut dirty patterns through the dust on Ludon’s cheeks. “I wouldn’t have harmed ye, Cap’n. I ran away from that accursed Thuron. I never wanted to be one of his crew, I swear on my life I didn’t. Don’t kill me, I beg ye!”

Madrid’s smile grew even wider. “I won’t kill you, amigo … not yet. Put more wood on that fire, Pepe. This one is going to tell me where Thuron and his ship are.”

Ludon screamed and sobbed. “Oh don’t, Cap’n, please don’t! I’ll tell ye where they are, ye don’t have t’do that to me!”

Madrid turned away and spoke conversationally to his bosun. “They always lie, but the flames bring out the real truth. Haul him over to the fire while I continue our little talk.”

The old Carib man’s voice cut across Ludon’s moaning and pleading. “Seńor, you will not do this in my village. You will leave now, all of you. Go to your ship, or die here!”

Madrid gave the old man an insolent smile as he repeated, “Die? You dare to say that to me? Maroosh, blow that old fool’s brainpan out with your musket!”

Before Maroosh could raise the gun, he gasped and pulled a brightly feathered object from the side of his neck. It was a dart, made from a long, sharp thorn. He stared stupidly at it and dropped the musket. His legs began to tremble, and he sat down in the dust.

The Carib patriarch glanced at the treetops surrounding the village. His voice became flat and stern. “We saw your ship long before you came here. Only fools do not take precautions. My hunters are hidden all about our village—they never miss with their blowpipes. You, seńor, I have suffered enough of your bad manners. Take your men and go. Leave that one behind, he is already dead. Just as you will be if you choose to stay.”

The pirates stared in horrified fascination at Maroosh, who was still sitting on the ground, trembling fitfully.

Rocco Madrid put up his sword and musket and began walking backward out of the village. “Boelee, get the crew back to the Diablo. We can’t stand against invisible Caribs with poison darts.”

Dragging Ludon with them, all hands from the Diablo backed out of the village. What galled Rocco Madrid most was the way the patriarch and his people carried on with their work, completely ignoring the Spaniard and his retreating men. Rocco was inwardly seething, for the blood of Spanish grandees ran in his veins. Keeping face and demanding respect, repaying insults and avenging slights were ingrained into his character.

Boelee watched his captain’s face the moment they were back aboard ship. From the way a tic started up in Madrid’s left eyelid and his teeth began making a grinding sound, the mate knew Rocco Madrid had vengeance on his mind.