The Command - Brian Jacques - Flying Dutchman 02

Portugee almost let the wheel slip from his faltering grasp. “Redjack! They say he’s worse than a Barbary corsair!”

Madrid’s hand slid to his sword hilt as he hissed a warning. “Shut your mouths, I know who he is. Listen, this Redjack has lost his foremast. Maybe he doesn’t want to fight. Boelee, easy now, take us a point to starboard.”

No sooner had the Diablo nosed a foot out of place than Teal’s cannon boomed a warning shot to starboard, accompanied by a crackle of musket fire peppering the Spaniard’s stern.

Boelee brought her back on course smartly. “Capitano, that bad man has many, many more guns than us. If we try to run, he will send the Diablo to the bottom.”

Portugee was in full agreement with the mate. “How can we run without any bowsails? He will murder us all!”

Madrid focussed his telescope on the privateer less than a quarter of a mile behind. He saw the cannon bristling from every port, the crew lining the rails with primed muskets, and the red-jacketed figure watching the for’ard culverins being loaded with grapeshot, a deadly combination of musket balls, scrap iron and broken chain. Grapeshot could sweep a deck with murderous effect. Two more culverins had been brought up from the stern. Four culverins loaded with grapeshot at short range!

Madrid felt icy sweat trickle down his brow. This Redjack was a cold-blooded assassin! The Spaniard’s mind was in a racing turmoil as he turned to his men. “Keep a straight course. I’ll talk to this Redjack in the morning. Mayhap he’ll listen to a proposition. I’m going to my cabin. Keep dead ahead. Don’t upset him.”

With the onset of dawn the rain ceased. Mist floated across the soft, lapping sea, the sun rising like a great blood orange in the east, setting a wondrous hue of pale cerise over the Caribbean waters. Captain Thuron joined Ben and Ned, who were breakfasting off fruit and coconut milk on the forecastle deck. He sat with them, watching a backing breeze dissolve the light fog.

“A pretty sight, eh, Ben? I will miss these waters. Do you know where we are?”

The boy nodded. “Almost into the Mona Passage. We should sight the Isle of Mona off the port bow before midday, sir.”

Thuron’s bushy eyebrows raised. “Very good, how did you know?”

Ned looked up from the coconut he was gnawing at. “Tell the good captain that it was your faithful hound who informed you of our position. Go on!”

Ben smiled at his friend’s message as he addressed the captain. “Ned told me that he heard Anaconda saying it to Pierre when he relieved him at the wheel.”

Thuron ruffled Ned’s ears. “Do you really talk with this dog?”

Ben kept a straight face as he answered. “Oh, all the time, sir!”

The Frenchman chuckled. “I believe you, how could I not? You have such honest faces, both of you.”

Ned passed his friend another thought. “I’m the one with the honest face, really. You’ve grown to look quite furtive over the last few decades. But I’ve grown more innocent. Look: truth and honesty are stamped all over my noble features!” Ned panted. Letting his tongue loll, he waggled his ears.

Ben could not help laughing aloud. Thuron laughed with him.

“Tell me, what is Ned saying to you now, lad?”

The boy stroked his dog’s back. “Ned says he wants you to teach him the Trinidad Shuffle so he can use it sometime.”

Ned left off chewing his coconut to reprimand Ben. “Ooh, you dreadful fibber. I said no such thing!”

Thuron interrupted the mental conversation. “Tell him I’ll teach you both to catch flying fish—they come through these waters on their way to the Gulf of Mexico. Flying fish taste good, grilled with butter and oatmeal.”

Ned went back to tackling his coconut. “Flying fish! Huh, who does he think he’s fooling?”

Thuron pointed a stubby finger at the bows. “Look!” A flying fish was clearly visible, soaring level with the ship.

Ben leapt up. “There’s another! Ned, did you see that?”

The black Labrador stood on his back legs, with his front paws on the rail. He pulled back sharply as another fish flew briefly by and skimmed over the bow wave. “Whoops! Seems a shame to catch them. Do they really taste good? Ask the cap’n to teach us to catch a few, Ben!”

Most of the morning was spent leaning over the prow, watching the flying fish trapping themselves in a net that Thuron had spread from the peak to the bowsprit. Anaconda sang cheerily in his rich deep bass as he supervised the cook in the galley. Ben listened as he pulled a fish from the net and marvelled at the huge spreading fins it used to soar over the waters.

“Come on, come on, you flyin’ fish,

Fly up here into my dish.

Birds is birds, that’s how they act,

Fish is fish, an that’s a fact.

Foolish thing, I bet you wish

You knew if you was bird or fish!

Fly fly o’er the sea,

Spread your fins an’ come to me.

You flyin’ fish, come on, come on,

I’m a sailor an’ a hungry one.

In the air you sure look great,

But you taste much nicer on a plate.

Cook in the galley, warm that dish,

Here comes another little flyin’ fish!

Fly fly o’er the sea, Spread those fins an’ come to me.”

They had passed the Isle of Mona and Mayagüez when the cook hammered his ladle against a stove lid and shouted to all hands. “Fish is done, all cooked to a turn. If ye don’t come quick, the Anaconda will eat ‘em all!”

Ned raced ahead of Ben, sending a thought back to him. “Move yourself, youth. I believe every word the good cook says. Hope Anaconda saves a few for me!”

Thuron and the boy raced side by side, following Ned to the galley. All hands were jostling one another in line. Still relieved to have escaped both their foes, the men laughed and joked with one another.

Ben exchanged a thought with Ned. “What a difference between this and our first trip together with Vanderdecken aboard the Flying Dutchman. ”

The black Labrador bristled. “Don’t even mention that hell-ship or mad Cap’n Vanderdecken and his crew of bullies. I’d sooner be aboard a good honest pirate ship like the Marie any day!”

Bowing to the dog’s wisdom, Ben washed all thoughts of the accursed Dutchman from his mind. Instead, he concentrated on the bright sunlit Caribbean day, his friend Raphael Thuron, the merry bustle of crewmen and the anticipation of tasting his first cooked flying fish.

Rocco Madrid was in deep trouble. The privateer had chased the Diablo Del Mar straight into the shallows of Puerto Rico’s palm-fringed shores. The Spaniard paced his cabin, wondering what the Englishman’s next move would be. Cowering in a corner with a rope around his neck that was secured to a deck ring, Ludon, former mate of the Marie, watched him with wide, frightened eyes. Both men knew they were in a fearful situation.

Through his cabin window Madrid could see the Devon Belle, not three ship lengths away. She was broadside on to the Diablo, cannon bristling, almost daring the Spaniard to take the first shot. Rocco Madrid had more sense than to try. He felt like a rat in a trap—it would be plain suicide to attempt any show of aggression. Redjack Teal had an awesome reputation for slaughter.

Portugee and Boelee came skulking into the cabin like a pair of naughty schoolboys about to be punished for some misdemeanour.

Boelee looked sheepishly from the privateer in the bay to his captain. “What are we going to do, Capitano?”

Madrid answered with a lot more confidence than he felt. “Do, amigos? We do nothing for the moment. The first hand is up to the Englishman to play.”

Portugee remarked with a scowl, “The only cards Redjack deals us will be wrapped around cannonballs. Unless you plan on makin’ a move, Capitano, we are all dead men!”