The Command - Brian Jacques - Flying Dutchman 02

The captain descended to the middle of the stairs leading to the deck. Emptying his pockets, he set out two stacks of gold coins and beckoned to both ringleaders. “Ned an’ Ben have been with us since Cartagena. They’ve been lucky for me— you’ve all heard me say so, many times. Before you do something you’ll regret, take a look at this gold. There’s your share, Gascon, even though ye were a thief an’ a deserter. That other share is yours, Mallon. Go on, take it!”

Both men scurried forward and claimed their shares. Thuron watched them filling their pockets. “Every man aboard will get the same. By tomorrow morn ye’ll all be on French soil, headed wherever the fancy takes ye—home, or the nearest tavern. Now, is that bad luck? Did a Jonah do that to ye?”

Gascon drew his musket and pointed it at the captain. “Aye, ‘tis bad luck for us, I’m a wanted man in France, an’ so are most of this crew. We’re taking over the ship an’ sailing her to Spanish waters. We’ll scuttle her off the coast of Guernica. That way we can take our own chances, either to stop in Spain or cross the border into France.”

Thuron appealed to the men in a reasonable voice. “Why did ye not tell me this before? I would have scuttled the Marie off the coast of Arcachon. I know of some quiet spots around there. But if ye want to sail for Spain an’ sink her there, so be it. I’ll come with ye an’ not begrudge any hard feelings that’ve passed between us, eh?”

Mallon set his lips in a stubborn line. “Not with that boy an’ the dog aboard, we ain’t takin’ no chances!”

All this time Pierre had been at the helm. Now he suddenly spun the wheel and called out aloud, “We’re headed for Spain, sure enough. Hoist all sail! The French Navy is comin’, four men-o’-war under full sail!”

15

TWO DAYS previous to the happenings aboard the Marie, Redjack Teal had arrived off the coast of Arcachon. The privateer sailed close to the shore so he could check on his bearings.

Teal stood on deck, tapping the chart as he viewed the coastline. “Demn me if that ain’t a piece o’ first-class navigatin’, eh! There’s the port of Arcachon with its inlet, an’ that great harbour which lies in the basin beyond. Bassin d’Arcachon, just like it says on me chart here. Remarkable!”

He waggled an imperious finger at the mate. “You there, take her offshore an’ a few points south. ‘Tis quieter on that stretch of coast. Can’t dawdle here, eh, don’t want the locals gogglin’ from the town at us. Haw haw haw!”

The mate touched his forelock. “Aye aye, Cap’n. Helmsman, take ‘er about an’ watch your stern on Devon Belle’s forepeak. Two points south. Move yourselves afore this mist clears an’ we’re spotted. Jump to it!”

Unfortunately, the Royal Champion and the Devon Belle had been seen: blocked from Teal’s view by the harbour entrance, four French Navy ships lay close to the quay. The biggest and most fearsome of these vessels was a newly constructed destroyer, Le Falcon Des Monts, its captain none other than the illustrious fleet marechal Guy Falcon Saint Jean Des Monts, victor of many sea battles. The naming of his new ship, the largest gunboat yet built by the French Navy, was in tribute to the fleet marechal’s impressive record. The other three craft were ships of the line, all men-o’-war. All four ships had lain in the Arcachon Basin at the marechal’s request. Now he wished to take his new command out to sea on a naval exercise to test the new warship’s performance. That morning, together with his three other captains, the marechal had sat in his stateroom, discussing plans and strategies for the forthcoming manoeuvres. Charts were spread across the table. The captains listened respectfully to their marechal, under whose command they were proud to serve. He was a tall, sombre man, prematurely grey, with a stern countenance, his keen dark eyes, weather-lined face, tight lips and aquiline features denoting a strong air of authority.

The conference was about over when there was a knock upon the door. A naval lieutenant entered, shepherding two of the local townsmen in front of him. He beckoned toward the fleet commander. “Tell the marechal what you saw. Speak up, you have nothing to fear.”

The elder of the two jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Sir, we were out on the hills this morning, on the point by the harbour entrance, looking for gull eggs. I chanced to look seaward. It was misty, but I saw a ship out there.”

The marechal’s eyebrows rose. “What was this ship like, sir?”

Impressed at being addressed as “sir,” the townsman answered as accurately as he could. “It looked like a Spanish galleon, a big one, sir. But it was flying English colours. Even though it was misty, I could see it had more deck guns than a merchant would carry.”

The marechal nodded, his interest quickening. “Well done, sir. This ship, which way was it bound?”

The townsman pointed. “To the right, er south, sir, down toward the Gulf of Gascony. About just over an hour ago, sir.”

Clapping the man’s shoulder, the marechal gave him a smile. “My thanks. You did well, sir! Lieutenant, see that these fellows get a ham apiece and a basket of eggs between them.”

The moment the door closed behind the men, the marechal turned to his captains. “It seems as though we have either a pirate or an English privateer in our territorial waters, gentlemen. Forget the manoeuvre plans we discussed. The best baptism for my new ship should be one of blood and fire! You will make way under full sail. I will lead the flotilla. Stand by for my commands as we go. Action is the order of the day, gentlemen!”

Less than an hour later, the four French warships cleared the point with he Falcon Des Monts in the lead, guns at the ready, white sails billowing, the fleur-de-lis flag streaming from her stern. Smiling with satisfaction, the marechal noted his own personal banner waving out from the foremast peak: a falcon with wings outspread upon a field of green, the symbol of his family name. None of the sailors called it a falcon, though. It was known by the title their marechal had earned in many sea battles, and the name by which they referred to him … the Hawk!

Ben felt the Marie list sideways as she slid into a sharp southerly turn, then heard the shout from Pierre. Ned pushed past him as he opened the cabin door. Dashing out on deck, he passed a message to Ben. “Four men-o’-war, eh? Come on, mate. Let’s see what’s going on!”

All animosity between the crew and Thuron was momentarily forgotten. The Frenchman was roaring orders for extra sail and sighting anxiously through his telescope at the four warships astern of them. He handed Ben the glass, shaking his head and furrowing his brows. “Look, lad, ‘tis the French Navy, an’ they’re comin’ on fast!”

As Ben peered at the lead vessel, he felt icy fear clamp its cold hand in sudden shock on top of his head. The feeling was transmitted to Ned, who communicated urgently: “What is it, Ben, what d’you see?”

The four last lines of the angel’s poem pounded through the black Labrador’s brain, like hammers striking an anvil.

“Leave behind that life and walk,

Look not back at the sea,

Whilst retribution brings the Hawk,

New times unfold for thee!”

This thought was reinforced by Ben’s message. “That big ship in front, it’s flying a hawk upon its flag!”

Thuron grabbed Ben’s hand. “Come with me, lad. Bring Ned too!”

Hurrying them both into his cabin, Thuron slammed the door. He knelt by the bed and hauled out two heavy-packed canvas bags, tied together by their necks. Ben watched as the captain wrapped the bags in a sailcloth. He could tell by the dull clink that they were filled with gold coin.