The Command - Brian Jacques - Flying Dutchman 02

It was Ned’s blunt, rough claws that brought him to his senses. The faithful dog was scratching at his back, sending out frantic, urgent warnings. “Ben, wake up! Move, Ben, move. We’re sinking!”

The boy spluttered as his face struck the bottom of the jolly boat. Coughing and spitting seawater, he sat up. Ned seized his shirtsleeve and tugged at it with his teeth. “Come on, mate, we’ll have to swim for it. This boat’s full of musket holes— we’re lucky we weren’t hit!”

Recovering himself, Ben realised the predicament they were in. He grabbed the dog’s collar, heaved him overboard and leapt into the sea alongside him. Taking a bearing on the shore, which was only a few hundred yards off, he kicked out. “Straight ahead, Ned, it’s not so far!”

For the first time in his life, Captain Redjack Teal knew the meaning of fear: four French Navy warships were bearing down on him. The master gunner came hurrying up, carrying a stick topped by a smouldering mixture of tar and rope. He looked hopefully to Teal.

“I could load the stern culverins with chain shot, Cap’n. May’ap we could clip the big feller’s foremast. That’d slow him down a touch, sir.”

Teal snatched the stick and flung it into the sea. “Ye demned idiot, yonder’s the French Navy! Can’t y’see the guns they’re sportin’, man? Hah, that scoundrel’s just longin’ t’see a puff o’ smoke from even a musket an’ he’ll blow us to doll rags! Get the mud out of your eyes, man. Did ye see what they did to Thuron?”

He watched miserably as the new ship tacked, circling out to come round in a curve ahead of him. The other three vessels manoeuvred to close the trap, one to port, the other to starboard, whilst the remaining one stayed close behind in his wake. The privateer stamped his elegantly shod foot in temper. Life was so unjust! After pursuing a fortune in gold from the Caribbean, right across an ocean, his dreams of wealth and glory had been cruelly snatched away in just a few short hours. Add to this the indignity of being taken by the French without a single shot being fired. The entire episode was an utter debacle! He sprinted to the stern at the sight of the bosun and mate loosing the stern ropes. “What’n the name of jackasses are ye about there?”

The mate saluted, trying to sound helpful. “Er, we were castin’ the Devon Belle adrift, sir. She might make that Frenchie behind us run afoul of her, sir—that’d give us a chance of escape.”

Teal was nearly out of his mind. He became quite petulant. Kicking the mate on his shin, he sprayed him with spittle as he ranted and shouted into the man’s face. “That ship is mine, mine, d’ye hear?”

He rounded on the unsuspecting bosun and kicked him also. “I’m the captain of these ships, or haven’t ye noticed, eh? Demned ass of a gunner, wantin’ to fire on four battleships, this other buffoon thinkin’ we can turn an’ run away. Has everybody aboard lost their confounded minds—”

“Englishman, strike your colours and slack sail!” An officer was hailing him with a megaphone from the ship behind. Teal’s shoulders sagged. It was all over.

He turned to the mate, who was rubbing his shin. “Strike y’colours, take in all sail. I’ll be in me cabin.”

The Hawk sat in his stateroom, the crimsoning twilight giving its new woodwork a rosy hue. He listened carefully to the information his officers had gathered from the crew of the Royal Champion. It was always best talking to the men before interviewing the master. They had less reason to lie than their captain did.

He sat back and mulled over what he had heard, his fingers tapping a tattoo upon the tabletop. Then he signalled to a waiting lieutenant. “I will see the Englishman now.”

Trying feebly to resist two burly gunners, Teal was swiftly frog-marched into the marechal’s presence. The privateer looked indignant and dishevelled; the gunners held his arms tightly, preventing him from tidying himself up.

He immediately began to protest. “Sirrah, is this any way to treat the captain of one of His Britannic Majesty’s vessels? Tell these ruffians to release me instantly. I’ll not be laid hands upon in such a demned rough manner!”

The marechal glanced up from some papers he was studying. His unblinking gaze, coupled with the haughty way he looked a man up and down, had Teal feeling both unnerved and embarrassed.

The privateer attempted to pull himself free, but the two gunners held him easily. He tried to sound reasonable. “Sir, I appeal to you, order these rogues to unhand me. I, sir, am like you, an officer and a gentleman!”

The marechal reduced him to silence with a baleful glare. “You dare compare yourself with me, you scum?”

He waved Teal’s own parchmented credentials at him and spat out the word vindictively. “Privateer! A filthy mercenary, carrying a letter of marque or reprisal. There is no lower form of life on land or sea. You are a prisoner of war and will be treated as such!”

Captain Redjack Teal suddenly wilted beneath his captor’s scorn. He whined like a bully who had just had the tables turned on him. “I was only carryin’ out my king’s orders, sir. You cannot punish an innocent man for that!”

The marechal snorted. “I do not intend punishing you— that is for a military tribunal to decide. Whether you hang or go to the guillotine is immaterial to me. Stop weeping, man! They may spare your life and assign you with your crew to the convict working parties at Marseilles. There you can do a lifetime’s penance rebuilding the harbour walls under the lash of your gaolers. Take him away!”

A short time later, Teal found himself belowdecks in the Hawk’s new vessel, chained by the ankle to the rest of his crew. They chuckled wickedly as the bosun tugged the chain and sent him flat on the deck. “Well, look who’s here, mates, ‘tis the Jolly Cap’n. Up on your feet, Redjack, an’ dance a hornpipe for us!” Teal cowered, trying to pull himself off into a corner, but the mate dragged him out by his manacled foot. “Ye powdered popinjay, didn’t ye hear the man? He said dance, so come on, step lively now, let’s see ye dance!”

Two marines, pacing the grating overhead of the prisoners’ accommodation, winced at the sounds of Teal’s sobs and screams for mercy. One of them shrugged casually. “I think that crew did not love their captain very much.”

For full two days, that boy and dog

Did sit upon the shore bereaved,

No food nor drink would pass their lips,

As for lost friends they grieved.

Sad tears which fell like April rain

Were soaked into the earth and lost,

And only two from all that crew

Were left to count the cost.

Pursued by foes, both live and dead,

From Caribbean to Biscay’s Bay,

Commanded by an angel’s word

To turn and walk away.

What trials and perils lie ahead,

Decreed by heaven and the fates?

The Flying Dutchman haunts the seas,

As her accursed captain waits … and waits!

Book Two

THE RAZAN

16

IT WAS A GREY DAY. THE WEATHER WAS neither cold nor warm, but windless and dull. Drizzle fell in swathing curtains from a sky the hue of much-watered milk. Ben and Ned had been walking inland for several days, avoiding villages and anyplace where people lived. They crouched in the lee of a rock jutting out of a field, huddling together, unable to escape the enveloping wetness. Ben imparted a thought to Ned. “D’you think they’ll still be searching for survivors from the Marie?”

The black Labrador shook his head. “Well, there’s been no sign of anybody since dawn. We’re alone out here. Those villagers will be back home now and the sailors back aboard their ships. We must get something to eat, Ben—a couple of sour apples and two turnips are all we’ve had since we left the coast.”