The Command - Brian Jacques - Flying Dutchman 02

The Spaniard stalked off to his cabin, leaving the three crewmen searching the night-dark horizon. Rocco Madrid would not be a pleasant captain to sail with if they lost La Petite Marie.

Ben helped Captain Thuron’s crew to slacken sail as the dark, humped cliffs of Santa Marta hove into view. Ned watched as the giant steersman, Anaconda, took the vessel carefully into the western lee side of the towering rocks. Thuron gave orders for the anchor to be dropped. He chuckled softly as the boy joined him on deck. “Our Marie is safe here for the night. I’ll wager that the Diablo is bound at full speed for Kingston or Port Royal—where else would a Brotherhood vessel head for in the Caribbean? First thing tomorrow we’ll slip round the headland and make a straight run east, out of this sea and into the Atlantic Ocean. Then ‘tis France and home, eh, boy?”

Ben threw the captain a smart salute. “Aye aye, sir!”

3

AROUND ON THE eastern side of the Santa Marta cliffs, little more than two miles from where the Marie was anchored, lay another ship, the Devon Belle. She was a privateer, carrying a letter of marque from the king of England, Charles the First. Little more than pirates themselves, privateers preyed upon other pirates and ships that were hostile to the privateer’s own homeland. They were common to many countries—France, Spain, Portugal and the Netherlands. Devon Belle was a British privateer. King Charles had signed a licence for her captain to raid and plunder any foreign ship he chose, on the pretext that a vessel not flying a British flag was either a pirate or an enemy. Carrying his letter of marque, the privateer captain would attack and conquer all before him, taking charge of all treasures and booty he captured. Very profitable ventures for the English Crown, which took a large share of the spoils. Privateer captains usually posed as officers of the British Navy, pretending that they were clearing the seas of pirates and keeping the world’s shipping lanes free for honest seafarers.

Captain Jonathan Ormsby Teal was such a man. Elegant, suave and well educated, the ambitious eldest son of an impoverished noble family, he had chosen to make his living on the high seas and had taken to the trade like a duck to water. His ship, though small, bristled with armament, cannon barrels poking from every port, for’ard, aft and amidships. At present he was playing his favourite game, lying in wait for any craft sailing out of Barranquilla or Cartagena and ready to leap out on them from his hiding place on the east side of the Santa Marta cliffs. Captain Teal was rapidly becoming the scourge of the Caribbean Sea. He affected to wear a square-tailed foxhunting jacket of red and revelled in the nickname his crew had given him, Cap’n Redjack. All he was waiting for was the coming of daylight and some unsuspecting ship to pass the headland in range of his guns. Now he sat in his tiny stateroom, sipping Madeira wine and toying with an assortment of gold coins, mainly doubloons. The clink of pure, bright gold was music to the ears of Cap’n Redjack Teal!

Ben and Ned slept out on the deck, as it was warm and humid in the shelter of the high rocks. The boy and his dog stretched out amid rope coils piled on the forecastle, hoping to catch a passing breeze.

Ben had barely sunk into a slumber when he was awakened by Ned. The black Labrador was whimpering in his sleep, paws and ears twitching fitfully. The boy sat up and smiled. What dreams was the dog dreaming? First he would make a moaning sound, then give a little yip, his nose would wrinkle and his flanks would quiver. Dreams, what strange visitations they were.

Ben got up and went to stand in the prow, looking out past the cliffs at the dark sea. Then he saw something that he knew was no dream.

The Flying Dutchman!

Standing out in the moonless night, surrounded by an eerie green radiance, there was the accursed ship, storm-torn sails fluttering on some nameless wind, ice bedecking the rigging, its hull thick with barnacles and marine debris. It turned slowly, broadside on, allowing phantom waves to wash it nearer to shore. Closer it drifted, closer.

The boy stood riveted with horror, unable to run, fear jamming his eyes wide open. He longed to scream, shout, anything to break the dread spell. His mouth opened, but no sound came forth. Now the ghostly vessel was so near it was almost upon him. He could see the awful form of Captain Vanderdecken lashed to the wheel, his long, salt-crusted hair flowing out behind him, his tombstone-like amber teeth bared by bloodless lips in the deathly pallor of an ashen face. Vanderdecken stared through mad, blood-flecked eyes at the lad and his dog, who had been cast away long years ago from his ship by an angel from heaven. The fearsome apparition glared balefully at Ben, getting closer by the moment.

Then Ned rose to his feet and began barking and baying out long, anguished howls, which echoed off the cliffs.

A voice rang out from the crew’s accommodation. “Shut that dog up, someone. Where’s the boy?”

There was the slap of bare feet upon the deck as Ludon, the mate, ran up onto the forepeak. He saw Ben standing out on the bow, rigid, with Ned alongside him still barking madly. Ludon grabbed Ben’s arm. “What’s the matter with ye, boy, can’t ye control that animal—”

At the sight of someone seizing his friend, Ned hurled himself on the mate, knocking him flat. Suddenly Thuron was among them. Ben shuddered and collapsed to the deck. The Frenchman picked him up like a baby, aiming a kick at Ludon as he did. “Ben, lad, are you alright? What did you do to the boy, Ludon?”

Scrambling away from Ned, the mate protested. “I never did anything, Cap’n, on my oath. I heard the dog making a noise and came to see—”

Thuron roared at the hapless Ludon. “Don’t ever touch this boy, and keep away from the dog. These two are my luck. Leave them both alone. Understood?”

Hurt and bewildered by the anger of his normally affable captain, Ludon slunk off, back to his bunk.

Ben regained consciousness on the bed in the captain’s cabin, with Ned licking his face. He sat up, rapidly communicating with him. “Did you see it? Vanderdecken was there, I saw him, he was coming after us, I’m sure of it. Did you see the ship, Ned?”

The dog thrust his front paws into Ben’s chest, knocking him back on the bed. “I saw it in my dreams, but I couldn’t break the spell of the nightmare. I couldn’t wake myself, Ben. I could feel the Dutchman getting closer, nearer than he had ever been since we were on his ship all those years ago. I knew you were in danger, I wanted to help you. Then suddenly I started to bark for the angel to come and save us both. That must have done the trick. Though for an angel, Ludon has bad breath and dirty feet!”

Ben remained flat on the bed and gave Ned a slight smile. “Thanks, mate, you’re a true friend. Where’s the captain?”

The dog allowed the boy to get up as he nodded toward the door. “Oh, him, he’s in the crew’s mess, giving them a severe talking-to. Old Thuron doesn’t like anyone messing with his two lucky friends—we’re to be left alone by all hands.”

Ben shook his head regretfully. “I wish he hadn’t done that. I like the crew of the Marie. They may be pirates, but they aren’t as bad as the crew of the Dutchman. They were wicked.”

Ned licked Ben’s hand. “Well, you’re a lucky lad, and I’m a lucky dog. We’ll just have to put up with it. Get some rest now. Our cap’n said he’d stay out on deck. Go on, mate, sleep. I’ll stay here and keep watch for both of us.”