The Command - Brian Jacques - Flying Dutchman 02

Madrid drew his sword and prodded the long spar, which still smelled of oil and burnt canvas. He pointed the sword at Portugee. “When was this thing found, and where exactly was it?”

The bosun tried to sound efficient. “Capitano, it was found less than a quarter hour ago. We pulled it from the water, Boelee and I. Pepe knows exactly where it was.”

Pepe cleared his throat nervously. “Sí, Capitano, the spar was drifting in our wake, I was lucky to spot it.”

Turning on his heel, the Spaniard strode to the rail. He sheathed his sword and stared pensively at the water. The trio watched him apprehensively, trying to gauge his mood. Much to their relief, he was smiling when he turned to face them. “A decoy, eh, very clever. That spar tells me two things. One, the Marie is not headed for Jamaica and Port Royal. Two, they were sending us the wrong way. So, what does this tell you, amigos?”

The three stared dumbly at him as his smile grew wider.

“Donkeys, you have not the brains among you to make a capitano. Thuron would not be fool enough to turn and sail back to Cartagena. No, I think he’s taken off at an angle, east, out to the sea. So, he will head for one of two places, Hispaniola or Puerto Rico. Here’s what I plan on doing. We will sail east also, right through the strait between the two islands and out into the Atlantic. It doesn’t matter which island he’s chosen—when Thuron puts out to sea again, we’ll be waiting for him. Boelee, bring me my sea charts. Portugee, take the wheel and head Diablo due east. The French fox will not escape me this time!”

Pepe stood by Portugee at the wheel, speaking in a low voice as the captain walked away. “How do we know Thuron won’t sail for the Leeward or the Windward Isles, or maybe for La Guira, Trinidad, even Curaçao, or right out to Barbados?”

Portugee turned the wheel steadily, blinking as the sun caught his eyes. “We don’t know, Pepe. Didn’t you hear him? We’re donkeys with no brains, he’s the capitano. So whatever he decides must be right. Unless you’d like to go tell him you know better!”

Pepe shook his head vigorously. “I have no desire to be a dead man, amigo. The capitano knows best, this donkey will obey his orders without question.”

4

BEN HAD NEVER BEEN ABOARD A SHIP AT SEA that had been fired on. The first thing he heard was a distant boom. Both he and Ned looked up to the sky, the dog sending him a puzzled thought. “That sounds like thunder, but there’s hardly a cloud anywhere in the sky.”

Anaconda’s deep voice rang out. “All hands down, we bein’ fired on, Cap’n!”

Thuron was opening his telescope as he hurried to the stern rail when there was a tremendous splash in the water about fifty yards astern. The Frenchman sighted his glass, shouting orders as he did so. “British privateer sailing out of Santa Marta’s east coast! Carrying enough cannon for a man-o’-war, curse him! Pierre, tighten the braces and run out staysails port and starboard! He hasn’t got our range yet. We’ll need every stitch of canvas if the Marie‘s to outrun him!”

A second cannon boom exploded. This time Ben heard the iron ball cleave the air with a whistling noise. Both he and Ned were drenched with spray as the shot hit the waves, less than twenty yards from the stern.

Then the chase was on. A good stiff breeze took up any slack in the sails of La Petite Marie as she shot off like a startled deer. A small, agile crewman named Gascon climbed to the stern lookout point with the captain’s spyglass rammed into his belt. Ben and Ned stood anxiously at Thuron’s side, staring up at Gascon as he sighted the glass on their attacker and yelled down. “They’re comin’ on fast, Cap’n, ‘tis a twenty-two gunner, with four culverins in the bows. I can just see the crew standing to with muskets!”

Despite the peril of their predicament, Thuron smiled grimly. “Hah! Typical privateer, overgunned and overmanned. Our Marie sports only half their number of cannon, and we cut off our fenders yesterday. We’ll outsail the fat-bottomed Englander. He won’t get any king’s bounty out of Raphael Thuron, you can bet your boots on that, boy!”

Ned shot Ben a hasty observation. “Well, at least our cap’n isn’t short of confidence. I like his style!”

Ben wiped salt spray from his eyes and addressed the captain. “I think we’ll have to sail a lot faster than the privateer to stay out of gun range, sir.”

Thuron threw an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Aye, lad, but our Marie’s a. fast little lady, and I’ve got my lucky Ben and Ned with me. Don’t worry, as long as we can keep those cannonballs from shooting our rudder away and any chain shot from ripping off our masts, all he’ll hit is our wake. I’ve outrun privateers before. Get down!”

Ben, Thuron and the dog flung themselves flat to the deck. There was a harsh, whirring noise and a resounding crack. The captain lifted his head at the same time as Ben. Thuron nodded toward the stern rail. Hanging wrapped around the ornate gallery rail, the wood of which was splintered and split, was a chain attached to a cannonball about the size of a man’s fist.

The Frenchman whistled soundlessly. “That was close. Here, lad, come and take a look at some chain shot!”

Keeping low, they crawled to the rail. Thuron reached up and unwound the object, hauling it aboard. It was like a bolas— three lengths of chain joined at the centre to form a letter Y, with a small iron ball attached to the end of each chain.

The captain weighed it in his big round hands. “British Royal Navy issue. Poor buccaneers like me cannot afford such murderous, expensive toys. Look, here comes another! Stay on your feet, boy, it won’t hit us. We’re stretching our lead on the sluggard!” Ben heard the deadly whirr and saw the second chain shot plow harmlessly into the sea two ship lengths behind them.

Captain Redjack finally appeared on deck after breakfasting and having his dresser’s attention. He flipped a lace kerchief from his red velvet sleeve and flicked a spot of black powder from his oyster-silk knee breeches. Turning to the master gunner, whose name had slipped his mind, he held out a well-manicured hand and spoke. “Confound ye, man. Don’t stand there gogglin’, make y’report!”

Captain Redjack focussed the telescope, which the gunner handed him, on his quarry, studying the vessel as the gunner reported. “She’s a French buccaneer alright, Cap’n, sir. I tested ‘er speed with a couple o’ cannon shots. She’s fast. Though I managed to wrap a chain shot round ‘er stern galley, sir.”

Redjack took the glass from his eye and tapped it in his palm. “Faith, did ye now? Cowardly froggy, look at him, runnin’ like a spring hare. Mistah, er, steersman, I want ye to take us right within the gun range of yon fellow. Can y’do that, eh?”

The steersman, a lanky, gloom-faced man, tugged his forelock. “She’s ‘igher out the water than us, sir. By ‘er lines I’d say the Frenchie was built fer speed. But I’ll do me best, Cap’n.”

The privateer captain stared down his nose at the steersman. “Don’t do y’best, sirrah. Do a lot better’n that, eh? Three golden guineas for the man who sets first foot on the pirates’ deck. Three stripes from a rope’s end for all hands if we lose the villain. Demme, but if that isn’t a fair offer, eh?”

The crew knew Redjack to be a man of his word. A hard-faced mate began bellowing orders. “Pile on extra spritsails an’ bowsails, take cutlasses an’ loose those fenders. Jump to it, ye layabouts!”