The lookout called down again. “I think they’re riggin’ a cannon up at the stern, can’t make it out properly though, sir!”
The seaman turned to his captain. “He says, he thinks . . .”
Redjack dismissed him with a haughty glance. “Go away, sirrah, y’sound like an echo in a cave. I heard him.
Gunner, get up an’ see what that oaf’s blitherin’ about, will you?”
The master gunner climbed obediently up the mast into the crow’s nest with the lookout. Shading his eyes, he peered at the Marie.
Teal called up testily. “Give him the demned glass!”
The gunner took a sighting through the telescope lens. “Looks like a long-nosed culverin, sir. We’re well outta range. ’Twon’t shoot half this distance, Cap’n, sir!”
Teal held out his goblet for more wine. “Well, let the silly Frenchies amuse themselves by tryin’, eh? Haw haw haw!”
There was a distant echo of a sharp crack, followed seconds later by a whirring scream, ending in a loud crash!
Shorn off by chain shot, the Devon Belle’s foremast swayed crazily for a moment, then fell.
Aboard the Marie, a loud cheer went up from the crew. Ben and Ned danced jubilantly around the French captain, the dog barking and the boy shouting joyfully. “You did it, Cap’n, what a shot! Chopped off their foremast!”
The captain stood nonchalantly, a stick with burning tow at its end still held in his hand. He flourished it and bowed. “Raphael Thuron was once a gunner aboard the Star of Sudan, a corsair that was the terror of the Red Sea!”
Ned passed Ben a thought. “There’s old Pierre coming up from amidships. Look at the face on him, you’d think it was the Marie that’d had her mast shot off!”
Pierre’s misgivings became clear when he spoke to his captain. “When the galley got hit, most of the supplies went with it.”
Thuron’s face fell. “Is there anything left?”
Pierre shrugged. “Half a leakin’ cask of water an’ one sack of flour, that’s all I salvaged.”
Captain Thuron’s happy mood evaporated promptly. “We’ll last out until we make Hispaniola or Puerto Rico. Take the wheel, Pierre. Back on the eastern course. Anaconda, you and I will work out a ration of water and flour for each man until we can get more provisions.”
Ned sent a sideways glance and a thought to Ben. “Maybe we’re not so lucky for the cap’n. Tighten your belt, mate, there’s hard days lying ahead of us.”
5
CAPTAIN REDJACK TEAL WAS NOT A happy man. He was, in fact, rather unhappy and, as such, made sure the entire crew of the Devon Belle shared his feelings wholeheartedly. It was noon of the second day since Teal had lost a foremast to his own chain shot. The French buccaneer vessel was now more than a day and a night ahead, off into the wide blue Caribbean Sea. The British privateer had continued sailing in pursuit, but like a gull with an injured wing, she had soon dropped far behind, sloughing awkwardly along whilst running repairs were carried out on the broken mast. After severely chastising all hands as he had vowed he would, Redjack had taken to his cabin. There was not a man aboard who had avoided six strokes of a tarred and knotted rope’s end, three strokes for losing the quarry and an added three for what their captain termed “lack of discipline and a sullen demeanour.”
At a timid tap on the cabin door, Teal glanced up from his noonday goblet of Madeira. He snapped out briskly, “Come!”
The bosun stumped in, wooden splints bound either side of a fractured leg. Tugging his forelock respectfully, he stood wincing. Teal pretended to study a chart that was spread across the table. After what he judged a suitable period, the captain sat back, studying his bosun disdainfully. “Struth, man, have ye no tongue in your mouth, eh? Don’t just stand there lookin’ sorry for yourself. Speak!”
The bosun’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. “Beg to report, sir, the jury mast is now rigged an’ in place, all shipshape an’ fit t’go under full sail again, Cap’n.”
Redjack toyed with his goblet, staring at the bosun’s injury. “’Twill be some time before you can go under full sail with that leg, eh?”
The bosun kept his eyes straight ahead and replied, “Aye, sir.”
Teal sighed despairingly. “Lettin’ a mast spar fall on y’-leg like that. Lackaday dee, you’re a foolish fellow. What are ye?”
Still staring ahead, the man was forced to repeat, “A foolish fellow, sir!”
Rising in a world-weary fashion, Teal refilled his goblet to take out on deck with him. “Stir your stumps, then, let’s go an’ take a look at what sort of a job’s been made.”
A shrill blast on the bosun’s whistle sent the crew hurrying into four lines on the main deck. Without a second glance, Teal swept by and went to inspect the new foremast. It was a section of common ash tree from the ship’s lumber stores, held by spikes and rope lashings to the original foremast stump, which was about four feet high. The ship’s carpenter and his mate, who had been applying coats of melted tar to the rope binding, stood respectfully to one side.
The captain circled the jury-rigged mast twice, peering closely at the work. “Hmm, not half bad, will it hold sail without crackin’, eh?”
The carpenter saluted. “Aye, sir, I reckon she’ll take a blow!”
Teal, assuming the new mast was wood that they had picked up along the South American coast, smiled briefly at the grizzled workman. “Good man! Though I wager ye’d sooner be usin’ stout English timber, a trunk of ash from back home, eh?”
Knowing what to do, the carpenter nodded cheerily. “Aye, sir!” He watched Teal strut off, wondering how a man could become ship’s captain without being able to identify a plain piece of English ash from the ship’s stores, which was what he had used.
Captain Redjack Teal went to stand on the afterdeck to give a speech to his crew waiting at rigid attention below on the main deck. Now he was a stern father, berating his wayward children. “As captain of this, His Majesty’s ship, and as the bearer of the king’s own letter of marque, I am bound by me duty t’keep the high seas free of pirates an’ their ilk. But my crew are failin’ me! An’ a demned sloppy lot ye are! Lettin’ a confounded Frenchy get away like that, eh? Call y’self gunners? I had him broadside on, an’ all ye could do was wreck his worthless galley! Call y’selves marksmen? There wasn’t a single musket shot from us, no enterprisin’ fellow tried to take out their steersman or captain! Then, if y’please, we had a fool at the wheel who couldn’t take us out o’ the way of a single chain shot! He crippled us!”
All hands stared at the deck, as if the answer lay there. Teal continued working himself up into a fine old temper. “Call y’selves English privateers, hah! Plowfield donkeys an’ cabbage-furrow bumpkins, that’s what y’are! But things are goin’ to change, I’m goin’ t’make marines of ye, fightin’ sailors that’d make the wives of England proud! No more rope’s end, ’tis the cat-o’-nine-tails for any man who doesn’t jump to it. We’re goin’ to capture the Frenchman, or we’re goin’ to send him’n his whole demned froggy crew to perdition an’ a watery grave! Do ye hear me?”
All hands shouted as one man, “Aye, sir!”
He turned to the mate who was holding the Madeira goblet in waiting. Teal took several sips and mopped lightly at his cheek with a kerchief. Berating a crew was tiring work. He was about to leave the deck when the mate reminded him. “Permission to carry out burial at sea, Cap’n?”
The captain tried to look as if he had not forgotten. “Oh yes, quite. Chappie the mast fell on, wasn’t it? Well, fetch him out an’ let’s get on with it.”
The corpse was borne to the amidships rail, wrapped tightly in sail canvas, weighted at the feet with holystones—chunks of sandstone used for scouring the decks. The canvas was rough-stitched up the centre with twine, the last stitch being put through the dead man’s nose: a traditional seafaring way of making sure the man was really dead. Six crewmen held the bundle, balanced on a greased plank, over the rail. Teal took the Bible and
skimmed swiftly through the regulation prayer for the dead, ending with a swift amen, which was echoed by the crew.
Then the six bearers began tipping the board up, reciting as they did:
“Let’s hope Father Neptune
Has saved him a fine fortune,
An’ all the pretty mermaids
Will sing a sweet ’n’ slow tune.
For here goes some mother’s son,
Now all the prayers are said,
With holystones round both heels,
Tip him overboard, mates, he’s dead!”
There was a dull splash as the canvas parcel hit the waves and vanished down into the sea.
Captain Redjack straightened his cravat. “Put on all sail, Mr. Mate. Take her due east in pursuit. Let me know when the Frenchman’s sighted. Er, by the way, what was that fellow we just put down, eh?”
“That was Percival, Cap’n,” the mate replied.
Teal looked faintly mystified. “Percival who?”
“Mounsey, your cook, sir.”
The captain shook his head sadly. “Cook, y’say! Hmm, rather inconvenient. See if y’can find a good man to replace him.”
Three days had passed aboard La Petite Marie. The weather had stayed fair and the winds steady. Ben stood in line, carrying two bamboo drinking cups. Beneath the makeshift canvas galley awning, Ludon and a crewman named Grest were serving the water ration out to all hands. Ben held out the first cup, and Grest filled the ladle two thirds and tipped it into the tow-headed boy’s cup. Then Ben held out the second cup.
Grest eyed it, glaring at Ben. “One man, one measure, that’s all anybody gets!”
Ludon whispered something to Grest, who wordlessly dipped the ladle and gave Ben a second measure.
Captain Thuron strode up. “Are you having any trouble, lad?”
Ben shook his head. “No trouble, Cap’n, just getting the water for me and Ned.” The boy walked off, followed by his dog.
The captain poked a thick finger in Grest’s shoulder, making the man flinch. “That dog gets water, the same as any man aboard. Make sure you serve him the proper measure, d’you hear?”
As Thuron strode off, Grest muttered. “Water for a dog? There’s hardly enough to go round for ourselves!”
Thuron turned, having heard the remark. He smiled at Grest. “Hand me that ladle, friend.”
Grest did as he was ordered. Thuron bent the metal ladle handle easily in his powerful hands. Still smiling, he placed the bent ladle round Grest’s neck and twisted both ends together. It was like an iron collar round the man’s neck. Thuron allowed the smile to slip from his face.
“The day you want to be captain, just let me know!”
Ned licked his bamboo cup dry. “Funny how you take a simple thing like a drink of water for granted, until there’s not much to be had.”
Ben smiled into his dog’s dark eyes, returning the message. “No sign of rain either, or we could’ve collected some by spreading a sail and catching it. I wonder how far off Hispaniola and Puerto Rico are.”
The black Labrador picked up the cup in his jaws. “I don’t know. Let’s go and ask the cap’n.”
Thuron was standing in the bow with the glass to his eye. Ben and Ned went around by the starboard side, avoiding those still in line for their water. Ned stopped at the back of the canvas-sheet galley, alerting Ben with a swift thought. “Don’t make any noise, mate. Come and listen to this.”
Ludon and Grest were whispering to a man named Ricaud as they served him water. “When we were moored at Santa Marta, Thuron kicked me, just because I tried to stop that cur from barking!” Ben overheard Ludon complaining. He also heard Ned’s indignant mental reply.
“Cur? Huh! Listen to that scurvy mongrel!”
Grest was in agreement with Ludon. “Aye, if that lad an’ his dog are so lucky, then why are we runnin’ from a privateer, with hardly a bite to eat nor a drop to drink? Call that lucky?”
Ricaud was a whiner, Ben could tell by his voice. “A drop is right. How can a man survive on only this lousy dribble of water? How much is left in that barrel, Grest?”
They heard Grest swish the water as he tipped the barrel. “Not enough to get us through tomorrow. We might be sightin’ land about then. I’ll tell ye one thing, though, Thuron’s out to cause trouble for me. I’m not staying aboard this ship. Once I’m ashore I’ll be off. There’s plenty more vessels lookin’ for crew round those two islands.”
Ludon’s voice answered him. “Let me know when ye jump ship. I’m not stayin’ aboard to be kicked around. How about you, Ricaud?”
There was a chuckle from Ricaud. “The great Cap’n Thuron wouldn’t be so high’n’mighty without a crew. I’m with ye, an’ I’ll put the word round. I wager there’s more’n a few among us who’d be wanted by the authorities back in France.”
Ludon sounded cautious. “You’re right, mate, but don’t let Pierre or the Anaconda know, they’re loyal to Thuron. Just ask around, easy-like, but make sure you talk to the right men.”
Ned stared at Ben, transmitting his thoughts. “You go and see the cap’n. I’ll keep my ears and eyes open around here. Tell him what you’ve heard, Ben.”
Thuron was scanning the horizon through his telescope and had his back to Ben. On hearing the boy’s footsteps behind him, the Frenchman turned. Ben felt embarrassed at having to tell his friend what he had heard. “Cap’n . . . I . . . er . . .”
The buccaneer stared into his companion’s mysterious blue eyes: he saw ageless honesty mingled with storm-clouded distant seas. He smiled to ease the boy’s discomfort. “Speak up, lad. What’s troubling you?”
Ben tried again. “It’s the crew. They’re . . .”
The Frenchman nodded knowingly. “Planning to desert the Marie when we make landfall. Don’t look so surprised, Ben—it doesn’t pay for a captain to be ignorant of his crew’s feelings. No doubt you’ve heard the muttering and spotted the hard glances. I’ve watched them, too, for a while. Ah, they aren’t bad men, really, but they get like that from time to time. Well, look at it their way. We’ve run from Rocco Madrid, been attacked by the privateers and now we’re about to run out of rations. What right-thinking seaman wouldn’t want to leave such a vessel? The Caribbean isles are friendly and sunny, and there’s other ships in their harbours for a man to make his berth in. Besides, some of this crew are wanted men in France, most in the pirating trade are.” He laughed. “I probably am myself, but I’m rich and willing to take my chance.”
Ben could not help but admire his friend’s wisdom and easygoing outlook. Even so, he felt bound to ask the question, “What do you plan on doing about it, sir?”
Thuron faced the sea and put the glass back to his eye. “Oh, I’ve made my plans, lad. The first is to sight land and get all hands ashore in a place where I can keep my eye on them. Not some waterfront town full of taverns, but a nice quiet cove with running water and a native village close by where we can trade for most of what we need. Trouble is that I haven’t spotted land yet. I know we’ve run a bit off course in the last day or two, but the islands can’t be too far off. Here, you take a peek. You’re my lucky boy—mayhap you’ll spy something.”
Ben took the telescope, focussed it and searched the horizon bit by bit.
Thuron chuckled. “That’s the way, use those lucky blue eyes of yours. I’ll go and find Ned. Hope he hasn’t signed up with the deserters.”
Ben kept his eye to the glass. “Shame on you for thinking such a thing, Cap’n. There’s none more faithful than my Ned!”
A distant speck on the horizon caught Ben’s attention. He felt as though ice water were trickling down his back. Some sixth sense told him that it was the Flying Dutchman. Swiftly he angled the lens away southward. A dark-purplish smudge on the far skyline dispelled his fears. The boy’s spirits soared. “Cap’n, I can see land! There, over to the southeast!”
Thuron took the telescope and clapped it to his eye. “Where, Ben, where? I can’t see a thing.”
r /> He returned the instrument to the boy, who immediately found the far-off smudge. “Crouch down, Cap’n, I’ll keep the glass steady. See it way over there?”
The Frenchman screwed his eye hard to the brass aperture. “Your eyes must be a lot better than mine, Ben, I don’t see a thing. No, wait . . . Aha, there ’tis! Tell Anaconda to alter our course two points south, then dead ahead. Ben, Ben, my lucky shipmate, you’ve done it again. Land ho!”
The black Labrador sat stoically, listening to most of the crew grumbling and disputing over the stern rail. Suddenly they heard the captain’s joyful shout, and it worked like a charm. Everything became hustle and bustle as the crew broke off to attend to their duties. Anaconda began singing in a deep, melodious voice.
“Haul away for the islands, mates,
That’s the place to be.
Way haul away!
There’s fish swim in the bay, me boys,
An’ fruit on every tree.
Way haul away!
The livin’s good an’ easy there,
So sunny an’ so free.
A shady place to rest your head,
We’ll anchor in the lee.
To me way, haul away!
Oh haul away, do,
All hands turn out an’ hear me shout . . .
Away boat’s crew!”
Ned, standing alongside the giant steersman, threw back his head and bayed. Ben laughed as he exchanged a thought with the Labrador. “You’ll have to learn the words, Ned!”
The dog sniffed and gave him a dignified glance. “Does a fiddler, a drummer or a guitar player have to know the words? Ignorant boy, can’t you see I’m providing a wonderful accompaniment to our friend here!”
With the westering sun crimsoning her sails from astern, La Petite Marie nosed into Guayama, a cove on the south-eastern coast of Puerto Rico. They dropped anchor outside the shallows, where she would not be left high and dry on sandbanks by an ebbing tide. Captain Thuron ordered Pierre to lower the ship’s jolly boat. It was a small craft and would have to make the journey to shore four times.