Knowing that the bosun was loyal to him, the captain chose him to make the first trip. “Pierre, you and Anaconda will take the first lot. Ben, you and Ned, go second; Ludon, you’re third. I’ll make the last trip ashore. Anaconda, stay aboard the jolly boat and make the return journey each time. Leave your muskets aboard, everybody, cutlasses too. Take only your knives. We don’t want to show weapons—folk on the island might take it as an unfriendly gesture. Give the order, Anaconda!”
Any protests about leaving guns and swords aboard were forgotten. The men felt their spirits rise as the giant black steersman roared through cupped hands, “Away boat’s crew!”
When Ben’s turn came to go ashore, he seated himself in the prow of the little boat and sent a plea to Ned, who was standing next to him. “Keep that tail still or you’ll beat me to death before I can put a foot on firm ground!”
Ned flopped his head from side to side, answering, “Sorry but it’s impossible, we dogs have naturally wagging tails. I’d feel miserable keeping my beautiful tail still.”
Pierre was waiting on shore with the first group, who had already gathered wood and lit a fire on the palm-fringed beach. The loyal bosun called Ned and Ben to his side, where they stood slightly out of hearing of the other crewmen.
Pierre kept his voice low. “Our fire can be seen from the Marie. ’Twill be night shortly, the men won’t go wandering off in the dark.”
Sounds of the tropical forest rang out behind them, strange noises of unidentifiable birds, beasts and reptiles, either hunting or being hunted.
Ben drew closer to the firelight. “Have you found water yet?”
Pierre shook his head. “Tomorrow maybe. Here, have a coconut. There’s plenty about under the palms.” He cut through the thick, fibrous husk, revealing a good-sized nut. Piercing it with his knife, the bosun gave it to the boy. Ben sucked the clear, sweet milk down. It tasted delicious.
Ned’s paw tapped him on the leg. “D’you fancy sharing that?”
Ben hugged the Labrador briefly. “Sorry, Ned, I’ll get you one of your own right away.”
By the time Captain Thuron came ashore, all hands were dozing around the fire. He joined Pierre, Ned and Ben, who were drinking coconut milk and munching away at the white nut, and explained his plans in a low voice: “I’ve noticed that already three hands have deserted since we made landfall here. Ludon, Grest and Ricaud. They’re hiding out somewhere inland by now. Anaconda has taken the jolly boat back to the Marie for the night—that way they won’t get any ideas about taking over the ship. He’ll row back to shore in the morning. Pierre, you’ll take the boat back then and stand guard aboard the Marie during the day. We’ll relieve you from time to time. I’ve smuggled some muskets and cutlasses ashore in a sack. If it comes to a mutiny, we’ll be ready, though I hope it won’t. Ben, you and Ned take first watch; I’ll take over from you. Pierre, you relieve me for the last watch. I’m not sure what will happen tomorrow. I’ll just have to plan things as they come. Now I must get some rest. Stay awake, my lucky Ben, you and Ned keep a weather eye on all hands.”
Ben sat by the fire, tossing odd pieces of driftwood on the flames to keep it going as he stared into the dark mass of trees and foliage skirting the beach. He wondered what the morning would bring. Ned lay next to him with a broken coconut clutched between his forepaws, growling softly as he chewed away the soft white inner part from its hard wooden shell. Ben listened to his comments.
“Gurr, this is good. Why didn’t I try coconut before today? Like a soft bone, but sweet and juicy. Gurr, nice and crunchy!”
The blue-eyed boy chuckled. “A coconut-eating dog—now I’ve seen it all! Do you think you could tear yourself away from that nut for a moment? We’re getting low on driftwood. There’s plenty along the tide line. I’ll stay here and keep watch.”
The black Labrador stood and stretched himself. “When I’m captain of my own ship, I’ll make you go and get driftwood. It’s not an easy life, you know, fetching this and searching for that, while you sit by the fire.”
Ben passed his friend a mock serious thought. “Right, mate. We’ll call your ship the Black Dog, and you can order me about day and night!”
Ned trotted off to the left along the beach, still grumbling. “Huh, don’t think I won’t. There’ll be no idle boys aboard my vessel. Oh, and another thing, she’ll be called the Handsome Hound. I don’t like the sound of the Black Dog!”
Ben watched him go. He knew why Ned had gone to the left. Ever since they had landed, both had avoided looking out to the waters that lay on their right. Ben knew it was because both he and Ned could feel the presence of Vanderdecken and the Flying Dutchman, hovering somewhere out in the seas. Feeling the hairs prickle on the back of his neck, Ben looked at the fire, then at the snoring ship’s company of La Petite Marie. They were no trouble at the moment. Carefully avoiding a chance peek at the ebbing tide, he turned his attention to the dark, tangled forest.
Suddenly he felt sorry that the dog was not at his side. Something had moved in the gloom-cast undergrowth. He sat quite still, hoping the captain or one of the crew would awaken to break the spell, which kept his eyes riveted on the bushes fronting the tree line. There was the movement again, slow, silent and stealthy. Was it some wild jungle predator, a jaguar perhaps, or a giant python stalking him? The shape partially materialised as it moved out of shelter onto the pale, moonwashed sand. Ben wished it were a wild animal—that he could cope with. But this was the shape of a man, sinister, dark and phantomlike, clad in a long black gown with a pointed hood that hid his features. It was like looking at somebody with just a black hole for a face.
Fear numbed Ben’s limbs and constricted his throat. He sat there, staring in horrified fascination as the eerie apparition glided soundlessly toward him, hands outstretched. It drew nearer and nearer . . .
6
EARLIER THAT SAME EVENING, THE Diablo Del Mar had sailed into the straits that lay between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico, the waters known as the Mona Passage. Rocco Madrid had made a slight change to his plans. He called the mate, Boelee, and explained the scheme. “Why run straight out into the Atlantic, amigo? Would it not be more sensible to take a look at the harbours of each island on either side of these straits first?”
Boelee knew better than to disagree with Madrid, so he agreed. “A good plan, Capitano. We may even see the Frenchman’s ship tied up in port. That would make things a lot easier than standing out in the ocean, awaiting a sea battle!”
Stroking his moustache, the Spaniard looked critically across the expanse, from left to right. “Which island would you visit first, Boelee? Hispaniola or Puerto Rico? Where’s Thuron likely to make landfall, eh?”
The mate wanted to visit Hispaniola first. He knew of a few good taverns there. So he chose the opposite, certain that Rocco Madrid would disagree. “If ’twere up to me, Capitano, I’d take a look at Puerto Rico.”
Madrid stared down his long, aristocratic nose at Boelee. “But it isn’t up to you, amigo. I’m the one whose word counts aboard this ship. I say we go to Hispaniola first, to the Isle of Saona. It’s the first likely landfall for any ship sailing this way.”
Boelee nodded deferentially. “As you wish, Capitano!”
He said it too glibly, and Madrid eyed him suspiciously, then on a whim changed his mind again. “Maybe your choice was a clever one, Boelee. Let’s double-guess Thuron. We’ll put about for Mayagüez, a Puerto Rican harbour I know well. He’ll probably think that we’d head for Saona. What are you looking so down in the mouth for, amigo? You wanted to go to Puerto Rico. I heard you say so not a moment ago. Am I not a kind master, to have granted your wish so readily?”
Boelee took the wheel from Portugee and turned the Diablo toward Mayagüez. Though Rocco Madrid was still smiling from the little joke he had played on the mate, and though he swaggered confidently about the foredeck, his mind was not easy. The Spaniard was torn by doubts as to the location of La Petite Marie—he seethed with resentment tow
ard Thuron. At all costs the gold must be retrieved. Rocco did not take into account that it was he who had cheated the gold from the Frenchman in the first place. No! It was his gold, and he could not lose face in front of his crew by letting it, and Thuron, slip through his fingers. Besides, some of the gold had really belonged to him—it had been his stake in the game. Raphael Thuron and his crew had to pay for their boldness. He would punish them, yea, even unto death!
The spectral figure halted in front of Ben and sat down. Enormous relief flooded the boy: this was no evil ghost, it was only an old man. But what an old man!
Firelight reflected off his face as he pushed back his hood, revealing weather-lined features of immense serenity and kindness. A thousand wrinkles creased his brown-gold skin as he smiled through dark Latin eyes set in deep cream-coloured whites. Ben could see, without the least doubt, that this was a good and honest old fellow. His hair was wispy, pure silver; the robe he wore was that of some religious order, and a wooden cross of polished coconut shell hung from his neck on a cord. He spoke in Spanish, which the boy could readily understand.
“Peace be with you, my son. I am Padre Esteban. I hope that you and your friends mean no harm to me or my people.”
Ben returned his smile. “No, Padre, we only need food and fresh water, so we can continue our voyage.”
A thought from Ned flashed into Ben’s mind as he saw Ned returning, dragging a large dead tree branch along the sand: “I felt your fear. Who is the man? Where’s he from?”
Ben replied mentally to the Labrador. “Come here and take a look at his face, Ned—he’s a friend, Padre Esteban.”
Ned released the branch and came to sit by Ben. “Padre Esteban, eh? He’s more like a statue of a saint than a man. I like him!”
The padre reached out a hand that was the colour of antique parchment. Stroking Ned’s offered paw, he was silent for a while. Then, staring at Ben, he shook his head in wonder. “Who taught you to speak to an animal?”
Somehow, the boy was not surprised that the charismatic old man had the wisdom to read his mind. He decided to tell him the truth. “Nobody taught me. It was a gift from an angel. Could you really tell I was talking to my dog, Padre?”
The old priest never once took his eyes off Ben. “Oh yes, my son, you are called Ben, and this fine dog is Ned. But I see by your eyes that you have not been a young boy for many, many years—yours has been a hard and difficult life.”
Ben was shocked by Padre Esteban’s perception. He felt as if he wanted to pour out his story to the wonderful old man.
The padre merely reached out and took Ben’s hand in his. “I know, Ben, I know, but there is no need to burden an old man with your history. I see great honesty in you. The evil of this world has not tainted your heart. I must go now, but I will return at dawn. My people will see to the needs of your ship. Tell the captain we mean no harm to you.” He paused. “I must ask you to do something for me, Ben.”
Squeezing the padre’s hand lightly, the boy nodded. “Anything for you, Padre Esteban. What is it?”
The old man took the cross and its cord off and placed it about Ben’s neck, tucking it inside his shirt. “Wear this. It will protect both you and your dog from the one who pursues you. Remember it when you are in danger.”
Ben took the cross in his hand. It glistened in the firelight. The depiction of the figure upon it had been carved carefully into the wood and outlined with dark plant dye. When the boy looked up again, the old man had gone.
Ben told Thuron of his encounter with Padre Esteban, but he did not tell him of the cross or what the old man had seen in his eyes. The Frenchman warmed his hands by the fire. “See, I knew that you two were lucky to me. Don’t worry, I’ll pay the padre for anything he can give to us in the way of supplies. Well done, lad. You and Ned get some sleep now. There’s lots to do once day breaks!”
Dawn’s first pale light was streaking the skies over a smooth and tranquil sea, and the Diablo Del Mar was little more than three miles off the coast of Mayagüez. Rocco Madrid was roused from his cabin by a shout from Pepe, the lookout. “Sail off the stern to starboard!”
The Spanish pirate captain hurried out on deck and clapped the telescope to his eye. “A fishing vessel! Portugee, come about to meet it. I’ll have words with the skipper.”
Fear was the first reaction shown by the thin, tombstone-toothed Carib who skippered the small schooner-rigged fishing craft. He knew he was facing a pirate vessel whose guns he could not outrun. The man had dealt with those of The Brotherhood before. Hiding his terror behind a huge grin, he held up two large fish, shouting, “A good day to you, friends. My fish are fresh caught during the night, the finest in all these waters. Will you buy some and help to feed my poor wife and ten children, amigos?”
The Diablo loomed up alongside the small craft, dwarfing it. Rocco Madrid leaned over the midship rail and looked down at the skipper. Producing a gold coin, he spun it toward the fisherman, who caught it with great alacrity and waited in respectful silence to hear what the dangerous-looking pirate had to say.
Madrid held up another gold coin meaningfully. “Keep your fish, amigo. Where have ye been trawling? I mean you no harm—all I want is information.”
The skipper swept off his battered straw hat and bowed, testing the gold coin between his teeth as he did so. “What can I tell you, señor? We are bound for Santo Domingo on Hispaniola after three days and nights fishing the waters round the Isle of St. Croix. Ah, it is a hard life, yes?”
Madrid nodded. “Never mind your life story. If you want to earn that gold piece, and the one I have here, tell me: Did you see any other ships since you’ve been out? I’m looking for a French buccaneer named La Petite Marie.”
Holding the hat flat against his chest, the skipper bowed again. “I cannot read the letters, señor, but we sighted a vessel. Not as grand and large as your ship, but round in the bow and very fast-looking. She flew the skull and blades, just as you do. A Brethren vessel, eh?”
Rocco’s eyes lit up. “That’s her! Where was she when you saw her, amigo? Tell me!”
The skipper waved his hat back over his shoulder. “Sailing toward the southeast coast, I think, maybe to Ponce, Guayama or Arroyo, who knows?”
The Spaniard stroked his moustache, slightly puzzled. “What would Thuron want around there? Hmm, maybe he has a secret hiding place. I’ll soon find out, though!” He pocketed the gold coin and drew his sword, pointing it at the hapless fishing-boat skipper. “I know Hispaniola well. If you’ve lied to me, I’ll find you. Ten children is a lot for a widow to support, remember that.”
Dismissing the fishing boat, he turned to Pepe. “Get my charts, I’ll take charge of this operation!”
Pepe hurried off to the captain’s cabin, where he gathered up charts, muttering to himself, “When did he never take charge? But who am I to mention this, nothing but a donkey.”
Aboard the Devon Belle, Captain Redjack Teal was also studying his charts whilst taking breakfast. His new cook, an undersized seaman named Moore, stood nervously by, watching as Teal forked a minute portion of fish into his mouth. The privateer captain pulled a face of disgust and spat the food onto the deck, then glared balefully at Moore. “Curse your liver’n’lights, man, do ye call this cooked, eh?”
Moore tried to stand his ground and look respectful at the same time. He saluted and spoke with a thick Irish accent. “’Twas boiled t’the best of me ability, Yer Honour!”
“Boiled!” Teal remarked, as though the word were an obscenity. “Boiled? Who the devil ever told ye I take boiled fish t’break me fast, eh? Not another word, sirrah. Stand to attention! Clean this mess up. Take that demned fish out o’ me sight! Report t’the gunner for six strokes of a rope’s end and thank your ignorant stars ’tain’t the cat across your back. If ye ever bring me boiled fish again, I’ll have ye boiled alive in your own galley. Get out of me sight!”
After the unfortunate Moore had left the cabin, Teal quaffed several goblets of
Madeira and stalked out on deck in high bad humour. He called the mate to attend him. “You there, has land been sighted yet?”
The man tugged his forelock. “Nary a sightin’ yet, Cap’n, but we should spot somethin’ by midmorn, sir.”
Teal could think of nothing to say except, “Well . . . well, make sure ye do! An’ report t’me, straight off, d’ye hear?” He thrust his telescope viciously at the mate. “Take this up t’the crow’s nest, tell that lookout to keep his confounded eyes skinned for land. Move y’self, man!”
He stalked off, exclaiming aloud, “Boiled fish? Can’t abide the foul stuff. Worse than boiled mutton, if y’ask me, far worse!”
By midmorning the entire crew of the Devon Belle were fervently hoping their captain would stay in his cabin until his temper had calmed. Gillis, the captain’s dresser, sat in Cook Moore’s galley, sharing some boiled fish with his shipmate and complaining bitterly. “Cap’n, is it? I’ve seen better cap’ns in charge of a saltfish barrow. Kicked me, he did, aye, kicked me, an’ for what? ’Cos one of his buttons was loose. Ain’t nothin’ in regulations says a man has t’get kicked for a loose button, is there, cookie?”
Moore rubbed his rear end, still smarting from the gunner’s knotted rope. “Only a kick? Sure now, weren’t you the lucky one. How does that boiled fish taste to ye?”
Gillis was about to reply when the call came loud and clear. “Land ho! East off the for’ard bow. Land hoooooo!”
The feeling of relief that swept over the Devon Belle was almost tangible in the air. Smiling faces were seen as crewmen lined the bows to catch a sight of the headland when it became visible on the horizon. Shortly thereafter, Redjack Teal strutted out onto the deck, freshly attired by Gillis in his favourite red hunting jacket and pristine linen accessories. A naval officer’s sword, complete with brass scabbard, clanked at his side.