The Angel's Command (15 page)

Madrid felt he had gained a point with his confrontation. He decided to push his advantage with the foppish little peacock of an Englander. “We need to have our arms back. What use will we be, chasing a pirate ship without arms? Thuron is a formidable fighter.”

The smile left Captain Redjack's face. “Your weapons will be returned when I feel it appropriate. As for cannon, this ship has enough for both of us. Don't want to sink the Frenchie, do we, eh? Leave all that treasure on the ocean bed?”

Madrid heaved a frustrated sigh. “We will not catch Thuron by sitting here. He gets further away by the hour, señor. Have I your permission to bring my crew aboard their ship?”

Teal nodded. “By all means, m'dear fellow. You there, bosun, lower the
Devon Belle
's jolly boat for Cap'n Madrid to go ashore.”

Rocco Madrid climbed into the jolly boat. Seating himself, he looked quizzically up at Teal, who was leaning over the
Diablo
's ornate midship rail. “Capitano, do I have to row this boat ashore by myself?”

The Englishman shrugged. “Of course, Cap'n. Leaves more room for crew on the return journey, don't it!”

The Spaniard fitted the oars into the oarlocks and began paddling clumsily away. He had not got more than two boat lengths when Teal hailed him.

“You there, listen to this!” Teal unrolled the scroll and began reading aloud. “‘Under the authority granted to me by our Sovereign King, Charles the First, I take possession of this vessel by Letter of Marque and Reprisal. God save the King and protect England and confound her enemies!'”

The jolly boat wobbled as the Spaniard let go the oars and stood up shouting. “English pig, you are playing me false!”

Three rifle shots rang out, and Madrid fell backward in panic. Totally surprised that the shots had missed him, he knelt up cautiously to see Teal pointing at him.

“Count y'self lucky to be alive, ye Spanish dog! I don't make bargains with scurvy pirates, nor do I trust 'em! 'Twould take too long to hang ye an' all that filthy crew. I'm maroonin' ye, sirrah, an' ye best row for shore before that boat sinks. Bad cess to ye an' all your ilk!”

Rocco Madrid gave vent to his spleen, roaring and cursing as the jolly boat began filling with water from the three musket balls that had pierced it below the waterline. “Redjack turncoat! Scum of the seas! I curse you to the fires of hell! May sharks tear out your lying tongue and fish feed on your misbegotten bones!”

Captain Redjack Teal gave his bosun a languid glance. “Rather excitable—Latin temperament, I shouldn't wonder. Can't lay at anchor here all day, listenin' to pirates usin' language like that, eh? One thing he did say was true, we're losin' time hangin' round here. Take the
Devon Belle
in abaft of us, weigh anchor an' make full sail!”

 
Rocco Madrid and his crew stood on the tide line in the late afternoon sun, watching the wind fill the sails of their former ship as she plowed off with Teal's old craft in tow.

Pepe turned his anguished gaze on Madrid. “What are we going to do, Capitano?”

The Spaniard sat down on the sand and began dragging off his long boots. They were sloppy with seawater from his walk ashore from the jolly boat, which lay submerged a hundred yards off, where the shallows started. Madrid pointed out to it. “Boelee, Portugee, take some men and see if you can drag the boat up on dry land.”

Boelee remained motionless. Then he spat at Madrid's back. “You don't give Boelee orders anymore. A capitano without a ship, that's what ye are. Go an' get the boat yourself!”

Madrid scrambled upright and ran at Boelee, fist clenched. A mate aboard any pirate ship has to be hard and tough, and Boelee was one such man. Sidestepping the charge, he tripped Madrid, dealing him a hefty punch to the back of the neck as he went down.

The mate stood over him. “You ain't no capitano, you're a fool. Got yourself tricked by Redjack with your lies about Thuron carryin' dug-up treasure. Now we're all marooned high'n'dry without a proper weapon between us, save for our belt knives. Well, are ye gettin' up to fight me, Madrid?”

Rocco Madrid's hand flashed to his scabbard, but it was empty. He flinched as Boelee aimed a scornful kick at him.

The mate's voice dripped contempt. “Stay down there where ye belong. Because if ye get up, I'll kill ye with me bare hands!”

Rocco Madrid sat alone as evening fell, deserted by his crew, who had chosen Boelee as their new leader. All hands sat around the fire, which they had kept going since arriving ashore. Portugee, who was looked upon as second-in-command, gnawed on a broken coconut. He looked automatically to Boelee. “Well, what are we goin' to do now?”

The mate pinched out a spark that had settled on his arm. “That Redjack is as big a fool as Madrid. Don't he know ye can't maroon a pirate on an isle as big as Puerto Rico? Brotherhood vessels put in to all the ports here. Mayagüez, Aguadilla, Arecibo, San Juan. I'll wager we're not far from Ponce. A couple o' days' march an' we can sign up with the first ship we see there. Marooned? Huh, we ain't marooned!”

This seemed to cheer most of the pirates—the prospect of a port with ships and taverns aplenty was far better than facing the misery of being marooned. Pepe nodded toward the figure of Rocco Madrid, sitting alone in the darkness about fifty yards from the company around the fire. “Will we take him along with us?”

Portugee was not in favour of the idea. “He can go to the teeth of hell in a handcart for all I care, eh, Boelee!”

Boelee spat into the fire. “Madrid's bad luck to all of us now, mates. We can't have him taggin' along. He was a powerful man among The Brotherhood leaders. If'n I know Madrid, he'll blame the loss o' the
Diablo
on us, an' I'm the first one he'll come after. He'll get me strung up for mutiny. There's only one thing t'do with Capitano Rocco Madrid. Bury him here!”

A pall of silence fell over the crew. Portugee was overawed at the suggestion, his face showing pale in the firelight as he addressed Boelee. “Kill Madrid? Who would dare do such a thing?”

Boelee pulled the broad-bladed dagger from his belt and twirled it expertly. “Well, seein' as how you're all so chicken-hearted, I'll do the job! But when we get to a port, every man jack of ye better keep his mouth shut about it. I'll say that Madrid was slain by the privateers when we lost the
Diablo.
Anyone says different an' I'll gut him! So, turn your backs or close your eyes if ye don't want to see the deed done. Madrid's only a treacherous worm, we're better off without him!”

Flat on his stomach, Boelee crawled away from the fire with the knife clenched in his teeth. Away from the firelight, his path described a wide half circle. All that could be heard was the surf pounding up onto the shore and the odd crackle of blazing driftwood from the fire. Ahead of him, Boelee could see the Spaniard's back—he was sitting drooped over, as though he had dozed off. Boelee wriggled noiselessly forward, transferring the knife from mouth to hand. He held it tight, ready for a hard upward thrust between the former captain's ribs. Closer he edged, closer, until Madrid's back was within striking distance. Coming up on his knees, Boelee locked his free arm around the Spaniard's neck.

Rocco Madrid's head lolled to one side just as Boelee felt the light tickle of coloured feathers against his forearm. With a horrified gurgle he released his quarry and stumbled backward.

Four poisoned darts had ended the life of Rocco Madrid: one behind his ear and three in his cheek. The Spaniard lay huddled grotesquely on the sand, his body still warm. Panting and sobbing raggedly, Boelee stumbled across the beach to the fire.

Portugee grabbed hold of him as Boelee, too, fell, both legs still kicking convulsively as he tried to clutch at the sharp bamboo sliver sticking from his throat.

The ancient, bearded patriarch whose village they had destroyed appeared at the edge of the firelight. His gaze swept the petrified crew. “You are back. Only fools would want to return after what you did here!”

He strode off into the dark as the drums started up.
Thonk thonk thonk thonk!
A hollow ceaseless rattling sound. Silent as moon shadows, the Carib hunters, their bodies striped with dark plant dyes, closed in on what had once been the crew of the
Diablo Del Mar.

10

CAPTAIN THURON HAD BEEN RIGHT: IT was another world beneath the surface of the sea. Golden sun rays turned to faint curtains of pastel blues and greens as they lanced down into the depths and small bubbles rose in silvery cascades from the barnacle-crusted hull of the
Marie.
A few tiny, fat, jewel-coloured fish that were travelling beneath the ship nosed harmlessly against Ben's cheek. Pulling themselves down the line tied to the stern, Ben and Anaconda descended to the rudder. Owing to the shadow cast upon the water by the ship and the curve of the hull, it was rather gloomy, though the broken rudder was fairly visible. Ben's long tow-coloured hair swayed softly around in a shifting halo as he secured his rope to the end of the spindle that stuck out below the rudder. Anaconda secured the neck of the bag that held their equipment to the rope, leaving their hands free to work. Still grasping the stern line, they inspected the damage.

The big man waggled his hand at Ben, who produced some copper strip and the hammer from the sack. Anaconda signalled with one finger. Ben rummaged a nail out and passed it to him while holding the end of the strip against one side of the big oblong rudder. Gripping the rope with his legs, Anaconda half knocked the nail through the copper strip and into the rudder timber, then dropped the hammer back into the sack and pointed upward. Ben transmitted a thought to Ned up on deck. “We're coming up for air!”

The dog's reply flashed through his mind. “Thank goodness for that, I thought you'd both decided to be fishes!”

The two broke the surface, blinking and gasping for air. Thuron sat on the deck with his legs between the gallery rails and called over the side, “Are you both alright? What's it like down there?”

Ben called up to him. “It will take a couple of dives, but we've got one end of the strip fixed with a nail.”

The Frenchman made as if to rise. “Well done! D'you need more help? I'll come down an' lend ye a hand!”

Anaconda shook his head. “There's only room for me an' the boy, Cap'n. You'd be in the way.”

Ben was in agreement. “Aye, you stay up there, sir. Stop Ned from taking over the ship. He's keen to be a cap'n, you know.”

The black Labrador glared at Ben from between the rails. “Aye, and I won't stand impudence from my crew, young feller!”

They submerged again, this time for Ben to thread the copper strip between the back of the rudder and the spindle. However, there was a buildup of barnacles and green, hairlike seaweed. The boy used Anaconda's knife to clear it, then began poking the strip through, fraction by fraction. It was difficult, the soft copper bending every time it hit a snag. Twice more the pair had to go up for air, but on the third descent, Ben's fingers, now cold and slippery from the green weeds, managed to thread the strip through. Anaconda half fixed it from the other side with a nail, then they were up again for more air.

Ben waved to Thuron. “We've got it, sir. Now we only have to stretch the strip tight and get more nails in it on both sides!”

Thuron smiled gratefully. “Pierre, tell the cook to make these lads a good hot bowl o' soup apiece. It must be cold down there, working as long as those two have.” He waved as they submerged once more.

This time Anaconda took six nails in his mouth. He began to work swiftly, though it was extremely difficult. Ben held tight to the rudder, trying to prevent it from moving, his body shaking as each hammer blow struck. Suddenly the hammer slipped from Anaconda's grasp, and his hand hit the nail head hard: Blood gouted out like a red ribbon into the sea. Ben gestured through the shadowed water that they should go up, but the giant grinned and shook his head, signalling that there was only one more nail to go. Gamely, he spat the last nail into his hand and began nailing the last bit of strip to the rudder. It went home with four hefty whacks. Anaconda pointed upward—then everything happened at once.

Up on deck, the ship's wheel, which was unmanned to allow the rudder repairs, took the bite of the newly repaired rudder. The wheel spun half a turn, sending the rudder crashing into Ben's head. Through a pain-filled mist of semiconsciousness, he let go of the rope and floated up. Looking back, he saw the big steersman reach a hand up toward him, when a massive, dark shape struck Anaconda. For a moment the water was a seething mass of bubbling crimson, and then something lashed sharply, stinging the back of Ben's leg. He lost all his senses, whirling upside down in red-streaked blackness as Ned's wild baying and calling echoed inside his brain. “Ben! Howoooooh! Beeeeeen!”