The Angel's Command

by Brian Jacques

  Before all hands could busy themselves at their chores, Teal caught them with their backs to him, scanning the horizon for land. He gave his crew a brisk lecture, like a schoolmaster censuring a class. “Nobody got any work t’do, eh? Stand still there when I’m addressing ye, face me, straighten y’selves up!”

  All hands braced themselves stiffly on the swaying deck, chins tucked in, staring straight ahead. Teal looked them over contemptuously, speaking in his affected nasal drawl. “Right, listen t’me, gentlemen, an’ I use the term loosely. From me chart calculations I have brought this ship in sight of Puerto Rico, where we will engage the enemy. It will be approximately early evenin’ before we reach the coast. I fully intend to sail in like one of His Majesty’s ships o’ the line, smart as paint, an’ with guns bristlin’!”

  Every man knew what was coming next as the captain let a moment’s silence pass, then stamped his foot down hard. “This vessel is a pigsty, a demned pigsty, d’ye hear me? First mate an’ bosun, put all hands to holystonin’ decks, swabbin’ out scuppers, coilin’ lines an’ polishin’ brasses!”

  Springing forward, the mate and bosun saluted. “Aye aye, sir!”

  Wheeling sharply, Redjack turned his back on them and continued. “I’m goin’ t’me cabin now, but I’ll be back out at midday. All hands will be ready for inspection, cleaned up an’ lookin’ like British sailors an’ not like some farmyard rabble. This afternoon, you sloppy men will take exercise, dancin’ hornpipes an’ singin’ shanties. Any man not doin’ so with a cheerful demeanour will be punished. Is that understood?”

  Without waiting to hear the crew’s dutiful chant of “Aye aye, sir!” Teal strode purposefully off to his cabin, feeling the collective glare of hatred from his crew directed at his back.

  Handing the bosun a length of tarred and knotted rope, the mate selected a wooden belaying pin. Veins stood out on his neck as he bellowed at the crew, “Don’t stand there gawpin’, get about it! You ’eard the cap’n!”

  As all hands went about their tasks, the bosun and mate walked the deck, conversing in undertones. No love was lost between either of the men and Teal—the bosun’s voice was hoarse with indignation. “Playin’ at bein’ Royal Navy again, are we? Blast his eyes, Teal wouldn’t recognise a real privateer if one fell on him from the yardarm. How’d he ever get to be a cap’n?”

  The mate chuckled drily. “Aye, I’ve wrung more salt water out of me socks than he’s ever sailed on. Did ye hear him tellin’ as how his calculations’ve brought us this far? He’s done nothin’ night’n’day but ask me where we are.”

  The bosun flicked his rope end at a slacking deck scrubber. “I tell ye, mate, ’twill be funny if there ain’t a sign o’ that Frenchie when we gets to Puerto Rico. Haha, what’ll Teal do then, make the crew sing an’ dance more ’ornpipes an’ shanties to conjure the buccaneer up? D’ye think the Frenchman will be at Puerto Rico?”

  Spitting neatly over the side, the mate shook his head. “If he is, there’ll be none more surprised than me. That ole Frenchie’s long gone, prob’ly off into the Atlantic Ocean. Cap’n my eye. I was told Teal ran off from England ’cos of gamblin’ debts. The eldest son of a noble family, eh?”

  Entirely in agreement with his companion, the bosun winked. “An’ not a ha’penny piece ’twixt the lot of ’em. I tell ye, this ship’s run by a pauper who knows more about the back an’ front end of a horse than the bow an’ stern of a ship!”

  The mate tapped the belaying pin in his cupped hand. “Aye, an’ ’tis poor seamen like us who have t’put up with the likes o’ Teal. Come on, we’d best see the men get this craft shipshape afore Redjack comes back on deck.”

  Running fair with a sprightly morning breeze, the Devon Belle edged closer to the island of Puerto Rico.

  Padre Esteban was as good as his word. He entered the buccaneers’ camp at daybreak, bringing with him two dozen of his people. These were silent, dark-eyed, coffee-skinned locals carrying fearsome-looking machetes.

  Ned sent a swift thought to Ben: “They look peaceful enough, but I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of those lads!”

  Ben nodded. “Look at the supplies they’ve brought with them.”

  Besides a roasted goat, a pig and some chickens, the men brought smoked fish, a full honeycomb and an amazing range of fruit and vegetables, plus a large sack of rough home-ground corn flour.

  Pointing to a pile of empty gourds, the old padre explained. “For water, there are plenty of pools and streams about to fill these vessels with. How are you this morning, my son?”

  Ben smiled as he shook the old man’s hand. “I am well, Padre. Thank you for your help. This is wonderful!”

  Padre Esteban allowed Ned to stand with his front paws against his chest. He stroked the dog fondly. “The Lord has always smiled on us. There is food aplenty for all on this bounteous isle. Ah, here comes your captain.”

  The Frenchman and the padre kissed cheeks in the Continental manner, on each side. It was obvious that the captain had taken to the old fellow at first glance.

  “I am Raphael Thuron, master of La Petite Marie. My friend, how can I thank you for all of this? Here, take these gold coins I have with me, there’s twenty of them—is that enough?”

  Shaking his head, the old man pressed the gold back into Thuron’s hand. “Gold brings trouble and death with it. The food costs nothing to grow, it is given freely to friends with good hearts. Take and enjoy it, in the name of our Lord.”

  Ned licked Padre Esteban’s hand as he communicated with Ben. “See, I told you last night, this old man is a saint!”

  As if he had intercepted the message, the padre chuckled. “There are good men and bad men. All my life I have tried to be good, but I am no saint. Just a man who likes to help others.”

  Ben had never seen a pirate weep, but he noticed that Thuron sniffed loudly and brushed a sleeve across his eyes. “Well, you’ve certainly helped us, my friend. Pierre, signal the ship, we need to get all of this back aboard. Padre, are you certain that there is nothing we can give you in return for all this good food? Anything?”

  Padre Esteban had a quiet word with one of his men, a big fellow who looked like some type of village headman. He shrugged and turned back to the Frenchman. “Perhaps if you have a bit of canvas and some iron nails to spare. They are hard to come by, away from towns and ports.”

  Captain Thuron agreed happily to the simple request. “Ben, when you get back aboard the Marie, I want you and Anaconda to load up any casks of nails we have and half of our spare canvas. Anaconda will row you and Ned back here so you can present them to the padre.”

  All that day the jolly boat plied back and forth between the ship and shore. The entire crew of the Marie were sorry to leave Guayama and the gentle old priest. Ben and Ned were the last to leave; Anaconda sat in the boat whilst they made their farewells to Padre Esteban. The boy carried a message from his captain to the padre: “Cap’n Thuron says that he hopes the nails and canvas will be useful to you. He also told me to tell you to watch out for three men who have deserted the ship. They are called Ludon, Grest and Ricaud. Though what you will do if you find them I don’t know, Padre.”

  Ned passed a brief angry thought. “I know what I’d do with the rats. Deserters, huh!”

  The old man shrugged. “They will be gone by now, to some large port on the island, where they will meet others of their kind. Thank your captain for me, Ben. He is a good and honest man, a rare quality in a buccaneer. My son, I wish you could stay, but I feel in my heart that you are not destined to abide here with me. Keep the cross by you and remember what I said. It will protect you. Now go—I wish both you and your faithful Ned a happy life. I cannot wish you long life, because I know you already possess that. But think of me now and then. I will pray for you both. Go now, and the Lord be with you.”

  Ben would forget many things in the years to come, but he would never forget that sunny afternoon saying good-bye to the old padre. Turquoise surf crested whit
e as it boomed to break upon the golden sands of the beautiful island of Puerto Rico. The tears from the old man’s face were salty as the sea as he kissed the foreheads of the blue-eyed boy and his dog. Bobbing up and down on the swell, the jolly boat drew away, with Anaconda plying the oars strongly. Ben and Ned stared through the unashamed mist of sorrow-dewed eyes at the lone figure standing on the beach, signing the air open-handed with a cross to speed them on their way.

  7

  THE SHIP’S CARPENTER OF THE DEVON Belle practised a few chords on his fiddle and sat atop the capstan, ready for the ordeal to come. Even more than the hardest chore, the crew hated and detested regulation shanty singing and hornpipe dancing. None of them were skilled at dancing, and most of them had voices totally unsuited to singing. But it was mandatory in the British Royal Navy that a captain could order his crew to sing and dance as an exercise. Redjack Teal ignored the fact that they were privateers; he preferred Royal Navy customs and discipline.

  Highly relieved that they were not part of the exercise, the mate and bosun stood by, ready with the rope end and belaying pin to deal with reluctant singers and lackadaisical dancers. Suppressing a snigger, the bosun cast an eye over the waiting crew. “Look at ’em, did ye ever see such a blushin’ pack o’ bearded beauties? They’re enough to give any maiden nightmares!”

  Trying hard to keep a straight face, the mate replied. “I’ll wager Teal tells the carpenter to play ‘The Jolly Captain. ’ I think ’tis the only shanty he knows.”

  The carpenter, who had overheard the conversation, spat over the side in disgust as he repeated the name of the tune. “ ‘Jolly Cap’n’? We’re on the wrong ship t’be singin’ about a jolly cap’n, mate. Stow it, here he comes!”

  Teal appeared on deck. Drawing in a deep breath, he tapped his chest. “Wonderful day, eh? Sea air, nothin’ quite like it! Bracing. Makes a man want to sing an’ dance! You there, er, Carpenter, give us a rousing tune. Hmm, let me see. Ah, ‘The Jolly Captain,’ I like that one. All hands look lively now, no slackers or mumblers. Carry on, player. One, two, . . .”

  Teal tapped his foot in time to the music as the carpenter played. The crew were forced to dance awkwardly, imitating the tasks of rope hauling and capstan turning as they bellowed the lyrics discordantly.

  “Ho the wind is blowin’ fair, lads,

  An’ the sun shines on the sea,

  Adieu to all our sweethearts,

  An’ old England on the lee.

  We’ll sail the oceans over,

  In a good ship tight’n’free,

  We’ve got a jolly cap’n,

  An’ right happy men are we!

  Hurrah hurrah hurrah, me boys,

  For the king’s royal family,

  An’ for the jolly cap’n,

  Who takes good care o’ me!

  There’s skilly in the galley, lads,

  An’ good ale in the cask,

  From far Cathay to Greenland,

  What more could sailors ask.

  Through storm an’ tropic weather,

  We’ll sing away each mile,

  For merry men are we to see

  Our jolly cap’n smile!”

  Teal made a rolling motion with his hand and called to the carpenter, “That’s the stuff, keep goin’, man, play it again!” He pointed at the mate and the bosun officiously. “You two there, see they all step lively. Any man not singin’, give ’im somethin’ to sing about, hot an’ heavy!”

  Further west along the coast from Guayama, the little settlement of Ponce basked in the noon heat with hardly a breeze to ripple the tall palms. Captain Rocco Madrid had anchored the Diablo Del Mar just behind a small headland and taken his crew ashore. In the village, he interrupted the locals at their siesta. To show them he was a man not to be trifled with, he drew his sword and whipped off the head of a fighting cock that had pecked at him. The good folk of Ponce did not scream or panic, they merely sat in the shade of their palmetto-thatched huts, staring at the pirates silently.

  Madrid glared back at them awhile, then turned and gave orders to Portugee and Boelee. “Take half a dozen crew and search the other side of the headland for signs of the Frenchman. I’ll deal with these villagers. Don’t waste time. If Thuron hasn’t been here, we’ll need to move on to Guayama swiftly.”

  When the men had left, Madrid pointed to an old fellow with calm, dignified features, who looked likely to be some type of village patriarch. “Have any ships been here? Speak.”

  The man shrugged. “Not for a long time, señor.”

  Touching the man’s throat with his sword point, the Spaniard loaded his voice with menace. “If you lie, I will kill you!”

  The old man did not seem impressed. He sounded matter-of-fact. “What reason would I have to lie? No ship has been here of late.”

  Rocco Madrid had encountered Caribs like this before. He knew the old man was speaking the truth. However, he felt the need to assert his authority before he lost face to the patriarch’s impassive stare.

  Rocco sniffed the air and nodded toward a fire, which was tended by two women. “What are you cooking there?”

  One of the women looked up from a cauldron she was stirring. “Stew, with goat meat, plantains and maize.”

  Rocco pricked the old man’s throat with his blade. “Get me some, and my men, too!”

  The patriarch’s eyes looked sideways at the woman. “Give them the stew.”

  The woman moved to start serving, but Madrid flicked the sword tip beneath the old man’s chin. “You will serve us!”

  With a neat movement, the man slid away from the sword and stood erect gracefully. “I will serve you.”

  Pepe, the lookout, sat alongside Rocco, guzzling stew from an earthenware bowl. Smiling happily, he wiped grease from his lips with the back of his hand. “Capitano, this is good stew, yes?”

  The Spaniard looked disdainfully at the bowl, from which he had only taken a single small taste. “Good stew, no!”

  The sudden explosion of a musket shot set parakeets to squawking in the trees. This was followed by a scream. Rocco Madrid leapt up, sword at the ready, knocking the bowl from Pepe’s hands. “Go and see what that is, quick!”

  He signalled to three other crewmen. “Go with him!” Pulling a loaded musket from his broad belt, the Spaniard looked at the old man, who was standing by the fire. “Who is out there?”

  The old fellow licked stew from his fingers. “How would I know that, señor? I cannot be in two places at once.”

  Turning to the two women, the Carib said something in a completely strange tongue. The women smiled and nodded.

  Rocco guessed it was some kind of insult, or fun they were poking at him. He pointed the pistol toward the old man’s head. “Speak again without my permission and I will kill you!”

  The old man did not appear frightened by threats. “Death comes to us all sooner or later. We cannot escape it.”

  The pirate captain was about to pull the trigger, when Pepe came hurrying out of the thickets behind the huts. “Capitano, look who we’ve found. Bring him out, Portugee!”

  With his own belt knotted about his neck, Ludon, the former mate of the Marie, was dragged out of the bushes by Portugee and the search party. Boelee gave Ludon a kick in the back that sent him sprawling at the Spaniard’s feet.

  Ludon let out a terror-stricken whimper. “Don’t kill me . . . please!”

  Portugee yanked on the belt. “Shut your face, worm!”

  Boelee put a booted foot on his prisoner’s body. “Three of ’em, Capitano, they bumped right into us out there. They tried to run away, but Maroosh shot one an’ Rillo chopped the other one down with his cutlass. We saved this piece of scum for you. Remember, this was the one who put a blade to your neck in the tavern at Cartagena.”

  Madrid grabbed Ludon by the hair and smiled into his face. “Of course! Welcome to our camp, amigo.”

  Tears cut dirty patterns through the dust on Ludon’s cheeks. “I wouldn’t have harmed ye, Cap’n.
I ran away from that accursed Thuron. I never wanted to be one of his crew, I swear on my life I didn’t. Don’t kill me, I beg ye!”

  Madrid’s smile grew even wider. “I won’t kill you, amigo . . . not yet. Put more wood on that fire, Pepe. This one is going to tell me where Thuron and his ship are.”

  Ludon screamed and sobbed. “Oh don’t, Cap’n, please don’t! I’ll tell ye where they are, ye don’t have t’do that to me!”

  Madrid turned away and spoke conversationally to his bosun. “They always lie, but the flames bring out the real truth. Haul him over to the fire while I continue our little talk.”

  The old Carib man’s voice cut across Ludon’s moaning and pleading. “Señor, you will not do this in my village. You will leave now, all of you. Go to your ship, or die here!”

  Madrid gave the old man an insolent smile as he repeated, “Die? You dare to say that to me? Maroosh, blow that old fool’s brainpan out with your musket!”

  Before Maroosh could raise the gun, he gasped and pulled a brightly feathered object from the side of his neck. It was a dart, made from a long, sharp thorn. He stared stupidly at it and dropped the musket. His legs began to tremble, and he sat down in the dust.

  The Carib patriarch glanced at the treetops surrounding the village. His voice became flat and stern. “We saw your ship long before you came here. Only fools do not take precautions. My hunters are hidden all about our village—they never miss with their blowpipes. You, señor, I have suffered enough of your bad manners. Take your men and go. Leave that one behind, he is already dead. Just as you will be if you choose to stay.”

  The pirates stared in horrified fascination at Maroosh, who was still sitting on the ground, trembling fitfully.

  Rocco Madrid put up his sword and musket and began walking backward out of the village. “Boelee, get the crew back to the Diablo. We can’t stand against invisible Caribs with poison darts.”