The Angel's Command

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!'

Redjack smiled benevolently at the mate and held his arms wide to give him the benefit of his outfit: Oyster- silk

breeches, white stockings and silver-buckled high shoes, his cuffs and throat frothing with cream silk lace beneath a

freshly pressed and laundered red hunting jacket. 'Oddsfish, that's the style, dress t'suit the occasion, I always say!'