The Angel's Command

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, moon-washed 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 Mayaguez, 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 Mayaguez. 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

toward 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.