the dog
by process of thought. Thus began a friendship that was to last through many centuries. Given refuge by an old
shepherd who lived on Tierra del Fuego, the two remained with the old man until his death, three years later. It was
then that the angel commanded them to travel on—their mission, to do good and help others wherever the need arose.
And so they went forth, this strange blue-eyed lad and his faithful black Labrador, orphans of the mighty waters,
travelling the world together. Never stopping too long in one place, where folk they befriended would grow older and
die, for Ben and Ned were eternally young. Wandering endlessly, commanded by an angel. Haunted by
Vanderdecken's spectre, they went north, up into the wild and untamed jungles, mountains and savannahs of South
America's wild continent. What adventures, untold sights and perils awaited our friends! This narrative follows their
rovings after several years. Fate landed Ben and Ned back again near the sea, the Caribbean, whose coasts were home
to lawless men. The buccaneers!
I take up my pen to tell you the tale.
Book One
LA PETITE MARIE
1
CARTAGENA, 1628
GREAT AND GOLDEN, like an enormous, newly minted doubloon, the Caribbean sun presided over the waterfront.
Ships of all nations, from salt-crusted skiffs to stately galleons, bobbed on their moorings, each craft facing bow onto
the harbour wall. Children clambered and played upon the bronze cannons fronting the jade and aquamarine waters of
the wide Caribbean Sea. Along the dusty quayfront fishing boats unloaded their catches straight to the stalls. Noise and
bustle were everywhere. Women sold plantains, melons, coconuts and an amazing variety of exotic fruits and
vegetables. Parrots squawked and monkeys chattered from their cages of split bamboo. Men squatted in the shade,
bargaining for spices, rum, snuff and tobacco. Young girls danced and sang to the music of guitars and drums, cajoling
coins from passersby. High in its ornate tower, the bell of Santa Magdalena clanged dully over the red-tiled and palm-
thatched dwellings, which ranged from austere Spanish architecture to bedraggled local hovels. Taverns, bodegas and
inns were packed to the doors with laughing, brawling, arguing and drunken seafarers, pirates, freebooters, corsairs and
buccaneers, known collectively in Cartagena as The Brotherhood—those beyond the law of honest men.
Ben and Ned sat among the trees, where it was relatively peaceful and free from trampling feet. After travelling alone
in sparsely populated regions of South America for so long, they had been watching the teeming life of the quayside
for fully an hour, both rather taken aback by this sudden surge of noisy humanity. The big black Labrador passed a
single thought to his tow-headed young companion.
'Well, are you hungry enough to go and explore yet?'
The boy smiled into his friend's moist, dark eyes. 'It would be a nice change to eat something cooked by somebody
else besides myself. Come on, Ned, let's take a look.'
The dog pondered his companion's thought for a moment, then rose gracefully and returned the mental comment.
'Hmph! If I had hands instead of paws I'd make a wonderful cook. I can't help being a dog, you know.'
Ben patted Ned's head affectionately, answering the thought. 'I'll wager you'd be the world's best cook, just as you're
the the nicest dog on earth!'
The black Labrador's tail wagged. 'Oh, you're just saying that because it's true. Follow me. I'll sniff out the place
where the food smells good.'
People did not pay much attention to the pair as they strolled along the harbour street, a tow-haired lad of about
fourteen years, dressed in an old blue shirt that lacked buttons and a pair of once-white canvas trousers, tattered and
frayed at the hems, walking barefoot alongside a big black dog. Ned threaded his way between crates of live, clucking
chickens and barrels of still-slithering, silver-scaled fish. They skirted a crowd who was watching an entertainer wrap
live snakes about his body. Ben stopped to watch the performance, but Ned tugged at his shirt-tail. 'What d'you want
to do, watch street shows or eat? Come on!'
Ben obediently followed the dog, his eyes drinking in the colourful spectacle of crowded humanity as he went.
Ned halted at the front doors of Cartagena's biggest waterfront tavern and winked one eye at Ben. 'Someone's roasting
beef in there, my mouth's watering!'
Ben's strange, clouded blue eyes stared up at the swinging sign. Crude artwork depicted a grinning jaguar taking a bath
in a barrel of rum. Below this in scrolled lettering was the name Rhum Tigre. The whole aspect of the tavern was that
it might once have been the home of some prosperous Spanish merchant, now converted into a drinking den with
upstairs accommodations for paying guests. Ben hesitated, doubtful as to whether he should enter. Sounds of a fiddle
and hoarse voices discordantly singing rowdy ditties emanated over the babble of gossiping seamen within. Ned sat
scratching behind his ear with a blunt-clawed back leg, communicating mentally.
'Enter callow youth, if thou art not afeared!'
Ben shifted from one foot to the other, and he shrugged. 'Easy for you to say, mate, but I'm the one who'll get thrown
out if they find we have no money.'
