The Angel's Command

run alongside of Thuron. I'm certain he hasn't seen us yet. Take her out!'

Portugee tugged at the big steering wheel, but it moved only fractionally. He called out. 'Boelee, bring some help, lend

a hand here, the wind's catchin' us side on! We're goin' landward!'

Madrid tapped his foot anxiously, berating the men as they fought to turn the stubborn wheel. 'Fools! Didn't you feel

the wind getting up? Put your backs into it!'

There was a bump, and the Spaniard did a little sidestep to keep himself from falling when he heard Boelee groan.

'We're in the shallows, the hull's scraped bottom!'

Rocco Madrid drew his sword and slashed uselessly at the air. 'Then get oars, pikes, poles, anything! Push her off

before Thuron escapes! You, you and you, get to the first bow cannon! Load with chain shot, I'll chip her mast off as

she comes by!'

Rain started to spatter the Diablo's decks as Madrid knelt at the cannon holding a glowing piece of towrope. He

squinted along the cannon barrel, sighting on the spot where the Marie would pass offshore in a moment. 'We'll see

how fast our little French bird can fly with a broken wing. Hah! Here she comes now...'

Portugee and Boelee managed to get the Diablo off the sandbank at that precise moment. They wrestled with the wheel

as she turned slightly and her stern bumped off the underwater hazard. Rocco Madrid was knocked backward as he

fired the cannon.

8

AS HE GLIMPSED THE GUN flash from the corner of one eye, Ben heard the familiar shrieking whirr cut the night

air. He hurled himself flat. Ned bulled into the back of Thuron's knees, knocking him down beside Ben. Whump! The

noise was followed by a loud ripping sound.

Thuron leapt to his feet, roaring at his steersman. 'Take her out! We're being fired upon!' Heeling out into the

rainswept Caribbean, the Marie sailed on a zigzag course, tacking to get out of danger.

Ned shook rain from his coat, thinking, 'It couldn't have been the Flying Dutchman, Ben—ghosts can't fire

cannonballs.' Ben answered his friend's thought. 'That wasn't a cannon-ball, it was chain shot. I remember the sound

from when the privateer fired on us.'

Thuron's strong hands hauled Ben upright. 'Up ye come, lucky lad. Look at that!'

Ben saw the foresail directly overhead, now nothing but a mass of canvas tatters flapping wetly in the wind. Anaconda,

who had given the wheel over to Pierre, ambled along. He whistled softly at the sight of the wrecked sail.

'Someone tryin' to chop our mast, Cap'n. Who was it?'

Wiping raindrops from his telescope lens, Thuron swept the coast. 'The Diablo. I'd forgotten about her. That fox

Madrid must have found our trail. Hah! His aim hasn't improved much. All he did was blow a hole in a foresail. If that

chain shot had hit its target, we'd have been without a foremast!'

Anaconda made a sobering observation. 'Aye, Cap'n, an' if we'd been on an upswell instead of a downswell, you an'

your lucky mates would've been mashed to ribbons!'

The Frenchman, who could still retain his sense of humour even in the midst of a crisis, remarked drily, 'Aye, an' then

Ned would have never been made captain of his own ship!'

Ned sent Ben an indignant thought through the ensuing laughter. 'I fail to see the humour in that remark!'

The Frenchman grew serious as he took another sighting through his glass. 'We've got trouble enough for any vessel

now, an English privateer to one side an' a Spanish pirate to t'other. Well, Mr. Anaconda, what would you do in a case

like this?'

The giant steersman gave a deep bass chuckle. 'Cap'n, I'd be doin' the old Trinidad Shuffle.'

Ben looked from one to the other. 'What's the old Trinidad shuffle?'

Thuron winked at him. 'I'm going to take the wheel. You tell him, mate.'

Anaconda explained. ' 'Tis dangerous, but clever if we can pull it off, Ben. We let Madrid chase us, but we sail dead

ahead, straight for the privateer. Madrid's sailing close behind us, see. We take in sail and let him. All he can see is our

stern, so in the dark he'll think he scored a hit an' chopped our mast, because we're travellin' slow. The Englander

should put about, not wanting to present his ship broadside to the Marie. At the last moment, we fire on both ships,

give Madrid a shot from our stern and one for the privateer from our bows. Then we hoist every stitch of sail and run

off west into the night. The Englander knows he's got no chance of catching the Marie, 'cos he's got a broken foremast.

But any privateer has more than enough cannon to outgun a pirate. The Diablo is a bigger, much richer-lookin' prize

than us—and now he's dead ahead. So, what would you do if you were the privateer, Ben?'

The boy replied promptly. 'I'd attack the Spaniard!'

The lookout aboard the Devon Belle wiped rainwater from his eyes and called out to Captain Redjack Teal, who was

holding the wheel manfully. 'The Frenchman, sir, she's 'eaded on a course straight for us! Cap'n, sir, there's another

ship sailin' in the Frenchie's wake! On me oath, sir, another ship!'

Teal's voice grew squeaky with excitement as he spun the wheel. 'We're comin' about, can't sit broadside on to 'em

both!'

Joby and the carpenter were still aloft. They had rigged the ropes around both masts. From the top of the foremast to

three parts of the way up the mainmast the rope formed a coil six strands deep. The carpenter had thrust the oar

through the ropes and twisted it, taking up the slack until the thick hemp was almost as taut as a fiddle string. Suddenly

the Devon Belle came about quite sharply, the prow dipping deep and sending up a