The Angel's Command

Madrid pointed

out to it. 'Boelee, Portugee, take some men and see if you can drag the boat up on dry land.'

Boelee remained motionless. Then he spat at Madrid's back. 'You don't give Boelee orders anymore. A capitano

without a ship, that's what ye are. Go an' get the boat yourself!'

Madrid scrambled upright and ran at Boelee, fist clenched. A mate aboard any pirate ship has to be hard and tough,

and Boelee was one such man. Sidestepping the charge, he tripped Madrid, dealing him a hefty punch to the back of

the neck as he went down.

The mate stood over him. 'You ain't no capitano, you're a fool. Got yourself tricked by Redjack with your lies about

Thuron carryin' dug-up treasure. Now we're all marooned high'n'dry without a proper weapon between us, save for our

belt knives. Well, are ye gettin' up to fight me, Madrid?'

Rocco Madrid's hand flashed to his scabbard, but it was empty. He flinched as Boelee aimed a scornful kick at him.

The mate's voice dripped contempt. 'Stay down there where ye belong. Because if ye get up, I'll kill ye with me bare

hands!'

Rocco Madrid sat alone as evening fell, deserted by his crew, who had chosen Boelee as their new leader. All hands

sat around the fire, which they had kept going since arriving ashore. Portugee, who was looked upon as second-in-

command, gnawed on a broken coconut. He looked automatically to Boelee. 'Well, what are we goin' to do now?'

The mate pinched out a spark that had settled on his arm. 'That Redjack is as big a fool as Madrid. Don't he know ye

can't maroon a pirate on an isle as big as Puerto Rico? Brotherhood vessels put in to all the ports here. Mayaguez,

Aguadilla, Arecibo, San Juan. I'll wager we're not far from Ponce. A couple o' days' march an' we can sign up with the

first ship we see there. Marooned? Huh, we ain't marooned!'

This seemed to cheer most of the pirates—the prospect of a port with ships and taverns aplenty was far better than

facing the misery of being marooned. Pepe nodded toward the figure of Rocco Madrid, sitting alone in the darkness

about fifty yards from the company around the fire. 'Will we take him along with us?'

Portugee was not in favour of the idea. 'He can go to the teeth of hell in a handcart for all I care, eh, Boelee!'

Boelee spat into the fire. 'Madrid's bad luck to all of us now, mates. We can't have him taggin' along. He was a

powerful man among The Brotherhood leaders. If'n I know Madrid, he'll blame the loss o' the Diablo on us, an' I'm the

first one he'll come after. He'll get me strung up for mutiny. There's only one thing t'do with Capitano Rocco Madrid.

Bury him here!'

A pall of silence fell over the crew. Portugee was overawed at the suggestion, his face showing pale in the firelight as

he addressed Boelee. 'Kill Madrid? Who would dare do such a thing?'

Boelee pulled the broad-bladed dagger from his belt and twirled it expertly. 'Well, seein' as how you're all so chicken-

hearted, I'll do the job! But when we get to a port, every man jack of ye better keep his mouth shut about it. I'll say

that Madrid was slain by the privateers when we lost the Diablo. Anyone says different an' I'll gut him! So, turn your

backs or close your eyes if ye don't want to see the deed done. Madrid's only a treacherous worm, we're better off

without him!'

Flat on his stomach, Boelee crawled away from the fire with the knife clenched in his teeth. Away from the firelight,

his path described a wide half circle. All that could be heard was the surf pounding up onto the shore and the odd

crackle of blazing driftwood from the fire. Ahead of him, Boelee could see the Spaniard's back—he was sitting

drooped over, as though he had dozed off. Boelee wriggled noiselessly forward, transferring the knife from mouth to

hand. He held it tight, ready for a hard upward thrust between the former captain's ribs. Closer he edged, closer, until

Madrid's back was within striking distance. Coming up on his knees, Boelee locked his free arm around the Spaniard's

neck.

Rocco Madrid's head lolled to one side just as Boelee felt the light tickle of coloured feathers against his forearm. With

a horrified gurgle he released his quarry and stumbled backward.

Four poisoned darts had ended the life of Rocco Madrid: one behind his ear and three in his cheek. The Spaniard lay

huddled grotesquely on the sand, his body still warm. Panting and sobbing raggedly, Boelee stumbled across the beach

to the fire.

Portugee grabbed hold of him as Boelee, too, fell, both legs still kicking convulsively as he tried to clutch at the sharp

bamboo sliver sticking from his throat.

The ancient, bearded patriarch whose village they had destroyed appeared at the edge of the firelight. His gaze swept

the petrified crew. 'You are back. Only fools would want to return after what you did here!'

He strode off into the dark as the drums started up. Thonk thonk thonk thonk! A hollow ceaseless rattling sound. Silent

as moon shadows, the Carib hunters, their bodies striped with dark plant dyes, closed in on what had once been the

crew of the Diablo Del Mar.

10

CAPTAIN THURON HAD BEEN RIGHT: IT WAS another world beneath the surface of the sea. Golden sun rays

turned to faint curtains of pastel blues and greens as they lanced down into the depths and small bubbles rose in silvery

cascades from the barnacle-crusted hull of the Marie. A few tiny, fat, jewel- coloured fish that were travelling beneath

the ship nosed harmlessly against Ben's cheek. Pulling themselves down the line tied to the stern, Ben and