The Angel's Command

Ben lay on the bed in Captain Thuron's cabin with Ned alongside him, trying to reach his friend. However, the dog's

thoughts could not penetrate the boy's fevered mind. Disjointed images of storming seas and large waves crashing upon

rockbound shores, the Flying Dutchman, with Vanderdecken at the helm and lit all about with the eerie green light of

St. Elmo's Fire wreathing its rigging. Ned tried to interpose calming thoughts into Ben's delirium, licking the boy's

hands and whining softly. 'Ben, Ben, it's me, Ned. You're safe now, mate. Lie still, rest now!'

Thuron brought a little brandy mixed with sugar and warm water. Ned watched as he poured a few drops between

Ben's lips. The Frenchman spoke his thoughts aloud to the dog as he ministered to the boy. 'There now, that'll help

him, I think. He's had a bad time, Ned. I'll stay here with you until he looks better. Thank the Lord he wasn't taken by

those hellfish. Poor Anaconda, we'll never see him again. Apart from you and Ben, he was the best friend I ever had,

rest his soul!'

Thuron settled down in a chair and put his feet up on the end of the bed, assuring the Labrador in a weary voice, 'At

least our Ben's safe, eh, boy? Don't you fret now, he'll be fresh as a coat o' paint by tomorrow.'

With her rudder back in working order, La Petite Marie sailed northeast, out into the nighttime vastness of the mighty

Atlantic Ocean. Raphael Thuron was asleep, one elbow on the table, his cheek resting in an open palm. Ned, too,

stretched on the bed with his head lolling across the boy's feet. Ben drifted in and out of slumber, quiet and still for the

most part. Then strange spectres began haunting his mind. Were his eyes open or not? The boy was not sure, but he

could see through the ornate, oblong stern window. The sea was moon-flecked and smooth, yet far out it appeared

stormy. Cold sweat poured from Ben's brow. There in the distance, riding the gale, the Flying Dutchman was coming

toward the Marie. Ben lay there, robbed of all power of speech or movement, watching the ghost ship getting larger

and closer. He could not even pass a thought to his dog. Vanderdecken's wild, despairing face banished everything

from his mind. Ben could see him standing at the Dutchman's wheel. Lifting a corpselike finger, he beckoned the boy

to come to him, staring at Ben with eyes like chips of tombstone marble that pierced his entire being. Now the Flying

Dutchman was sailing level with the Marie. Tap! Tap! The accursed captain's finger rapped upon the windowpane,

calling, signalling Ben to come aboard his vessel. The petrified boy suddenly realised he had no grip on reality, no

control of his limbs. Was he still lying on the bed, or was he sitting up, getting out of bed and walking trancelike

toward the apparition outside the window? Vanderdecken smiled triumphantly, exposing long yellow teeth as his black

lips curled back, his beckoning finger, like a swaying serpent, calling his victim to him.

The feeling seeped slowly into Ned's mind as his eyes opened blearily. Then he felt his hackles rise, and he came wide

awake. He leapt up with a sharp bark, and Vanderdecken turned his attention upon the dog, glaring and hissing

viciously. In that moment, Thuron was wakened by the bark. He saw Ben, momentarily free of the spell, snap the

thong that held a carved coconut-wood cross around his neck. Thuron dropped to the cabin floor as Ben threw the

cross at the thing hovering outside; then the Frenchman grabbed the chair by a leg and flung it with all his might from

flat on his back.

11

AMID THE RENDING crash of glass and wood, a high-pitched, keening screech ensued. Ned was standing with his

paws up on the sill, barking out at a calm night sea. Shakily, Thuron pulled himself over to where Ben was sitting on

the cabin floor.

He grabbed the boy and hugged him tight. 'Ben, are you alright? What in the name of heaven and hell was that thing

at the window? Was it a man or a fiend?'

Before Ned could think out a warning, Ben had spoken. 'It was Captain Vanderdecken of the Flying Dutchman!'

Thuron ran to the smashed window. Regardless of the broken glass and splintered frame, he leaned out and scanned

the empty ocean.

Turning slowly, he looked from the dog to the boy. 'I think you've got something to tell me, lad!'

Ned sent a swift thought to Ben. 'Well, you've already told him who it was—are you going to let him know the rest?'

Still facing the captain, Ben answered his dog's question. 'He saved my life, we can trust him. I'd best tell him

everything. He'll understand, I know he will.'

The black Labrador closed his eyes resignedly. 'I hope he will!'

The crewman Gascon, who had not gone with the other three deserters, was taking his turn at the wheel. He had heard

Ned's bark and the window breaking. Looking astern, he saw the captain's chair, with the cross on its thong tangled

about it, floating off into the night. Tying the ship's wheel on course with the helm line, Gascon hurried to the captain's

cabin door. He was about to knock when he heard voices clearly from within. Carefully he pressed an ear to the door

and listened. Ben was speaking to Thuron. What Gascon heard that night chilled his very soul into a terror- stricken

silence.

Captain Redjack Teal had found some good old ripe cheese in the cupboard. Along with a goblet of Madeira and a few

of his special biscuits, it provided an excellent midday snack. There was a respectful tap at the door. Dabbing his lips

fastidiously with a silken kerchief, he called, 'Come!'

The bosun stumped in, dragging the prisoner Ludon behind him. He threw the man to the floor and saluted by