The Angel's Command

mutiny,

you're a dead man. Hush now, here comes Cookie!'

The Irish cook bustled into the galley, muttering aloud. 'Goin' home to dear old England, is it? Nobody's mentioned

dear old Ireland! I'd sooner see the darlin' Liffey flowin' through Dublin than London an' the Thames River. An' have

ye heard the man givin' out his orders like a Wexford washerwoman with tuppence t'spend on a Monday...'

He went into an imitation of Teal's foppish accent, which brought smiles to the faces of his shipmates. 'You there,

cook, demn yer eyes! Where's me Madeira, eh? An' y'call this a fresh fish, sirrah? 'Twas fresh when the Bible was

written. Take the confounded thing out o' me sight! I'll have ye flogged an' keelhauled if ye look at me like that again.

Out o' me sight, ye insolent cockroach, be off!'

Ludon sat on the deck beneath the galley window, listening to all that was said and storing it in his mind for future

reference: talk of mutiny, murder and ship scuttling, disrespect of the captain. What was it the cook had likened Teal

to? A Wexford washerwoman. Wouldn't Redjack be pleased to hear that when the time came!

Ludon was not quite sure what form his plan would take nor when he would be able to put it into effect. But all he saw

and heard was of value to him. After all, was he not but one lowly prisoner in the midst of enemies?

12

DAWN'S WELCOMING LIGHT FLOODED THROUGH the cabin as fresh ocean breezes ruffled the edges of charts

on the captain's table. Ben and Ned sat on the bed anxiously watching the Frenchman, to whom Ben had related the

whole tale.

Thuron pondered the fantastic narrative, stroking his rough beard for quite a while before speaking. 'If any man had

told me all this, I would have had him locked up as a mad person. But I know you are telling me the truth, Ben. From

the first time I looked into those strange eyes of yours, I knew you were different from anyone I had ever met. Who

can tell, maybe some odd fate has brought us together. I am not sufficiently educated to question it—I believe you.'

Ben sighed with relief, feeling as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his heart.

Ned sent him a thought. 'Thank goodness our captain is a man we can trust, eh mate ?'

Unthinkingly, the boy answered aloud. 'He certainly is, Ned!'

Thuron smiled, gazing into the dog's trustful eyes. 'This fellow can understand everything I say, I'm sure of it. I could

tell you were just talking together—what was he saying to you, lad?'

Ben told the captain, who seemed immensely pleased. 'I wish I could speak with Ned. He looks a handsome and

intelligent fellow. Hahaha! Look at him, he heard me!'

The black Labrador stood up on the bed and struck a pose, which he hoped looked both handsome and intelligent. Ben

laughed along with the Frenchman. 'I'm afraid you can't hold conversations with Ned, a. ', but he can nod yes or no to

anything you need to ask him. Right, Ned?' The dog nodded to affirm this.

Thuron's eyes lit up. 'That's a very valuable thing to know. Thank you, my friends. I am a fortunate fellow to have

such wonderful companions. But we'll keep it our secret. The crew wouldn't understand.'

Ben agreed. 'Except maybe Pierre. He's a good man, too, Cap'n.'

Thuron nodded. 'They're all good men in their own ways, but Anaconda was the best of them. I can't tell you how I

miss that giant of a man, may his soul find peace. He was a slave, you know—we ran away together, deserted from a

corsair galley many years ago in the Indian Ocean, just off the coast of Madagascar. We were together for a long time.

When I got my first ship, I wanted to make him the mate. But Anaconda wouldn't hear of it. All he wanted was to be

steersman. I remember him saying, 'I will command your ship's wheel and take you wherever you want to go. You are

my captain, and my friend for life!' And that's the way it was until yesterday. Ah, my poor friend, my poor friend, my

heart grieves for him.'

Ben had to turn his face away as the French buccaneer captain wept openly. Ned whined and laid his head in Thuron's

lap.

'Sail ho, to the southeast. Sail ho!'

Brushing a sleeve roughly across his eyes, Thuron quickly straightened up to the lookout's call. 'Sail! Let's hope 'tis

not an enemy.'

All hands were crowded to the rail as the Frenchman sighted through his telescope at the distant vessel. He nodded

knowingly and spoke to Pierre. 'Good job I saw him before he hauled up a decoy flag. I'd know that one anywhere.

'Tis the Barbary corsair, Flame of Tripoli Only one captain, Al-Kurkuman, flies a flag with a red scimitar on a gold

background. Hoho, look, he's striking his colours and running up a Portuguese merchant flag, the rascal. Who does he

think he's fooling?'

As the Flame of Tripoli altered course to intercept the Marie, Ben could see that its sails were blood red. He tugged on

Thuron's sleeve. 'Cap'n, does he mean to do us harm?'

Thuron put away the telescope. 'Only if he gets the chance, lad. Al-Kurkuman's a slaver. He's bound for the Isle of

Cuba with a cargo of misery purchased from the coasts of Mozambique. I can't abide traffickers in human flesh, Ben,

but we've got to be diplomatic with Al-Kurkuman. He's dangerous to any he thinks are weaker than himself. Leave

this to me—I can handle him. Pierre, run out all cannon and arm all hands! Stand ready and wait on my word!'

As the Flame of Tripoli hove nearer, Ben saw the captain known as Al-Kurkuman. He was everything a Barbary

corsair should be, an Arabian Indian of mixed blood. He glittered in the sunlight, draped in chains, necklaces, beads,