The Angel's Command

Madrid

would not be a pleasant captain to sail with if they lost La Petite Marie.

Ben helped Captain Thuron's crew to slacken sail as the dark, humped cliffs of Santa Marta hove into view. Ned

watched as the giant steersman, Anaconda, took the vessel carefully into the western lee side of the towering rocks.

Thuron gave orders for the anchor to be dropped. He chuckled softly as the boy joined him on deck. 'Our Marie is safe

here for the night. I'll wager that the Diablo is bound at full speed for Kingston or Port Royal—where else would a

Brotherhood vessel head for in the Caribbean? First thing tomorrow we'll slip round the headland and make a straight

run east, out of this sea and into the Atlantic Ocean. Then 'tis France and home, eh, boy?'

Ben threw the captain a smart salute. 'Aye aye, sir!'

3

AROUND ON THE eastern side of the Santa Marta cliffs, little more than two miles from where the Marie was

anchored, lay another ship, the Devon Belle. She was a privateer, carrying a letter of marque from the king of England,

Charles the First. Little more than pirates themselves, privateers preyed upon other pirates and ships that were hostile

to the privateer's own homeland. They were common to many countries—France, Spain, Portugal and the Netherlands.

Devon Belle was a British privateer. King Charles had signed a licence for her captain to raid and plunder any foreign

ship he chose, on the pretext that a vessel not flying a British flag was either a pirate or an enemy. Carrying his letter

of marque, the privateer captain would attack and conquer all before him, taking charge of all treasures and booty he

captured. Very profitable ventures for the English Crown, which took a large share of the spoils. Privateer captains

usually posed as officers of the British Navy, pretending that they were clearing the seas of pirates and keeping the

world's shipping lanes free for honest seafarers.

Captain Jonathan Ormsby Teal was such a man. Elegant, suave and well educated, the ambitious eldest son of an

impoverished noble family, he had chosen to make his living on the high seas and had taken to the trade like a duck to

water. His ship, though small, bristled with armament, cannon barrels poking from every port, for'ard, aft and

amidships. At present he was playing his favourite game, lying in wait for any craft sailing out of Barranquilla or

Cartagena and ready to leap out on them from his hiding place on the east side of the Santa Marta cliffs. Captain Teal

was rapidly becoming the scourge of the Caribbean Sea. He affected to wear a square-tailed foxhunting jacket of red

and revelled in the nickname his crew had given him, Cap'n Redjack. All he was waiting for was the coming of

daylight and some unsuspecting ship to pass the headland in range of his guns. Now he sat in his tiny stateroom,

sipping Madeira wine and toying with an assortment of gold coins, mainly doubloons. The clink of pure, bright gold

was music to the ears of Cap'n Redjack Teal!

Ben and Ned slept out on the deck, as it was warm and humid in the shelter of the high rocks. The boy and his dog

stretched out amid rope coils piled on the forecastle, hoping to catch a passing breeze.

Ben had barely sunk into a slumber when he was awakened *by Ned. The black Labrador was whimpering in his sleep,

paws and ears twitching fitfully. The boy sat up and smiled. What dreams was the dog dreaming? First he would make

a moaning sound, then give a little yip, his nose would wrinkle and his flanks would quiver. Dreams, what strange

visitations they were.

Ben got up and went to stand in the prow, looking out past the cliffs at the dark sea. Then he saw something that he

knew was no dream.

The Flying Dutchman!

Standing out in the moonless night, surrounded by an eerie green radiance, there was the accursed ship, storm-torn

sails fluttering on some nameless wind, ice bedecking the rigging, its hull thick with barnacles and marine debris. It

turned slowly, broadside on, allowing phantom waves to wash it nearer to shore. Closer it drifted, closer.

The boy stood riveted with horror, unable to run, fear jamming his eyes wide open. He longed to scream, shout,

anything to break the dread spell. His mouth opened, but no sound came forth. Now the ghostly vessel was so near it

was almost upon him. He could see the awful form of Captain Vanderdecken lashed to the wheel, his long, salt-crusted

hair flowing out behind him, his tombstone-like amber teeth bared by bloodless lips in the deathly pallor of an ashen

face. Vanderdecken stared through mad, blood-flecked eyes at the lad and his dog, who had been cast away long years

ago from his ship by an angel from heaven. The fearsome apparition glared balefully at Ben, getting closer by the

moment.

Then Ned rose to his feet and began barking and baying out long, anguished howls, which echoed off the cliffs.

A voice rang out from the crew's accommodation. 'Shut that dog up, someone. Where's the boy?'

There was the slap of bare feet upon the deck as Ludon, the mate, ran up onto the forepeak. He saw Ben standing out

on the bow, rigid, with Ned alongside him still barking madly. Ludon grabbed Ben's arm. 'What's the matter with ye,

boy, can't ye control that animal—'

At the sight of someone seizing his friend, Ned hurled himself on the mate, knocking him flat. Suddenly Thuron was

among them. Ben shuddered and collapsed to the deck. The Frenchman picked him up like a baby, aiming a kick at

Ludon as he did. 'Ben, lad, are you alright? What did you do to the boy, Ludon?'