you, mate. That lighted spar is a stroke of genius!"
The Labrador stood with his front paws against the port rail, sniffing as he returned the thought. "If I was human I'd be
an admiral now. Suppose you'll tell our cap'n that it was your idea, eh?"
Ben shook his head. "I won't even mention it."
Ned dropped his ears comically. "Oh, go on, tell him and get all the glory for yourself. I know what it's like to lead a
dog's life, all work and no praise."
Ben lightly kissed the top of his dog's head. "There, you're getting my praise now. I don't know what I'd do without
you, Ned. The world's smartest dog, that's you!"
Thuron emerged from his cabin and pointed to the decoy light. "Hah! That's a great trick. Was it your idea, Ben?"
The boy answered, speaking the truth. "No sir, it was good Saint Ned who thought of it!"
The Frenchman cuffed Ben playfully. "Don't make me laugh. Sound carries far on open waters, you know."
Moonless dark fell over the softly soughing waves, and clouds cloaked most of the stars. Rocco Madrid handed the
wheel over to Boelee and went to the foot of the mast. He called up in a hoarse whisper. "Where is the Marie now,
Pepe?"
Pepe's nervous whisper reached his ears. "I cannot see her anymore, Capitano. I had your glass on the galley light and
poof! It went out. Someone must have closed the galley door."
Madrid's teeth grinding together made an audible noise. "Idiot, you mean you've lost her. She must have put on even
more sail. We'll keep a straight course. I think we're right in Thuron's wake. He's heading for Jamaica and Port Royal,
I'm sure he is. Boelee, set your course due north. Portugee, keep her under full sail. We'll sight him by daylight
tomorrow, there's nowhere to hide on the open sea. I'll be in my cabin. Wake me an hour before dawn."
The Spaniard stalked off to his cabin, leaving the three crewmen searching the night-dark horizon. Rocco 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