Probably a fisherman. Come on, mate, maybe he's got some spare food with him!"
Ned raced after his master. "Food, you've said the magic word!"
They stood in the shallows as the tiny fishing smack nosed toward them. A man appeared at
the bow and flung a line in Ben's direction. He shouted a single word. "Hungry?"
Ben's answer was also brief. "Starving!"
The fellow sprang over the side. He was laughing. "How did I guess? Help me get her ashore
above the tide line."
Ned gripped the rope end in his teeth as Ben and the man put the line over their shoulders and
hauled. With considerable effort they dragged the boat over the ridged wet sand, through some
seaweed and debris, then up onto the dry beach above the tide line. The man was poorly clad,
barefoot and had a ragged cloak tied about his neck as protection against long hours facing
sea breezes. He shook Ben's hand firmly and patted Ned. "Thank ye, friends. See those trees
up yonder? Could you gather some wood for a fire? I've got good, fresh mackerel aboard. Got
some bread, and milk, too. We can cook a meal!"
Ben smiled. "You caught the fish, sir, we'll get the wood!" He sped off, with Ned outpacing
him and thinking happily, "Bread'n'fish, nothing like it when you're hungry, mate!"
The fisherman even had a frying pan. He gutted and headed the mackerel and tossed them into
the pan with some herbs and a chopped onion. As he took off his cloak, he jerked a thumb at
the waters of the bay.
"High tide's the best time to net fish around here, though you've got to get the job done before
the tide turns—it can run out pretty fast and leave you stranded out there." As he loosed the
cloak, Ben saw his white collar and well-worn, threadbare black cassock. A priest!
Ned settled down in the warm sand, thinking, "Haha, a priest. So that's the father who has no
children. This is him, Ben!"
The priest handed Ben enough bread for him and his dog. "So, what are you doing on this
forsaken stretch of shore?"
Ben tossed half the bread to Ned. "We're just travellers, Father, making our way along the
coast to Spain. It isn't too far. Do you live hereabouts?"
The priest tested six mackerel he had put on to fry and turned them over with his knife blade.
"Just on the outskirts of Arcachon. I have a little parish. Very small and poor... we even meet
in my house for services, as the church collapsed many years ago. Sandy foundation, cheap
materials, the usual story."
Ben noted the large mass of silver- and black-banded fish in the boat. "You missed your trade,
Father, you're a good fisherman to land a haul like that."
The priest nodded ruefully. "My flock and I live as a community, helping one another.
Chopard, our fisherman, broke his arm last week, so I elected myself to the job until his arm
is mended. They're simple people around here, but good. I call them my children, and, as you
know, children must be fed."
The fish tasted good. They sat in silence, attending to the needs of their hunger.
Ned was first to finish. He passed Ben a thought. "Look at the father's face—who does he
remind you of?"
Ben scrutinised the man's face. Ned was right, there was something rather familiar about the
eyes, the strong jaw, the shape of the nose, those sandy brown whiskers. Almost without
thinking, Ben found himself saying, "I was at sea once. I had a friend, he came from where
you live, Arcachon."
The father licked his fingers, tossing a fish bone into the fire. "From Arcachon, you say?
What was his name? I might know the family. We've had a few from the parish run off to
sea."
Ben spoke the name of his dead buccaneer captain. "Raphael Thuron."
In the moment the father's eyes went wide with surprise, Ben found his mind invaded by
Ned's urgent pleas.
"Easy, mate, go careful. Watch what you say. Lie if you have to!"
The man grabbed Ben's arm with a hand as heavy as the captain's had been. "Raphael Thuron
is my brother . . . would your man be about eight years older than me?"
Ben avoided his new friend's gaze. "Aye, about that, Father. He looked a lot like you, as I
remember. Did your brother run off to sea?"
The good father stared into the fire. "Yes, our parents were poor farmers. They wanted
Raphael to become a priest one day, but he was too wild. He was forever getting into
scrapes." The father smiled. "And getting me into trouble with him. Raphael was a rogue, but
a good brother. Please, tell me what you know about him, how is he doing? Raphael said that
if ever he got away from these parts, he'd make a fortune in some far country. I wonder if he
did."
As he pondered his answer, Ben passed Ned a message. "This is a good man, it would be
wrong to tell him lies. If we're to help him and his children, it's best to tell the truth."
Ned replied, "Right, mate, but don't mention the angel."
Ben gently released his arm from the father's grip. "I have news to tell you, both good and sad,
Mattieu."
The priest stared deep into Ben's mysterious blue eyes. "You know my name?"
The boy met his gaze. "Your brother told me of you when I first met him. He was one of the
finest men I ever knew." Ben's eyes betrayed what he was holding back.
Turning away, Father Mattieu Thuron watched the receding tide. "Something tells me that
you're going to say Raphael is dead!"
There was no way to soften the blow. Ben took a deep breath. "That's my sad duty, Father.
Captain Raphael Thuron is dead."
A silence followed, in which the priest's lips moved slowly as he offered up prayers for his
brother's soul. Ben and Ned sat quietly watching. Wiping a frayed cuff across his eyes, Father
Mattieu turned back to Ben and said a single world. "Captain?"
Ben tossed a twig upon the fire. "Aye, a captain. Would it surprise you to know that he was a
buccaneer?"
Ben thought for a moment that the priest was weeping again, but he was chuckling and
shaking his head.
"It wouldn't surprise me in the least, my friend. Raphael was always a wild one—I'll wager he
made a fine buccaneer."
Ben cheered up, remembering his days aboard La Petite Marie. "Cap'n Thuron was the terror
of the Caribbean, but let me tell you, we—my name's Ben, that's Ned, my dog—we were
proud to serve under your brother."
Lit by a full moon, night crept in as Ben sat by the fire on the shore with Ned and Father
Mattieu. He related the full tale, from the tavern in Cartagena to the Gulf of Gascony. The
priest's eyes shone with excitement, imagining great adventures of palm-fringed islands,
Spanish pirates, privateers and a chase across the boundless ocean.
When he had finished the narrative, Ben took a deep drink from the water canteen, listening
to Ned's approval.
"Well told, mate, what a great yarn. I'm glad you never mentioned our angel or anything about
Veron and the Razan. It was pretty convincing how you said that we'd been hiding and
scavenging about the coastline most of the summer. Couldn't have done better myself!"
Father Mattieu shook the boy's hand warmly. "Thank you, Ben, I can tell that you liked
Raphael a great deal. I will grieve and pray for him. Thank heaven he was not captured and
executed like a common criminal. He died like a true captain, going down with his beloved
ship. But what a man my brother was, eh? The places he saw, the adventures he had—I
almost wish I'd sailed with him. Raphael packed more into one lifetime than most men do into