Teal glanced over the rim of his goblet at the pair, standing awkwardly in his presence. Before either of them could
speak, he held up a hand for silence and began lecturing them. "Never taught to knock politely, were we? Now, repeat
after me: Bumpkins should always knock before entering the cabin of a captain and a gentleman of breeding. Repeat!"
Charlie and Bertie stumbled over some of the words, but they managed, after a fashion. Teal wiped his lips by dabbing
at them with the serviette.
"Politeness is the first rule to one's captain. Now, you there." He picked up his fork and pointed at Charlie. "What
exactly was it you wanted to report, eh? Speak up, man."
"Ship off the starboard bow, Cap'n, passin' the 'eadland. Looks like a French buccaneer, sir!"
Teal's fork dropped, clattering upon his plate. "Demn ye man, why didn't you say?"
Bertie piped up. "We was goin' to, sir, but you said—"
The gimlet eye froze him to silence as Teal reprimanded him. "Excuse me, but did I address you?"
Bertie shuffled his bare feet and stared hard at them. "No, sir."
The captain nodded. "Then hold y'tongue, sirrah!" Teal made it a point never to know the names of his crew. Such
things were beneath him. He stared at Charlie. "A demned froggy, eh? Buccaneer, y'say? Still in range, is he?"
Charlie kept his eyes front and centre. "Aye, sir!"
Redjack Teal rose from his chair. "Well, I'll teach the scoundrel to cross my bows. Cook, send in me dresser. You two,
report to the master gunner and tell him to turn out his crew on the double and await me orders."
Rocco Madrid had been wakened and called up on deck at first light. His three top crewmen, Pepe, Portugee and
Boelee, were grouped sheepishly on the afterdeck, avoiding their captain's disgusted looks.
Madrid drew his sword and prodded the long spar, which still smelled of oil and burnt canvas. He pointed the sword at
Portugee. "When was this thing found, and where exactly was it?"
The bosun tried to sound efficient. "Capitano, it was found less than a quarter hour ago. We pulled it from the water,
Boelee and I. Pepe knows exactly where it was."
Pepe cleared his throat nervously. "Sí, Capitano, the spar was drifting in our wake, I was lucky to spot it."
Turning on his heel, the Spaniard strode to the rail. He sheathed his sword and stared pensively at the water. The trio
watched him apprehensively, trying to gauge his mood. Much to their relief, he was smiling when he turned to face
them. "A decoy, eh, very clever. That spar tells me two things. One, the Marie is not headed for Jamaica and Port
Royal. Two, they were sending us the wrong way. So, what does this tell you, amigos?"
The three stared dumbly at him as his smile grew wider.
"Donkeys, you have not the brains among you to make a capitano. Thuron would not be fool enough to turn and sail
back to Cartagena. No, I think he's taken off at an angle, east, out to the sea. So, he will head for one of two places,
Hispaniola or Puerto Rico. Here's what I plan on doing. We will sail east also, right through the strait between the two
islands and out into the Atlantic. It doesn't matter which island he's chosen—when Thuron puts out to sea again, we'll
be waiting for him. Boelee, bring me my sea charts. Portugee, take the wheel and head Diablo due east. The French
fox will not escape me this time!"
Pepe stood by Portugee at the wheel, speaking in a low voice as the captain walked away. "How do we know Thuron
won't sail for the Leeward or the Windward Isles, or maybe for La Guira, Trinidad, even Curaçao, or right out to
Barbados?"
Portugee turned the wheel steadily, blinking as the sun caught his eyes. "We don't know, Pepe. Didn't you hear him?
We're donkeys with no brains, he's the capitano. So whatever he decides must be right. Unless you'd like to go tell him
you know better!"
Pepe shook his head vigorously. "I have no desire to be a dead man, amigo. The capitano knows best, this donkey will
obey his orders without question."
4
BEN HAD NEVER BEEN ABOARD A SHIP AT SEA that had been fired on. The first thing he heard was a distant
boom. Both he and Ned looked up to the sky, the dog sending him a puzzled thought. "That sounds like thunder, but
there's hardly a cloud anywhere in the sky."
Anaconda's deep voice rang out. "All hands down, we bein' fired on, Cap'n!"
Thuron was opening his telescope as he hurried to the stern rail when there was a tremendous splash in the water about
fifty yards astern. The Frenchman sighted his glass, shouting orders as he did so. "British privateer sailing out of Santa
Marta's east coast! Carrying enough cannon for a man-o'-war, curse him! Pierre, tighten the braces and run out
staysails port and starboard! He hasn't got our range yet. We'll need every stitch of canvas if the Marie's to outrun
him!"
A second cannon boom exploded. This time Ben heard the iron ball cleave the air with a whistling noise. Both he and
Ned were drenched with spray as the shot hit the waves, less than twenty yards from the stern.
Then the chase was on. A good stiff breeze took up any slack in the sails of La Petite Marie as she shot off like a
startled deer. A small, agile crewman named Gascon climbed to the stern lookout point with the captain's spyglass
rammed into his belt. Ben and Ned stood anxiously at Thuron's side, staring up at Gascon as he sighted the glass on
their attacker and yelled down. "They're comin' on fast, Cap'n, 'tis a twenty-two gunner, with four culverins in the
bows. I can just see the crew standing to with muskets!"
Despite the peril of their predicament, Thuron smiled grimly. "Hah! Typical privateer, overgunned and overmanned.
Our Marie sports only half their number of cannon, and we cut off our fenders yesterday. We'll outsail the fat-
bottomed Englander. He won't get any king's bounty out of Raphael Thuron, you can bet your boots on that, boy!"
Ned shot Ben a hasty observation. "Well, at least our cap'n isn't short of confidence. I like his style!"
Ben wiped salt spray from his eyes and addressed the captain. "I think we'll have to sail a lot faster than the privateer
to stay out of gun range, sir."
Thuron threw an arm around the boy's shoulders. "Aye, lad, but our Marie's a. fast little lady, and I've got my lucky
Ben and Ned with me. Don't worry, as long as we can keep those cannonballs from shooting our rudder away and any
chain shot from ripping off our masts, all he'll hit is our wake. I've outrun privateers before. Get down!"
Ben, Thuron and the dog flung themselves flat to the deck. There was a harsh, whirring noise and a resounding crack.
The captain lifted his head at the same time as Ben. Thuron nodded toward the stern rail. Hanging wrapped around the
ornate gallery rail, the wood of which was splintered and split, was a chain attached to a cannonball about the size of a
man's fist.
The Frenchman whistled soundlessly. "That was close. Here, lad, come and take a look at some chain shot!"
Keeping low, they crawled to the rail. Thuron reached up and unwound the object, hauling it aboard. It was like a bolas
— three lengths of chain joined at the centre to form a letter Y, with a small iron ball attached to the end of each
chain.
The captain weighed it in his big round hands. "British Royal Navy issue. Poor buccaneers like me cannot afford such
murderous, expensive toys. Look, here comes another! Stay on your feet, boy, it won't hit us. We're stretching our lead