“Well, are you hungry enough to go and explore yet?”
The boy smiled into his friend’s moist, dark eyes. “It would be a nice change to eat something cooked by somebody else besides myself. Come on, Ned, let’s take a look.”
The dog pondered his companion’s thought for a moment, then rose gracefully and returned the mental comment. “Hmph! If I had hands instead of paws I’d make a wonderful cook. I can’t help being a dog, you know.”
Ben patted Ned’s head affectionately, answering the thought. “I’ll wager you’d be the world’s best cook, just as you’re the the nicest dog on earth!”
The black Labrador’s tail wagged. “Oh, you’re just saying that because it’s true. Follow me. I’ll sniff out the place where the food smells good.”
People did not pay much attention to the pair as they strolled along the harbour street, a tow-haired lad of about fourteen years, dressed in an old blue shirt that lacked buttons and a pair of once-white canvas trousers, tattered and frayed at the hems, walking barefoot alongside a big black dog. Ned threaded his way between crates of live, clucking chickens and barrels of still-slithering, silver-scaled fish. They skirted a crowd who was watching an entertainer wrap live snakes about his body. Ben stopped to watch the performance, but Ned tugged at his shirt-tail. “What d’you want to do, watch street shows or eat? Come on!”
Ben obediently followed the dog, his eyes drinking in the colourful spectacle of crowded humanity as he went.
Ned halted at the front doors of Cartagena’s biggest waterfront tavern and winked one eye at Ben. “Someone’s roasting beef in there, my mouth’s watering!”
Ben’s strange, clouded blue eyes stared up at the swinging sign. Crude artwork depicted a grinning jaguar taking a bath in a barrel of rum. Below this in scrolled lettering was the name Rhum Tigre. The whole aspect of the tavern was that it might once have been the home of some prosperous Spanish merchant, now converted into a drinking den with upstairs accommodations for paying guests. Ben hesitated, doubtful as to whether he should enter. Sounds of a fiddle and hoarse voices discordantly singing rowdy ditties emanated over the babble of gossiping seamen within. Ned sat scratching behind his ear with a blunt-clawed back leg, communicating mentally.
“Enter callow youth, if thou art not afeared!”
Ben shifted from one foot to the other, and he shrugged. “Easy for you to say, mate, but I’m the one who’ll get thrown out if they find we have no money.”
Ned was still in a playfully encouraging mood as he replied, “Tut tut, m’boy, leave this to your trusty hound!”
He rose and trotted inside, with Ben sending urgent thoughts after him. “Ned! Come back here … wait!”
The dog’s mental answer floated back to him. “Money’s never stopped us so far, Ben. Faint heart never won roast beef. Woof! Just look at that carcass on the spit!”
Ben shouldered his way in through a gang of departing men. The moment he stepped inside, he froze. Faces were all around him, faces like those he had encountered aboard the Flying Dutchman, unwashed, unshaven, gap-toothed, tattooed and brass-earringed. Scowling, grinning wickedly, slit-eyed, broken-nosed, knife-scarred ruffiansfaces like those which returned sometimes to haunt his dreams. Ben stood rooted to the spot, seemingly unable to move, until Ned tugged at his shirtsleeve, growling as he mentally reassured his friend. “Step lively, mate, they won’t harm us. I felt the same as you when I came in here, but my stomach got the better of me. Look over there!”
The object of Ned’s desire was a cavernous old fireplace where, over a bed of glowing charcoal, two cooks were slowly turning a spit on which was transfixed an entire side of beef. Juices and fat from the roasting meat popped and sizzled as they dripped onto the flames. Every now and then, the cooks would stop turning the spit. Using long, sharp knives they would slice off a chunk of beef for a customer, pocketing the coins they were given. Ben felt his stomach grumble aloud at the sight. He was very hungry.
Ned chuckled mentally at him. “Ho ho, I hear a gurgling gut, a sure remedy for any fears.”
Ben stroked the Labrador’s silky ear. “So you do, but a gurgling gut with empty pockets isn’t much use. What d’you suggest?”
The fireplace was constructed in the centre of the room. Through the flames could be seen a bar area and some tables. Something was going on at the largest table, where onlookers were gathered round to watch whatever it was.
Ned began tugging Ben toward the table, passing a message. “Let’s see if we can’t pick up a coin or two over yonder.”
The crews of two pirate ships, the Diablo Del Mar and La Petite Marie, were watching their captains gambling. Rocco Madrid, master of the Diablo, was winning, and Raphael Thuron, master of La Petite Marie, was losing, heavily. Rocco’s sword, a fine blade of Toledo steel with a silver basketed handle, lay on the table. Behind it was an ever-growing pile of gold coins from many nations. The Spanish captain played idly with his long, grey-streaked black curls, smiling thinly as he watched Thuron. “Make your choice, amigo, where is the pea?”
Thuron, the French captain, stroked his rough brown beard with heavy, club-nailed fingers, his eyes roving over the three down-turned walnut shells lying on the table between them. He flicked Rocco a hate-laden glance, growling, “Don’t hurry me, Madrid!”
Sighing heavily, Thuron looked from the dwindling pile of coins, which were stacked behind the blade of his cutlass on the opposite side of the table. He bit his lip and concentrated his gaze on the three walnut shells, while Rocco Madrid drummed his fingers on the tabletop.
“I am not hurrying you, amigo. Shall I take my siesta while you try to find our little friend the pea, eh?”
The Diablo’s crew chuckled appreciatively at their captain’s witty observation. The more gold Thuron lost, the slower and more deliberate he became.
The French captain spoke without looking up from the three nutshells. “Huh, the little pea might be your friend, but she’s no friend o’ mine, not after ten losses in a row!”
Rocco twirled his waxed moustache, enjoying his opponent’s discomfiture. “Who knows, the little pea, she might change her mind and fall in love with you. Choose, amigo.”
Thuron made a snap decision. He turned up the shell that lay in the centre of the three. It was empty, no pea lay under it. A cheer went up from the Diablo’s, crew, and groans from the men of La Petite Marie. Thuron separated five stacks of gold coins from his meagre pile, swiping them toward the Spaniard with the back of his hand.
One of the coins fell from the table and clinked upon the floor. Ned was on to it like a hawk on a dove. Diving beneath the table, he took the coin in his mouth. Madrid held out his open hand to the dog, rapping out sharply, “Here! Give!”
Ned ignored the Spaniard, turning his big dark eyes toward Thuron. The Frenchman liked the dog immediately. He, too, held out his hand, speaking in a friendly voice. “Who owns this good fellow?”
Ben moved up alongside Thuron. “I do, sir. His name’s Ned.”
Communicating mentally with the Labrador, Ben sent him a message. “Give him the coin. I like him better than that other one.”
Ned wagged his tail. “So do I. Here you are, sir!” He dropped the coin into the French captain’s palm.
The Spaniard snarled as he reached for his sword. “That’s mine, give it here!”
Thuron grinned and winked at Ben. Taking a fresh gold piece from the small pile, he flicked it to Rocco Madrid. “Take this one. The boy’s dog earned that gold piece. You, lad, what’s your name? Speak up.”