Boelee remained motionless. Then he spat at Madrid’s back. “You don’t give Boelee orders anymore. A capitano without a ship, that’s what ye are. Go an’ get the boat yourself!”
Madrid scrambled upright and ran at Boelee, fist clenched. A mate aboard any pirate ship has to be hard and tough, and Boelee was one such man. Sidestepping the charge, he tripped Madrid, dealing him a hefty punch to the back of the neck as he went down.
The mate stood over him. “You ain’t no capitano, you’re a fool. Got yourself tricked by Redjack with your lies about Thuron carryin’ dug-up treasure. Now we’re all marooned high’n’dry without a proper weapon between us, save for our belt knives. Well, are ye gettin’ up to fight me, Madrid?”
Rocco Madrid’s hand flashed to his scabbard, but it was empty. He flinched as Boelee aimed a scornful kick at him.
The mate’s voice dripped contempt. “Stay down there where ye belong. Because if ye get up, I’ll kill ye with me bare hands!”
Rocco Madrid sat alone as evening fell, deserted by his crew, who had chosen Boelee as their new leader. All hands sat around the fire, which they had kept going since arriving ashore. Portugee, who was looked upon as second-in-command, gnawed on a broken coconut. He looked automatically to Boelee. “Well, what are we goin’ to do now?”
The mate pinched out a spark that had settled on his arm. “That Redjack is as big a fool as Madrid. Don’t he know ye can’t maroon a pirate on an isle as big as Puerto Rico? Brotherhood vessels put in to all the ports here. Mayagüez, Aguadilla, Arecibo, San Juan. I’ll wager we’re not far from Ponce. A couple o’ days’ march an’ we can sign up with the first ship we see there. Marooned? Huh, we ain’t marooned!”
This seemed to cheer most of the piratesthe prospect of a port with ships and taverns aplenty was far better than facing the misery of being marooned. Pepe nodded toward the figure of Rocco Madrid, sitting alone in the darkness about fifty yards from the company around the fire. “Will we take him along with us?”
Portugee was not in favour of the idea. “He can go to the teeth of hell in a handcart for all I care, eh, Boelee!”
Boelee spat into the fire. “Madrid’s bad luck to all of us now, mates. We can’t have him taggin’ along. He was a powerful man among The Brotherhood leaders. If’n I know Madrid, he’ll blame the loss o’ the Diablo on us, an’ I’m the first one he’ll come after. He’ll get me strung up for mutiny. There’s only one thing t’do with Capitano Rocco Madrid. Bury him here!”
A pall of silence fell over the crew. Portugee was overawed at the suggestion, his face showing pale in the firelight as he addressed Boelee. “Kill Madrid? Who would dare do such a thing?”
Boelee pulled the broad-bladed dagger from his belt and twirled it expertly. “Well, seein’ as how you’re all so chicken-hearted, I’ll do the job! But when we get to a port, every man jack of ye better keep his mouth shut about it. I’ll say that Madrid was slain by the privateers when we lost the Diablo. Anyone says different an’ I’ll gut him! So, turn your backs or close your eyes if ye don’t want to see the deed done. Madrid’s only a treacherous worm, we’re better off without him!”
Flat on his stomach, Boelee crawled away from the fire with the knife clenched in his teeth. Away from the firelight, his path described a wide half circle. All that could be heard was the surf pounding up onto the shore and the odd crackle of blazing driftwood from the fire. Ahead of him, Boelee could see the Spaniard’s backhe was sitting drooped over, as though he had dozed off. Boelee wriggled noiselessly forward, transferring the knife from mouth to hand. He held it tight, ready for a hard upward thrust between the former captain’s ribs. Closer he edged, closer, until Madrid’s back was within striking distance. Coming up on his knees, Boelee locked his free arm around the Spaniard’s neck.
Rocco Madrid’s head lolled to one side just as Boelee felt the light tickle of coloured feathers against his forearm. With a horrified gurgle he released his quarry and stumbled backward.
Four poisoned darts had ended the life of Rocco Madrid: one behind his ear and three in his cheek. The Spaniard lay huddled grotesquely on the sand, his body still warm. Panting and sobbing raggedly, Boelee stumbled across the beach to the fire.
Portugee grabbed hold of him as Boelee, too, fell, both legs still kicking convulsively as he tried to clutch at the sharp bamboo sliver sticking from his throat.
The ancient, bearded patriarch whose village they had destroyed appeared at the edge of the firelight. His gaze swept the petrified crew. “You are back. Only fools would want to return after what you did here!”
He strode off into the dark as the drums started up. Thonk thonk thonk thonk! A hollow ceaseless rattling sound. Silent as moon shadows, the Carib hunters, their bodies striped with dark plant dyes, closed in on what had once been the crew of the Diablo Del Mar.
10
CAPTAIN THURON HAD BEEN RIGHT: IT WAS another world beneath the surface of the sea. Golden sun rays turned to faint curtains of pastel blues and greens as they lanced down into the depths and small bubbles rose in silvery cascades from the barnacle-crusted hull of the Marie. A few tiny, fat, jewel-coloured fish that were travelling beneath the ship nosed harmlessly against Ben’s cheek. Pulling themselves down the line tied to the stern, Ben and Anaconda descended to the rudder. Owing to the shadow cast upon the water by the ship and the curve of the hull, it was rather gloomy, though the broken rudder was fairly visible. Ben’s long tow-coloured hair swayed softly around in a shifting halo as he secured his rope to the end of the spindle that stuck out below the rudder. Anaconda secured the neck of the bag that held their equipment to the rope, leaving their hands free to work. Still grasping the stern line, they inspected the damage.
The big man waggled his hand at Ben, who produced some copper strip and the hammer from the sack. Anaconda signalled with one finger. Ben rummaged a nail out and passed it to him while holding the end of the strip against one side of the big oblong rudder. Gripping the rope with his legs, Anaconda half knocked the nail through the copper strip and into the rudder timber, then dropped the hammer back into the sack and pointed upward. Ben transmitted a thought to Ned up on deck. “We’re coming up for air!”
The dog’s reply flashed though his mind. “Thank goodness for that, I thought you’d both decided to be fishes!”
The two broke the surface, blinking and gasping for air. Thuron sat on the deck with his legs between the gallery rails and called over the side, “Are you both alright? What’s it like down there?”
Ben called up to him. “It will take a couple of dives, but we’ve got one end of the strip fixed with a nail.”
The Frenchman made as if to rise. “Well done! D’you need more help? I’ll come down an’ lend ye a hand!”
Anaconda shook his head. “There’s only room for me an’ the boy, Cap’n. You’d be in the way.”
Ben was in agreement. “Aye, you stay up there, sir. Stop Ned from taking over the ship. He’s keen to be a cap’n, you know.”
The black Labrador glared at Ben from between the rails. “Aye, and I won’t stand impudence from my crew, young feller!”
They submerged again, this time for Ben to thread the copper strip between the back of the rudder and the spindle. However, there was a buildup of barnacles and green, hairlike seaweed. The boy used Anaconda’s knife to clear it, then began poking the strip through, fraction by fraction. It was difficult, the soft copper bending every time it hit a snag. Twice more the pair had to go up for air, but on the third descent, Ben’s fingers, now cold and slippery from the green weeds, managed to thread the strip through. Anaconda half fixed it from the other side with a nail, then they were up again for more air.