Hawk!
Ben felt the Marie list sideways as she slid into a sharp southerly turn, then heard the shout
from Pierre. Ned pushed past him as he opened the cabin door. Dashing out on deck, he
passed a message to Ben. "Four men-o'-war, eh? Come on, mate. Let's see what's going on!"
All animosity between the crew and Thuron was momentarily forgotten. The Frenchman was
roaring orders for extra sail and sighting anxiously through his telescope at the four warships
astern of them. He handed Ben the glass, shaking his head and furrowing his brows. "Look,
lad, 'tis the French Navy, an' they're comin' on fast!"
As Ben peered at the lead vessel, he felt icy fear clamp its cold hand in sudden shock on top
of his head. The feeling was transmitted to Ned, who communicated urgently: "What is it,
Ben, what d'you see?"
The four last lines of the angel's poem pounded through the black Labrador's brain, like
hammers striking an anvil.
"Leave behind that life and walk,
Look not back at the sea,
Whilst retribution brings the Hawk,
New times unfold for thee!"
This thought was reinforced by Ben's message. "That big ship in front, it's flying a hawk upon
its flag!"
Thuron grabbed Ben's hand. "Come with me, lad. Bring Ned too!"
Hurrying them both into his cabin, Thuron slammed the door. He knelt by the bed and hauled
out two heavy-packed canvas bags, tied together by their necks. Ben watched as the captain
wrapped the bags in a sailcloth. He could tell by the dull clink that they were filled with gold
coin.
"What do you need those for, Cap'n?"
The Frenchman placed the bags on the bed. "This is my share o' the gold, Ben. Some of it is
for you and Ned!"
The boy stared dubiously at the bags. "But we don't need gold, Cap'n. Besides, Ned and I
never earned it."
Ben was surprised at the force with which Thuron seized him by both arms and shook him.
"Listen, lad, this gold is ours—mine an' yours. I've got to get you both ashore somehow!"
Ben saw the desperation in his friend's eyes. "Is it that bad, Cap'n? Can't we outsail them?
We've done it before."
The Frenchman relaxed his grip. "Not this time, lucky lad, we've got no chance at all. They'd
chase us, surround our Marie an' sink us all, ship an' crew!"
Ben clenched his fists resolutely. "Then let's stand and fight them—you know a few tricks.
Remember the Trinidad Shuffle?"
Thuron smiled sadly and ruffled Ben's hair. "Ben, Ben, 'tis no use, lad. You know as well as I
that we've played out our string. That's why I want you an' Ned off the Marie, before she goes
down. Now here's what you must do. As soon as I can, I'll try an' slip ye ashore in the
longboat with that gold. Wherever you come ashore, Ben, wait for me. They'll probably
engage us long before we reach Spain, but I'll note where ye go ashore. If the Marie goes
down, I'll try to keep her offshore, just far enough for me an' Pierre to swim for land. Now I
must go back on deck, lad. Remember what I said."
Further down the coast, just off a small town called Mimizan-Plage, the Royal Champion and
the Devon Belle lay at anchor. Redjack Teal was taking Madeira in his cabin when the lookout
banged urgently on the door and shouted from outside. "Cap'n, 'tis La Petite Marie! She's just
crossed the horizon behind us to the north."
Teal swiftly donned his red jacket, calling back, "Good man, which way's she headed?"
The reply came without delay. "South, sir, about a point off where we're lyin', headed this
way, though!"
Without waiting for assistance, the privateer buckled on his own sword and hurried out,
muttering to himself, "South, eh? Me luck's holdin' well. Come t'me, Thuron, I'll stretch your
neck an' empty your pockets for ye!"
The mate and the bosun were swinging ropes' ends and bellowing out orders, galvanizing the
crew into life. "Open ports, roll out all cannon!" "Make sail, step lively now, buckoes. Full
sail!"
The crew of the Marie were more intent on what lay in their wake than what lay ahead of
jolly boat. He called out an order to his helmsman. "Pierre, take the Marie in closer to shore!
I'll fetch the boy an' his dog."
Ben and the black Labrador emerged from the cabin as Thuron began loosing the jolly-boat
stays. Just then Gascon and Mallon came running, with loaded muskets brandished. Whilst
Mallon covered Pierre, Gascon pointed his weapon at the captain, snarling, "What's goin' on
here, What're ye up to, Thuron?"
The captain gave Ned and Ben a broad wink before turning to answer Gascon. "I'm putting
the lad an' his hound ashore— maybe then our luck'll change. Ye said yourself that they were
Jonahs. Now put that pistol away an' keep your eye on the navy ships, see if they're closing in
on us. Go on!"
Gascon slunk off at the sound of his captain's voice being raised in anger. Before Ben could
resist, the Frenchman lifted him up and dumped him into the boat. Ned leapt in beside his
master.
Thuron let go the ropes, and the jolly boat splashed down into the sea. The captain leaned
over the side, instructing Ben in a hoarse, urgent whisper. "Our gold is under the stern seat,
wrapped with some sailcloth. Ye can see the coast from here, lad. Don't waste time, row for it
fast as ye can. Set a course for yonder hill on the shore—see, the one with the trees growin'
atop it."
He blinked a few times, then managed a broad smile. "Ben an' Ned, my two lucky friends,
may your luck go with ye. Remember now, wait for me, until this time tomorrow at least. Go
now!"
Ben took one last look at Raphael Thuron, the buccaneer captain. Then, turning his back on
the Marie, he gripped the oars and began plying them. He was lost for any words to say as
tears sprang unbidden to his clouded eyes. The boy felt a great leaden weight in his chest. Ned
sat in the prow, facing the coast and not looking back. The black Labrador shared every
thought and feeling with Ben. They had both seen the mark of fate stamped upon Thuron's
face and knew they would never see him again.
Gascon came dashing out of the captain's cabin, pointing at the jolly boat and bellowing to all
hands. "The gold's gone, 'tis in the boat. Stop them!"
Ben threw himself flat, and Ned crouched low. A rattle of musket shot peppered the water
around them. Thuron slew Gascon with a mighty cutlass slash as he roared aloud, "Get away,
Ben! Row for your life, lad!"
Out of the blue came a great whoosh and a bang, followed by a splintering crash. The guns of
Le Falcon Des Monts had shot the Marie's stern away. With cannon blazing, the French Navy
vessels sailed in on their target. Fanning out, the three men-o'-war pounded the buccaneer
vessel broadsides, whilst their flagship sailed straight in, raking the decks from astern with
chain shot and musket fire from the sharpshooters in the rigging. Pierre's body was draped
across the wheel, his dead hand still clutching it. Masts crashed amid blazing sails and
smouldering cordage. La Petite Marie began settling in the water as salvo after salvo of
cannon blasted holes in her from port and starboard. Trapped beneath a fallen jib spar
,
Captain Thuron's sightless eyes stared up at the sun through the black smoke of destruction
that surrounded his ship. Settling back like a crippled seabird, the Marie began to sink stern
first.
Navy cannon continued to batter her as her prow rose clear of the waves. She hovered for a
moment, then with a monstrous hissing and gurgling slid backward into the depths and was
gone forever.
Aboard his flagship, the Hawk held up a hand. "Cease fire!" He turned to a lookout who had
climbed down from the topmast to report. "Well, what is it?"
The man saluted. "Marechal, there is another ship, a gunboat flying English colours!"
The Hawk's aquiline nose quivered, and his eyes lit up. "So, an Englishman eh, where away?"
The lookout replied. "To the south, Marechal. She was hugging the coast, waiting on the other
ship, I think. When she spied us, she veered off and began sailing further south, sir."
The Hawk drew his telescope and scanned the seas ahead. "Ah yes, there it is, a Spanish
galleon sailing under English colours—she has a smaller vessel in tow."
He strode to the forepeak, acknowledging with curt nods the crew, who were cheering his first
victory in the new ship. On the forecastle, the Hawk gave orders to his officers. "Well,
gentlemen, I know my ship's firepower. There is one less enemy in French waters now. Let us
see how we sail under speed. I intend to capture the English ships before they can make it into
Spanish waters. We will not sink them—they will be taken as prizes. Inform the other captains
that I will go under full sail in the vanguard. Tell them to follow with all speed and await my
commands!"
Ben had not turned his head to look back. He was not just heeding the angel's warning; other
demons were closing in on him, too. He lay in the bottom of the jolly boat, oblivious of his
surroundings. The roar and boom of French Navy cannon blended with those far-off noises of
Cape Horn—crashing seas, tearing rigging and howling storm. Vanderdecken laughing madly,
bound to the helm for eternity and being swept off into the maelstrom of oceans at the world's
end. Spine-chilling recollections, mixed with the demise of the Marie, mingled in the boy's
mind until he lost all sense of reality.
It was Ned's blunt, rough claws that brought him to his senses. The faithful dog was scratching
at his back, sending out frantic, urgent warnings. "Ben, wake up! Move, Ben, move. We're
sinking!"
The boy spluttered as his face struck the bottom of the jolly boat. Coughing and spitting
seawater, he sat up. Ned seized his shirtsleeve and tugged at it with his teeth. "Come on, mate,
we'll have to swim for it. This boat's full of musket holes— we're lucky we weren't hit!"
Recovering himself, Ben realised the predicament they were in. He grabbed the dog's collar,
heaved him overboard and leapt into the sea alongside him. Taking a bearing on the shore,
which was only a few hundred yards off, he kicked out. "Straight ahead, Ned, it's not so far!"
For the first time in his life, Captain Redjack Teal knew the meaning of fear: four French
Navy warships were bearing down on him. The master gunner came hurrying up, carrying a
stick topped by a smouldering mixture of tar and rope. He looked hopefully to Teal.
"I could load the stern culverins with chain shot, Cap'n. May'ap we could clip the big feller's
foremast. That'd slow him down a touch, sir."
Teal snatched the stick and flung it into the sea. "Ye demned idiot, yonder's the French Navy!
Can't y'see the guns they're sportin', man? Hah, that scoundrel's just longin' t'see a puff o'
smoke from even a musket an' he'll blow us to doll rags! Get the mud out of your eyes, man.
Did ye see what they did to Thuron?"
He watched miserably as the new ship tacked, circling out to come round in a curve ahead of
him. The other three vessels manoeuvred to close the trap, one to port, the other to starboard,
whilst the remaining one stayed close behind in his wake. The privateer stamped his elegantly
shod foot in temper. Life was so unjust! After pursuing a fortune in gold from the Caribbean,
right across an ocean, his dreams of wealth and glory had been cruelly snatched away in just a
few short hours. Add to this the indignity of being taken by the French without a single shot
being fired. The entire episode was an utter debacle! He sprinted to the stern at the sight of
the bosun and mate loosing the stern ropes. "What'n the name of jackasses are ye about there?
"
The mate saluted, trying to sound helpful. "Er, we were castin' the Devon Belle adrift, sir. She
might make that Frenchie behind us run afoul of her, sir—that'd give us a chance of escape."
Teal was nearly out of his mind. He became quite petulant. Kicking the mate on his shin, he
sprayed him with spittle as he ranted and shouted into the man's face. "That ship is mine,
mine, d'ye hear?"
He rounded on the unsuspecting bosun and kicked him also. "I'm the captain of these ships, or
haven't ye noticed, eh? Demned ass of a gunner, wantin' to fire on four battleships, this other
buffoon thinkin' we can turn an' run away. Has everybody aboard lost their confounded minds
—"
"Englishman, strike your colours and slack sail!" An officer was hailing him with a
megaphone from the ship behind. Teal's shoulders sagged. It was all over.
He turned to the mate, who was rubbing his shin. "Strike y'colours, take in all sail. I'll be in
me cabin."
The Hawk sat in his stateroom, the crimsoning twilight giving its new woodwork a rosy hue.
He listened carefully to the information his officers had gathered from the crew of the Royal
Champion. It was always best talking to the men before interviewing the master. They had less
reason to lie than their captain did.
He sat back and mulled over what he had heard, his fingers tapping a tattoo upon the tabletop.
Then he signalled to a waiting lieutenant. "I will see the Englishman now."
Trying feebly to resist two burly gunners, Teal was swiftly frog-marched into the marechal's
presence. The privateer looked indignant and dishevelled; the gunners held his arms tightly,
preventing him from tidying himself up.
He immediately began to protest. "Sirrah, is this any way to treat the captain of one of His
Britannic Majesty's vessels? Tell these ruffians to release me instantly. I'll not be laid hands
upon in such a demned rough manner!"
The marechal glanced up from some papers he was studying. His unblinking gaze, coupled
with the haughty way he looked a man up and down, had Teal feeling both unnerved and
embarrassed.
The privateer attempted to pull himself free, but the two gunners held him easily. He tried to
sound reasonable. "Sir, I appeal to you, order these rogues to unhand me. I, sir, am like you,
an officer and a gentleman!"
The marechal reduced him to silence with a baleful glare. "You dare compare yourself with
me, you scum?"
He waved Teal's own parchmented credentials at him and spat out the word vindictively.
"Privateer! A filthy mercenary, carrying a letter of marque or reprisal. There is no lower form
of life on land or sea. You are a prisoner of war and will be treated as such!"
Captain Redjack Teal suddenly wilted beneath his captor's scorn. He whined like a bully who
had just had the t
ables turned on him. "I was only carryin' out my king's orders, sir. You
cannot punish an innocent man for that!"
The marechal snorted. "I do not intend punishing you— that is for a military tribunal to
decide. Whether you hang or go to the guillotine is immaterial to me. Stop weeping, man!
They may spare your life and assign you with your crew to the convict working parties at
Marseilles. There you can do a lifetime's penance rebuilding the harbour walls under the lash
of your gaolers. Take him away!"
A short time later, Teal found himself belowdecks in the Hawk's new vessel, chained by the
ankle to the rest of his crew. They chuckled wickedly as the bosun tugged the chain and sent
him flat on the deck. "Well, look who's here, mates, 'tis the Jolly Cap'n. Up on your feet,
Redjack, an' dance a hornpipe for us!" Teal cowered, trying to pull himself off into a corner,
but the mate dragged him out by his manacled foot. "Ye powdered popinjay, didn't ye hear the
man? He said dance, so come on, step lively now, let's see ye dance!"
Two marines, pacing the grating overhead of the prisoners' accommodation, winced at the
sounds of Teal's sobs and screams for mercy. One of them shrugged casually. "I think that
crew did not love their captain very much."
For full two days, that boy and dog
Did sit upon the shore bereaved,
No food nor drink would pass their lips,
As for lost friends they grieved.
Sad tears which fell like April rain
Were soaked into the earth and lost,
And only two from all that crew
Were left to count the cost.
Pursued by foes, both live and dead,
From Caribbean to Biscay's Bay,
Commanded by an angel's word
To turn and walk away.
What trials and perils lie ahead,
Decreed by heaven and the fates?
The Flying Dutchman haunts the seas,
As her accursed captain waits ... and waits!
Book Two
THE RAZAN
16
IT WAS A GREY DAY. THE WEATHER WAS neither cold nor warm, but windless and
dull. Drizzle fell in swathing curtains from a sky the hue of much-watered milk. Ben and Ned
had been walking inland for several days, avoiding villages and anyplace where people lived.
They crouched in the lee of a rock jutting out of a field, huddling together, unable to escape