Angel's Command

BOOK ONE

LA PETITE MARIE

1

CARTAGENA, 1628

GREAT AND GOLDEN, LIKE AN ENOR - MOUS, newly minted doubloon, the Caribbean sun presided over the waterfront. Ships of all nations, from salt-crusted skiffs to stately galleons, bobbed on their moorings, each craft facing bow onto the harbour wall. Children clambered and played upon the bronze cannons fronting the jade and aquamarine waters of the wide Caribbean Sea. Along the dusty quayfront fishing boats unloaded their catches straight to the stalls. Noise and bustle were everywhere. Women sold plantains, melons, coconuts and an amazing variety of exotic fruits and vegetables. Parrots squawked and monkeys chattered from their cages of split bamboo. Men squatted in the shade, bargaining for spices, rum, snuff and tobacco. Young girls danced and sang to the music of guitars and drums, cajoling coins from passersby.

High in its ornate tower, the bell of Santa Magdalena clanged dully over the red-tiled and palm-thatched dwellings, which ranged from austere Spanish architecture to bedraggled local hovels. Taverns, bodegas and inns were packed to the doors with laughing, brawling, arguing and drunken seafarers, pirates, freebooters, corsairs and buccaneers, known collectively in Cartagena as The Brotherhood—those beyond the law of honest men.

Ben and Ned sat among the trees, where it was relatively peaceful and free from trampling feet. After travelling alone in sparsely populated regions of South America for so long, they had been watching the teeming life of the quayside for fully an hour, both rather taken aback by this sudden surge of noisy humanity. The big black Labrador passed a single thought to his tow-headed young companion.

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 shirttail. 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 ruffians—faces 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.

The boy tipped a finger to his forehead. Ben, sir!

Thuron took the coin and spun it in the air. Ben caught it deftly and awaited orders. The Frenchman nodded approvingly. Get me some of that meat and some ale, too. Keep the change. Get something for yourself and the dog.

Ben thanked Thuron and passed a message to Ned. Come on, pal, let’s sample the beef!

Ned replied as he stood on his hind legs, placing both front paws on the table alongside the French captain. You go, Ben, I’ll stay here and watch. That Spaniard is too lucky for my liking. See if you can get me a bone, with plenty of meat and fat on it.

Captain Thuron stroked the black Labrador’s silky ears. Leave Ned here with me, Ben. I’ve got a feeling he’s lucky.

Ben elbowed his way through the tavern customers and went to get the food. The cook gave him two healthy slices of roast beef, laying each one on a crusty slice of bread. He added two large ribs dripping with hot fat and thick with meat. Ben purchased the ale and pocketed the small coins that made up the change. When he returned to the table he noticed that the Frenchman’s pile of gold had grown even smaller. Ned’s thought informed him, He’s lost again. That Spaniard’s cheating.

Madrid eyed the food and stood up. Excuse me, amigo, that meat looks good. Let’s take a break while I get some.

Rocco’s bosun, a thickset Portuguese, interrupted. I’ll get it for you, Cap’n.

The Spaniard picked up his sword. No, I’ll get it myself. I like to select my own meat. You keep an eye on my gold.

Members of the two crews went along, tempted by the sight of the beef. There was a lull in the game. Ned explained to Ben about Rocco Madrid’s dishonesty. My eyes are quicker than most—I saw him palm the pea. After he’s shuffled the shells about, there’s nothing under any of them. Then when he has to pick up his own shell, he palms the pea back onto the table, as if it had been lying under the shell. That Spaniard is quick and clever.

Thuron had been watching the boy and the dog looking silently at each other. He finished chewing and spoke. I was hoping your Ned would change my luck, Ben, but it seems I’m bound to lose. Blast his eyes, Madrid has all the luck today! Hey, boy, are you listening to me?

Moving slightly closer, Ben murmured out of the corner of his mouth so that the remaining crew members of the Diablo Del Mar, at the other side of the table, could not hear. Don’t look at me, sir, keep your eyes straight ahead and listen to what I say . . .

Rocco Madrid had carved the beef with his own sword. He ate it at the bar and drank a glass of red wine. Fastidiously wiping his lips on a silk kerchief, he returned to the gaming table, where Thuron sat waiting. Placing his sword back on the table, Madrid smiled affably. "So then, my good amigo, you wish to continue playing. Bueno. Maybe the little pea will come your way this time."

Madrid placed the pea upon the table and covered it with the centre one of the three down-turned walnut shells. Ben watched closely as the Spaniard’s long fingers began deftly moving the shells, right to left, left to right, centre to side, side to centre. Then he saw the trick. The shells were moving so fast that he almost missed it. Rocco shifted the shells so skilfully that at one point the shell with the pea beneath it went slightly over the lip of the table. The pea was flicked out into his lap, almost faster than the eye could follow.

Ned’s thought cut into Ben’s mind. See, I told you! Now all he has to do is drop his hand and jam the pea between his fingers, while our friend is sitting there deciding which shell to choose. When he makes his pick, there’ll be nothing beneath it. The Spaniard will make his choice then, skilfully dropping in the pea as he overturns the shell, and there he has it, a winner again, eh?

Ben patted the black Labrador’s head. Not this time though.

Rocco sat back, the same thin smile on his lips as he announced confidently, Make your play, Capitano Thuron. How much this time?

Thuron’s first mate and his bosun had edged their way around the table until they were standing on either side of Rocco Madrid. Thuron leaned forward, eyeing the sly Spaniard levelly. That gold there, your side o’ the table. How much d’ye reckon you’ve got there, my friend?

Rocco shrugged. Who knows, amigo, it would take quite a time to count it all up. So, are you going to play?

Thuron smiled then. Aye, I’m going to play. There’s more gold aboard my ship, you know that. So let’s stop messing about with small wagers. I’m going to bet all I’ve got against what lies on this table. One chance, winner takes all!

Rocco Madrid could not resist the invitation. You are a real gambler, amigo. I accept your wager, eh! He looked up to his crew for approval, immediately sensing all was not well as he saw the bosun and first mate of La Petite Marie hemming him in.

Thuron had one hand beneath the table. He smiled roguishly at his adversary. There’s a dagger either side of you and a loaded musket pointed at your belly from my side. I’m betting there’s no pea under any of those three shells. Don’t move a muscle, Cap’n Madrid! Ben, lad, turn the shells over! The boy swiftly did as he was bid. There was, of course, no pea. Sweat ran in rivulets down the Spaniard’s sallow face.

The entire tavern had grown silent. All that could be heard was the crackle of beef drippings spilling onto the fire. There was death in Thuron’s voice. "Sit still, Madrid. You don’t want to get that pea lying in your lap covered with blood. You, Diablo crew, don’t be foolish. There’s no sense in dying because your captain’s a cheat. Stay still and you won’t come to any harm. The game’s over, I win! Anaconda, pick up that gold!"

Captain Thuron’s steersman, Anaconda, was a black giant with a huge shaven head. He shrugged off a linen shirt, displaying awesome muscles. With a few swift moves he swept the gold coins inside his shirt and knotted it into an impromptu carrier.

Rocco Madrid’s lips scarcely moved as he sneered at Raphael Thuron. You will not get away with this, my friend!

Thuron stood, his musket still pointed at the Spaniard. Oh yes I will . . . my friend. Right, lads, back out, stern first. Anybody makes a move, take no notice of them. Just kill their capitano. Ben, you’d best come with me, for the good of your health. Bring my lucky dog too!

Ben felt Ned’s thought penetrate his mind. Do as he says, mate. This place isn’t safe anymore!

Once they were out on the quayside, the entire crew of La Petite Marie took to their heels and ran for it. Ben and Ned found themselves up front, with Thuron and his giant steersman. A cart of oranges was overturned, and some chickens broke loose from their cages as the mass of fleeing pirates dashed through the crowd. The singing girls began screaming, and the snake performer dropped his reptiles.

Thuron bawled toward a trim three-masted vessel lying bow onto the harbour. Make sail! Make sail! We’re coming aboard! Make sail there!

As he clattered up the steep gangplank, Ben could see the crew members on watch clambering into the rigging, whilst others loosed the ship’s headropes. There was a small culverin in the bows. The captain roared out orders for it to be loaded. He knelt by the little swivel cannon, beckoning Ben to his side. We’ll blow them off the quay if they try to follow. Hand me that tow!

Ben saw the thick, smouldering rope end and passed it over to Thuron.

Ned sent a thought to Ben. I hadn’t figured on going to sea again, ever!

The boy replied mentally to his dog. We’ve no choice. It’s either that or stay in Cartagena and get killed. He turned to Thuron. D’you think they’ll follow us, Cap’n?

The Frenchman held the burning tow near the culverin’s touch hole, nodding. Maybe not right away, boy, but he’ll be coming after us. Rocco Madrid lost a lot of face today. By the way, how did you know he was cheating? I just thought I was extra unlucky today.

Ben knew it would be futile trying to explain about Ned, so he lied. I’ve seen that game played before. As soon as I came to your table, I saw Captain Madrid palming the pea. Where are we bound, sir?

Raphael Thuron threw an arm around the boy’s shoulder. Home to la belle France, thanks to you. I’m finally set for good. This pirating life is too dangerous, my friend!

2

ONCE LA PETITE MARIE HAD BEEN poled away from the harbour wall, Anaconda swung her about to face the freshening breeze, taking the ship out into the Caribbean. The all too familiar memory of a swaying deck beneath his feet brought back dreadful memories of the Flying Dutchman to Ben. He lay flat on the deck facedown, pictures of Vanderdecken and his villainous crew flashing before his mind.

Ned lay down beside him, flashing urgent thoughts. Don’t let it get the better of you, Ben. Vanderdecken’s a bad thing to think of. Cap’n Thuron’s our friend, a good man.

One of the passing crew put a hand to Ben’s back and shook him. What ails ye, lad? Come on now, up on yer feet!

Ned stood over Ben, the dog’s hackles bristling as he growled viciously. Thuron pushed the man aside.

Leave the boy alone. Maybe he’s seasick already. Ben, are you feeling ill?

Wiping cold sweat from his brow, Ben lifted his head. I’ll be alright, Cap’n. I was frightened back there.

The Frenchman nodded. I was too, boy. Rocco Madrid has a formidable reputation. He’s also got almost twice as many crew. Only a fool wouldn’t have been afraid. You’ll be alright. Go aft, take Ned with you, lie down in my cabin. I won’t let anything happen to you, Ben, you’re my luck. Both of you.

The big cabin at the ship’s stern was cool and comfortable. Ben lay down on the broad, velvet-quilted bed and fell into a dreamless slumber. Ned jumped up beside him and laid his head across the boy’s feet. Hmm, I wonder how far away France is. A good distance, probably.

La Petite Marie was now under full sail, plowing the blue-green waters of the mighty Caribbean Sea.

Evening rolls of purple cloud were striping the crimson sky as the sound of an opening cabin door roused Ben. Ned nuzzled his leg. Wake up! Here’s food! The crewman who followed Thuron into the cabin placed a bowl of fresh water down alongside a plate of stew. He loaded the rest onto the bedside table before leaving.

Thuron sat by the table. Ben, here boy, eat up, I made the stew myself.

Ben sat on the edge of the bed alongside the table. There was a bowl of stew, some fresh fruit, and water to drink, and he tucked in heartily.

Thuron watched him eat. The Frenchman chuckled and ruffled the boy’s hair. Not feeling ill anymore, eh? ’Tis hard to tell who has the better appetite, you or old Ned there.

The dog, who was licking a plate clean, shot Ben a thought. Huh, who’s he calling old? I’m nought but a pup yet.

Ben replied mentally. Aye, a fat hungry pup!

Ned growled. Fat yourself, tubby youth!

The captain’s stubby finger turned Ben’s chin until their gazes met. There was sea in the boy’s clouded blue eyes—ancient deeps and far horizons lurked in them. Raphael Thuron stared into the young fellow’s calm face. You’re a strange lad, Ben, where are ye from?

Ben averted his eyes and picked up a slice of pineapple. From the Tierra del Fuego, sir.

The Frenchman raised his eyebrows in surprise. The land of fire down at the tip of this big country! That’s a great distance from Cartagena, lad. How came ye to travel so far?

Ben did not like lying to the captain, but necessity had forced him to be untruthful with anyone who wanted to know of his mysterious life. I was a shepherd boy helping an old sheepherder down there. He told me that he had found me on the shores, after a shipwreck. I worked with him . . . Ned was his dog. Early one spring the shepherd died in an accident, so I wandered off with Ned. We’ve been travelling over four years. We visited many places before reaching Cartagena.

Thuron shook his head in wonderment. You must have been little more than a babe when the sheepherder found you on the shore. What was the name of the ship you came from?

Ben shrugged. The sheepherder never told me. He said that the vessel must have sunk in a storm. I don’t remember anything, apart from living in his hut, rounding up sheep with Ned and enduring the awful weather down there. Have you always been a seaman, Cap’n?

Ned’s thought flashed through Ben’s mind. I liked the way you changed the subject there, mate. That was a clever touch, too, saying I belonged to the old shepherd. What our friend doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

Ben kept his eyes on Thuron, who began telling of himself. "Aye, I’ve been seafaring since I was younger than you, Ben. I was born in a place called Arcachon, on the French coast. I didn’t want to be a poor peasant like my father, so I ran off one day and joined the crew of a merchant ship. On our voyage to Cádiz we were attacked by Spanish pirates. They slew most of our crew but kept me as galley boy. Since then, I’ve spent most of my life aboard one vessel or another. If I’d been weak, I’d be dead by now. But here you see me, Raphael Thuron, master of my own ship, La Petite Marie, a French buccaneer!"

Ben looked up at the captain. You must be very proud of yourself, sir.

The Frenchman poured himself a glass of water, swirled it about reflectively, then shook his head. Proud, d’ye say? I’ll tell ye something now, Ben, that I’ve never told any living soul. I’m ashamed of what I’ve made of my life. Ashamed! He kept swirling the water, his eyes fixed on its motion. Me, the older son of an honest, religious family. Oh, I was a wild one, not like my younger brother Mattieu. It was my parents’ hope that one day I would reform and make them proud by becoming a priest. My younger brother Mattieu was more suited to that sort of thing. He was a good boy, though I often got him into trouble. Being a farmworker like my father was a gloomy alternative. So I ran off to sea, and here I am all these years later, a man living outside of the law, buccaneering. But no more. This wicked trade has seen the last of Raphael Thuron. I’m done with it all, boy. Finished, d’ye hear!

This came as a shock to Ben. What made you decide that, sir?

The Frenchman quaffed his water, slamming the glass down so hard that it cracked. I saw ye today, Ben, standing there with Ned. You reminded me of what I was once, a cheery lad with a trusty hound at his heels. ’Twas you spotted Madrid’s cheatin’ ways. I knew then my life had to change. You’re my lucky boy, you and Ned. I’ve been storing wealth away. Now, with what I took from Rocco Madrid, I’m a rich man. I’ll make up for my buccaneering ways, Ben, you’ll see. I’ll return to Arcachon and help my family. We’ll build a chateau, Ben, and buy a big vineyard. I’ll give money to the church and the poor. Folk will speak of me like . . . like—

Ben interrupted the captain. Like a saint?

A huge smile spread across Thuron’s heavy face. Aye lad, that’s it, lad, like a saint. Saint Raphael Thuron!

He burst out laughing, Ben joined in, and Ned set up a howl. The Frenchman wiped tears of merriment from his eyes onto his brocaded sleeve. And you two will share in it. Young Saint Ben and good Saint Ned. How does that sound to ye, eh?

Convulsed with mirth, the black Labrador chortled away. Hohoho, good Saint Ned? I like that, I’ll wear a collar of gold, like a halo that’s slipped down round my neck!

Ben returned his thought. And I’ll wear a long, flowing shirt and a pointed hat, like a bishop. Hahahaha!

Thuron remarked through his laughter. Oohahaha, look at you two, anyone’d swear you were gossiping together. Hahaha!

Ben slapped the Frenchman’s back so hard that it stung his hand. Heeheehee, that’s a good ’un, gossiping with a dog, heehee!

The proceedings were interrupted by the bosun, Pierre, bellowing from the sternmast lookout point. Vessel astern, showin’ over the horizon in our wake!

The captain dashed out onto the deck, with Ben and Ned hard on his heels. Crewmen with worried faces clattered up from the mess deck, carrying weapons and priming muskets as they made their way to the stern rail. Thuron pulled a telescope from his coat lining and sighted on the dark smudge to the rear, which was all they could see of Cartagena. He swung the glass to and fro, halting as he caught sight of sail.

"Rocco Madrid and the Diablo Del Mar! Well, he didn’t waste much time, did he? Stand by all hands, we’re in for a sea chase. Load those cannon, Anaconda, I’ll take the wheel. Come on, Ben, bring Ned too—I’m going to need all the luck ye can bring me!"

Captain Rocco Madrid called up to his lookout. Have they sighted us yet, Pepe?

Loud and clear, the lookout bellowed back. Sí, Capitano, they are piling on sail to escape us!

Rocco’s bosun, Portugee, handed the wheel over to his captain. "Shall I roll out all the cannon an’ give ’em a full salute? Capitano, we can outgun the Marie easily."

Madrid narrowed his eyes until they were wicked slits. "No, no, Thuron has the gold. He is of no use to me on the bottom of the sea with his ship. Diablo will outrun them, we’ll take the Marie an’ her crew alive. I want to sail into Cartagena with everyone aboard that ship hanging from their own yardarms. Our Brotherhood on shore will know then: No man takes gold from Rocco Madrid and lives to tell the tale!"

Rocco’s first mate, a fat Hollander called Boelee, spoke up. Even the brat an’ his dog?

The Spaniard drew out his telescope and scanned the distant ship. Especially the brat an’ his dog, amigo. Lessons must be taught by making hard examples.

Aboard La Petite Marie, Thuron was roaring orders. Pile on every stitch of canvas there! Up the rigging, every man jack of ye! Pierre, Ludon, climb out onto the bows an’ chop away those rope fenders. She’ll cut the waves cleaner with a sharp prow!

Pierre, the bosun, and Ludon, the mate, scrambled over the bows with cutlasses held in their teeth.

Ben looked anxiously at the Frenchman, voicing his thoughts aloud. Are you sure we can outrun them, Cap’n?

Thuron smiled grimly. "We’ve got to, or we’re all dead men. Don’t worry, boy, my ship may be smaller, but she’s faster, I’m sure of it. With me at the helm, Madrid will get a run for his gold. That big, awkward tub of his was never built for sea chases. Our Marie will show him a clean pair of heels, providing he doesn’t use his cannon. ’Tis my job to keep us out of his range until he tires of the chase, though I’m certain that Spaniard doesn’t want to sink us. If Madrid does get us within distance, he’ll try to snap off our masts."