Portugee and the search party. Boelee gave Ludon a kick in the back that sent him sprawling at the Spaniard's feet.
Ludon let out a terror-stricken whimper. "Don't kill me ... please!"
Portugee yanked on the belt. "Shut your face, worm!"
Boelee put a booted foot on his prisoner's body. "Three of 'em, Capitano, they bumped right into us out there. They
tried to run away, but Maroosh shot one an' Rillo chopped the other one down with his cutlass. We saved this piece of
scum for you. Remember, this was the one who put a blade to your neck in the tavern at Cartagena."
Madrid grabbed Ludon by the hair and smiled into his face. "Of course! Welcome to our camp, amigo."
Tears cut dirty patterns through the dust on Ludon's cheeks. "I wouldn't have harmed ye, Cap'n. I ran away from that
accursed Thuron. I never wanted to be one of his crew, I swear on my life I didn't. Don't kill me, I beg ye!"
Madrid's smile grew even wider. "I won't kill you, amigo ... not yet. Put more wood on that fire, Pepe. This one is
going to tell me where Thuron and his ship are."
Ludon screamed and sobbed. "Oh don't, Cap'n, please don't! I'll tell ye where they are, ye don't have t'do that to me!"
Madrid turned away and spoke conversationally to his bosun. "They always lie, but the flames bring out the real truth.
Haul him over to the fire while I continue our little talk."
The old Carib man's voice cut across Ludon's moaning and pleading. "Señor, you will not do this in my village. You
will leave now, all of you. Go to your ship, or die here!"
Madrid gave the old man an insolent smile as he repeated, "Die? You dare to say that to me? Maroosh, blow that old
fool's brainpan out with your musket!"
Before Maroosh could raise the gun, he gasped and pulled a brightly feathered object from the side of his neck. It was
a dart, made from a long, sharp thorn. He stared stupidly at it and dropped the musket. His legs began to tremble, and
he sat down in the dust.
The Carib patriarch glanced at the treetops surrounding the village. His voice became flat and stern. "We saw your ship
long before you came here. Only fools do not take precautions. My hunters are hidden all about our village—they
never miss with their blowpipes. You, señor, I have suffered enough of your bad manners. Take your men and go.
Leave that one behind, he is already dead. Just as you will be if you choose to stay."
The pirates stared in horrified fascination at Maroosh, who was still sitting on the ground, trembling fitfully.
Rocco Madrid put up his sword and musket and began walking backward out of the village. "Boelee, get the crew
back to the Diablo. We can't stand against invisible Caribs with poison darts."
Dragging Ludon with them, all hands from the Diablo backed out of the village. What galled Rocco Madrid most was
the way the patriarch and his people carried on with their work, completely ignoring the Spaniard and his retreating
men. Rocco was inwardly seething, for the blood of Spanish grandees ran in his veins. Keeping face and demanding
respect, repaying insults and avenging slights were ingrained into his character.
Boelee watched his captain's face the moment they were back aboard ship. From the way a tic started up in Madrid's
left eyelid and his teeth began making a grinding sound, the mate knew Rocco Madrid had vengeance on his mind.
Scowling dangerously, Rocco strove to keep his voice normal. "Weigh the anchor and put on sail, load all portside
cannons. Portugee, take her round the headland, but don't set course for Guayama straight away. We're going to settle
accounts with those heathens and blast their village to splinters! Cannonballs are the best answer to poison darts. I'll
teach those savages a lesson in manners!"
There was thunder in the afternoon as the cannons of the Diablo Del Mar pounded the pitiful little settlement. Huts
disintegrated, palm trees snapped like matchsticks, and destruction, flames and smoke were everywhere. The Spaniard
laughed at the sight of high-flung debris still falling on the flattened ruins.
"Stand off and take us down the coast, Portugee. Bring our prisoner to my cabin, Boelee. Now I'll have words with
him!"
The patriarch and his people had deserted their village the moment they had first sighted the Diablo Del Mar rounding
the headland. Now they wandered out and stood onshore watching the stern of the departing pirate ship. It was not the
first time Brotherhood vessels had wrecked their huts. Nobody was harmed, for it was easy to hide from big, clumsy
cannons. Palmetto and bamboo grew in profusion, so it was a minor inconvenience to build more huts. The patriarch
put his arm around a sobbing woman. "Why do you weep? Are you hurt?"
She shook her head. "I forgot to take my goat—a tree fell on him and killed him."
The old man's face remained impassive. "You can have my goat. Yours will do for tonight's meal."
Ben was up in the rigging of the Marie, helping to trim the sails. Glancing down he could see the anchor appearing
through the clear waters as it was weighed. Ned stood wagging his tail, looking up at Ben and sending him thoughts.
"What's it like up there, mate? I'll bet you can see for miles."
The boy replied mentally. "You wouldn't like it, Ned. The masts sway a lot, and when I look down, the ship seems to
be quite still. But you do get a great view from up here. I can see the water change colour from green to blue over
toward the horizon, and I can see ..."
The remainder of the words were shouted out loud by Ben. "A ship! Ship ahoy, Cap'n!"
Thuron hurried to the forepeak, pulling his telescope out as he followed the direction that Ben was pointing. It took
only a moment to confirm the Frenchman's fears.
"Well spotted, lad. 'Tis the privateer! Get that anchor aboard, Anaconda. Take us west, but hug the coast. The
Englishman mightn't have seen us yet, and there's a chance we can give him the slip. Come out of that rigging, Ben!
All hands on deck!"
Thuron took the wheel from the giant steersman. "That breeze is blowing onshore, we'll have to tack a bit. What's that?
Sounds like thunder, did ye hear it, mate?"
Anaconda scanned the sky. "Ain't no thunder, Cap'n. Not a cloud anywhere. Not the privateer, neither. That
Englishman's not goin' to fire guns from so far off, no point in it."
Thuron had to agree. "Aye, we'd have seen the splashes of cannonballs falling short in the sea. Well, whatever it is,
we're getting out of here and heading for the Mona Passage 'twixt Hispaniola and this island, bound into the Atlantic."
Early evening shades were starting to tinge the eastern horizon cream and pink. Aboard the Devon Belle all hands sat
about, catching their breath and mopping away the sweat of their afternoon exercise, which had been hard and long.
Captain Red-jack Teal had decided they were slacking and had doubled the time they spent at singing shanties and
dancing hornpipes. Finally Teal went to his cabin, having had enough of watching the ridiculous prancing and off-key
singing. Besides, he had missed his midnoon ration of Madeira.
Putting aside the fiddle, the carpenter blew on his numbed fingertips. "If I have to play 'The Jolly Cap'n' one more
time, I'll throw meself overboard!"
Loosing the splints on either side of his injured leg, the bosun massaged his limb gently. "Hmm, the old leg's feelin'
better today."
The cook laughed bitterly. "Hah! That's all the dancin' ye never had to do!"