Marie. A musket exploded in the air as Pierre knocked one man's arm up. "No, don't fire! You'll hit Anaconda, you
fool!"
Thuron was thumping Ben's back as seawater poured from the senseless boy's mouth. The Frenchman looked up, his
face a picture of tragedy and shock, and screamed, "Anaconda is gone, Pierre, he's gone!"
The firing ceased, and all hands stared at one another in disbelief. Anaconda gone?
Ben lay on the bed in Captain Thuron's cabin with Ned alongside him, trying to reach his friend. However, the dog's
thoughts could not penetrate the boy's fevered mind. Disjointed images of storming seas and large waves crashing upon
rockbound shores, the Flying Dutchman, with Vanderdecken at the helm and lit all about with the eerie green light of
St. Elmo's Fire wreathing its rigging. Ned tried to interpose calming thoughts into Ben's delirium, licking the boy's
hands and whining softly. "Ben, Ben, it's me, Ned. You're safe now, mate. Lie still, rest now!"
Thuron brought a little brandy mixed with sugar and warm water. Ned watched as he poured a few drops between
Ben's lips. The Frenchman spoke his thoughts aloud to the dog as he ministered to the boy. "There now, that'll help
him, I think. He's had a bad time, Ned. I'll stay here with you until he looks better. Thank the Lord he wasn't taken by
those hellfish. Poor Anaconda, we'll never see him again. Apart from you and Ben, he was the best friend I ever had,
rest his soul!"
Thuron settled down in a chair and put his feet up on the end of the bed, assuring the Labrador in a weary voice, "At
least our Ben's safe, eh, boy? Don't you fret now, he'll be fresh as a coat o' paint by tomorrow."
With her rudder back in working order, La Petite Marie sailed northeast, out into the nighttime vastness of the mighty
Atlantic Ocean. Raphael Thuron was asleep, one elbow on the table, his cheek resting in an open palm. Ned, too,
stretched on the bed with his head lolling across the boy's feet. Ben drifted in and out of slumber, quiet and still for the
most part. Then strange spectres began haunting his mind. Were his eyes open or not? The boy was not sure, but he
could see through the ornate, oblong stern window. The sea was moon-flecked and smooth, yet far out it appeared
stormy. Cold sweat poured from Ben's brow. There in the distance, riding the gale, the Flying Dutchman was coming
toward the Marie. Ben lay there, robbed of all power of speech or movement, watching the ghost ship getting larger
and closer. He could not even pass a thought to his dog. Vanderdecken's wild, despairing face banished everything
from his mind. Ben could see him standing at the Dutchman's wheel. Lifting a corpselike finger, he beckoned the boy
to come to him, staring at Ben with eyes like chips of tombstone marble that pierced his entire being. Now the Flying
Dutchman was sailing level with the Marie. Tap! Tap! The accursed captain's finger rapped upon the windowpane,
calling, signalling Ben to come aboard his vessel. The petrified boy suddenly realised he had no grip on reality, no
control of his limbs. Was he still lying on the bed, or was he sitting up, getting out of bed and walking trancelike
toward the apparition outside the window? Vanderdecken smiled triumphantly, exposing long yellow teeth as his black
lips curled back, his beckoning finger, like a swaying serpent, calling his victim to him.
The feeling seeped slowly into Ned's mind as his eyes opened blearily. Then he felt his hackles rise, and he came wide
awake. He leapt up with a sharp bark, and Vanderdecken turned his attention upon the dog, glaring and hissing
viciously. In that moment, Thuron was wakened by the bark. He saw Ben, momentarily free of the spell, snap the
thong that held a carved coconut-wood cross around his neck. Thuron dropped to the cabin floor as Ben threw the
cross at the thing hovering outside; then the Frenchman grabbed the chair by a leg and flung it with all his might from
flat on his back.
11
AMID THE RENDING crash of glass and wood, a high-pitched, keening screech ensued. Ned was standing with his
paws up on the sill, barking out at a calm night sea. Shakily, Thuron pulled himself over to where Ben was sitting on
the cabin floor.
He grabbed the boy and hugged him tight. "Ben, are you alright? What in the name of heaven and hell was that thing
at the window? Was it a man or a fiend?"
Before Ned could think out a warning, Ben had spoken. "It was Captain Vanderdecken of the Flying Dutchman!"
Thuron ran to the smashed window. Regardless of the broken glass and splintered frame, he leaned out and scanned
the empty ocean.
Turning slowly, he looked from the dog to the boy. "I think you've got something to tell me, lad!"
Ned sent a swift thought to Ben. "Well, you've already told him who it was—are you going to let him know the rest?"
Still facing the captain, Ben answered his dog's question. "He saved my life, we can trust him. I'd best tell him
everything. He'll understand, I know he will."
The black Labrador closed his eyes resignedly. "I hope he will!"
The crewman Gascon, who had not gone with the other three deserters, was taking his turn at the wheel. He had heard
Ned's bark and the window breaking. Looking astern, he saw the captain's chair, with the cross on its thong tangled
about it, floating off into the night. Tying the ship's wheel on course with the helm line, Gascon hurried to the captain's
cabin door. He was about to knock when he heard voices clearly from within. Carefully he pressed an ear to the door
and listened. Ben was speaking to Thuron. What Gascon heard that night chilled his very soul into a terror-stricken
silence.
Captain Redjack Teal had found some good old ripe cheese in the cupboard. Along with a goblet of Madeira and a few
of his special biscuits, it provided an excellent midday snack. There was a respectful tap at the door. Dabbing his lips
fastidiously with a silken kerchief, he called, "Come!"
The bosun stumped in, dragging the prisoner Ludon behind him. He threw the man to the floor and saluted by touching
a many-thonged whip to his temple. "Gave 'im two strokes, sir, just as ye ordered."
Teal stood, adjusting Rocco Madrid's sword about his waist. "Hmm, good man. Carry on!"
The bosun saluted again. "Aye aye, Cap'n!" He left the cabin, closing the door carefully behind him.
Ludon cowered on the floor, sobbing and hugging himself.
Teal sounded bored as he poured himself another "Oh, stop that blubberin', sirrah, y'sound like a pig with the colic.
Don't look so demned sorry for yourself, man!"
Ludon turned a tear-stained face up to Teal, whining piteously. "You had me whipped, sir, for no reason at all!"
Redjack wrinkled his nose. It was hard to understand the rough English that Ludon had picked up in Caribbean ports.
"Lack-a-day, fellow, I never do things without any reason. I never had ye really flogged, just two strokes o' the cat. So
now ye know what it tastes like, eh? I did it to show ye I mean business. I want the truth, an' no lies. Of course ye can
lie away an' think you're foolin' me, but that'd mean ten strokes for every little fib. Hmm, imagine that!"
Ludon shivered and sat up straight to stop the weight of his shirt from touching the wounds on his back. "I'll tell ye the
truth, sir, on me oath I will. Just ask the questions an' I'll do me best to answer ye!"