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town full of taverns, but a nice quiet cove with running water and a native village close by where we can trade for most of what we need. Trouble is that I haven’t spotted land yet. I know we’ve run a bit off course in the last day or two, but the islands can’t be too far off. Here, you take a peek. You’re my lucky boy—mayhap you’ll spy something.”
    Ben took the telescope, focussed it and searched the horizon bit by bit.
    Thuron chuckled. “That’s the way, use those lucky blue eyes of yours. I’ll go and find Ned. Hope he hasn’t signed up with the deserters.”
    Ben kept his eye to the glass. “Shame on you for thinking such a thing, Cap’n. There’s none more faithful than my Ned!”
    A distant speck on the horizon caught Ben’s attention. He felt as though ice water were trickling down his back. Some sixth sense told him that it was the Flying Dutchman. Swiftly he angled the lens away southward. A dark-purplish smudge on the far skyline dispelled his fears. The boy’s spirits soared. “Cap’n, I can see land! There, over to the southeast!”
    Thuron took the telescope and clapped it to his eye. “Where, Ben, where? I can’t see a thing.”
    He returned the instrument to the boy, who immediately found the far-off smudge. “Crouch down, Cap’n, I’ll keep the glass steady. See it way over there?”
    The Frenchman screwed his eye hard to the brass aperture. “Your eyes must be a lot better than mine, Ben, I don’t see a thing. No, wait . . . Aha, there ’tis! Tell Anaconda to alter our course two points south, then dead ahead. Ben, Ben, my lucky shipmate, you’ve done it again. Land ho!”
    The black Labrador sat stoically, listening to most of the crew grumbling and disputing over the stern rail. Suddenly they heard the captain’s joyful shout, and it worked like a charm. Everything became hustle and bustle as the crew broke off to attend to their duties. Anaconda began singing in a deep, melodious voice.
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“Haul away for the islands, mates,
That’s the place to be.
Way haul away!
There’s fish swim in the bay, me boys,
An’ fruit on every tree.
Way haul away!
The livin’s good an’ easy there,
So sunny an’ so free.
A shady place to rest your head,
We’ll anchor in the lee.
To me way, haul away!
Oh haul away, do,
All hands turn out an’ hear me shout . . .
Away boat’s crew!”
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Ned, standing alongside the giant steersman, threw back his head and bayed. Ben laughed as he exchanged a thought with the Labrador. “You’ll have to learn the words, Ned!”
    The dog sniffed and gave him a dignified glance. “Does a fiddler, a drummer or a guitar player have to know the words? Ignorant boy, can’t you see I’m providing a wonderful accompaniment to our friend here!”
    With the westering sun crimsoning her sails from astern, La Petite Marie nosed into Guayama, a cove on the south-eastern coast of Puerto Rico. They dropped anchor outside the shallows, where she would not be left high and dry on sandbanks by an ebbing tide. Captain Thuron ordered Pierre to lower the ship’s jolly boat. It was a small craft and would have to make the journey to shore four times.
    Knowing that the bosun was loyal to him, the captain chose him to make the first trip. “Pierre, you and Anaconda will take the first lot. Ben, you and Ned, go second; Ludon, you’re third. I’ll make the last trip ashore. Anaconda, stay aboard the jolly boat and make the return journey each time. Leave your muskets aboard, everybody, cutlasses too. Take only your knives. We don’t want to show weapons—folk on the island might take it as an unfriendly gesture. Give the order, Anaconda!”
    Any protests about leaving guns and swords aboard were forgotten. The men felt their spirits rise as the giant black steersman roared through cupped