Hell Ship The Flying Dutchman

by Ben Hammott

  “And what we do then?” asked Martha, cuddling a twelve-year-old girl, snatched when she was collecting water from a stream near her village.

  Martaigo tilted his head to the boards when something clacked ominously across them. “We hope whatever devils killed the white-skins leave. If they do, we work out how ter sail this ship back ter our lands. If they don’t, then we fight them as best we can and hope enough of us survive because with the crew dead and none ter give us provisions, we are sure ter perish if we remain here.

  A splintering of wood directed everyone’s gaze at Zumba holding aloft the ring the chain binding all on that side together was fed through. A padlock at the end secured the chain to another ring in the floor. Once unlocked they would be able to pull the chain through the other floor rings and their shackles and be free.

  “Well done, Zumba,” praised Martaigo quietly. “Now go for the keys.”

  Everyone linked to Zumba’s chain, quietly fed their slack to the person in front until their shackled shins were halted by the rusty iron rings attached at intervals to the floor.

  Zumba pulled up the slack and fed out the chain as he crawled towards the end wall. It pulled taut too far away for him to reach the keys with his hands. The chain-attached captives grimaced when Zumba strained against the iron tether, forcing their ankles tight against the metal rings. It was no good, Zumba was still a little short. He changed tactics and lay on his back with his shackled arms stretched over his head. Splinters dug into his skin when he squirmed closer to the wall and walked his feet up to the keys. With one foot pressed against the wall for support, he tried to grip the keys with the toes of his other foot. Feeling his toes wrapping around the cold metal gave him the confidence he could do it. He carefully lifted the ring off the hook and was about to lower it to the floor when it slipped from his grip and crashed to the floor with a metallic clang.

  A loud thump on the boards was swiftly followed by footsteps clacking speedily across the deck when whatever foul creature had heard homed in on the noise. Zumba gasped when red eyes, evil and devilish, peered through a gap at him. The thing screeched and began stabbing and ripping its claws at the wood.

  Dragging his eyes away from the splintering boards he feared the creature would soon be through, Martaigo looked at Zumba. “Grab keys,” he called out urgently.

  Fighting his panic, Zumba pulled the key ring closer with a foot until it was within reach of his hand. He knelt and threw it to the man nearest the padlock.

  As splinters and small chunks of wood dropped to the floor, Gingada frantically fumbled a key into the padlock and found the correct one on his first try.

  A section of deck clattered to the floor.

  All eyes turned to the monstrous head pressed to the splintered hole and its evil eyes sweeping over them.

  Women screamed. Children cried. Men recoiled in fear.

  The creature pulled its head away and screeched a command.

  Gingada twisted the key. The padlock sprung open. He unhooked the lock and dropped it to the floor. “Chain is free,” he called out as he released his shackles from it.

  Immediately, those on the same line frantically pulled the chain through the loops.

  Zumba watched the chain pulled by those on the line behind him whizzing through his shackles. As soon as he was free, he crawled away from the hole that lighter and smaller click-clacks converged on. Things barely glimpsed when they dropped through the dim light thudded to the floor as he cowered beneath the steps.

  Claws clacked lightly on the boards as the horrors gazed around at their prey and moved through the gloom.

  Gingada screamed when something landed on his shoulder and dug into his skin. He grabbed it and threw it into the darkness. Two more took its place and sliced at his flesh. Others rushed to the scent of blood. Screaming in agony from the hellish demons clawing at his body, Gingada struck his head hard on the ceiling. He took three unsteady steps before the creatures brought him down and five breaths before he breathed his last.

  Screams of terror and pain filled the hold when the creatures moved amongst the captives to feed. Chains clanked as the prisoners desperately fought to be free from their shackles.

  AWARE HE NEEDED TO get off the ship before he was spotted, Ratcliffe tore his eyes away from the massive creature ripping at the deck, sending chunks of wood and splinters flying, and gazed around for an escape route. He noticed the empty space previously occupied by a landing boat, which indicated someone had abandoned ship. He shot a glance at the giant creature when it screeched a shrill call and was surprised when many of the smaller animals rushed to the hole in the deck and dropped through. The creatures remaining thankfully seemed more interested in ripping flesh from corpses than in what was going on around them. None looked his way as he crossed to the quarterdeck steps.

  Hearing terrible, fear-filled screams coming from the human cargo below, he glanced at the locked, crisscross slatted hatch to the hold that dark hands poked through. The trap was an exit for the stench of sweat, piss, and feces but not the prisoners that caused it. There was no hope for those below now. More worried about his own life than the slaves, Ratcliffe climbed up to the quarterdeck and rushed to the rail. About thirty yards away the captain, the first mate and four crew rowed away in the missing landing boat.

  Worried he would be trapped aboard with the deadly creatures if he didn’t make his move, Ratcliffe had just stepped back from the rail to get a run up to dive over the side when five animals rushed up the steps and headed straight for him. He grabbed a lantern hanging from a hook and threw it at them. It smashed on contact with the deck, splashing the creatures with burning oil. The flames licked at the boards and began spreading. Ratcliffe shot a glance at further animals, drawn by the commotion, who were heading for him. He was running out of time. He sprinted for the starboard rail and dived over.

  Two terrified men hiding behind water barrels watched Ratcliffe leap over the side of the ship, and believing a watery grave would be preferable to what they faced if they remained on board, they decided to copy him. They emerged from their hiding place, rushed to the rail and leaped overboard.

  Before they entered the water, tendrils shot out from the weed heading for the small boat and plucked them from the air. Their screams were choked to silence by seawater pouring into their mouths when they were dragged beneath the waves.

  Ratcliffe shot a glance back at the screams and noticed the weed tendrils reaching for him. Increasing his pace, he swam for the small boat.

  The men in the boat watching the flames consume the Hannibal and listening to the faint screams of all those trapped aboard had witnessed Ratcliffe’s leap into the sea and held the boat steady as they waited for him to catch up.

  When two more crew leaped overboard and were snatched by the tendrils, the first mate pointed out the weed moving purposefully towards Ratcliffe and them.

  Shouting warnings to Ratcliffe to hurry, they shared their gazes between the swimming man and a few creatures that had spotted him leaping from the Hannibal into the sea.

  AS THOSE AROUND HIM screamed and tried unsuccessfully to fight off the devils, Zumba fought against his rising panic. Fearing the creatures would discover him, he trembled at the bright eyes moving through the gloom. It was a terrible, nightmarish sight. Ignoring those suffering around him, self-preservation drove him from his hiding place.

  “Zumba, the key!” called out the woman on the end of the opposite line the creatures had miraculously passed by.

  Zumba could barely make out the woman in the darkness pointing desperately at the floor a short distance away. Spying the object of her attention, he darted forward, kicked the padlock with the key still in it across to the woman and bolted up the stairs. He shoved a shoulder against the locked door and stumbled through when it crashed open. Spying daylight and the steps highlighted in its welcoming glow a short distance away, he rushed up them and took deep gulps of fresh air when he stepped onto the deck. Crackling flames creepi
ng along the ship highlighted his terrified gaze as he took in the ravaged, bloody bodies and the giant monster peering through the hole in the deck at its smaller feeding brethren he had just escaped from.

  Guiltily ignoring the screams of terror and pain coming from below of those he couldn’t help, Zumba silently backed over to the small boat on the opposite side of the ship from the flames. It was his only chance. When he bumped into it, he turned and glanced at the ropes. He needed to work out how to get it in the water.

  Blood sprayed from his mouth when the clawed limb that had entered his lower back pushed through his insides and erupted from his chest. Lifted off his feet and dragged closer to the monstrosity that had impaled him, Zumba stared into the eyes of his killer and then its jaws when it shifted him towards its gaping, teeth-lined mouth.

  When it had finished feasting, the patriarch flung Zumba’s remains to the deck, descended the steps Zumba had recently fled up and entered the hold filled with the screams of terrified humans. Its gills fluttered in anticipation when it breathed in their fear. It gazed around at the human feast its offspring had started devouring and peered at the screaming and crying food crowded in a trembling mass at the back. It headed deeper into the room to claim its next meal.

  When the flames began encroaching on the lower decks and threatened to cut off their exit, the patriarch screeched an order to flee and joined its brethren climbing out. They leaped into the sea and swam towards the ship they had made their home.

  “They’re abandoning ship,” said the first mate, pointing out the swimming creatures. “Maybe when the Fortuyn’s drifted away to a safe distance we can re-board the Hannibal. If we can’t save her, perhaps we can salvage some provisions before the flames, and the sea claim her?”

  As the captain’s reply formed on his lips, the Hannibal exploded with a thundering boom that sprayed burning timbers high into the heavens, evidence the flames had reached the gunpowder store.

  As wreckage splashed around them, the captain and first mate hauled Ratcliffe into the boat, and the others set to rowing again.

  Captain Warren turned his gaze away from his sinking ship and observed some of the creatures climbing back aboard the Fortuyn. He focused on the giant monster that had jumped onto the quarterdeck and stood there like a proud captain.

  “They’re still coming for us,” called out Myles, pointing at the strange weed heading for them and the four creatures climbing on top, where they perched and snarled and shrieked at them.

  “Row us away from that weed and damned hell ship before they reach us,” ordered the captain.

  The four men at the oars rowed quickly and forcefully, swiftly putting distance between them and the oncoming weed and its vicious passengers.

  Seeming to realize they couldn’t catch their prey, the weed turned around and headed back to the cursed Dutchman.

  Gazing at the Hannibal, officers and crew watched as the remains of its burning hulk slipped beneath the waves with a hiss of extinguished timbers, carrying any aboard that had survived the savage onslaught to a watery grave.

  ASTOUNDED BY WHAT HE had just heard, Tom watched the man top up his tankard and drain it in one go.

  “Without any water or provisions, we were lucky to make it ter land before we perished.”

  “And you reported your...encounter with these sea monsters ter the authorities?” inquired Tom.

  The man snorted. “We tried, but no one believed us. Told us hunger, thirst, and the scorching sun had addled our brains.”

  Tom wasn’t surprised by the news. If he hadn’t seen the foul creatures with his own eyes, he doubted he would have believed the story either. “I assume by that scar yer wear that yer be Ratcliffe.”

  Ratcliffe fingered the red mark on his cheek, remembering how he received it. He pushed the nightmare image away and nodded. “Aye, Samuel Ratcliffe, that be me.”

  “Well, Samuel, it’s an incredible tale, but I can tell by yer anxious demeanor as yer re-experienced it that it happened just as yer described.”

  Ratcliffe nodded his appreciation. “It’s harrowing enough to belay any embellishment and something that’ll haunt me fer the rest of me days.”

  The barkeep arrived with Ratcliff’s meal and a full bottle of rum, which he set on the table. The haggard sailor wasted no time in tucking in.

  When the barkeep had gone, Tom climbed from his seat. “Thanks again, Samuel. I know it can’t have been easy reliving the horrific events.”

  Ratcliffe nodded at the fresh bottle of rum. “It wasn’t, but that’ll help.”

  “I must go, or I’ll miss my passage. May good luck be your mistress, Samuel.”

  “Aye, I could do with some, right enough, luck and a mistress, and the same ter yer, lad.”

  Tom placed some coins on the table. “To help yer forget.”

  Ratcliffe scooped up the coins, slipped them in a pocket and watched Tom head out the exit. After another generous gulp of rum, he continued his meal.

  BELIEVE MY TALE OR not, and I understand if it is the latter—if I had not witnessed the nightmarish events, I too would be skeptical of its authenticity—my story you have just read is the truth.

  This then is almost the end of my story.

  I arrived in Amsterdam a few months later and almost immediately bought passage aboard a vessel heading to England. I never went to sea again.

  I visited my parents in Somerset but withheld the true nature of my adventures, telling them a sailor’s life was not for me, and that I had indeed banished the thirst for adventure from my mind. I shared with them a small part of the proceeds from selling some of Captain Trent’s treasure, which I said was my share of the salvage proceeds from a ship we found adrift at sea.

  Almost a year later, I left home.

  By selling off Captain Trent’s jewels a little at a time so as not to arouse suspicion, I was able to live a comfortable life in London. I purchased a house on the outskirts, married four years later and started a family.

  I never revealed to a soul about what happened aboard the Fortuyn.

  Over the following years when I read or heard about sightings of the mysterious ghost ship, the Flying Dutchman, I recalled the terrible moments and prayed for the souls taken by the devilish creatures.

  It is time for me to say goodbye and that I hope you never experience anything as dreadful as I did aboard the hell ship, the Fortuyn.

  May all your dreams be unburdened from fright,

  Tom Hardy

  CHAPTER 13

  The End

  Rushing down the subway escalator, Vince apologized to those he barged past. Almost tripping in his rush when he stepped from moving escalator to static floor, he headed for the platform. Turning sideways he squeezed through the rapidly narrowing gap of the closing train doors. Relieved he had made it, he walked towards the back of the carriage and slumped into a seat as the train pulled out of the station.

  Feeling drowsy, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his fingers. He glanced at the lights flashing on and off as the train rattled over the rails. It was nothing unusual. When he heard screams coming from farther along the carriage, he tilted his head to the side and focused his gaze along the aisle. A woman slammed against the door that connected Vince’s carriage to the next one. Blood streamed down her face and the window. She toppled to the ground when the door opened, and creatures he recognized from the Flying Dutchman poured through the door. Passengers screamed in terror and leaped from their seats. They were knocked to the floor screaming, dying, when creatures pounced on them. Terrified, and wondering how it was possible, Vince sat frozen as the creatures leaped across the backs of the seats and bounded along the aisle. When one jumped at his face with claws outstretched, teeth chomping, he screamed.

  “Sir, are you okay?”

  Shaken from the nightmare by the hand on his shoulder, Vince looked at the train guard and nodded. “Sorry, bad dream.”

  “It must have been,” said the guard. “You were screaming like
you were being murdered.”

  A little embarrassed, Vince glanced at the nearby passengers staring at him. “Sorry, everybody,” he apologized. He turned back to the guard. “I’m a horror writer, and sometimes my stories cross over into my dreams.”

  “Really? Anything I might have read? I like a bit of horror.”

  Vince reeled off a few of his book titles to the guard’s blank expression.

  “Nope, ain’t read any of them. Any good, are they?”

  “I like to think so,” replied Vince.

  “I’ll look out for them then.”

  “Appreciated,” said Vince, as the guard moved on.

  When the train pulled to a stop at Warren Street underground station, Vince disembarked and made his way to University College London Hospital a short distance away. After taking the elevator to the oncology department he had visited many times over the past few weeks, he spoke to a nurse and was taken to a room.

  Saddened by the depressing sight of Elizabeth Hardy, now frail, bald and sickly, Vince returned her weak smile. He had visited her a few times at home and here when she had taken a turn for the worse so she could read the chapters of his book more or less as he finished them. Though she was still undergoing treatment, the outlook grew dimmer with the passing of each day. Cancer was a relentless killer.

  “I hope your presence here means you’ve finally finished the last few chapters?” she said, adding a smile.

  Glancing around at the range of medical equipment Lizzy was connected to, which seemed to have increased since his last visit, Vince sat in the chair beside the bed. “I’m pleased to report I have.” He pulled a book from his pocket and handed it to her. “Here’s your advance copy. It’s only a print on demand copy I cobbled together as the official paperback won’t be ready for a few weeks, but I thought you’d like to see Tom’s story in book form.”