Castaways of the Flying Dutchman fd-1

by Brian Jacques

A stiletto blade gleamed as Scraggs laid it on the table. "You two grab him, I'll give our cap'n a swift taste of

  this beauty, then we strip the body and he's ready for the fishes!"

  Sindh traced his blue scar with a cracked fingernail. "When the kapitan is gone, what then, Scraggs, my friend?

  One green stone is hard to split three ways."

  Scraggs winked at them both. "Then I take command. We sail her to Valparaiso and I as cap'n pick up the rest

  of the stones. There should be plenty to go 'round twixt three then."

  Sindh thought about this for a moment before replying. "Why can't I be kapitan, or Jamil here?"

  "Because I'm an Englander, I look more like a Dutchy than you two ever could, an' I speak the lingo. Any

  objections?" Scraggs toyed with the dangerous-looking stiletto, watching them. Jamil smiled and patted the mate's

  hand.

  "Of course not, my friend, it is a good plan. But I do have a harmless little question. What happens when we

  have both the ship and the stones? We cannot sail back to Europe."

  "Simple, we follow the coast up north until we sight a place called Costa Rica. Anchor up there to take on fresh

  water and fruit. While the crew are busy doing that, we jump ship. Other side of the mountain there is the Carribean

  Sea, His-paniola, Cartagena, Naracaibo, beyond the reach of law. Sunny climes, blue seas, golden sands, an' we three,

  rich as kings. Think of it—we could build our own castles, own ships, employ servants, or buy slaves. That would do

  me fine, never to feel another cold day for life!"

  Petros came stumping through from a cabin that led off the main one. The conspirators nudged one another and

  fell silent. The Greek cook clipped Neb's ear with his good hand. "You never brought me any coffee. Get on, boy,

  leave some on the table by my bunk!" Obediently Neb poured a bowl of coffee and hurried through to the other cabin,

  with Petros following, berating him. "After all I do for you, save your life, feed you, teach you how to be sea cook.

  This is how you treat Petros. I should have left you for the fishes. Don't spill that coffee, put it down there. Not there ...

  there! Get out of here and leave me now. Nobody wants a poor sea cook with one hand. I'm in pain night and day,

  with not a soul to care. Out, out!"

  Neb retired gratefully to his galley.

  Sitting beneath the table with his dog, Neb stroked Denmark as he pondered his dilemma. Three crewmen were

  planning to murder the captain! From what Neb had seen of the Dutchman's crew, he knew they were lawless

  drunkards and thieves. Vanderdecken was a hard and cruel ship's master, but he was the only one aboard who could

  keep the vessel running in an orderly and disciplined manner. Without a proper captain the alternatives were bleak.

  Neb doubted that such a wayward bunch would take orders from Scraggs, nor was he sure the Englander would be

  able to bring them to their destination safely. Even if he did, what then? How could he warn the captain of the plot on

  his life? Vanderdecken would take scant notice of his crew's lowliest member, a dumb, mute boy. The dog watched

  Neb with its soft, dark eyes. As if sensing his dilemma, it licked the boy's hand and gave a single low whine.

  Later that evening footsteps sounded out on deck. Neb nodded to Denmark, and the dog vanished beneath the

  table to its hideout. The boy peered around the galley door. There was Vanderdecken, emerging from his cabin at the

  stern. Coming toward him from midships were the two hands, Jamil and Sindh. The boy's stomach went into a knot of

  anxiety. He could feel a pounding in his chest.

  Somewhere between the captain and the two crewmen, Scraggs was waiting in hiding, holding the stiletto ready.

  A thousand things raced through Neb's brain, silly inconsequential ideas. He dismissed them all. What could he do?

  The captain halted in front of Jamil and Sindh, eyeing them suspiciously. He knew the watch order. "What are

  you two doing out here? Ranshoff and Vogel are the late-night watch."

  He caught Jamil looking over his shoulder toward the rear of the galley. Vanderdecken turned as Scraggs broke

  cover and ran toward him. Jamil and Sindh threw themselves upon the captain from behind, grabbing him by his neck

  and arms. Neb saw the blade flash upward as Scraggs covered the last few strides. He could not see the captain

  murdered.

  Flinging himself out the galley door, Neb collided with Scraggs. Carried forward, they bulled into

  Vanderdecken, with Scraggs bellowing, "Hold him tight, I'll deal with the lad!" Caught between the captain and the

  mate, Neb gave out a mute cry as the stiletto blade arched overhead.

  There was a deep, mumbling growl as a black shadow flew through the air. Landing on Scraggs's back, the dog

  Denmark sank its fangs into the mate's shoulder. As Neb went down, he grabbed for the two crewmen's legs and held

  on tight.

  Vanderdecken was a tall, powerfully built man who could hold his own with any crew member. Shrugging off

  the two who held him, he grabbed Scraggs's knife arm with both hands. The captain swung hard, whirling the

  murderous mate around and around. The knife clattered to the deck as Van-derdecken swung the man, both staggering

  across toward the rail, then he released Scraggs. The mate's startled yell was cut short as he hit the rail and jackknifed

  over into the sea. His head struck the side and he went under.

  The Flying Dutchman sailed onward to the vast Atlantic, leaving Scraggs and his dreams of riches in the depths

  of the English Channel. Vanderdecken smashed Jamil and Sindh to the deck with wild blows and kicks. He grabbed

  the stiletto and stood over the petrified men, his whole body shaking with wrath, bloodlight in his wild eyes. Neb

  stood by, holding on to Denmark's neck, terrified at what he thought would happen next.

  Suddenly a great sigh shook the captain's shoulders, and he grated harshly at the conspirators. "On your feet,

  you treacherous rats! Walk in front of me to the fo'c'sle cabin, or I'll cut your throats where you stand! You, boy,

  follow behind me with that dog. Cover my back!"

  The remainder of the Dutchman's, crew were sitting around the stove drinking coffee, or lying in their bunks

  and hammocks. With a loud bang the cabin door burst open. Sindh and Jamil were booted roughly inside, landing flat

  on their faces. Looking up with a start, the crew beheld Captain Vanderdecken with Neb and Denmark behind him.

  "Muster all hands now. Jump to it!"

  There was an almighty scramble as Petros and others who had side cabins came stumbling in. An awful silence

  fell on the crew—they quailed under their captain's icy glare. Ramming the stiletto into his belt, he seized Jamil and

  Sindh, hauling them up by their hair and bellowing at them.

  "Who else was in this with you? Tell me or I'll throw you to the fishes, like I did with that villain Scraggs!"

  Jamil clasped his hands together and wept openly. "There was only us two, Kapitan. Scraggs made us do it. We

  were afraid of him. He said he'd kill us if we didn't!"

  Sindh joined him, tears running down the blue scar channel in his face, pleading for his life.

  "He speaks the truth, Kapitan. We didn't know Scraggs meant to kill you. We thought he was just going to steal

  the green stone. Spare us, please, we meant you no real harm!"

  Ignoring their sniveling pleas, Vanderdecken beckoned to a burly German crewman. "Vogel, you are first mate

  now aboard my ship and will be paid as such. Make two hanging nooses and throw them over the mid-crosstrees.

  These criminals must pay for what they
did."

  Vogel saluted but did not move. He spoke hesitantly. "Kapitan, if you execute them, it will leave us three hands

  short. No ship of this size could round Cape Horn with three experienced seamen missing."

  There was silence, then the captain nodded. "You are right, Mr. Vogel. See they only get half-rations of biscuit

  and water until we make harbor. They will be tried and hanged by a maritime court when we get back to Copenhagen.

  When they are not on duty, see they are shackled in the chain locker. Is that clear, Mr. Vogel?"

  The new mate saluted. "Aye, Kapitan!" He turned to Neb. "Half-rations of biscuits and water for the rest of the

  trip, d'you hear that, cook?"

  As Neb nodded obediently, Vanderdecken turned his quizzical gaze on the boy. "This lad is the cook? How so?"

  Petros nursed his damaged hand, whimpering. "Kapitan, my hand is bad hurt. I could not cook with one hand."

  He tried to shrink away, but Vanderdecken grabbed Petros by the throat. He shook him as a terrier would a rat,

  the Greek's terror-stricken eyes locked by the Dutchman's icy glare. The captain's voice dropped to a warning rasp. "I

  signed you aboard as cook, you useless lump of blubber. Now, get to your galley and cook, or I'll roast you over your

  own stove!"

  He hurled the unfortunate Petros bodily from the cabin. There was danger in Vanderdecken's voice as he turned

  on the rest of his crew. "Every man does as I say on this vessel. Nobody will disobey my orders. Understood?"

  Averting their eyes from his piercing stare, they mumbled a cowed reply. "Aye aye, Cap'n."

  Neb trembled as the captain's finger singled him out. "You, come here. Bring the dog, stand beside me!"

  Neb obeyed with alacrity, Den following dutifully alongside him. There was silence, and Vanderdecken's eyes

  roamed back and forth beneath hooded brows—each crewman felt their fearful authority. "This boy and his dog, they

  will watch my back wherever I go. They will stay in my cabin, guarding me from now on.

  "Vogel, take the wheel, put out a new watch. When we pass the Land's End light, take her south and one point

  west, bound for Cape Verde Isles and out into the Atlantic. We'll take this ship 'round Cape Horn and up to Valparaiso

  in record time.

  "The Horn, Vogel, Tierra del Fuego! The roughest seas on earth! Many a vessel has been smashed to splinters

  by waves, storm, and rocks there. Seamen's bones litter the coast. But by thunder, I intend to make it in one piece. The

  rest of you, as master of the Flying Dutchman, I'll tolerate no slacking, disobedience, or backsliding. I'll see the white

  of your rib bones beneath a lash if you even think of crossing me. Now, get about your duties!"

  Pushing men contemptuously aside, Vanderdecken strode from the fo'c'sle cabin with Neb and Den close in his

  wake. The boy was completely baffled by the turn of events—glad not to be under Petros's sadistic rule, yet

  apprehensive to find himself expected to be in close proximity to the captain all the time. One other thing gnawed at

  his mind: Cape Horn and the other strange-sounding place, Tierra del Fuego, the roughest seas on earth. What were

  they really like? A warm nose touching his hand reminded him that whatever the danger, he was no longer alone. He

  had a true friend, the dog.

  5.

  AFTER A WHILE NEB LOST count of time; nights and days came and went with numbing regularity. It was a

  world of water, with no sign of land on any horizon. Both he and the dog had been seasick. There were moments

  when the boy wished himself back on land. Even living in Bjornsen's herring cellar seemed preferable to the high seas.

  As the Flying Dutchman sailed south and a point west, warm waters and fair weather fell behind in the ship's wake. It

  grew progressively colder, windier, and harsher. The south Atlantic's vast, heaving ocean wastes were relentless and

  hostile, with troughs deep as valleys and wavecrests like huge hills.

  It took a lot of getting used to, one moment being lifted high with nought but sky around .. . next instant, falling

  into perilous troughs, facing a blue-green wall of solid water. Having few duties to keep him busy was very frustrating,

  and Neb sat with Denmark just inside the stern cabin doorway, forbidden to move until the captain ordered it.

  Vanderdecken talked to himself a lot when studying charts and plotting his vessel's course. The boy could not

  avoid hearing most of what was said.

  "Yesterday we passed the coast of Brazil in the Southern Americas, somewhere 'twixt Recife and Ascension

  Island. I gave orders to the steersman to take another point sou'west. In three days we should pick up the currents

  running out from Rio de la Plata, sailing then closer to the coast, but keeping well out at the Gulf of San Jorge towards

  Tierra del Fuego and Cape Horn, the most godforsaken place on earth."

  Neb could not help but shudder at the tone of Van-derdecken's voice. He hugged his dog close, seeking reassur-

  ance in the friendly warmth of Denmark's glossy fur. The captain glanced across at him, setting down his quill pen.

  "Bring food and drink, boy, and don't waste time dawdling with the hands. I need you back here. Jump to it!"

  There were lines strung across the deck. Without these ropes to hold on to, a body would be swept over the side

  and lost forever in seconds. Neb came staggering into the galley with his dog in tow, both of them drenched in icy

  spray. Petros had wedged himself in a corner by the stove. His stomach wobbled as he strove to stand normally on the

  bucking, swaying craft. The Greek cook glared hatefully at the boy, upon whom he seemed to blame all his

  misfortunes.

  "You creep in here like a wet ghost. What you want, dumb one?"

  Neb picked up a tray from the galley table and conveyed by a series of gestures that he had come for food and

  drink. With bad grace Petros slopped out three bowls of some unnamed stew he had concocted and three thick ship's

  biscuits that clacked down on the tray like pieces of wood. He waved his knife menacingly in Neb's direction.

  "You an' that mangy dog get food for nothing. Get out of Petros's galley before I kick you out!"

  He raised a foot, but dropped it quickly. The black Labrador was standing between him and the boy, its hackles

  up, showing tooth and fang, growling dangerously. Petros shrank back.

  "Take that wild beast away from me, get your own coffee an' water from the crew's mess. Go on, get the dog

  out!"

  Neb delivered the food to Vanderdecken, then went off to the crew's mess bearing his tray.

  Jamil and Sindh had just arrived in the fo'c'sle cabin after checking the rigging. As Neb came through the door,

  they cast surly glances at him, another case of malcontents blaming him for their bad luck, though with some

  justification in their case. Vogel, the German mate, was also suspicious of Neb and his dog. Talk among the crew was

  that the captain used them both to spy on the crew. Not wanting to lose his position as mate, Vogel elbowed Jamil and

  Sindh aside, allowing the boy to fill two bowls with coffee and one with water for the dog. "When you two have had

  coffee, I'll chain you back in the anchor locker," he said to the seamen. "Kapitan's orders. Hurry up, boy. There be

  cold, thirsty men waiting to get a drink!"

  The tone of the mate's voice caused Denmark to turn and snarl. Vogel sat quite still, as if he was ignoring the

  dog, though it was obvious he was scared to move. "Get that hound out of here, back to the kapitan's cabin!"

  Neb nodded meekly, not wanting to upset the big German. Sindh took his turn at the coffee urn, com
menting,

  "Bad luck to have dog aboard ship, eh, Jamil?"

  The Arab grinned wickedly. "Aye, bad luck. This ship be all bad luck, poor fortune for poor sailors. Wrong time,

  bad season to be going 'round Cape Horn. You know that, Mister Vogel?"

  The mate stared at the hawkfaced Arab. "Never a good time for going 'round Horn, no time. I know of ships that

  never get 'round. Many try once, twice. For long time. Ugh! They run out of food, starve. You see that bad ocean out

  there, dumb boy? That is like a smooth lake to the seas 'round Tierra del Fuego and Cape Horn!" Neb placed his

  drinks on the tray and maneuvered carefully out of the cabin, with Jamil's parting remarks in his ears.

  "Ship won't run out of food if it gets caught in the seas— we got fresh meat on board. Dog! You ever eat dog

  before, Mister Vogel?"

  "No, but I hear from those who have, in Cathay China— they say dog make good meat, taste fine. Hahahaha!"

  Neb crossed the spray-washed deck with a set jaw and a grim face, Denmark at his heels.

  Winter came howling out of the Antarctic wastes like a pack of ravening wolves. Once the Flying Dutchman

  had passed the Islands of Malvinas the ocean changed totally. It was as if all the waters of the world were met in one

  place, boiling, foaming, hurling ice and spume high into the air, with no pattern of tide or current, a maelstrom of

  maddened waves. Beneath a sky hued like lead and basalt, gales shrieked through the ship's rigging, straining every

  stitch of canvas sail, wailing eerily through the taut ropelines until the vessel thrummed and shuddered to its very keel.

  Every hatch and doorway was battened tight, every movable piece of gear aboard lashed hard down. Only those

  needed to sail the ship stayed out on deck, the rest crouched fearfully in the fo'c'sle head cabin, fear stunning them

  into silence.

  Petros tried to make it from the galley to the fo'c'sle cabin. As he opened the galley door, the ship was struck by

  a giant wave, a great, milky-white comber. It slammed the galley door wide, dragging the cook out like a cork from a

  bottle, flooding inside and snuffing out the fire in the stove with one vicious hiss. When it was gone, so was the cook,

  the huge wave carrying his unconscious body with it, out into the fathomless ocean.