“We could not find him, nobody will know. He had no relatives in the world. What’s another dumb fool more or less? Come on!”
Checking about to see that they had not been noticed in the dark and fog, the trio scurried off home.
Standing at the gangplank, the Dutch captain watched the last of his crew emerge from the misty swaths which wreathed the harbor. He gestured them aboard.
“Drinking again, jah? Well, there be little enough to get drunk on ’tween here and the Pacific side of the Americas. Come, get aboard now, make ready to sail!”
The blue scar contracted as the Burmese smiled. “Aye, aye, Kapitan, we make sail!”
With floodtide swirling about her hull and the stern fenders scraping against the wharf timbers, the vessel came about facing seaward. Staring ahead into the fog, the captain brought the wheel about half a point and called, “Let go aft!”
A Finnish sailor standing astern flicked the rope expertly, jerking the noosed end off the bollard which held it. The rope splashed into the water. Shivering in the cold night air, he left it to trail along, not wanting to get his hands wet and frozen by hauling the backstay rope aboard. He ran quickly into the galley and held his hands out over the warm stove.
The boy was half in and half out of consciousness, numbed to his bones in the cold sea. He felt the rough manila rope brush against his cheek and seized it. Painfully, hand over hand, he hauled himself upward. When his feet touched ship’s timber, the boy pulled his body clear of the icy sea and found a ledge. He huddled on it, looking up at the name painted on the vessel’s stern in faded, gold-embellished red. Fleiger Hollander.
He had never learned to read, so the letters meant nothing to him. Fleiger Hollander in Dutch, or had the lad been able to understand English, Flying Dutchman.
2
MORNING LIGHT FOUND THE FOG HAD lifted, revealing a clear blue icy day. The Flying Dutchman plowed past Goteborg under full sail, ready to round the Skagen point and sail down the Skagerrak out into the wide North Sea. Philip Vanderdecken, captain of the vessel, braced himself on the small fo’c’sle deck, feeling the buck and swell of his ship. Light spray from the bow wave touched his face, ropes and canvas thrummed to the breeze overhead.
Valparaiso bound, where his share of the green stones would make him a rich man for life, he was never a man to smile, but he allowed himself a single bleak nod of satisfaction. Let the shipowners find another fool to sail this slop-bucket around the high seas. Leave this crew of wharfscum to pit their wits against another captain. He strode from one end of the vessel to the other, snapping curt commands at the surly bunch that manned the craft. Often he would wheel suddenly about—Vanderdecken neither liked nor trusted his crew. Judging by the glances he received and the muttered conversations that ceased at his approach, he knew they were speculating about the trip, plotting against him in some way probably.
His solution to this was simple: keep the hands busy night and day, show them who was master. Vanderdecken’s quick eye missed nothing; he glanced past the steersman to the ice-crusted rope left trailing astern. Signaling the Finnish deckhand with a nod, he pointed. “Stow that line and coil it, or the seawater will ruin it!”
The deckhand was about to make some remark; when he noted the challenging look in the captain’s eye, he touched his cap. “Aye aye, Kapitan!”
Vanderdecken was making his way amidships when the Finn leaned over the stern rail, shouting. “Come look here—a boy, I think he’s dead!”
All hands hurried to the stern, crowding the rail to see. Pushing his way roughly through, the captain stared down at the crumpled figure on the molding below his cabin gallery. Crouched there was a boy, stiff with seawater and frost.
Vanderdecken turned to the men, his voice harsh and flat. “Leave him there or push him into the sea, I don’t care.”
The ship’s cook was a fat, bearded Greek, who had left his galley to see what all the excitement was about. He spoke up.
“I don’t have galley boy. If he’s alive, I take him!”
The captain gave the cook a scornful glance. “He’d be better off dead than working for you, Petros. Ah, do what you want. The rest of you get back to work!”
Lumbering down to the stern cabin, Petros opened the window and dragged the lad in. To all apparent purposes, the boy looked dead, though when the Greek cook placed a knife blade near his lips, a faint mist clouded it. “By my beard, he breathes!”
He carried the boy to the galley and laid him on some sacking in a corner near the stove. The ship’s mate, an Englishman, came into the galley for a drink of water. Placing the toe of his boot against the boy’s body, he nudged him. The lad did not respond.
The Englander shrugged. “Looks dead to me, I’d sling him over the side if I was you.”
Petros pointed with his keen skinning knife at the Englander. “Well, you not me, see. I say he stays. If he comes around, I need help in this galley, lots of help. He’s mine!”
Backing off from the knife, the Englander shook his head. “Huh, yours? Like the cap’n said, that one’d be better dead!”
For almost two days the boy lay there. On the second evening Petros was making a steaming stew of salt cod, turnips, and barley. Blowing on the ladle, he tasted a bit. As he did this, the Greek cast a glance down at the boy. His eyes were wide open, gazing hungrily at the stewpot.
“So, my little fish lives, eh?”
The boy’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Petros took a greasy-looking wooden bowl and ladled some stew into it, then placed it in the boy’s open hands. “Eat!” It was bubbling hot, but that did not seem to deter the lad. He bolted it down and held the empty bowl up to the cook. The bowl went spinning from his grasp as Petros hit it with the ladle, narrowing his eyes pitilessly.
“No free trippers aboard this ship, little fish. I caught you, now you belong to me. When I say work, you work. When I say eat, you eat. When I say sleep, you sleep. Got it? But you won’t hear me saying eat or sleep much. It will be mostly work, hard work! Or back over the side you go. Do you believe me?”
He wrenched the boy upright and reached for his knife. The wide-eyed youngster nodded furiously.
Petros filled a pail with water, tossing in a broken holy-stone and a piece of rag, then thrust it at his slave. “You clean this galley out good, deckheads, bulkheads, the lot! Hey, what’s your name, you got a name?”
The boy pointed to his mouth and made a small, strained noise.
Petros kicked him. “What’s the matter, you got no tongue?”
The Arab had just walked in. He grabbed the boy’s jaw and forced his mouth open. “He has a tongue.”
Petros turned back to stirring the stew. “Then why doesn’t he talk? Are you dumb, boy?”
The lad nodded vigorously. The Arab released him. “You can have a tongue and still not be able to talk. He’s dumb.”
Petros filled a bowl for the Arab and made a mark by a row of symbols on a wooden board to show the Arab had received his food. “Dumb or not, he can still work. Here, Jamil, take this to the kapitan.” He indicated a meal set out on a tray.
The Arab ignored his request. Sitting close to the stove, he started eating. “Take it yourself.”
The boy found himself hauled upright again. Petros was acting out a strange pantomime, as many fools do who think somebody is stupid merely because they cannot speak. “You go, take this to Kapitan . . . Kapitan, understand?” Petros stood to attention, mimicked Vanderdecken’s stance, then made as if he were a captain dining, tucking an imaginary napkin into his shirtfront. “Kapitan eat, understand. Hey, Jamil, what you call a boy with no name?”
“Nebuchadnezzar.”
Petros looked askance at the Arab. “What sort of name that?”
Jamil broke ship’s biscuit into his stew and stirred it. “I hear a Christian read it once, from a Bible book. Good, eh, Nebuchadnezzar—I like that name!”
Petros scratched his big, grimy beard. “Nebu . . . Nebu. Is too hard to say
. I call you Neb, that’ll do!” He presented the boy with the tray, then poked his finger several times into the lad’s narrow chest.
“Neb, Neb, you called Neb now. Take this to Kapitan, Neb. Go careful—spill any and I skin you with my knife, yes?”
Neb nodded solemnly and left the galley as if he were walking on eggs.
Jamil slurped stew noisily. “Hah, he understand, all right. He’ll learn.”
Petros stroked his knife edge against a greased stone. “Neb better learn . . . or else!”
A timid knock sounded on the captain’s cabin door. Somehow or other Neb had found his way there. Vanderdecken looked up from the single emerald he had been given as part payment. Stuffing it swiftly into his vest pocket, he called out, “Come!”
As the door opened, the Dutchman had his hand on a sword set on a ledge under the table edge. None of the crew would ever catch him napping; that would be a fatal error. A look of mild surprise passed across his hardened features as the boy entered with a tray of food. Vanderdecken indicated the table with a glance. Neb set the tray there.
“So, you never died after all. Do you know who I am, boy?”
Neb nodded twice, watching for the next question.
“Can you not speak?”
Neb shook his head twice. He stood looking at the deck, aware of the captain’s piercing stare, waiting to be dismissed.
“Maybe ’tis no bad thing, I’ve heard it said that silence is golden. Are you golden, boy? Are you lucky, or are you a Jonah, an unlucky one, eh?”
Neb shrugged expressively. The captain’s hand strayed to his vest pocket, and he patted it.
“Luck is for fools who believe that sort of thing. I make my own luck. I, Vanderdecken, master of the Flying Dutchman!”
Immediately he applied himself to the food. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he looked up at Neb. “Are you still here? Off with you—begone, boy!”
Bobbing his head respectfully, Neb retreated from the cabin.
Next day and every day after that was much the same for Neb, punctuated with oaths, kicks, and smarting blows from the knotted rope that the fat, greasy sea cook Petros had taken to carrying. The lad was used to this kind of treatment, having suffered much of it at the hands of the Bjornsen family. Aboard the Flying Dutchman the only difference was that there was nowhere to run and fewer places to hide.
However, Neb bore the ill usage. Being mute and not able to complain had made him, above all, a survivor. He had grown to possess a quiet, resolute strength. Neb hated Petros, along with the rest of the crew, who showed him neither pity nor friendliness. The captain was a different matter. The boy knew that Vanderdecken was feared by every soul aboard. He had a ruthless air of power about him that scared Neb, though he was not needlessly cruel, providing his orders were obeyed swiftly and without question. The boy’s survival instincts told him that he was safer with the captain than the others, a fact he accepted stoically.
3
ESBJERG WAS THE LAST PLACE IN DENMARK the Flying Dutchman would touch before sailing out into the North Sea and down through the English Channel. Beyond that she was bound into the great Atlantic Ocean. Some of the crew were ordered ashore to bring back final provisions. Petros and the Englander mate headed the party. Captain Vanderdecken stayed in his cabin, poring over charts. Before he departed, the Greek cook grabbed Neb and shackled him by the ankle to the foot of the iron galley stove.
“No good giving you the chance to run off just when I’m training you right. Slaves are scarce in Denmark. You can reach the table. There’s salt pork and cabbage to chop for the pot, keep you busy. I’m taking my knife with me, use that old one. You know what will happen if the work’s not done by the time I get back, eh?”
He waved the knotted rope at the boy, then waddled out to join the others who were off to the ship’s chandlery.
Neb could move only a short distance either way because of the iron slave shackle—escape was out of the question. Through the open door he could see the jetty the ship was moored to. Freedom, so near, yet so far away. He applied himself to the task of chopping the pork and cabbage. It was hard work. The knife had a broken handle and a dull blade. In his frustration, he vented his feelings upon the meat and vegetable, chopping furiously. At least it was warm inside the galley. Outside it was a cold, grey afternoon, with rain drizzling steadily down. He sat on the floor by the stove, watching the jetty for the crew returning. They had been gone for some hours.
A half-starved dog wandered furtively along the jetty, sniffing for scraps. Neb watched the wretched creature. Despite his own plight, the boy’s heart went out to it. The dog was barely identifiable as a black Labrador, half grown, but emaciated. Ribs showed through its mud-caked and scarred fur. One of its eyes was closed over and running. It sniffed up and down the timbers, getting closer to the ship. Poor creature, it seemed ready to take off and bolt at the slightest noise. It had been badly served by some master—that is, if it had ever known an owner.
Pursing his lips together, the boy made encouraging sounds. The dog stopped sniffing and looked up at him. He held out his open palms to it and smiled. It put its head on one side, regarding him through its one great, sad, dark eye. Neb took a piece of salt-pork rind and tossed it to the dog. Gratefully it golloped the scrap down, wagging its tail. He made the noise again and took more rind, holding it out to the dog. Without hesitation it came straight up the gangplank and boarded the ship. Within seconds the boy was stroking the Labrador’s wasted body while it devoured the food. There was plenty of tough rind left from the salt pork, sometimes the hands used it for bait to fish over the side at sea.
While the dog ate, Neb took a rag and some warm water with salt in it. The dog allowed him to bathe its eye. Freed from the crust and debris of some old infection, its eye gradually opened—it was clear and undamaged. Neb was pleased and hugged his newfound friend. He was rewarded by several huge, sloppy licks from the dog’s tongue. Knowing the effects of salt-pork rind, he gave it a pannikin of fresh water. As the dog curled up by the galley stove, a fierce affection for the ownerless creature burned within Neb. He decided there and then that he was going to keep it.
Spreading some old sacks under the far corner of the table, he pushed the dog onto them, all the time petting and stroking it. His new friend made no fuss, but went quiet and willingly into the hiding place, staring at him with great trusting eyes as he covered it with more sacks. Neb peeped into the secret den. He looked warningly at the dog and held a finger to his tight-shut lips. It licked his hand, as if it understood to remain silent.
A sound from behind caused Neb to scuttle out from beneath the table. Captain Vanderdecken stood framed in the galley doorway, his teeth grinding as his jaw worked back and forth. Neb cowered, expecting to be kicked. Normally he slept beneath the galley table, but only when told to go to bed. The captain’s voice had the ring of steel in it.
“Where’s Petros and the rest, not back yet?”
Wide-eyed with fear, the boy shook his head.
Vanderdecken’s fists clenched and unclenched, and he spat out the words viciously. “Drinking! That’s where the useless swine will be, pouring gin and ale down their slobbering faces in some drinking den!” He stamped off, raving through clenched teeth, “If I miss the floodtide because of a bunch of drunken animals, I’ll take a swordblade to them!”
Neb knew by the captain’s frightening eyes that there was going to be trouble, no matter whether the crew arrived back early or late. For refuge he crawled back under the table and hid with his dog. A warm tongue licked his cheek as he huddled close to the black Labrador, staring into its soft, dark eyes and stroking its thin neck. Neb wished fervently that he could talk, to speak gently and reassure the dog. All that came from his mouth was a hoarse little sound. It was enough. The dog whimpered quietly, laying its head on his lap, reinforcing the growing bond between them.
Less than an hour later, hurried and stumbling footsteps rang out on the jetty. Neb peered out. The five
men who had been sent for provisions came tumbling aboard, followed by Vanderdecken like an avenging angel. He laid about them with the knotted rope end that he had snatched from Petros, thrashing them indiscriminately, his voice thundering out with righteous wrath.
“Brainless gin-sodden morons. Half a day lost because of your stupidity! Can’t you keep your snouts out of flagons long enough to do a simple task? Worthless scum!”
The Dutchman showed no mercy. He flogged the five hands with furious energy, savagely booting flat any man who tried to rise or crawl away. Neb could not tear his eyes from the fearful scene. The captain’s coattails whirled about him as he flogged the miscreants. Knotted rope striking flesh and bone sounded like chestnuts cracking on a hearth amid the sobs and screams of his victims.
When Vanderdecken had exhausted his energy, he flung some coins at the chandler’s assistant, waiting by the jetty with a loaded cart. “You, get those supplies aboard before we lose the tide!”
Whilst the materials were being transferred, Petros raised his bruised and tearstained face. He had spotted something none of the others had noticed. The emerald glinted on the deck where it had fallen from the captain’s pocket when he was beating the crewmen.
Slowly, carefully, the fat cook stretched out his grimy hand to retrieve the gemstone.
“Eeeeeyaaaargh!” he screeched as the Dutchman’s boot heel smashed down on the back of his hand. Vanderdecken snatched the emerald, continuing to grind Petros’s hand against the deck, thrusting all his weight onto the iron-tipped heel.
“Thief! Drunkard! Pirate! No man steals from me! There, now we have a one-handed cook. Back to work, all of you, cast off for’ard, aft and midships! Make sail, leave no lines drifting, coil them shipshape. Seamen? I’ll make seamen of you before this voyage is out!”
[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman Page 2