“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 Vanderdecken’s voice. He hugged his dog close, seeking reassurance 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 hate-fully 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, commenting, “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 rope-lines 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.
Neb and Denmark were in the captain’s cabin, viewing the scene through the thick glass port in the cabin door. He had once heard a Reformer in Copenhagen, standing on a platform in the square, warning sinners about a thunderous-sounding thing called Armageddon. Both the boy and the dog leapt backward as a mighty wave struck the door, causing it to shake and judder. Neb clasped the Labrador close to him. Had the Flying Dutchman sailed into Armageddon?
Vanderdecken was in his element out on the stern deck. None but he had a real steersman’s skill in elements such as these—he seemed to revel in it. A line wound and tied about his waist and the wheel held him safe. He fought the wheel like a man possessed, keeping his ship on course, straight west along the rim that bordered the base of the world. Only when the vessel rounded Cape Horn would the course change north, up the backbone of the Americas to Valparaiso. With the fastenings of his cloak ripped apart and the hat ripped from his head by the wind’s fury, the captain bared his teeth at the storm, hair streaming out behind him like a tattered pennant, salt water mingling with icy tears the elements squeezed from his eyes. Bow-on into the savage, wind-torn ocean, he drove his craft, roaring aloud. “ ’Round the Horn! Lord take us safe to Valparaisooooooo!” He was a skilled shipmaster and had learned all of his lessons of the seas the hard way.
But the maddened seas off Tierra del Fuego washed over the bones of captains far more experienced than Vanderdecken, master of the Flying Dutchman.
6
TWO WEEKS LATER AND HALFWAY BACK to the Malvinas Islands, the Flying Dutchman languished in the swelling roughs with sheet anchors dragging for’ard and stern, beaten backward from the Horn. The captain paced the decks like a prowling beast, flogging with a rope’s end and berating the hands, angered at this defeat by the sea. Men were aloft, chopping at rigging and cutting loose torn sail canvas. A ship’s carpenter was up there also, binding cracked and broken spars with tar-coated whipping line.
Neb was back as cook, swabbing out the galley and salvaging what he could from the food lockers. There was precious little, as some of the vegetables in sacks and a cask of salted meat had been swept away when Petros was lost. One of the clean water barrels had its contents tainted by seawater. The dog dragged saturated empty sacks from beneath the table, his old hiding place. Soon Neb had a fire going in the stove and warmth began returning to the galley. He chopped vegetables and salt cod to make a stew and put coffee on the brew in a big pan.
It was very unusual for the captain, but he came into the galley and sat at the table, eating his meal and drinking coffee there. Denmark stayed between the stove and the far bulkhead. The dog never showed any inclination to be near anyone except Neb. Ignoring the animal’s presence, the captain gave orders to the boy.
After a while Neb returned, carrying the empty stewpot, with the dog trailing at his heels. Vanderdecken indicated a packing box, which served as a chair at the table.
“Sit there, boy, and tell me what you heard.”
Neb looked perplexed. He pointed to his mouth and shrugged.
The captain fixed him with a stern, piercing stare. “I know you are mute. Keep your eyes on me and listen. Now, the crew are not happy, yes? I can tell they’re not by the look in your eyes. Keep looking at me. They are talking among themselves. It’s mutiny, they want to take over my ship and sail back home. Am I right?”
Neb’s eyes widened. He felt like a flightless bird in the presence of a cobra. His gaze riveted on the remorseless pale-grey eyes.
The captain nodded. “Of course I’m correct! Who is the one doing the most talking, eh, is it Vogel? No? Then perhaps there’s another, Ranshoff the Austrian? No, he’s too stupid. Maybe there’s two spokesmen, the pair I had put in chains? I’m right, aren’t I! It’s Jamil and Sindh. Though I’ll wager that Sindh is the one who does most of the talking.”
Neb sat fascinated by Vanderdecken’s uncanny judgment. He did not move, the icy grey eyes held him pinned, as if they were reading his mind like a book.
The captain laid a short, fat musket on the table. It had six stubby barrels, which could discharge simultaneously at one pull of the trigger. A pepperpot musket of the type often used in riots with devastating effect in enclosed spaces.
“Aye, your eyes are too honest to lie, boy. Stay here, lock the door, and admit nobody but myself.” Concealing the weapon beneath his tattered cloak, the Dutchman swept out of the galley.
Locking the door securely, the boy, trembling, was left with his dog. They sat staring at one another, Denmark laying his head upon his young master’s lap, gazing up at him with anxious eyes.
Neb had no idea how long he sat thus, awaiting the report of the fearsome musket. But none came. He thought that maybe the crew had overcome their harsh captain and thrown him overboard. The boy’s eyes began to close in the galley’s warmth, when Denmark stood up, suddenly alert. Somebody banged on the door, and a voice called out.
“Open up, boy, it’s your captain!”
Trembling with relief, Neb unbolted the door. Vanderdecken strode in and sat at the table. “Bring my log-book, quill, and ink from my cabin.”
Whilst he made more coffee, Neb listened to Vanderdecken intoning as he wrote in the ship’s log:
“We sail back to Cape Horn at dawn’s first light. This time the Flying Dutchman will make it ’round the Horn. Every man will be on deck working. Tonight I quelled a mutiny among the crew; now there are no voices raised against my command. Sindh, a Burmese deckhand, was the ringleader. He no longer has to wait until we get back to Copenhagen for judgment and execution. Using my authority as captain to stem mutiny and preserve good order aboard the vessel, I summarily tried and hanged him myself!”
Vanderdecken glanced up from his writing at Neb’s horrified face. For the first time the boy saw what appeared to be a smile on the captain’s face. “If ever you command a ship, which isn’t very likely, always remember this, boy, should the voyage prove risky and the returns valuable, it is wise to sign up your crew from all nations. That way they lack any common bond. A disunited crew is the easiest one to control. Take my word for it.”
Those were the last words Vanderdecken spoke that night. He slept sitting in the chair, the pepperpot musket on the table in front of him.
Neb and Denmark lay down together near the stove by the far bulkhead, watching the strange man. Red reflections from the galley stove fire illuminated his harsh features: they never once relaxed, not even in sleep.
Four days later the Flying Dutchman was off the coast of Tierra del Fuego again, with Vanderdecken as steersman and all hands on deck, striving in the depths of midwinter to round the cape once more. It was sheer madness and folly to attempt such an undertaking at that time of year, but none dared say so. Armed with sword and musket, the captain drove his crew like slaves. Sleep was snatched in two-hour shifts, rations were reduced to half fare, men were constantly forced aloft to cut away, repair, or adjust battered rigging.
Neb was kept on his feet night and day, rationing out boiling coffee, cooking the meager scraps that were the crew’s diet and battling constantly to keep the galley dry and the fire going. It was extra difficult, because most hands slept there now—under the table, on empty sacks in all four corners, catching what rest they could until lashed out by the knotted rope end of Mister Vogel, the mate.
Vanderdecken drove himself even harder than his crew, retiring only briefly once a night to his cold, stern cabin and eating both little and infrequently.
Neb had never imagined the sea more wild and cruel. Under the hurricane-force winds, icicles formed sideways, sticking out like daggers astern. There was no lee side to anything on Cape Horn. Now and again, through the sheeting mixture of sleet and rain, the coast could be glimpsed. Gigantic dark rocks, with a nimbus of ice and spray framing them, looked for all the world like prehistoric sea monsters, waiting to devour anything that sailed too close. Cold and wet became a thing that had to be lived with. Some of the crew lost fingers and toes to frostbite, two of them on the same day fell from the rigging to their deaths in the bedlam of freezing waves. Sometimes Neb imagined he could hear thunder in the distance, or was it just the boom of tidal-size waves, crashing upon the coastal rocks?
Driven forward one day, then twice as far back the next, the ship tacked sideways and often turned completely about, sails filling to bursting, then slacking with tremendous slapping sounds. Half the cargo of ironware was jettisoned into the sea to keep the vessel afloat. One morning Neb was recruited to join a party in the midships hold, where groaning timbers were leaking water into the hatch space. All day he spent there, plugging away at the cracks with mallet, flat chisel, and lengths of heavy tarred rope they called oakum.
The boy’s hands became so bruised and cracked with the cold that another crewman had to take his place. Neb fought back tears of pain as he thrust both hands into a pail of hot water on the galley stove. Denmark whined and placed his head against the boy’s leg. Even over the melee of waves, wind, and creaking timbers, Vanderdecken’s voice could be heard cursing the crew, Cape Horn, the weather, and the heaving seas with the most bloodcurdling oaths and imprecations.
Three weeks later the Flying Dutchman was in the same position, pushed back again, halfway betwixt Tierra del Fuego and Malvinas Isles. Defeated for the second time by Cape Horn!
Weary, sick, and half starved, the crew lay in their fo’c’sle cabin. There was a terrible atmosphere hanging over the place. No longer did the men speak to one another, they stayed in their bunks or huddled alone in corners. Some had missing finger and toe joints from the frostbite. All of them, to a man, were beginning to suffer with scurvy, owing to the lack of fresh vegetables. Teeth loosened and fell out. Hair, too. Sores formed around cracked lips. The two who had perished were not mourned—their blankets, clothing, and personal effects were immediately stolen by former crewmates. Survival was the order of the day, with each man knowing his chances of staying alive were growing shorter, alone and freezing out on the south Atlantic Ocean within the radius of the great white unknown regions of Antarctica.
Locked in the galley with his dog Denmark, Neb could do nothing but carry out his captain’s orders. He smashed up broken rigging to feed the stove fire, supplementing it with tarred rope, barrel staves, and any waste he found. Water was growing short, the coffee supply was almost negligible, food was down to the bare minimum. Still he carried out his duties as best
he could, knowing the alternative would be for him and the dog to move into the crew’s cabin. He shuddered to think how that would end up. Vanderdecken had told him that was what his fate would be unless he obeyed orders.
The captain kept to his cabin at the stern, showing himself only once every evening when the day’s single meal was served. Armed with pepperpot musket and sword, he would arrive at the galley with his tray and command Neb to open up. Having served himself with weakened coffee and a plate of the meager stew, he would half-fill another bowl with drinking water and give Neb his usual orders.
“Heed me carefully, boy. I will return to my cabin now. Place the pans of stew, coffee, and water for the crew out on the deck and get back inside quickly. I’ll ring the ship’s bell, they’ll come and get their meal then. I’ll ring the bell again in the morning when they return the empty pans. Collect them up and lock yourself in again. If they catch you with that galley door open, the scum will slay you, eat your dog, and strip the galley bare. You open this door only to me. Understand?” Neb, his eyes never leaving the captain’s, saluted in reply and set about his tasks.
Only once did a crew member venture out on deck for reasons other than going to the galley door. Mister Vogel, the German mate, driven almost mad with hunger and cold, approached the captain’s cabin. He was a big, powerfully built man. Emboldened by the ship’s predicament, he banged upon Vanderdecken’s door. When the door did not open, he began shouting. “Kapitan, it is I, Vogel. You must turn this ship around. If we stay here longer, all will be lost. Kapitan, I beg you to listen. We are fast running out of food and water, the men are sick and weak, this ship will not stand up to these seas for long. We are going nowhere! Give the order to put about and sail for safety, Kapitan. We can go anywhere, Malvinas, San Marias, Bahia Blanca. The Americas are close. There we could refit the vessel, sell what cargo remains on board, take on another cargo, and sail for Algiers, Morocco, Spain, even home to Copenhagen. Soon you will have mutiny aboard if we sit here, Kapitan. You know what I say makes sense. Do it, now, I implore you in the name of the Lord!”
[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman Page 4