[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman (4 page)

Whimpering and moaning piteously, Petros crawled into the galley, falling flat on Neb's outstretched leg, which was still chained to the stove. Raising his tearstained face to the boy, he sobbed piteously. “He broke my hand, see. Petros's hand smashed, an' what for? Nothing, that's what for. Nothing!”

Neb felt sick just looking at the hand. It was wretched beyond healing, a horrific sight. Blubbering into his greasy beard, the cook looked to Neb for help. “Fix it for me, boy. Make bandage for poor Petros's hand.”

Neb felt no pity for the fat, wicked cook. He was secretly glad that the hand that had often beat him was now useless, but he had to get the man upright before he looked under the table. The boy made his muted noise and pointed at the chain, indicating he could do nothing until he was freed.

Amid much groaning and wincing, Petros found the key with his good hand and unlocked the shackle. Neb helped him up onto a bench, where he sat weeping and nursing his hand.

 

 

Drizzling rain gave way to a clear evening. Ropes and lines thrummed as the vessel's sail bellied tautly, backed by a stiffening breeze. The wheel spun under Vanderdecken's experienced hands as he guided the
Flying Dutchman
out into deeper waters. It was well out to sea by the time Neb was done with his ministrations. Medical supplies were virtually nil aboard the vessel, but the boy used some relatively clean strips of coarse linen from a palliasse cover. Tearing the cloth into strips, he soaked them in clean, salted water and bound the hand and arm from fingertips to elbow. Petros howled as the salt stung broken bone and torn, swollen flesh, but he knew the salt would clear up any infection.

All the time Neb's dog stayed silent in his hiding place.

The Englander and Jamil came furtively into the galley. Petros kept up his whining, glad he had more of an audience to listen to his complaints. “See, the poor hand of Petros. What use is a man at sea with only one good hand? I ask you, my friends, was there any need for that devil to do this to me?”

The Englander ignored the cook's misfortune. “What did you try to pick up off the deck, something that belonged to the cap'n, eh?”

Petros held out his good hand to the pair. “Help me to my cabin, Scraggs. You, too, Jamil. The boy is too small for me to lean on. Help me.”

Scraggs, the Englander, grabbed the bandaged hand from its sling. “What did you pick up off the deck? Tell us.”

“Nothing, my friend. It was nothing, I swear!”

Jamil's curved dagger was at Petros's throat. “You lie. Tell us what it was or I'll give you another mouth, right across your filthy neck. Speak!”

Petros knew they meant business, so he spoke rapidly. “It was the green stone, the dragon's eye. A man could have bought three tavernas with it!”

Scraggs shook his head knowingly and smiled at Jamil. “See, I told you: emeralds. That's what this trip's about.” Looking hugely satisfied that his hunch had been confirmed, Scraggs strode from the galley, leaving Jamil to help Petros to his cabin. Scraggs paused in the doorway and pointed his own knife in Neb's direction.

“Not a word of this to anyone, lad. D'ye hear?”

Neb nodded vigorously.

The Englander smiled at his own mistake. “How could you say a word, you're a mute.”

THE
FLYING DUTCHMAN
WAS NOW ON course, cutting the coast of Germany and the Netherlands, picking up the English Channel currents. Neb had spent a happy few days. Petros refused to leave his bunk, and lay in his cabin moaning night and day. Alone in the galley, Neb cooked for all hands. The menu was not difficult to contend with—salt cod or salt pork, boiled up with whatever came to hand: cabbage, turnips, kale. Neb threw it all in a cooking pot and boiled it with pepper and salt. Now and then, to satisfy his longing for something sweet he would pound up some ship's biscuit, damp it down into a paste, mix in a bit of dried fruit—figs, apricots, and raisins. Baked up in the oven, this made a stodgy pie. There were no complaints, in fact, one of the hands remarked that it was an improvement on the Greek's efforts.

Neb decided to call his dog Denmark, that being the country from which they both came. There was a marked change in the black Labrador. Overnight under his young master's care he had grown bigger, sleeker, and healthier. A very intelligent dog, quiet and obedient. At a quick nod from the boy, Denmark would immediately go to his place under the table.

Neb worked hard around the galley. As long as the crew got their meals, they seldom came near the place. In the forecastle of the
Flying Dutchman
was a big cabin, where the crew ate and slept; Neb had to go there every day, usually in the evening. He would brew fresh coffee in a large urn—it always had to be on tap for any hands to drink hot, night or day.

They were sailing through the English Channel—the white cliffs of Dover could be glimpsed from the fo'c'sle head. Crewmen coming off watch were bustling in, pale-skinned from the cold. At the urn, they guzzled down earthenware mugs of the cheap coffee. It was strong and black. Made from roasted acorns, chicory, and a few coffee beans, it tasted bitter, but it was a hot drink.

Neb was pouring boiling water into the urn, the crew ignoring him completely. Because he could not talk, they treated him as deaf, dumb, and dim-witted, a thing people did to anyone not the same as themselves. Neb could see their faces in the surface of the copper urn, which he had polished earlier. Though they whispered, the boy heard every word of the conversation between Scraggs, Jamil, and the Burmese scarface, whose name was Sindh. They were plotting against the captain.

“You go into his cabin with a blade while he sleeps.”

“Oh no, not Jamil. They say the Dutchman never sleeps.”

“Stay out of that cabin, my friend. He keeps a sharp sword there, always near at hand. If we want to finish Vanderdecken, it must be done by us all, swiftly, out on deck. That way he can be thrown right over the side an' we sail off, eh?”

Scraggs sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “Aye, you're right, Sindh . . . when 'tis good and quiet. When he comes out to check on the night watch before turning in. That's the best time.”

The scar on Sindh's face twitched. “Good, me an' Jamil will change watches with the two out there later tonight. You can hide yourself on deck.”

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, Hispaniola, 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 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 Vanderdecken 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 jack-knifed 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.