[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman (5 page)

“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.

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 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.