[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman (9 page)

 

 

Shortly after midnight the storm's intensity doubled. Thunder boomed overhead like a cannon, lightning sheeted and crackled over the headlands, and the rain drove sideways on the wind, spattering heavily on the hut's outer rock wall. Neb and Den lay asleep in the old lifeboat. Luis kept watch by the door, holding it half open against the elements with one foot. Bleating piteously, the sheep flattened themselves against the ground. A hard gust of wind slammed the door shut. Luis winced, rubbing his foot where the door timbers had cracked against his ankle. He leaned forward, thrusting the door open again.

The wind had torn the pen down. The flock was loose. Den's bark, close to Neb's ear, roused him into wakefulness. Luis was grabbing his crookstaff from its hanger, pulling his coat about him and shouting.

“Hurry, friend. The pen is destroyed, our sheep are running. I'll turn them from the cliffs. You save the ewes and get them inside the hut here.
Vamos!
”

The old shepherd ran out and was soon lost to sight in the rainswept darkness. Den was ahead of Neb as he struggled into his poncho and dashed outside. The next hour was an onslaught of furious activity. A stray ewe charged right into Neb, knocking him flat and winding him. The boy hung grimly on to the bleating creature and dragged it by one ear and its tail across the pasture and into the hut. Den was already back with two ewes he had driven before him. One was already giving birth at the back of the hut; the other lay against the keel of the lifeboat maaahing for all it was worth. Shaking rainwater from his coat, Den trotted past Neb, communicating a hasty thought.

“Stay here with them, help them as Luis showed you. I'll find Luis and bring him back here with the other ewes!” The boy set about putting water to heat on the fire; he gathered as many clean flour sacks as he could find. Turning his attention to the ewe in the far corner, Neb found she had already delivered herself of a lamb and was licking the little creature. Both mother and babe appeared to be getting along quite well, so he went after the ewe he had brought in. It panicked, staggering upright and leading him on a chase around the hut. He tripped over the third ewe as it came from beneath the lifeboat. The one he was chasing butted the door and fled outside. The boy dashed out, stopped momentarily, then, ignoring the ewe, ran for the cliffs with his dog's urgent call ringing through his brain!

“Neb, Neb, Luis has fallen over the cliff!”

The Labrador was barking aloud, looking over the cliff edge as Neb hurried up and threw himself flat at the rim of the plateau. About twenty feet below him, he could barely make out Luis, lying on a ledge. The old shepherd had a ewe in his arms; both were lying still. Neb sent Den back to the hut for a rope, then he climbed down the slippery rock, clawing at any niche he could get his freezing fingers into. Sliding and stumbling, he reached the ledge. Lifting the old man's head carefully, he laid it in his lap and murmured anxiously. “Luis, old friend, are you hurt? Speak to me, Luis!”

Slowly opening one eye, the shepherd looked from the ewe he was clutching to the boy. He spoke barely above a whisper. “Ah, my son from the sea, look at this poor little one. She will never become a mother, or see another dawn.” Leaning over Luis, the boy broke his grasp upon the dead sheep. It rolled to one side on the ledge.

Neb rubbed the old man's hands, trying to get some circulation going in them. “Forget the ewe, Luis. Are you hurt? Tell me!”

The old shepherd sighed. “I cannot move my legs, and it pains me to breathe. No, please, keep your poncho on, son. You need it.” Then he lost consciousness.

The rope snaked down, striking Neb's shoulder. Den stood on the cliff edge with the other end clenched in his jaws. Wrapping Luis in the thick sheepskin poncho, Neb fashioned around him a cradle of rope, making sure it was firm and secure. He climbed back up to the plateau, using both handholds in the rock and the rope. Between them, Neb and Den hauled the old shepherd's still form back up to the clifftop. How Neb found the strength and endurance to get his injured friend back to the hut, he did not know, but he accomplished the task. With Luis draped about his shoulders and his own legs quivering furiously, Neb staggered through the doorway and collapsed inside.

After a while he was wakened by Den licking his face. Neb stood up slowly, but found that his head remained bowed from the strain that had been put upon him. He no longer had the strength to lift Luis, so he dragged him across to the lifeboat and rolled him in onto the soft grass and sack padding. Luis gave out a long, high-pitched moan, like that of a wounded animal. Neb made tea, cooling it by pouring in lots of milk. He managed to get a drop between the cold, parched lips of his friend, but Luis coughed it back up, pleading feebly.

“No more, I cannot swallow. I'm cold . . . so cold!”

Neb piled wood and sea coal on the fire brazier. He stroked the old man's forehead, murmuring to him. “Is that better? You lie still, I'll take care of you.”

The shepherd's eyes beckoned him to lean in closer. When he spoke, Luis's voice was barely discernible. “Let me sleep . . . so tired . . . tired.”

Outside the storm had abated, the wind had died down to a mere whisper of breeze, and the rain had ceased. A calm, starlit sky was visible through the partially open door. Two lambs had been born, and the ewes wandered out into the quiet pastures with their wobbly legged babes. Neb made Luis as comfortable as he possibly could. The old man slept with his two friends close by, watching the gentle rise and fall of the coverlet as he breathed.

Dawn was but a few hours away when Neb and Den fell into a slumber. All the earth seemed very quiet; even the seas off the Cape stilled their wrath to a placid murmur. Then the angel spoke to the boy. “You made his last years the happiest he ever knew. Your time here is over. Both of you must travel on when you hear the sound of a bell. The world is wide and has other needs of your gifts. Once the bell sounds you cannot linger in this place.”

Morning sunlight shafting through the doorway, coupled with the Labrador baying aloud, aroused Neb from his short but deep sleep. He could not piece together a coherent thought from the dog, only a feeling of immense grief. The boy knew what it was all about when he looked upon the old shepherd's face. There in the lifeboat Luis lay, forever still, his features peaceful as he slept the eternal sleep of death.

The weather that sad day continued fine, the sunniest day Neb and Den had ever seen since their arrival upon Tierra del Fuego. The flock had dispersed, with nobody to tend to their movements. Only one ewe could be seen in the pasture, with its lamb reveling in the joy of newfound movement, skipping and leaping awkwardly about. Hardly a thought had passed between the boy and his dog. They sat outside the whole morning, heavy-hearted, gazing at the hut where the old shepherd lay. Neb finally rose at midday.

He went inside the hut and gathered together a sack of provisions, his sheepskin poncho, and the crooked staff that had belonged to Luis. Lighting a tallow candle, he touched the flame to the interior sailcloth lining of the hut in several places. Dry-eyed, the boy placed his hand upon the shepherd's cold brow and said slowly, “Good-bye, old friend. Thank you for the happiness you brought into our lives. Rest in peace.”

Neb left the hut without looking back.

He sat outside with Den, both of them watching the smoke curling up from the roof and wafting away on the breeze in silence. An hour passed; they moved back from the heat. The hut was now well ablaze. With a crash of burning timber the roof collapsed inward. It was then that the old bellwether ram plodded up from wherever he had been grazing. Ding! Clank! Ding! Clank! Ding!

Neb had not seen the bellwether since the previous morning. He thought the old ram had probably been killed in the storm, maybe fallen over the cliff, or succumbed before the onslaught because of its great age. The boy smiled sadly as the old creature approached him, its primitive iron bell clanking mournfully. A pang of realization suddenly pierced him like a sword.

“It's the angel's message, the tolling bell!”

The dog turned its sorrowful brown eyes up to him. “I dreamed about the angel, too, but I never thought our ram's bell would carry the message. What do we do now?”

Tears flowed unchecked from Neb's clouded blue eyes. He slowly picked up the old man's crooked staff, watching the bellwether back away from the glowing embers of the shepherd's dwelling, its simple iron neckbell still dinging and clanking hollowly. “We must follow the angel's command. It is time to go!”

Up the valley they went together, north to Punta Arenas and the plateau land of Patagonia, leaving behind Tierra del Fuego, where great oceans meet at the bottom of the world.

Away o'er wild and watery wastes
Vanderdecken sails his ship,
restless phantom, cursed by heaven
to that doomed eternal trip.
While decades turn to centuries,
as down throughout the ages
a boy and dog, forever young,
tread history's vast pages.
Sharing times, both bad and good,
a friendship formed in smiles and tears,
guided by their angel's hand,
two innocents roam the years.
O'er hill and mountain, land and sea,
'cross desert dry and pasture green,
mystic countries, towns, and cities,
what strange sights those two have seen.
Gaining wisdom, wit, and knowledge,
in joy, and sorrow, peace, and war,
helping, caring, bringing comfort,
always traveling, learning more.
Is it not surprising, then,
each of them has changed his name,
Den is Ned, and Neb is Ben,
the two who from the
Dutchman
came?
Where are they now, our dog and boy,
where heaven commands they go,
beyond the echo of some far bell?
Read on and you shall know!

ENGLAND. 1896.

THE RAILWAY HAD FINALLY COME TO Chapelvale. Obadiah Smithers drew a turnip-shaped gold watch from the pocket of his brocade waistcoat and consulted it. “Hmph! Eighteen minutes past two, a quarter hour late. I'd liven 'em up if it were me running this railway, by thunder I would. Time's money, and I can't afford to waste either, that's what I always say!”

The young lady sitting opposite him clung to the velvet strap as the train jerked noisily to a halt. She adjusted her bonnet, agreeing with the older man.

“That's what my papa always says, too, sir.”

Obadiah plastered a few strands of hair into position on his red, perspiring brow. Standing, he adjusted his black-tailed frock coat and donned a silk top hat.

“Sensible man, your father, 'twas him and I who persuaded the powers that be to install this branch line to Chapelvale. Progress, y'know, this town needs t'be dragged into modern times, been a backwater too long. Can't stop progress, m'dear.”

Maud Bowe hated being referred to as “m'dear,” or “young lady.” However, she smiled sweetly at Mr. Smithers. “Indeed, sir, progress and modernity go hand in hand.”

But Obadiah was not paying much attention to her observation. He was struggling to get the door of the private compartment open, without much success. Lowering the window, he bellowed officiously at a porter. “You there! Get this confounded door open this instant!”

Both engine and leading carriages had overshot the platform by twenty feet or more. Recognizing Chapelvale's most prominent citizen, the porter came running and snapped the door open with alacrity. Obadiah fumed as he allowed himself and Maud to be helped down onto the sleepers and rough limestone pebble. “What's the matter with you people, eh? Can't you stop the train in its correct position?”

Bridling at the unjust accusation, the porter complained. “Ain't my fault, sir, I don't drive the engine, y'know!”

Obadiah Smithers's face went brick red in its frame of muttonchop whiskers. He shook his silver-mounted walking cane at the man and almost tripped over a sleeper. “Damn your impudence! Get along to the guard's van an' pick up this young lady's luggage before the train goes an' it ends up who knows where. Go on, get along with you!”

 

 

A towheaded lad aged somewhere between thirteen and fourteen years, accompanied by a big, black Labrador dog, emerged from the guard's van. Over one shoulder the boy toted a canvas bag with a drawcord neck. He dug into his pocket and passed a silver sixpence to the guard, winking. “Thanks for the ride, Bill!”

The guard, a cheery-looking young man, grinned as he returned the wink and patted the dog's head. “Now, don't go shoutin' to everyone that I let you 'n' Ned ride without a ticket. You'll get me in trouble, Ben. 'Bye, you two!”

The porter came scurrying up. “Baggage for the girl in the private compartment, you got it there, Bill?”