[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

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.

“Take that food and coffee to the fo’c’sle head cabin, serve it to the hands. Don’t hurry, but listen to what they are saying, then come back here. Go on, boy, take your dog, too.” Neb did as he was bidden. While he was gone, Vanderdecken sat at the galley table, the door partially open, staring out at the restless waves, thinking his own secret thoughts.

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.