[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

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!

THE VILLAGE

11

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?”

A lady’s traveling valise and a fancy carpetbag were slung out onto the platform by the guard. “There y’are, two pieces!”