[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

THE LEGEND OF THE FLYING DUTCHMAN . Who knows how it all began? Throughout the centuries many a seaman could swear an oath that he had seen the phantom ship. Plowing an endless course over storm-tossed seas and the deeps of mighty oceans. Many a night, mariners have sat together in lantern-lit fo’c’sle heads, speaking in hushed tones of the vessel, and its master, Captain Vanderdecken. What awful curse sent the Flying Dutchman bound on an eternal voyage, across the trackless watery wastes, from the Marquesas to the Arctic Circles, from the Coral Seas to the Yucatán Straits, forever roaming alone? Whenever the ghostly craft is sighted, death is near. Bad fortune hovers about those poor sailors, who see by chance what they wish their eyes had never witnessed.

The Flying Dutchman!

Salt-stiff rigging and gale-torn sails flapping eerily, a barnacle-crusted prow, down by the bow in soughing troughs of blue-green waves. Crewed by silent wraiths of humanity to whom time and the elements have no end. Vanderdecken paces the quarterdeck, his face like ancient yellow parchment, hair laced by flying spume, wild, hopeless eyes searching the horizons of the world. Bound to the sea for eternity. For what dread crime? Which unspoken law of man, nature, or God, did he break? What dread nemesis doomed him, his crew, and their ship?

Who knows how it all began?

Only two living beings!

I take up my pen to tell you the tale.

THE SHIP

1

COPENHAGEN. 1620.

THEY SAT FACING ONE ANOTHER ACROSS a table in the upper room of a drinking den known as the Barbary Shark. Two men. One a Dutch sea captain, the other a Chinese gem dealer. Muffled sounds of foghorns from the nighttime harbor, mingling with the raucous seaport din outside, passed unheeded. A flagon of fine gin and a pitcher of water, close to hand, also stood ignored. In the dim, smoke-filtered atmosphere, both men’s eyes were riveted upon a small, blue velvet packet, which the gem dealer had placed upon the table.

Slowly he unwrapped the cloth, allowing a large emerald to catch facets of the golden lantern light. It shimmered like the eye of some fabled dragon. Noting the reflected glint in the Dutchman’s avaricious stare, the Chinaman placed his long-nailed hand over the jewel and spoke softly. “My agent waits in Valparaiso for the arrival of a certain man—somebody who can bring home to me a package. It contains the brothers and sisters of this green stone, many of them! Some larger, others smaller, but any one of them worth a fortune. Riches to fire a man beyond his wildest dreams. He who brings the green stones to me must be a strong man, commanding and powerful, able to keep my treasure from the hands of others. My friend, I have eyes and ears everywhere on the waterfront. I chose you because I know you to be such a man!”

The captain’s eyes, bleak and grey as winter seas, held the merchant’s gaze. “You have not told me what my reward for this task will be.”

The gem dealer averted his eyes from the captain’s fearsome stare. He lifted his hand, exposing the emerald’s green fire. “This beautiful one, and two more like it upon delivery.”

The Dutchman’s hand closed over the stone as he uttered a single word. “Done!”

The boy ran, mouth wide open, gasping to draw in the fog-laden air. His broken shoes slapped wetly over the harbor cobblestones. Behind him the heavy, well-shod feet of his pursuers pounded, drawing closer all the time. He staggered, forcing himself to keep going, stumbling through pools of yellow tavern lights, on into the milky, muffling darkness. Never would he go back, never again would the family of his stepfather treat him like an animal, a drudge, a slave! Cold sweat streamed down into his eyes as he forced his leaden legs onward. Life? No sane being could call that life: a mute, dumb from birth, with no real father to care for him. His mother, frail creature, did not live long after her marriage to Bjornsen, the herring merchant. After her death the boy was forced to live in a cellar. Bjornsen and his three hulking sons treated their captive no better than a dog. The boy ran with the resounding clatter of Bjornsen’s sons close behind him. His one aim was to escape them and their miserable existence. Never would he go back. Never!

A scarfaced Burmese seaman crept swiftly downstairs, where he joined four others at a darkened corner of the Barbary Shark tavern. He nodded to his cohorts, whispering, “Kapitan come now!”

They were all sailors of varied nationalities, as villainous a bunch of wharf rats as ever to put foot on shipboard. Drawing farther back into the shadows, they watched the staircase, which led from the upper room. The long blue scar on the face of the Burmese twitched as he winked at the others.

“I ’ear all, Kapitan goes for the green stones!”