[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

Vanderdecken was making his way amidships when the Finn leaned over the stern rail, shouting. “Come look here—a boy, I think he’s dead!”

All hands hurried to the stern, crowding the rail to see. Pushing his way roughly through, the captain stared down at the crumpled figure on the molding below his cabin gallery. Crouched there was a boy, stiff with seawater and frost.

Vanderdecken turned to the men, his voice harsh and flat. “Leave him there or push him into the sea, I don’t care.”

The ship’s cook was a fat, bearded Greek, who had left his galley to see what all the excitement was about. He spoke up.

“I don’t have galley boy. If he’s alive, I take him!”

The captain gave the cook a scornful glance. “He’d be better off dead than working for you, Petros. Ah, do what you want. The rest of you get back to work!”

Lumbering down to the stern cabin, Petros opened the window and dragged the lad in. To all apparent purposes, the boy looked dead, though when the Greek cook placed a knife blade near his lips, a faint mist clouded it. “By my beard, he breathes!”

He carried the boy to the galley and laid him on some sacking in a corner near the stove. The ship’s mate, an Englishman, came into the galley for a drink of water. Placing the toe of his boot against the boy’s body, he nudged him. The lad did not respond.

The Englander shrugged. “Looks dead to me, I’d sling him over the side if I was you.”

Petros pointed with his keen skinning knife at the Englander. “Well, you not me, see. I say he stays. If he comes around, I need help in this galley, lots of help. He’s mine!”

Backing off from the knife, the Englander shook his head. “Huh, yours? Like the cap’n said, that one’d be better dead!”

For almost two days the boy lay there. On the second evening Petros was making a steaming stew of salt cod, turnips, and barley. Blowing on the ladle, he tasted a bit. As he did this, the Greek cast a glance down at the boy. His eyes were wide open, gazing hungrily at the stewpot.

“So, my little fish lives, eh?”

The boy’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Petros took a greasy-looking wooden bowl and ladled some stew into it, then placed it in the boy’s open hands. “Eat!” It was bubbling hot, but that did not seem to deter the lad. He bolted it down and held the empty bowl up to the cook. The bowl went spinning from his grasp as Petros hit it with the ladle, narrowing his eyes pitilessly.

“No free trippers aboard this ship, little fish. I caught you, now you belong to me. When I say work, you work. When I say eat, you eat. When I say sleep, you sleep. Got it? But you won’t hear me saying eat or sleep much. It will be mostly work, hard work! Or back over the side you go. Do you believe me?”

He wrenched the boy upright and reached for his knife. The wide-eyed youngster nodded furiously.

Petros filled a pail with water, tossing in a broken holy-stone and a piece of rag, then thrust it at his slave. “You clean this galley out good, deckheads, bulkheads, the lot! Hey, what’s your name, you got a name?”

The boy pointed to his mouth and made a small, strained noise.

Petros kicked him. “What’s the matter, you got no tongue?”

The Arab had just walked in. He grabbed the boy’s jaw and forced his mouth open. “He has a tongue.”

Petros turned back to stirring the stew. “Then why doesn’t he talk? Are you dumb, boy?”

The lad nodded vigorously. The Arab released him. “You can have a tongue and still not be able to talk. He’s dumb.”

Petros filled a bowl for the Arab and made a mark by a row of symbols on a wooden board to show the Arab had received his food. “Dumb or not, he can still work. Here, Jamil, take this to the kapitan.” He indicated a meal set out on a tray.

The Arab ignored his request. Sitting close to the stove, he started eating. “Take it yourself.”

The boy found himself hauled upright again. Petros was acting out a strange pantomime, as many fools do who think somebody is stupid merely because they cannot speak. “You go, take this to Kapitan . . . Kapitan, understand?” Petros stood to attention, mimicked Vanderdecken’s stance, then made as if he were a captain dining, tucking an imaginary napkin into his shirtfront. “Kapitan eat, understand. Hey, Jamil, what you call a boy with no name?”

“Nebuchadnezzar.”

Petros looked askance at the Arab. “What sort of name that?”

Jamil broke ship’s biscuit into his stew and stirred it. “I hear a Christian read it once, from a Bible book. Good, eh, Nebuchadnezzar—I like that name!”

Petros scratched his big, grimy beard. “Nebu . . . Nebu. Is too hard to say. I call you Neb, that’ll do!” He presented the boy with the tray, then poked his finger several times into the lad’s narrow chest.

“Neb, Neb, you called Neb now. Take this to Kapitan, Neb. Go careful—spill any and I skin you with my knife, yes?”

Neb nodded solemnly and left the galley as if he were walking on eggs.

Jamil slurped stew noisily. “Hah, he understand, all right. He’ll learn.”

Petros stroked his knife edge against a greased stone. “Neb better learn . . . or else!”