[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

“Thief! Drunkard! Pirate! No man steals from me! There, now we have a one-handed cook. Back to work, all of you, cast off for’ard, aft and midships! Make sail, leave no lines drifting, coil them shipshape. Seamen? I’ll make seamen of you before this voyage is out!”

He stormed off to take the steersman’s place at the wheel.

Whimpering and moaning piteously, Petros crawled into the galley, falling flat on Neb’s outstretched leg, which was still chained to the stove. Raising his tearstained face to the boy, he sobbed piteously. “He broke my hand, see. Petros’s hand smashed, an’ what for? Nothing, that’s what for. Nothing!”

Neb felt sick just looking at the hand. It was wretched beyond healing, a horrific sight. Blubbering into his greasy beard, the cook looked to Neb for help. “Fix it for me, boy. Make bandage for poor Petros’s hand.”

Neb felt no pity for the fat, wicked cook. He was secretly glad that the hand that had often beat him was now useless, but he had to get the man upright before he looked under the table. The boy made his muted noise and pointed at the chain, indicating he could do nothing until he was freed.

Amid much groaning and wincing, Petros found the key with his good hand and unlocked the shackle. Neb helped him up onto a bench, where he sat weeping and nursing his hand.

Drizzling rain gave way to a clear evening. Ropes and lines thrummed as the vessel’s sail bellied tautly, backed by a stiffening breeze. The wheel spun under Vanderdecken’s experienced hands as he guided the Flying Dutchman out into deeper waters. It was well out to sea by the time Neb was done with his ministrations. Medical supplies were virtually nil aboard the vessel, but the boy used some relatively clean strips of coarse linen from a palliasse cover. Tearing the cloth into strips, he soaked them in clean, salted water and bound the hand and arm from fingertips to elbow. Petros howled as the salt stung broken bone and torn, swollen flesh, but he knew the salt would clear up any infection.

All the time Neb’s dog stayed silent in his hiding place.

The Englander and Jamil came furtively into the galley. Petros kept up his whining, glad he had more of an audience to listen to his complaints. “See, the poor hand of Petros. What use is a man at sea with only one good hand? I ask you, my friends, was there any need for that devil to do this to me?”

The Englander ignored the cook’s misfortune. “What did you try to pick up off the deck, something that belonged to the cap’n, eh?”

Petros held out his good hand to the pair. “Help me to my cabin, Scraggs. You, too, Jamil. The boy is too small for me to lean on. Help me.”

Scraggs, the Englander, grabbed the bandaged hand from its sling. “What did you pick up off the deck? Tell us.”

“Nothing, my friend. It was nothing, I swear!”

Jamil’s curved dagger was at Petros’s throat. “You lie. Tell us what it was or I’ll give you another mouth, right across your filthy neck. Speak!”

Petros knew they meant business, so he spoke rapidly. “It was the green stone, the dragon’s eye. A man could have bought three tavernas with it!”

Scraggs shook his head knowingly and smiled at Jamil. “See, I told you: emeralds. That’s what this trip’s about.” Looking hugely satisfied that his hunch had been confirmed, Scraggs strode from the galley, leaving Jamil to help Petros to his cabin. Scraggs paused in the doorway and pointed his own knife in Neb’s direction.

“Not a word of this to anyone, lad. D’ye hear?”

Neb nodded vigorously.

The Englander smiled at his own mistake. “How could you say a word, you’re a mute.”

4

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN WAS NOW ON course, cutting the coast of Germany and the Netherlands, picking up the English Channel currents. Neb had spent a happy few days. Petros refused to leave his bunk, and lay in his cabin moaning night and day. Alone in the galley, Neb cooked for all hands. The menu was not difficult to contend with—salt cod or salt pork, boiled up with whatever came to hand: cabbage, turnips, kale. Neb threw it all in a cooking pot and boiled it with pepper and salt. Now and then, to satisfy his longing for something sweet he would pound up some ship’s biscuit, damp it down into a paste, mix in a bit of dried fruit—figs, apricots, and raisins. Baked up in the oven, this made a stodgy pie. There were no complaints, in fact, one of the hands remarked that it was an improvement on the Greek’s efforts.

Neb decided to call his dog Denmark, that being the country from which they both came. There was a marked change in the black Labrador. Overnight under his young master’s care he had grown bigger, sleeker, and healthier. A very intelligent dog, quiet and obedient. At a quick nod from the boy, Denmark would immediately go to his place under the table.