Hell Ship The Flying Dutchman

by Ben Hammott

  “That worked better than I expected,” said Drasbart.

  “The torches were a fine idea of yours.” Jozef slapped a heavily calloused hand on the first mate’s shoulder. “Hopefully they’ve learned their lesson and won’t be back.”

  “I don’t think that’s something we can rely on while they still have hold of the ship,” said Fokke, pondering their next move.

  “They retreat from heat, so we could try driving them away from the hull with the flames, Captain,” suggested Drasbart.

  Fokke shook his head. “It’s too risky. I’ve already lost too many men. A few more and we’ll be hard pushed to work the ship.”

  To save on costs that would reduce his profit, Fokke always sailed with a skeleton crew plus a few extras to allow for the loss from shipboard hazards. Scurvy and a fall from the rigging had claimed three deaths on the outward journey, eating into his reserves, leaving him a crew of forty-nine plus his first mate and himself. “The stalks are too many and move so fast they’ll either pull the torches from the men’s grasps or drag them over to their doom. No, we wait and see what the damn weed will do next. In the meantime, we come up with a more permanent solution to rid us of this green menace.”

  Without any conviction of its success, Fokke glanced up at the heavens as he mouthed a silent prayer asking for salvation for himself, his crew, and his ship from the menace that threatened them all.

  Prepared to fend off another attack if it came, the men remained alert as they waited and wondered if any of them would be alive by daybreak.

  CHAPTER 6

  Strategy

  As the night lengthened, the storm abated, leaving the ship rolling gently on rough seas yet to calm from its passing. The rain, though, continued to fall heavily, causing the few members of the crew lucky enough to have waterproof jackets to be thankful they had committed to the expense. Those who weren’t so astute or as prosperous wore the usual seafarers’ attire of woolen and canvas garments that failed to keep the wet and cold from seeping through to their skin. Clothes leaden from the constant drenching they received on the exposed deck, they cursed the foul weather. Though wet, uncomfortable and wishing they were anywhere other than on the accursed, rain-battered vessel, they remained alert as they paced back and forth in a lame attempt to ward off the shivering chill that wrapped them in its cold embrace.

  After two hours of inactivity from the omnipresent threat and aware the men would be useless if they didn’t rest, Fokke sent half his crew below to eat and sleep while the rest remained on watch. After the below deck crew had eaten, the ship’s cook brought those above a tot of rum and a large pot of warm food with bowls they could dip into it while they remained on duty, eating where they stood.

  Fokke, Drasbart, and Jozef went to the captain’s quarters to grab some food and discuss the situation. They knew they needed to come up with a plan to rid themselves of the malicious weed they suspected would soon launch another attack more ferocious than the last.

  As Tom brought their meals from the galley to the cabin and served it and drinks to the officers, they ran through a few ideas that might see them free of the weed.

  After discussing and discounting any ideas with little chance of accomplishing the desired outcome, they decided on two possible plans of action. Though both had faults, both had different probabilities of success. The first to be considered involved hoisting full sail and trying to drag themselves free of the weed while men used torches to dislodge as many of the stalks as they could. The second involved pouring boiling pitch on the kelp attached to the ship and setting light to it. After some discussion, they finally decided on a combination of the two with changes.

  As the blazing torches had revealed, the kelp retreated from heat, but having men lean over the side for the stems to grab was too risky, and lighting pitch so close to the hull was extremely hazardous to the ship. They decided they would use boiling water instead, and at the same time as pouring the scalding water in a coordinated attack around the hull onto the weed, they would hoist the sails to pull them free before the plants could latch on again.

  Drasbart unsuccessfully stifled a yawn. It had been a long, harrowing day for them all. “I believe our plan has a high chance of victory.”

  “I hope so,” said Fokke, “as I don’t know what else we can do to rid ourselves of it if it fails.”

  “Probably best we wait until daylight to do it,” said Drasbart. “The storm has practically passed us by and should be gone by morning. Carrying pots of boiling water around in the dark with the current roll of the ship could prove hazardous.”

  “Makes sense to me,” agreed Jozef. “It’ll also give the crew presently on watch a chance to rest.”

  “I also approve,” said Fokke, pleased they soon might be free of the menacing plant life. He turned to Jozef. “Roust the men below and have them change shift with those up top. Then you two get some sleep. I’ll take first watch, and one of you can swap with me in two hours and then swap with the other two hours after that. If danger threatens, ring the bell.”

  Pleased with their strategy, the three men exited the cabin, leaving Tom to clear away the dinner things.

  CHAPTER 7

  They Come. They Kill!

  After biding its time, as if aware the humans aboard the ship would become weary and less alert as the night deepened, a ripple of activity spread across the kelp. Groups of sleek and crab-like creatures ranging from cat-size to the size of medium-size dogs, all vicious and hungry, emerged from underwater nests formed by leaves entwined below the surface. They scampered onto the carpet of kelp, their clawed limbs carrying them towards the unsuspecting ship. On reaching the hull, they clambered up the side.

  Sheltering the bowl of his pipe with a cupped palm, Yannick dragged a lungful of the strong tobacco-scented smoke into his lungs, the glowing embers briefly giving warmth to his cold hand. He exhaled with satisfaction, the breeze whisking away the stream of smoke as he glanced over at Jaap who was wrapping a strip of oiled canvas around the bulbous bundle of pitch-soaked rope and rag on the stave tip to keep it dry.

  Yannick’s gaze around the gloomy decks picked out his fellow rain-lashed shipmates, all vigilant for another attack from the mysterious seaweed, and the first mate on the quarterdeck. Highlighted in the lantern light, Drasbart stood erect, hands behind his back, peering the length of the ship with a worried frown.

  As Yannick wondered where the killer kelp had hailed from, he failed to notice the head of the sleek creature appear over the rail. After surveying the other crew dispersed along the deck, it focused its malicious eyes on him.

  The sleek wolf-size creature was the patriarch; commanding both species that had made the kelp mass their home, receiving its protection in return for food. The tentacles on the back of the larger, more ruthless, and wiser creature were directed at the nearest human as he anticipated his fill. It turned its head each way along the side of the ship before focusing on the opposite rail where more of its pack, waiting for the order to attack, clung to the ship’s hull out of sight of the humans. Raising its head, it stretched out its neck, opened its jaws and directed a high-pitched squeal around the ship. As its vicious army appeared over the rails, the patriarch turned away and headed back to its underwater nest.

  BARELY AUDIBLE TO HUMAN ears, Yannick felt the creature’s battle cry more than heard it. Confused by the painful sensation in his ears that dissipated as swiftly as it had arrived, he turned his head to the rail and gasped in fear at the creatures scuttling over the side in an insidious wave of horror and death. The pipe fell from his lips when he shouted a warning to his shipmates. He snatched the canvas covering from the torch gripped in his shaking hand, pulled open the door of the lantern hanging from the mainmast and thrust the end into the wind-flickered flame. The flammable pitch ignited with a satisfying whoosh of heat. He jerked in pain when something small landed on his back and dug in its claws. Yannick spun and swept the blazing torch at the surrounding creatures moving in on him
and slammed his back into the mast, crushing the one that had attacked. Relieved to see them backing away from the flame, he stabbed the torch to drive them back over the side.

  Yannick flicked his gaze at the patches of yellow light cast by the flaming torches his crewmates jabbed and swung at the creatures, highlighting the terrible swarm that almost covered the outer edges of the deck. He kicked out when something bit his leg and thrust the torch at the creature attached to his shin. The squealing beast released its grip and dropped to the deck. A stamp from his foot crunched it into a splatted mess. He arched his back and screamed when three leaped onto his back. While two of them shredded his clothes and skin with their talons, the third climbed onto his shoulder and stabbed its two front claws repeatedly into his neck. Blood poured from the wounds and changed Yannick’s scream into a gurgled choking that sprayed blood from his mouth. Dropping the torch, he fell to his knees and toppled to the deck. Wishing death would mercifully claim him and end his pain, he tried to scream when one of the creatures raised its two long arms and stabbed claws down at his face.

  Though Yannick still lived, the creatures moved away to search for another victim. Stalks waiting nearby snaked over the rail, wrapped around the dying man’s ankles and whisked him over the side.

  Ensuring they remained vigilant and prepared to repel another attack if it came, Drasbart was gazing at the anxious crew when it arrived. Scratching at an ear that tingled, he noticed the men tense, some stepping back as if thumped in the chest. Only when torches blazed into flame did he comprehend the terrifying cause. What seemed to be hundreds of creatures ranging in size and form swarmed over the sides of the ship and attacked the men. A couple of the sleeker, scale-covered creatures were paler and bloated with shapes of the large eggs they nurtured within pregnant bellies. The other species were more crab-like with bulbous, octopus-like bodies of varying shades of green mottled with patches of uneven brown spots. They had six strangely placed limbs; three on its abdomen ending in a single claw-spike, one in the middle at the front adorned with two claws, and two long spindly arm appendages attached to the sides of its body. Protruding from the front was a head that could be extended and retracted like a turtle’s. Its beak-like jaw split into four sections when it opened to snap at its victims. Above the jaw were two black eyes with bright white centers.

  One man, slow to react, was overpowered by creatures as he scrambled to light his torch. The unlit torch dropped from his hands when he thudded to the deck, his body immediately smothered with the vicious fiends that ripped and stabbed at his writhing body.

  Drasbart’s terrified gaze at the many battles spread around the ship revealed more men suffering horribly from the onslaught. Recovering from his shock, he crossed to the bell and furiously rung it.

  At the sound of the bell, some of the crew eating in the galley abandoned their meals and rushed along the corridor. Others, rousted from their slumber by the warning signal alerting them of an attack, slipped from their hammocks and joined their comrades hurrying along the corridor.

  Tom, also alerted by the insistent clangs, crawled from his makeshift bed beneath the steps leading up to the deck, grabbed one of the unlit torches leaning against the wall and lit it from the nearby lantern as footsteps rushed towards him. He handed a blazing torch to each man who passed and sped up the steps.

  When the men from below poured onto the deck, Drasbart ceased his bell ringing. He watched the men spread out in a fan shape and begin thrusting the flaming tips of their torches at the creatures around them. It was a tactic they had discussed if another attack was forthcoming. The sounds of the creatures’ pained screeches drifted down to Tom. Having completed his duty, he closed the lantern door and cautiously climbed the steps armed with a flaming torch of his own. His gaze around at the crew fighting the creatures picked out the first mate rushing towards him. Tom dodged around the men and sprinted up to the quarterdeck.

  Drasbart took the torch from Tom. “Go inform the captain of what’s happening. If he’s asleep, wake him!”

  Tom nodded and rushed off to carry out the order.

  At the bow, Olaf and Johan were in trouble. Back to back, they swiped and thrust their torches at the evil beasts encircling them. Johan glanced behind at the creatures; they would be ripped to shreds if they attacked from all directions. Aware there were too many for the two of them to hold at bay for much longer, his frightened gaze searched for an escape route and halted on the foremast rigging a few steps away; it was their only chance. He tilted his head at Olaf as he swept the fiery brand back and forth low to the deck. “Climb the rigging,” he shouted.

  Olaf, his face masked in fear, nodded, threw his torch at the nearest creatures and sprinted for the rigging with Johan beside him. They both leaped onto the rail, grabbed the soaked rope and began climbing. Their attackers followed.

  Johan glanced down at the nightmare things scrambling up the rope netting, and though aware they were backing themselves into a corner, they continued climbing, prolonging the inevitable. As one, the two men jumped onto the yardarm and balanced precariously on the narrow rain-slicked platform that swayed and creaked with the movements of the ship. They gripped the leach-lines to prevent themselves from being thrown off and directed their terrified gazes at the climbing menace. Both drew their knives. They wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  The first creature to climb onto the yardarm was swiftly sent flying by a kick from Olaf. The second one he kicked at stabbed a limb into his bare foot. With adrenalin damping the pain, he shook his foot vigorously to free it, but it latched on with more claws that dug into his shin and began climbing up his leg, ripping deep gashes with each clawed purchase. Three more leaped onto him and climbed toward his chest, leaving behind a trail of puncture marks that seeped blood into his soaked clothing.

  Johan was fighting his own battles, kicking off those that climbed onto the yardarm and swiping the sharp blade at those that leaped at him. Terrified he was about to be overpowered, he kicked and stabbed at any within reach, put the knife between his teeth and climbed to the crow’s nest.

  He scrambled inside and gazed down as the creatures climbed onto the yardarm. While some joined the attack on Olaf, the remainder climbed the mast, shrouds, and rigging. Johan watched his friend stab frantically at those on his body with his knife, stabbing himself in the process. Olaf released his hold on the rope to pull a creature from his face. Slippery with rain and blood, his foot slipped from the yardarm, sending him toppling below.

  Johan’s gaze followed the man’s fall until he crashed to the deck, crushing some of the creatures that had continued slashing his flesh during the fall. Returning his focus to his desperate plight, Johan knew he was defeated. To delay the inevitable when the creatures reached the crow’s nest, he climbed to the fore royal yardarm.

  His gaze picked out the battles of the crew far below highlighted in patches of lantern light. The reinforcements from below deck seemed to be driving the creatures toward the rail. With nowhere to go except down, Johan switched his gaze to the cold sea where the weed thinned out nearer the bow. If he leaped from the end of the yardarm, he should be able to clear it enabling him to swim to the forward man-overboard line, one of three knotted ropes hanging at intervals along each side of the ship, climb back on board and help his shipmates drive the creatures away.

  It was a perilous strategy, made more dangerous by the murderous kelp, but at least it offered him a slim chance of survival which was currently zero by remaining where he was. He stamped on a creature when it climbed onto his precarious perch, slipped his knife into the sheath at his waist and ran along the yardarm. Murmuring a prayer for salvation, he dived from the end.

  As the icy sea shockingly embraced him, Johan gasped; almost exhaling the lungful of precious air collected on his way down. To halt the force of the long drop hurtling him towards the seabed, he flapped his arms frantically. As his descent slowed, he gazed around at the kelp barely an arm’s length away. What they had seen
from the surface was only a fraction of what lay beneath. It was about six feet thick and dotted with leaf-entwined bulges with dark, uninviting apertures. He saw a few much larger leaf bulges with equally larger openings, scattered over the vast leafy mass.

  Thick stalks with large round leaves on the tips hung below the dense mass of weed and moved back and forth. Though the leaves were spread out on the forward stroke to push against the water, they turned sideways to glide through the water on the return, like an oarsman feathering the oars to reduce resistance.

  Johan realized the significance of what he witnessed. The stalks were rowing backward. It was why the Fortuyn failed to make any headway. Though they suspected the weight of the weed was holding them back, none of them had envisioned this.

  Long stems stretched under the hull and held on like limpets, cradling the ship in its grasp. Noticing a different color amongst the dark mass, Johan focused in on it. Sucker tentacles attached to the pale, sea-wrinkled object throbbed as if sucking something through them. When it turned with the current to face him, Johan recognized what it was—a man. Though difficult to tell in this light and at this distance, he thought it might be Pepijn, one of the crewmen the weed had grabbed from the ship. The plant was feeding on him.

  Feeling his air running out, Johan was about to swim to the surface when he saw something slide from the mass in front of him; it was Yannick, hanging upside down from tentacles gripping his ankles. His eyeballs, attached only by their optic nerves, drifted across his lifeless torn face. Air bubbled from Johan’s screaming mouth. He swam to the surface and burst above the waves. He gulped down air and turned to the ship. Bursts of yellow light dancing above the deck indicated the battle still raged. Along its length, stalks dragged men, both alive, dead and some state in between, over the rails as nourishment for the sinister kelp.