Hell Ship The Flying Dutchman

by Ben Hammott

  With lungs burning, Tom swam for the surface and gulped down air as soon as his head emerged free of the water. He turned until he spied his drifting boat and swam over to the yardarm. Placing his hands on it, and kicking it with his feet until it banged against the side. He climbed aboard and heaved the yardarm onboard.

  Though he wanted to rest his tired and bruised body, Tom knew he only had one chance to salvage anything of use from amongst the floating debris before it sunk or drifted too far away to reach. The Fortuyn, under the control of no one but the weed and the creatures, drifted with the current a hundred yards distant. Whatever direction he headed, he wouldn’t be going that way. He grabbed the oars and rowed through the debris, salvaging anything he thought might prove useful on his shipwrecked journey to land.

  Over the coming days, he rigged a surprisingly effective sail with the yardarm. Using the rising sun as a reference, he navigated southeast in the hope of running across another ship sailing the lucrative trade route or, preferably, reaching the African coast and following it to the nearest port.

  During his lonesome journey, he had plenty of time to ponder the terrible events aboard the Fortuyn and the demise of the pirates. Even with the creature’s limb proving the strange sea beasts existed, the tale was so incredible people would think him insane when he told them about the carnivorous seaweed and sea monsters that had slaughtered his crewmates and officers and sailed away with the Fortuyn. He had trouble believing it himself, and he had witnessed it. He gazed behind anxiously as he had done a thousand times since heading away from the accursed ship he feared would pursue him. Tom believed it was doubtful the Fortuyn would remain afloat for long, unmanned, in the turbulent weather of the region. He decided it would be best if he blamed the loss of life, and the ship, on a sudden violent storm. The storm had claimed the lives of all except him, who was lucky enough to climb aboard the landing boat set adrift when the Fortuyn slipped beneath the waves. It was a story all would sympathize with and readily believe. As to the truth, that he would keep to himself.

  On his sixth day at sea, Tom sighted the African coast and sailed along it until he approached the port of Cape Town. It had been founded by the Dutch East India Company to supply their passing ships with fresh fruits, vegetables, and meat, as well as to enable sailors wearied by the sea to recuperate. There were better locations along this Table Bay stretch of coast to construct a port, but none that had the supply of fresh water found here.

  When he glimpsed Cape Town in the distance, Tom navigated through the rocks littering the surf and landed in a secluded cove. He collected his sack containing the chest of jewels, gave the boat a nod of thanks for bringing him safely to shore and headed for Cape Town. On his arrival, he became just another faceless stranger among the many sailors, merchantmen, and tradesmen passing through the town.

  CHAPTER 11

  Slave Ship Hannibal

  After he had traded a few small rubies for some cash-the greedy merchantman receiving the better end of the deal-Tom set off to find a tavern where he could get a meal. With his hunger and thirst sated, he brought some new clothes. Though keen to return to his home in England, Tom couldn’t yet face setting to sea again with the nightmarish events so fresh in his mind. He sought out lodgings and booked a room for the duration of his stay, however long that proved to be.

  Over the coming weeks, visiting sailors told of a ghost ship sailing the seas around the African coast that was sometimes seen flying above the waves. Due to the recent disappearance of the Fortuyn, its Dutch captain and crew, the spectral ship soon became known as the Flying Dutchman.

  When Tom decided he had spent long enough in Cape Town, he pushed aside his fears and visited the busy port. It was a further month before he was able to book passage aboard a suitable ship to convey him back to England. A Dutch-owned wooden-hulled 700-ton East Indiaman, the Eendracht, captained by Dirk Hartog. The Eendracht was on its way home to Holland from a scientific expedition to Australia and would set sail in three days after restocking provisions. Tom would then purchase passage on a ship from Holland back to England.

  Glancing up from his meal at the tavern where he ate almost daily, Tom observed the man, a sailor by his garb, who entered and rushed to the bar.

  “Rum!” the man demanded.

  The barkeeper eyed the scruffy-clothed seaman. “Let’s see yer means to pay first.” He had been duped too many times to get caught out again.

  The haggard sailor duly complied and dumped a handful of coins on the counter. “Leave the bottle.”

  The barkeeper placed the rum bottle and a jug in front of the man and counted out the cost from the coins.

  “Yer seems a little worse fer wear,” commented a man taking a seat beside the sailor and eyeing the rum bottle longingly.

  The free drink he hoped for wasn’t forthcoming.

  Noticing the man’s covetous gaze upon his bottle, the sailor pulled it nearer to him. “So would yer if yer’d seen what these eyes of mine have been forced ter bear witness to.”

  Still hopeful of receiving a free tickle of rum, the man placed his empty tankard on the bar in plain view of his newfound companion. “And what was it yer witnessed that’s shaken yer so?”

  The sailor stared at the man. “Sea monsters! Evil fiends from the deep that killed most of me fellow crewmen; that’s what.”

  Tom’s ears pricked up at the mention of sea monsters.

  “Sea monsters, was it?” commented the man in a disbelieving tone. Sailors were always talking about the weird sights they’d allegedly seen at sea. Rum visions, he called them.

  “It was,” stated the sailor. “Devils from below Davy Jones would be afeared of.” He took another healthy swig of rum.

  Realizing he wasn’t going to get a single tot, and unwilling to listen to yet another delusory tale from an overly superstitious sailor, the thirsty man sighed, picked up his empty tankard and moved away.

  “Yer don’t look like yer’ve had a decent meal in recent memory.”

  The sailor turned his head and sized up Tom. “What’s it ter yer, boy?”

  “If yer’d be willing, I’d like to bear witness to yer tale,” replied Tom. “There’ll be a hot meal and another bottle of rum in it fer yer if yer oblige.”

  The seaman pondered the offer. His belly had been absent a hot meal far too long, and rum was always welcome. “Okay, sonny, I’ll partake of some victuals wiv yer.”

  “And yer’ll tell me yer story?”

  The man nodded.

  Tom attracted the barkeeper’s attention. “Bring ‘im what I’ve just had.”

  Tom put the payment in the barkeep’s outstretched hand and turned to the sailor. “Let’s go ter my table over there.”

  The sailor glanced at the table indicated by the boy and taking his drink with him followed him to the far corner of the room.

  Observing the man’s anxious disposition, one he’d worn not too long ago, Tom watched the man refill his tankard and sup it down in one. “Why don’t yer begin while we’re waiting fer yer victuals ter arrive?”

  Though hesitant to relive the nightmare, he had struck a deal, and he intended to uphold his end of the bargain. “I was crewing aboard the slave ship, Hannibal, bound for the Americas with a hold crammed with Negros, when five days ago we encountered the wreckage of a vessel...

  THE FIFTY-THREE SLAVES that included men, women, and five children, stowed on the upper slave deck—another equally packed with the abducted lay below them—awoke from their fitful sleep when something struck the wooden hull with a loud resonating boom. Aware they were below water level, and any damage to the old ship’s hull could cause water to pour in, drowning them all, their anxious eyes followed the unseen object scraping and banging along the hull. Whatever their worth to the white men who had taken them from their homes, families, and lands, it would be doubtful any would risk their lives saving them.

  Two more objects rebounded and banged along the other side of the hull.

 
They turned their worried gazes aloft and listened to the voices on deck.

  “Debris ahead, turn port fifteen degrees,” shouted one of the crew.

  “Aye, sir. Turning fifteen degrees to port.”

  “What’s happening, Martaigo?” asked Ghar, one of the captured men, his tone hushed and anxious.

  Martaigo shrugged. “Like us all, this is my first time on such a vessel, and I don’t understand their talk, but likely we’ve run into some wreckage.”

  “Does that mean we’ve reached land?” asked Sowar a short distance away in the darkness, her arm wrapped around a small frightened girl she had taken under her care.

  “I can’t see through wood, so I’m as wise as you all, but I doubt it. We’ve only been a few moons from our homes,” answered Martaigo. “Let’s wait to see what happens. But now we’re from our slumber, return to trying to free yer chains, but quietly. If they suspect our doings, brutally punished or killed, we’ll be.”

  “I fail to understand these white men,” commented Jarvay. “They travel across the seas in large boats and steal us from our families, friends, and villages, and then commit us ter the harshest conditions imaginable.” He tapped the ceiling brushing the top of his head in his hunched-over sitting position, “What little food they give us is almost inedible, barely enough water to keep us alive, and constantly beat us fer no reason. Why?”

  Martaigo turned to the man who had spoken. “I would concentrate your thoughts and energy on freeing your manacles and not try fathoming the unfathomable ways of the cruel white skins. Nothing they’ve done so far makes me believe our lives will undergo any improvement when we arrive at our destination. Getting free, overtaking the boat and working out how to sail it home is our only chance. Something I be willing to lose my life attempting rather than chancing what the white skins have in store for us at journey’s end.”

  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the shackled prisoners.

  Those in a position to do so tugged at the rings fixed to the floor that their chains were fed through.

  CAPTAIN BARTHOLOMEW Warren stood on the foredeck of his ship, the Hannibal, an English slaver supplying the Americas with a labor force of African Negros, with his eyes sweeping over the flotsam his vessel passed through. He watched as the largest piece yet scrape along the hull. It was the side wall and back corner of an officer’s cabin from a ship’s sterncastle to which, amazingly enough, two small framed portraits, one of a well-dressed woman and the other of two children, were still attached.

  “It’s the wreckage of a ship, but what’s it doing out here? You’d normally see this kind of damage from a vessel struck against rocks or reefs, but we’re many miles from any land.”

  Elias Myles, the first mate, scrutinized the pieces of wreckage. “I’ve seen signs of charring, so a sea battle’s probably the cause.”

  “True, cannon shot could rip a ship to pieces” agreed the captain. “Pirates, you think, or the Spanish?”

  “Impossible to say for certain, but pirates seem more likely with their heightened activities in these parts lately,” answered Myles. He placed a spyglass to his eye and aimed it at the thick mist extending along the horizon. Glimpsing something, he focused on the patch of shadow briefly revealed before being reclaimed again by the fog. He handed his captain the telescope. “I only caught a fleeting glimpse, but I think it was a ship.”

  With pirates and the damn Spanish stalking these waters, Captain Warren understood his first mate’s concern. There were stories of buccaneers concealing themselves in the fringes of fog banks while waiting for unsuspecting ships to come within range. They would then strike like a venomous serpent, plundering anything of value and usually killing all on board who held no worth of ransom.

  The captain put the spyglass to his eye and focused on the patch of fog his first mate had indicated. Swirling mist filled his vision. He was about to remove it from his eye when something appeared, the ghostly form of a ship that at first looked as intangible as the damp fog that all but shrouded it. He concentrated the spyglass on its flapping, ripped sails, their loose lines whipping across the uninhabited deck.

  The captain lowered the spyglass and turned to his first mate. “It’s a ship all right, but it looks deserted.”

  Myles raised his eyebrows as he took the spyglass to see for himself and scanned the deserted decks. “Ghost ship?” he questioned.

  The captain humphed. It was the tag that superstitious sailors attached to vessels absent any crew found drifting on the high seas. “If pirates or the Spanish didn’t kill them, the crew’s likely been struck down with disease—yellow fever, dysentery, scurvy or the like. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.”

  The captain pondered his options. From this distance, apart from its sails, the three-master seemed in good condition. If the crew had abandoned ship for some reason or were dead or dying, something that could easily be speeded up, it would make excellent salvage for him to sell on reaching port. A ship such as that in reasonable condition would fetch a high price and would more than offset the loss of the dead slaves that they had thrown overboard. There had been thirteen to date, and they had hardly started their journey. There would be more, disappointing but acceptable losses. Cattle and goats were hardier than these black-skinned heathens.

  The captain took the spyglass from Myles. “Take a bearing on an intercept course so that I can appraise the vessel’s worth as salvage.”

  The first mate nodded. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  Contemplating his eleven percent of the profits as he went to instruct the helmsman and roust some of the crew from their slumber, Myles hoped it was a ghost ship, and it was in good condition, or at the very least had a cargo worth salvaging.

  The captain and crew lined the port rail and stared at the mysterious ship they slowly approached. Only the creak of the ship’s timbers and the gentle splash of waves breaking over the bow broke the uncanny silence.

  “Is that seaweed around the hull?” asked Taffy Perkins, crossing himself when the bow of the three-master drew level with the bow of the Hannibal.

  Boatswain, Abiah Clements, gazed down at the water around the vessel’s hull and the thick mass of weed it dragged along with it. Though unsure what to make of it, like most things he didn’t understand, he considered it a bad omen. He gazed down the line of sailors and signaled to the five men equipped with grappling hooks to be ready if the captain issued the order to snag her.

  Captain Warren took in the sleek lines of the Dutch India ship. Unlike his patched up and worn ancient vessel, it seemed in excellent condition. Probably not more than a year or two out of the shipyard that had built it. His appreciative examination of the hull picked out the copper sheets attached below the waterline, protection against the Teredo worms that infested these warm waters, pests that were currently feasting on the hull of his ship. Commonly called shipworm, they were voracious feeders upon any timbers exposed to the sea, reducing the most robust ship to a worm-holed weakened structure with the strength of balsa wood. They had seen the demise of many ships and crew when their sponge-like hulls caved in. The copper was a recent addition by ship owners who could carry the cost, a design feature prompted when the Danish slave ship, the Kron-Printzen, sunk when her worm-weakened hull caved in. The loss of eight hundred and twenty slaves, precious cargo, and fifty-four of her sixty-two crew, including all its officers, was a loss its owners weren’t prepared to suffer again. When Henry Wiggins, a well-renowned shipbuilder, suggested using copper sheets to protect the hull against the wood-devouring parasites, the merchants bulked at the expense for the unproven technology. To prove his theory, Wiggins went as far as to wrap a piece of timber in copper and had it towed along with another identical piece of unprotected timber behind one of the East Indiaman ships when it entered the warmer waters of the Caribbean where the worm thrived. Upon the ship’s return, both pieces of wood were examined, it was found that though the unshielded timber was full of worm boreholes, the copper-shea
thed one was in perfect condition. Accepting the hard-to-refute evidence, the wealthy ship owners and merchants had relented and had their ships’ hulls copper-plated. They had also raised the prices of their goods and services accordingly to offset the costs.

  The sailor at the tip of the forecastle called out the ship’s name. “It’s the Fortuyn.”

  “The Flying Dutchman,” gasped one of the crew, crossing himself.

  After glaring at the sailor, the captain turned to the first mate with a quizzical frown. “Flying Dutchman?”

  “The Fortuyn was owned by the Dutch East India Company operating out of Amsterdam, the port it was headed for when it was thought ship and crew had perished in a treacherous storm encountered around the Cape of Good Hope. However, since then, there have been sightings of the Fortuyn, or the Flying Dutchman as it has commonly become known, by other ships sailing these waters. Some who have seen her have reported it as floating above the waves.”

  “Ah,” exclaimed the captain. “Dutch ship hence the Flying Dutchman.”

  “In part, yes,” confirmed Myles. “The name now given to the mysterious vessel could also allude to its Dutch captain, Bernard Fokke, who had an uncanny knack of making the round trip to Java weeks quicker than any other vessel. Some believed he was in league with the devil.”

  The captain snorted. “We’ll have none of that superstitious, gullible nonsense aboard my ship.”

  “No, sir,” replied Myles promptly.

  The captain stared at the nameplate as the vessel slid by. So many ships were lost around the Cape it was hard to keep track of them all. The treacherous coastline held the nickname the Cape of Storms for a good reason. “Unless I’m looking at a mirage, it obviously didn’t sink and looks in fair condition, thus a worthy prize.” After scanning the empty deck, he turned to his first mate. “Give the order to seize her.”