Castaways of the Flying Dutchman fd-1

by Brian Jacques

  Neb and Denmark were in the captain's cabin, viewing the scene through the thick glass port in the cabin door.

  He had once heard a Reformer in Copenhagen, standing on a platform in the square, warning sinners about a

  thunderous-sounding thing called Armageddon. Both the boy and the dog leapt backward as a mighty wave struck the

  door, causing it to shake and judder. Neb clasped the Labrador close to him. Had the Flying Dutchman sailed into

  Armageddon?

  Vanderdecken was in his element out on the stern deck. None but he had a real steersman's skill in elements

  such as these—he seemed to revel in it. A line wound and tied about his waist and the wheel held him safe. He fought

  the wheel like a man possessed, keeping his ship on course, straight west along the rim that bordered the base of the

  world. Only when the vessel rounded Cape Horn would the course change north, up the backbone of the Americas to

  Valparaiso. With the fastenings of his cloak ripped apart and the hat ripped from his head by the wind's fury, the

  captain bared his teeth at the storm, hair streaming out behind him like a tattered pennant, salt water mingling with icy

  tears the elements squeezed from his eyes. Bow-on into the savage, wind-torn ocean, he drove his craft, roaring aloud.

  " 'Round the Horn! Lord take us safe to Valparaisooooooo!" He was a skilled shipmaster and had learned all of his

  lessons of the seas the hard way.

  But the maddened seas off Tierra del Fuego washed over the bones of captains far more experienced than

  Van-derdecken, master of the Flying Dutchman.

  6.

  TWO WEEKS LATER AND HALFWAY BACK TO the Malvinas Islands, the Flying Dutchman languished in

  the swelling roughs with sheet anchors dragging for'ard and stern, beaten backward from the Horn. The captain paced

  the decks like a prowling beast, flogging with a rope's end and berating the hands, angered at this defeat by the sea.

  Men were aloft, chopping at rigging and cutting loose torn sail canvas. A ship's carpenter was up there also, binding

  cracked and broken spars with tar-coated whipping line.

  Neb was back as cook, swabbing out the galley and salvaging what he could from the food lockers. There was

  precious little, as some of the vegetables in sacks and a cask of salted meat had been swept away when Petros was lost.

  One of the clean water barrels had its contents tainted by seawater. The dog dragged saturated empty sacks from

  beneath the table, his old hiding place. Soon Neb had a fire going in the stove and warmth began returning to the

  galley. He chopped vegetables and salt cod to make a stew and put coffee on the brew in a big pan.

  It was very unusual for the captain, but he came into the galley and sat at the table, eating his meal and drinking

  coffee there. Denmark stayed between the stove and the far bulkhead. The dog never showed any inclination to be

  near anyone except Neb. Ignoring the animal's presence, the captain gave orders to the boy.

  "Take that food and coffee to the fo'c'sle head cabin, serve it to the hands. Don't hurry, but listen to what they

  are saying, then come back here. Go on, boy, take your dog, too." Neb did as he was bidden. While he was gone,

  Vanderdecken sat at the galley table, the door partially open, staring out at the restless waves, thinking his own secret

  thoughts.

  After a while Neb returned, carrying the empty stewpot, with the dog trailing at his heels. Vanderdecken

  indicated a packing box, which served as a chair at the table.

  "Sit there, boy, and tell me what you heard."

  Neb looked perplexed. He pointed to his mouth and shrugged.

  The captain fixed him with a stern, piercing stare. "I know you are mute. Keep your eyes on me and listen. Now,

  the crew are not happy, yes? I can tell they're not by the look in your eyes. Keep looking at me. They are talking

  among themselves. It's mutiny, they want to take over my ship and sail back home. Am I right?"

  Neb's eyes widened. He felt like a flightless bird in the presence of a cobra. His gaze riveted on the remorseless

  pale-grey eyes.

  The captain nodded. "Of course I'm correct! Who is the one doing the most talking, eh, is it Vogel? No? Then

  perhaps there's another, Ranshoff the Austrian? No, he's too stupid. Maybe there's two spokesmen, the pair I had put

  in chains?

  I'm right, aren't 1! It's Jamil and Sindh. Though I'll wager that Sindh is the one who does most of the talking."

  Neb sat fascinated by Vanderdecken's uncanny judgment. He did not move, the icy grey eyes held him pinned,

  as if they were reading his mind like a book.

  The captain laid a short, fat musket on the table. It had six stubby barrels, which could discharge simultaneously

  at one pull of the trigger. A pepperpot musket of the type often used in riots with devastating effect in enclosed

  spaces.

  "Aye, your eyes are too honest to lie, boy. Stay here, lock the door, and admit nobody but myself." Concealing

  the weapon beneath his tattered cloak, the Dutchman swept out of the galley.

  Locking the door securely, the boy, trembling, was left with his dog. They sat staring at one another, Denmark

  laying his head upon his young master's lap, gazing up at him with anxious eyes.

  Neb had no idea how long he sat thus, awaiting the report of the fearsome musket. But none came. He thought

  that maybe the crew had overcome their harsh captain and thrown him overboard. The boy's eyes began to close in the

  galley's warmth, when Denmark stood up, suddenly alert. Somebody banged on the door, and a voice called out.

  "Open up, boy, it's your captain!"

  Trembling with relief, Neb unbolted the door. Van-derdecken strode in and sat at the table. "Bring my logbook,

  quill, and ink from my cabin."

  Whilst he made more coffee, Neb listened to Van-derdecken intoning as he wrote in the ship's log:

  "We sail back to Cape Horn at dawn's first light. This time the Flying Dutchman will make it 'round the Horn.

  Every man will be on deck working. Tonight I quelled a mutiny among the crew; now there are no voices raised

  against my command. Sindh, a Burmese deckhand, was the ringleader. He no longer has to wait until we get back to

  Copenhagen for judgment and execution. Using my authority as captain to stem mutiny and preserve good order

  aboard the vessel, I summarily tried and hanged him myself!"

  Vanderdecken glanced up from his writing at Neb's horrified face. For the first time the boy saw what appeared

  to be a smile on the captain's face. "If ever you command a ship, which isn't very likely, always remember this, boy,

  should the voyage prove risky and the returns valuable, it is wise to sign up your crew from all nations. That way they

  lack any common bond. A disunited crew is the easiest one to control. Take my word for it."

  Those were the last words Vanderdecken spoke that night. He slept sitting in the chair, the pepperpot musket on

  the table in front of him.

  Neb and Denmark lay down together near the stove by the far bulkhead, watching the strange man. Red

  reflections from the galley stove fire illuminated his harsh features: they never once relaxed, not even in sleep.

  Four days later the Flying Dutchman was off the coast of Tierra del Fuego again, with Vanderdecken as

  steersman and all hands on deck, striving in the depths of midwinter to round the cape once more. It was sheer

  madness and folly to attempt such an undertaking at that time of year, but none dared say so. Armed with sword and

  musket, the captain drove his crew like slaves. Sleep was snatched in two-hour shifts, rations were
reduced to half fare,

  men were constantly forced aloft to cut away, repair, or adjust battered rigging.

  Neb was kept on his feet night and day, rationing out boiling coffee, cooking the meager scraps that were the

  crew's diet and battling constantly to keep the galley dry and the fire going. It was extra difficult, because most hands

  slept there now—under the table, on empty sacks in all four corners, catching what rest they could until lashed out by

  the knotted rope end of Mister Vogel, the mate.

  Vanderdecken drove himself even harder than his crew, retiring only briefly once a night to his cold, stern cabin

  and eating both little and infrequently.

  Neb had never imagined the sea more wild and cruel. Under the hurricane-force winds, icicles formed sideways,

  sticking out like daggers astern. There was no lee side to anything on Cape Horn. Now and again, through the

  sheeting mixture of sleet and rain, the coast could be glimpsed. Gigantic dark rocks, with a nimbus of ice and spray

  framing them, looked for all the world like prehistoric sea monsters, waiting to devour anything that sailed too close.

  Cold and wet became a thing that had to be lived with. Some of the crew lost fingers and toes to frostbite, two of them

  on the same day fell from the rigging to their deaths in the bedlam of freezing waves. Sometimes Neb imagined he

  could hear thunder in the distance, or was it just the boom of tidal-size waves, crashing upon the coastal rocks?

  Driven forward one day, then twice as far back the next, the ship tacked sideways and often turned completely

  about, sails filling to bursting, then slacking with tremendous slapping sounds. Half the cargo of ironware was

  jettisoned into the sea to keep the vessel afloat. One morning Neb was recruited to join a party in the midships hold,

  where groaning timbers were leaking water into the hatch space. All day he spent there, plugging away at the cracks

  with mallet, flat chisel, and lengths of heavy tarred rope they called oakum.

  The boy's hands became so bruised and cracked with the cold that another crewman had to take his place. Neb

  fought back tears of pain as he thrust both hands into a pail of hot water on the galley stove. Denmark whined and

  placed his head against the boy's leg. Even over the melee of waves, wind, and creaking timbers, Vanderdecken's

  voice could be heard cursing the crew, Cape Horn, the weather, and the heaving seas with the most bloodcurdling

  oaths and imprecations.

  Three weeks later the Flying Dutchman was in the same position, pushed back again, halfway betwixt Tierra del

  Fuego and Malvinas Isles. Defeated for the second time by Cape Horn!

  Weary, sick, and half starved, the crew lay in their fo'c'sle cabin. There was a terrible atmosphere hanging over

  the place. No longer did the men speak to one another, they stayed in their bunks or huddled alone in corners. Some

  had missing finger and toe joints from the frostbite. All of them, to a man, were beginning to suffer with scurvy,

  owing to the lack of fresh vegetables. Teeth loosened and fell out. Hair, too. Sores formed around cracked lips. The

  two who had perished were not mourned—their blankets, clothing, and personal effects were immediately stolen by

  former crewmates. Survival was the order of the day, with each man knowing his chances of staying alive were

  growing shorter, alone and freezing out on the south Atlantic Ocean within the radius of the great white unknown

  regions of Antarctica.

  Locked in the galley with his dog Denmark, Neb could do nothing but carry out his captain's orders. He

  smashed up broken rigging to feed the stove fire, supplementing it with tarred rope, barrel staves, and any waste he

  found. Water was growing short, the coffee supply was almost negligible, food was down to the bare minimum. Still

  he carried out his duties as best he could, knowing the alternative would be for him and the dog to move into the

  crew's cabin. He shuddered to think how that would end up. Vanderdecken had told him that was what his fate would

  be unless he obeyed orders.

  The captain kept to his cabin at the stern, showing himself only once every evening when the day's single meal

  was served. Armed with pepperpot musket and sword, he would arrive at the galley with his tray and command Neb

  to open up. Having served himself with weakened coffee and a plate of the meager stew, he would half-fill another

  bowl with drinking water and give Neb his usual orders.

  "Heed me carefully, boy. I will return to my cabin now. Place the pans of stew, coffee, and water for the crew

  out on the deck and get back inside quickly. I'll ring the ship's bell, they'll come and get their meal then. I'll ring the

  bell again in the morning when they return the empty pans. Collect them up and lock yourself in again. If they catch

  you with that galley door open, the scum will slay you, eat your dog, and strip the galley bare. You open this door

  only to me. Understand?" Neb, his eyes never leaving the captain's, saluted in reply and set about his tasks.

  Only once did a crew member venture out on deck for reasons other than going to the galley door. Mister Vogel,

  the German mate, driven almost mad with hunger and cold, approached the captain's cabin. He was a big, powerfully

  built man. Emboldened by the ship's predicament, he banged upon Vanderdecken's door. When the door did not open,

  he began shouting. "Kapitan, it is I, Vogel. You must turn this ship around. If we stay here longer, all will be lost.

  Kapitan, I beg you to listen. We are fast running out of food and water, the men are sick and weak, this ship will not

  stand up to these seas for long. We are going nowhere! Give the order to put about and sail for safety, Kapitan. We

  can go anywhere, Malvinas, San Marias, Bahia Blanca. The Americas are close. There we could refit the vessel, sell

  what cargo remains on board, take on another cargo, and sail for Algiers, Morocco, Spain, even home to Copenhagen.

  Soon you will have mutiny aboard if we sit here, Kapitan. You know what I say makes sense. Do it, now, I implore

  you in the name of the Lord!"

  Vanderdecken cocked the big pepperpot musket. It was a clumsy but awesome weapon—one pull of the trigger

  could send out a fusillade of leaden shot, six heavy musket balls. Without opening the cabin door he fired, the blast

  killing Vogel instantly. Neb and his dog jumped with shock at the sound of the explosion. Reloading swiftly, the

  captain marched from the cabin with sword and pistol, a maniacal light in his eyes, calling out in a voice like thunder.

  Neb and the crew could not help but hear him.

  "I am Vanderdecken, master of the Flying Dutchman! I take orders from neither God nor man! Nothing can stop

  me, nothing in this world or the heavens above. Cower in your cabins or throw yourselves into the waters, what need

  have I of worthless wharf dregs who call themselves sailors. Sailors. I will show you a sailor, a captain! As soon as I

  have this ship rigged and ready, I set course again for Tierra del Fuego! I will take my vessel 'round the Horn

  single-handed. Do you hear, single-handed. Stand in my path and I will slay you all!"

  7.

  NOT ONE SOUL ABOARD THOUGHT THAT he could ready the ship for sail alone. But Vanderdecken did it.

  All night and half a day he could be heard, banging, clattering, scaling the masts, dragging sailcloth from lockers,

  reeving lines, and lashing yards. His final mad act was to slash the sheet anchors free, fore and aft, then he dashed to

  the steering wheel and bound himself to it. The Flying Dutchman took the swell of the gale as it struck her stern
. Off

  into the seas the battered craft sped, like a fleeing stag pursued by the hounds of hell into the midwinter wastes of the

  ocean, headed again for Cape Horn and destiny.

  One week later the food and water ran out. Without the captain's protection now, Neb was left to fend for

  himself. The boy had never been so frightened before. Now, bolting the galley door, he fortified it by jamming the

  table and empty barrels against it. Whenever a crewman hauled himself across the swaying, rolling decks to bang

  upon the galley door, Denmark's hackles rose and he barked and snarled like a wild beast until the crewman went

  away.

  Each time the ship lost way and was driven back in the pounding melee of blue-green waves, Vanderdecken

  screeched and raved, his sanity completely gone, tearing at his hair and shaking a bloodless fist at the seas and sky,

  sometimes laughing, other times weeping openly in his delirium.

  On the first day following that dreadful week, the Flying Dutchman was driven backward for the third time by a

  howling hurricane of wind, snow, and rain. But straight to the east the vessel careered this time, sails torn, masts

  cracked, shipping water that sloshed about in empty holds from which the last scraps of cargo had been jettisoned to

  save the ship.

  Then by some perverse freak of nature the weather suddenly becalmed itself! An olive-hued stillness hung upon

  the Atlantic; rain, snow, and wind ceased. Startled by the sudden change, Neb and his dog came out on deck. The

  crew deserted their accommodation, creeping out furtively into the dull afternoon. It was as if heaven and all the

  elements were conspiring to play some pitiless joke on the Flying Dutchman.

  "Eeeeaaaarrrggghhh!" All hands turned to watch Vanderdecken, for it was he who had roared like a condemned

  man being dragged to execution. With his sword he was feverishly hacking at the ropes that bound him to the ship's

  wheel. Tearing himself loose, oblivious to the onlookers, he jabbed the blade skyward and began hurling abuse, at the

  weather, at the failure.... At the Lord!

  Even though the crew were men hardened to the vilest of oaths, they were riveted speechless by their captain's

  blasphemy. Neb fell on his knees and hugged the dog that stood guarding him. Across on the eastern horizon, bruised