Brian Jacques - [Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

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 dull skies gave way to immense banks of jet-black thunderclouds, building up out of nowhere. With fearsome speed they boiled and rumbled until they darkened the daylight overhead.

Simultaneously, a bang of thunder shook the very ocean and a colossal chain of crackling lightning ripped the clouds apart. Men covered their eyes at the unearthly scene. The green lights of Saint Elmo’s fire caught every spar, mast, and timber of the vessel, illuminating the Flying Dutchman in an eerie green glow. Vanderdecken fell back against the wheel, eyes staring, mouth gaping as the green-flamed swordblade fell from his nerveless grasp. Neb had buried his face in the dog’s coat, but as Denmark crouched flat, he unwittingly allowed his master this view.

A being, not of this earth, was hovering just above the deck. It was neither man nor woman, tall and shining white, bearing a great sword. It turned and pointed the sword at Vanderdecken. Its voice, when it spoke, was like a thousand harps strummed by winds, ranging out over the sea, beautiful yet terrifying. “Mortal man, you are but a grain of sand in the mighty ocean. Your greed and your cruelty and your arrogance turned your tongue against your Maker. Henceforth, and for all the days of time, this ship, with you and all upon it, are lost to the sight of heaven. You will sail the waters of the world for eternity!”