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

Petros filled a pail with water, tossing in a broken holy-stone and a piece of rag, then thrust it at his slave. “You clean this galley out good, deckheads, bulkheads, the lot! Hey, what’s your name, you got a name?”

The boy pointed to his mouth and made a small, strained noise.

Petros kicked him. “What’s the matter, you got no tongue?”

The Arab had just walked in. He grabbed the boy’s jaw and forced his mouth open. “He has a tongue.”

Petros turned back to stirring the stew. “Then why doesn’t he talk? Are you dumb, boy?”

The lad nodded vigorously. The Arab released him. “You can have a tongue and still not be able to talk. He’s dumb.”

Petros filled a bowl for the Arab and made a mark by a row of symbols on a wooden board to show the Arab had received his food. “Dumb or not, he can still work. Here, Jamil, take this to the kapitan.” He indicated a meal set out on a tray.

The Arab ignored his request. Sitting close to the stove, he started eating. “Take it yourself.”

The boy found himself hauled upright again. Petros was acting out a strange pantomime, as many fools do who think somebody is stupid merely because they cannot speak. “You go, take this to Kapitan . . . Kapitan, understand?” Petros stood to attention, mimicked Vanderdecken’s stance, then made as if he were a captain dining, tucking an imaginary napkin into his shirtfront. “Kapitan eat, understand. Hey, Jamil, what you call a boy with no name?”

“Nebuchadnezzar.”

Petros looked askance at the Arab. “What sort of name that?”

Jamil broke ship’s biscuit into his stew and stirred it. “I hear a Christian read it once, from a Bible book. Good, eh, Nebuchadnezzar—I like that name!”

Petros scratched his big, grimy beard. “Nebu . . . Nebu. Is too hard to say. I call you Neb, that’ll do!” He presented the boy with the tray, then poked his finger several times into the lad’s narrow chest.

“Neb, Neb, you called Neb now. Take this to Kapitan, Neb. Go careful—spill any and I skin you with my knife, yes?”

Neb nodded solemnly and left the galley as if he were walking on eggs.

Jamil slurped stew noisily. “Hah, he understand, all right. He’ll learn.”

Petros stroked his knife edge against a greased stone. “Neb better learn . . . or else!”

A timid knock sounded on the captain’s cabin door. Somehow or other Neb had found his way there. Vanderdecken looked up from the single emerald he had been given as part payment. Stuffing it swiftly into his vest pocket, he called out, “Come!”

As the door opened, the Dutchman had his hand on a sword set on a ledge under the table edge. None of the crew would ever catch him napping; that would be a fatal error. A look of mild surprise passed across his hardened features as the boy entered with a tray of food. Vanderdecken indicated the table with a glance. Neb set the tray there.

“So, you never died after all. Do you know who I am, boy?”

Neb nodded twice, watching for the next question.

“Can you not speak?”

Neb shook his head twice. He stood looking at the deck, aware of the captain’s piercing stare, waiting to be dismissed.

“Maybe ’tis no bad thing, I’ve heard it said that silence is golden. Are you golden, boy? Are you lucky, or are you a Jonah, an unlucky one, eh?”

Neb shrugged expressively. The captain’s hand strayed to his vest pocket, and he patted it.

“Luck is for fools who believe that sort of thing. I make my own luck. I, Vanderdecken, master of the Flying Dutchman !”

Immediately he applied himself to the food. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he looked up at Neb. “Are you still here? Off with you—begone, boy!”

Bobbing his head respectfully, Neb retreated from the cabin.

Next day and every day after that was much the same for Neb, punctuated with oaths, kicks, and smarting blows from the knotted rope that the fat, greasy sea cook Petros had taken to carrying. The lad was used to this kind of treatment, having suffered much of it at the hands of the Bjornsen family. Aboard the Flying Dutchman the only difference was that there was nowhere to run and fewer places to hide.

However, Neb bore the ill usage. Being mute and not able to complain had made him, above all, a survivor. He had grown to possess a quiet, resolute strength. Neb hated Petros, along with the rest of the crew, who showed him neither pity nor friendliness. The captain was a different matter. The boy knew that Vanderdecken was feared by every soul aboard. He had a ruthless air of power about him that scared Neb, though he was not needlessly cruel, providing his orders were obeyed swiftly and without question. The boy’s survival instincts told him that he was safer with the captain than the others, a fact he accepted stoically.

3

ESBJERG WAS THE LAST PLACE IN DENMARK the Flying Dutchman would touch before sailing out into the North Sea and down through the English Channel. Beyond that she was bound into the great Atlantic Ocean. Some of the crew were ordered ashore to bring back final provisions. Petros and the Englander mate headed the party. Captain Vanderdecken stayed in his cabin, poring over charts. Before he departed, the Greek cook grabbed Neb and shackled him by the ankle to the foot of the iron galley stove.

“No good giving you the chance to run off just when I’m training you right. Slaves are scarce in Denmark. You can reach the table. There’s salt pork and cabbage to chop for the pot, keep you busy. I’m taking my knife with me, use that old one. You know what will happen if the work’s not done by the time I get back, eh?”

He waved the knotted rope at the boy, then waddled out to join the others who were off to the ship’s chandlery.

Neb could move only a short distance either way because of the iron slave shackle—escape was out of the question. Through the open door he could see the jetty the ship was moored to. Freedom, so near, yet so far away. He applied himself to the task of chopping the pork and cabbage. It was hard work. The knife had a broken handle and a dull blade. In his frustration, he vented his feelings upon the meat and vegetable, chopping furiously. At least it was warm inside the galley. Outside it was a cold, grey afternoon, with rain drizzling steadily down. He sat on the floor by the stove, watching the jetty for the crew returning. They had been gone for some hours.

A half-starved dog wandered furtively along the jetty, sniffing for scraps. Neb watched the wretched creature. Despite his own plight, the boy’s heart went out to it. The dog was barely identifiable as a black Labrador, half grown, but emaciated. Ribs showed through its mud-caked and scarred fur. One of its eyes was closed over and running. It sniffed up and down the timbers, getting closer to the ship. Poor creature, it seemed ready to take off and bolt at the slightest noise. It had been badly served by some master—that is, if it had ever known an owner.

Pursing his lips together, the boy made encouraging sounds. The dog stopped sniffing and looked up at him. He held out his open palms to it and smiled. It put its head on one side, regarding him through its one great, sad, dark eye. Neb took a piece of salt-pork rind and tossed it to the dog. Gratefully it golloped the scrap down, wagging its tail. He made the noise again and took more rind, holding it out to the dog. Without hesitation it came straight up the gangplank and boarded the ship. Within seconds the boy was stroking the Labrador’s wasted body while it devoured the food. There was plenty of tough rind left from the salt pork, sometimes the hands used it for bait to fish over the side at sea.