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

While the dog ate, Neb took a rag and some warm water with salt in it. The dog allowed him to bathe its eye. Freed from the crust and debris of some old infection, its eye gradually opened—it was clear and undamaged. Neb was pleased and hugged his newfound friend. He was rewarded by several huge, sloppy licks from the dog’s tongue. Knowing the effects of salt-pork rind, he gave it a pannikin of fresh water. As the dog curled up by the galley stove, a fierce affection for the ownerless creature burned within Neb. He decided there and then that he was going to keep it.

Spreading some old sacks under the far corner of the table, he pushed the dog onto them, all the time petting and stroking it. His new friend made no fuss, but went quiet and willingly into the hiding place, staring at him with great trusting eyes as he covered it with more sacks. Neb peeped into the secret den. He looked warningly at the dog and held a finger to his tight-shut lips. It licked his hand, as if it understood to remain silent.

A sound from behind caused Neb to scuttle out from beneath the table. Captain Vanderdecken stood framed in the galley doorway, his teeth grinding as his jaw worked back and forth. Neb cowered, expecting to be kicked. Normally he slept beneath the galley table, but only when told to go to bed. The captain’s voice had the ring of steel in it.

“Where’s Petros and the rest, not back yet?”

Wide-eyed with fear, the boy shook his head.

Vanderdecken’s fists clenched and unclenched, and he spat out the words viciously. “Drinking! That’s where the useless swine will be, pouring gin and ale down their slobbering faces in some drinking den!” He stamped off, raving through clenched teeth, “If I miss the floodtide because of a bunch of drunken animals, I’ll take a swordblade to them!”

Neb knew by the captain’s frightening eyes that there was going to be trouble, no matter whether the crew arrived back early or late. For refuge he crawled back under the table and hid with his dog. A warm tongue licked his cheek as he huddled close to the black Labrador, staring into its soft, dark eyes and stroking its thin neck. Neb wished fervently that he could talk, to speak gently and reassure the dog. All that came from his mouth was a hoarse little sound. It was enough. The dog whimpered quietly, laying its head on his lap, reinforcing the growing bond between them.

Less than an hour later, hurried and stumbling footsteps rang out on the jetty. Neb peered out. The five men who had been sent for provisions came tumbling aboard, followed by Vanderdecken like an avenging angel. He laid about them with the knotted rope end that he had snatched from Petros, thrashing them indiscriminately, his voice thundering out with righteous wrath.

“Brainless gin-sodden morons. Half a day lost because of your stupidity! Can’t you keep your snouts out of flagons long enough to do a simple task? Worthless scum!”

The Dutchman showed no mercy. He flogged the five hands with furious energy, savagely booting flat any man who tried to rise or crawl away. Neb could not tear his eyes from the fearful scene. The captain’s coattails whirled about him as he flogged the miscreants. Knotted rope striking flesh and bone sounded like chestnuts cracking on a hearth amid the sobs and screams of his victims.

When Vanderdecken had exhausted his energy, he flung some coins at the chandler’s assistant, waiting by the jetty with a loaded cart. “You, get those supplies aboard before we lose the tide!”

Whilst the materials were being transferred, Petros raised his bruised and tearstained face. He had spotted something none of the others had noticed. The emerald glinted on the deck where it had fallen from the captain’s pocket when he was beating the crewmen.

Slowly, carefully, the fat cook stretched out his grimy hand to retrieve the gemstone.

“Eeeeeyaaaargh!” he screeched as the Dutchman’s boot heel smashed down on the back of his hand. Vanderdecken snatched the emerald, continuing to grind Petros’s hand against the deck, thrusting all his weight onto the iron-tipped heel.

“Thief! Drunkard! Pirate! No man steals from me! There, now we have a one-handed cook. Back to work, all of you, cast off for’ard, aft and midships! Make sail, leave no lines drifting, coil them shipshape. Seamen? I’ll make seamen of you before this voyage is out!”

He stormed off to take the steersman’s place at the wheel.

Whimpering and moaning piteously, Petros crawled into the galley, falling flat on Neb’s outstretched leg, which was still chained to the stove. Raising his tearstained face to the boy, he sobbed piteously. “He broke my hand, see. Petros’s hand smashed, an’ what for? Nothing, that’s what for. Nothing!”

Neb felt sick just looking at the hand. It was wretched beyond healing, a horrific sight. Blubbering into his greasy beard, the cook looked to Neb for help. “Fix it for me, boy. Make bandage for poor Petros’s hand.”

Neb felt no pity for the fat, wicked cook. He was secretly glad that the hand that had often beat him was now useless, but he had to get the man upright before he looked under the table. The boy made his muted noise and pointed at the chain, indicating he could do nothing until he was freed.

Amid much groaning and wincing, Petros found the key with his good hand and unlocked the shackle. Neb helped him up onto a bench, where he sat weeping and nursing his hand.

Drizzling rain gave way to a clear evening. Ropes and lines thrummed as the vessel’s sail bellied tautly, backed by a stiffening breeze. The wheel spun under Vanderdecken’s experienced hands as he guided the Flying Dutchman out into deeper waters. It was well out to sea by the time Neb was done with his ministrations. Medical supplies were virtually nil aboard the vessel, but the boy used some relatively clean strips of coarse linen from a palliasse cover. Tearing the cloth into strips, he soaked them in clean, salted water and bound the hand and arm from fingertips to elbow. Petros howled as the salt stung broken bone and torn, swollen flesh, but he knew the salt would clear up any infection.

All the time Neb’s dog stayed silent in his hiding place.

The Englander and Jamil came furtively into the galley. Petros kept up his whining, glad he had more of an audience to listen to his complaints. “See, the poor hand of Petros. What use is a man at sea with only one good hand? I ask you, my friends, was there any need for that devil to do this to me?”

The Englander ignored the cook’s misfortune. “What did you try to pick up off the deck, something that belonged to the cap’n, eh?”

Petros held out his good hand to the pair. “Help me to my cabin, Scraggs. You, too, Jamil. The boy is too small for me to lean on. Help me.”

Scraggs, the Englander, grabbed the bandaged hand from its sling. “What did you pick up off the deck? Tell us.”

“Nothing, my friend. It was nothing, I swear!”

Jamil’s curved dagger was at Petros’s throat. “You lie. Tell us what it was or I’ll give you another mouth, right across your filthy neck. Speak!”

Petros knew they meant business, so he spoke rapidly. “It was the green stone, the dragon’s eye. A man could have bought three tavernas with it!”

Scraggs shook his head knowingly and smiled at Jamil. “See, I told you: emeralds. That’s what this trip’s about.” Looking hugely satisfied that his hunch had been confirmed, Scraggs strode from the galley, leaving Jamil to help Petros to his cabin. Scraggs paused in the doorway and pointed his own knife in Neb’s direction.

“Not a word of this to anyone, lad. D’ye hear?”

Neb nodded vigorously.

The Englander smiled at his own mistake. “How could you say a word, you’re a mute.”