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

4

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN WAS NOW ON course, cutting the coast of Germany and the Netherlands, picking up the English Channel currents. Neb had spent a happy few days. Petros refused to leave his bunk, and lay in his cabin moaning night and day. Alone in the galley, Neb cooked for all hands. The menu was not difficult to contend with—salt cod or salt pork, boiled up with whatever came to hand: cabbage, turnips, kale. Neb threw it all in a cooking pot and boiled it with pepper and salt. Now and then, to satisfy his longing for something sweet he would pound up some ship’s biscuit, damp it down into a paste, mix in a bit of dried fruit—figs, apricots, and raisins. Baked up in the oven, this made a stodgy pie. There were no complaints, in fact, one of the hands remarked that it was an improvement on the Greek’s efforts.

Neb decided to call his dog Denmark, that being the country from which they both came. There was a marked change in the black Labrador. Overnight under his young master’s care he had grown bigger, sleeker, and healthier. A very intelligent dog, quiet and obedient. At a quick nod from the boy, Denmark would immediately go to his place under the table.

Neb worked hard around the galley. As long as the crew got their meals, they seldom came near the place. In the forecastle of the Flying Dutchman was a big cabin, where the crew ate and slept; Neb had to go there every day, usually in the evening. He would brew fresh coffee in a large urn—it always had to be on tap for any hands to drink hot, night or day.

They were sailing through the English Channel—the white cliffs of Dover could be glimpsed from the fo’c’sle head. Crewmen coming off watch were bustling in, pale-skinned from the cold. At the urn, they guzzled down earthenware mugs of the cheap coffee. It was strong and black. Made from roasted acorns, chicory, and a few coffee beans, it tasted bitter, but it was a hot drink.

Neb was pouring boiling water into the urn, the crew ignoring him completely. Because he could not talk, they treated him as deaf, dumb, and dim-witted, a thing people did to anyone not the same as themselves. Neb could see their faces in the surface of the copper urn, which he had polished earlier. Though they whispered, the boy heard every word of the conversation between Scraggs, Jamil, and the Burmese scarface, whose name was Sindh. They were plotting against the captain.

“You go into his cabin with a blade while he sleeps.”

“Oh no, not Jamil. They say the Dutchman never sleeps.”

“Stay out of that cabin, my friend. He keeps a sharp sword there, always near at hand. If we want to finish Vanderdecken, it must be done by us all, swiftly, out on deck. That way he can be thrown right over the side an’ we sail off, eh?”

Scraggs sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “Aye, you’re right, Sindh . . . when ’tis good and quiet. When he comes out to check on the night watch before turning in. That’s the best time.”

The scar on Sindh’s face twitched. “Good, me an’ Jamil will change watches with the two out there later tonight. You can hide yourself on deck.”

A stiletto blade gleamed as Scraggs laid it on the table. “You two grab him, I’ll give our cap’n a swift taste of this beauty, then we strip the body and he’s ready for the fishes!”

Sindh traced his blue scar with a cracked fingernail. “When the kapitan is gone, what then, Scraggs, my friend? One green stone is hard to split three ways.”

Scraggs winked at them both. “Then I take command. We sail her to Valparaiso and I as cap’n pick up the rest of the stones. There should be plenty to go ’round twixt three then.”

Sindh thought about this for a moment before replying. “Why can’t I be kapitan, or Jamil here?”

“Because I’m an Englander, I look more like a Dutchy than you two ever could, an’ I speak the lingo. Any objections?” Scraggs toyed with the dangerous-looking stiletto, watching them. Jamil smiled and patted the mate’s hand.

“Of course not, my friend, it is a good plan. But I do have a harmless little question. What happens when we have both the ship and the stones? We cannot sail back to Europe.”

“Simple, we follow the coast up north until we sight a place called Costa Rica. Anchor up there to take on fresh water and fruit. While the crew are busy doing that, we jump ship. Other side of the mountain there is the Carribean Sea, Hispaniola, Cartagena, Naracaibo, beyond the reach of law. Sunny climes, blue seas, golden sands, an’ we three, rich as kings. Think of it—we could build our own castles, own ships, employ servants, or buy slaves. That would do me fine, never to feel another cold day for life!”

Petros came stumping through from a cabin that led off the main one. The conspirators nudged one another and fell silent. The Greek cook clipped Neb’s ear with his good hand. “You never brought me any coffee. Get on, boy, leave some on the table by my bunk!” Obediently Neb poured a bowl of coffee and hurried through to the other cabin, with Petros following, berating him. “After all I do for you, save your life, feed you, teach you how to be sea cook. This is how you treat Petros. I should have left you for the fishes. Don’t spill that coffee, put it down there. Not there . . . there! Get out of here and leave me now. Nobody wants a poor sea cook with one hand. I’m in pain night and day, with not a soul to care. Out, out!”

Neb retired gratefully to his galley.

Sitting beneath the table with his dog, Neb stroked Denmark as he pondered his dilemma. Three crewmen were planning to murder the captain! From what Neb had seen of the Dutchman’s crew, he knew they were lawless drunkards and thieves. Vanderdecken was a hard and cruel ship’s master, but he was the only one aboard who could keep the vessel running in an orderly and disciplined manner. Without a proper captain the alternatives were bleak. Neb doubted that such a wayward bunch would take orders from Scraggs, nor was he sure the Englander would be able to bring them to their destination safely. Even if he did, what then? How could he warn the captain of the plot on his life? Vanderdecken would take scant notice of his crew’s lowliest member, a mute boy. The dog watched Neb with its soft, dark eyes. As if sensing his dilemma, it licked the boy’s hand and gave a single low whine.

Later that evening footsteps sounded out on deck. Neb nodded to Denmark, and the dog vanished beneath the table to its hideout. The boy peered around the galley door. There was Vanderdecken, emerging from his cabin at the stern. Coming toward him from midships were the two hands, Jamil and Sindh. The boy’s stomach went into a knot of anxiety. He could feel a pounding in his chest.

Somewhere between the captain and the two crewmen, Scraggs was waiting in hiding, holding the stiletto ready. A thousand things raced through Neb’s brain, silly inconsequential ideas. He dismissed them all. What could he do?

The captain halted in front of Jamil and Sindh, eyeing them suspiciously. He knew the watch order. “What are you two doing out here? Ranshoff and Vogel are the late-night watch.”

He caught Jamil looking over his shoulder toward the rear of the galley. Vanderdecken turned as Scraggs broke cover and ran toward him. Jamil and Sindh threw themselves upon the captain from behind, grabbing him by his neck and arms. Neb saw the blade flash upward as Scraggs covered the last few strides. He could not see the captain murdered.

Flinging himself out the galley door, Neb collided with Scraggs. Carried forward, they bulled into Vanderdecken, with Scraggs bellowing, “Hold him tight, I’ll deal with the lad!” Caught between the captain and the mate, Neb gave out a mute cry as the stiletto blade arched overhead.