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

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 I! 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. Vanderdecken strode in and sat at the table. “Bring my log-book, quill, and ink from my cabin.”

Whilst he made more coffee, Neb listened to Vanderdecken 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.