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  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, Nebuchadnezzer—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 1 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 hatred 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.

  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 Englandcr, 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."

  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 im-

  provement on the Greek's efforts.

  Neb decided to call his dog Denmark, t
hat 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."