[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman Page 5

  Vanderdecken cocked the big pepperpot musket. It was a clumsy but awesome weapon—one pull of the trigger could send out a fusillade of leaden shot, six heavy musket balls. Without opening the cabin door he fired, the blast killing Vogel instantly. Neb and his dog jumped with shock at the sound of the explosion. Reloading swiftly, the captain marched from the cabin with sword and pistol, a maniacal light in his eyes, calling out in a voice like thunder. Neb and the crew could not help but hear him.

  “I am Vanderdecken, master of the Flying Dutchman! I take orders from neither God nor man! Nothing can stop me, nothing in this world or the heavens above. Cower in your cabins or throw yourselves into the waters, what need have I of worthless wharf dregs who call themselves sailors. Sailors. I will show you a sailor, a captain! As soon as I have this ship rigged and ready, I set course again for Tierra del Fuego! I will take my vessel ’round the Horn single-handed. Do you hear, single-handed. Stand in my path and I will slay you all!”

  7

  NOT ONE SOUL ABOARD THOUGHT that he could ready the ship for sail alone. But Vanderdecken did it. All night and half a day he could be heard, banging, clattering, scaling the masts, dragging sailcloth from lockers, reeving lines, and lashing yards. His final mad act was to slash the sheet anchors free, fore and aft, then he dashed to the steering wheel and bound himself to it. The Flying Dutchman took the swell of the gale as it struck her stern. Off into the seas the battered craft sped, like a fleeing stag pursued by the hounds of hell into the midwinter wastes of the ocean, headed again for Cape Horn and destiny.

  One week later the food and water ran out. Without the captain’s protection now, Neb was left to fend for himself. The boy had never been so frightened before. Now, bolting the galley door, he fortified it by jamming the table and empty barrels against it. Whenever a crewman hauled himself across the swaying, rolling decks to bang upon the galley door, Denmark’s hackles rose and he barked and snarled like a wild beast until the crewman went away.

  Each time the ship lost way and was driven back in the pounding melee of blue-green waves, Vanderdecken screeched and raved, his sanity completely gone, tearing at his hair and shaking a bloodless fist at the seas and sky, sometimes laughing, other times weeping openly in his delirium.

  On the first day following that dreadful week, the Flying Dutchman was driven backward for the third time by a howling hurricane of wind, snow, and rain. But straight to the east the vessel careered this time, sails torn, masts cracked, shipping water that sloshed about in empty holds from which the last scraps of cargo had been jettisoned to save the ship.

  Then by some perverse freak of nature the weather suddenly becalmed itself! An olive-hued stillness hung upon the Atlantic; rain, snow, and wind ceased. Startled by the sudden change, Neb and his dog came out on deck. The crew deserted their accommodation, creeping out furtively into the dull afternoon. It was as if heaven and all the elements were conspiring to play some pitiless joke on the Flying Dutchman.

  “Eeeeaaaarrrggghhh!” All hands turned to watch Vanderdecken, for it was he who had roared like a condemned man being dragged to execution. With his sword he was feverishly hacking at the ropes that bound him to the ship’s wheel. Tearing himself loose, oblivious to the onlookers, he jabbed the blade skyward and began hurling abuse, at the weather, at the failure. . . . At the Lord!

  Even though the crew were men hardened to the vilest of oaths, they were riveted speechless by their captain’s blasphemy. Neb fell on his knees and hugged the dog that stood guarding him. Across on the eastern horizon, bruised dull skies gave way to immense banks of jet-black thunderclouds, building up out of nowhere. With fearsome speed they boiled and rumbled until they darkened the daylight overhead.

  Simultaneously, a bang of thunder shook the very ocean and a colossal chain of crackling lightning ripped the clouds apart. Men covered their eyes at the unearthly scene. The green lights of Saint Elmo’s fire caught every spar, mast, and timber of the vessel, illuminating the Flying Dutchman in an eerie green glow. Vanderdecken fell back against the wheel, eyes staring, mouth gaping as the green-flamed swordblade fell from his nerveless grasp. Neb had buried his face in the dog’s coat, but as Denmark crouched flat, he unwittingly allowed his master this view.

  A being, not of this earth, was hovering just above the deck. It was neither man nor woman, tall and shining white, bearing a great sword. It turned and pointed the sword at Vanderdecken. Its voice, when it spoke, was like a thousand harps strummed by winds, ranging out over the sea, beautiful yet terrifying. “Mortal man, you are but a grain of sand in the mighty ocean. Your greed and your cruelty and your arrogance turned your tongue against your Maker. Henceforth, and for all the days of time, this ship, with you and all upon it, are lost to the sight of heaven. You will sail the waters of the world for eternity!”

  Neb saw Scraggs then, and Sindh, Petros, Vogel, and the two hands who had been swept from the rigging and drowned. All of them, pale, silent, and dripping seawater, stood by the crew, staring with dead eyes at their captain. It was a sight to haunt the boy’s dreams for centuries to come. A sea-scarred ship, crewed by the dead and those who would never know the release of death, standing in the fiery green light, silently accusing the captain who had brought the curse of the Lord upon them and the Flying Dutchman.

  Without warning the elements returned. At the sound of a second thunderbolt the waves sprang up. Icy sleet carried sideways on the wailing wind drove a huge roller, smashing into the vessel’s port side. Neb and Denmark were washed from the deck straight into the Atlantic Ocean. Clinging to the dog’s collar with both hands, the boy did not see the wooden spar that struck him, nor did he know that his good and faithful dog pulled him up onto that same spar, saving them both. The last thing he remembered was a cold abyss of darkness. The Flying Dutchman receded into storm-torn darkness, leaving astern a dog clinging to a spar, with an unconscious boy draped across it, cast away upon the deeps.

  Vanderdecken and his crew

  sailed cursed into eternity,

  leaving in the Dutchman’s wake

  two castaways upon the sea.

  A struggling dog, a helpless boy

  pounded by storm and wave,

  victims of the dread Cape Horn,

  that deep and watery grave.

  But lo! The angel returned to them,

  commanding, serene, and calm,

  bringing a message unto their minds,

  preserving the friends from harm.

  “You are saved by innocence of heart

  and granted your lives anew,

  the gift of heaven’s mercy

  bestowed in faith, on you!

  I am sent to bless you both

  with that which you shall need:

  boundless youth, understanding,

  and speech to succeed.

  Throughout the ages, roam this world,

  and wherever need is great,

  bring confidence and sympathy,

  help others to change their fate.

  Fear not the tyrant’s bitter frown,

  but aid the poor in their woe,

  make truth and hope bring evil down,

  spread peace and joy where you go!”

  THE SHEPHERD

  8

  THE NIGHT WIND KEENED OUT ITS lonely dirge across the barren coast of Tierra del Fuego. Ragged drifts of cloud shadowed the moon, casting weird patterns of silver and black over the land below. Mountainous dark green waves, topped by stark white crests and flying spume, thundered madly, smashing against the rocks, failing in their quest to conquer the shore, hissing vengefully through the small, pebbled strand, retreating to the seas for a renewed assault on Cape Horn, where two mighty oceans meet.

  Neb regained his senses gradually. He was being dragged around the rocks and shallows of a little cove; the dog had its teeth sunk into his collar, trying to pull him clear of the water. An incoming roller knocked them both flat, but the Labrador clung stubbornly to him. Painfully the boy staggered to
his hands and knees. Shuffling, crawling, he assisted the faithful creature attempting to tug him beyond the tideline. He lay there a moment, dazed, then he retched, shivering and vomiting seawater among a debris of seaweed, driftwood, and pale sand scattered with pebbles, his whole body shuddering with the effort.

  “Gurround! Gurr Neb grrr!”

  The sound came from nearby. Neb got to his knees, wiping his mouth with a sand-crusted forearm, and looked around. There was no sign of any living being, except for the dog. A thought flashed through his mind that somebody was trying to talk to him. Yet it was not an actual sound, just a feeling.

  The rough voice came again. He realized it was like a thought, something invading his mind.

  “Gurround Neb, wurrrr safe, grrr!”

  The dog’s paw was worrying at his leg, as Neb stared up at the cliffs above, searching in case someone was hiding there. All this time his mind was in a jumble of speculation: What could it be? A voice, not aloud, but like a spirit inside his head. Was it the angel, haunting his imagination? No, angels didn’t growl! Neb flinched as the dog’s blunt claw scraped his leg. Turning, he took the dog’s face in both hands, staring deep into its warm brown eyes. He thought as they gazed at one another, What is it, Denmark, can you feel something, too?

  The reply hit him like a bolt as he heard the dog’s thought.

  “Denmurrk, gurr . . . I Denmurrk, grr, Neb ’live!”

  Then Neb heard his own voice, but not from within his head as a thought. It was from his mouth! A shout, echoing from the cliffs, above the sea and wind.

  “You Den! You Dennnnnnnn!” Immediately Neb’s hand shot to his throat, and he spoke, halting, but quite clear. “I . . . talk!”

  Denmark bowled him over, covering his face with a warm, slobbery tongue, both paws on his shoulders. “Gurrrrrr! We t . . . talk, Neb, Denmurrrk . . . gurr . . . talk!”

  Overcome by the sudden miracle, Neb and Den suddenly found themselves expressing their joy in the way any boy and his dog would, rolling over, wrestling in the sand, tears streaming from their eyes as Neb roared with laughter and Den barked aloud.

  Old Luis the Shepherd heard the noise. He had climbed down a wide rift in the cliffs, descending to the shore. There were always bits of interesting flotsam to be found, besides driftwood and sea coal for his fire. But this was a sound he had never heard on the hostile coast of the Tierra, the strains of happiness. Shouldering his bundle of wood, Luis picked up the small sack of sea coal he had garnered and waded into the shallows, where a rocky point divided the shore. Gathering his woolen blanket cloak about him, and holding on to a rock to steady his balance against the sucking tidewater, he narrowed his eyes against the flying spray. Then, still peering up the beach, he sloshed through the shallows, crow’s-feet crinkling around his eyes. Luis could not help smiling at the odd sight.

  A gaunt boy, ragged and rake-thin, his hair matted with sand and seawater, was screeching and laughing wildly as he danced around and capered like a mad thing. With the lad was a big, emaciated black dog, its ribs showing through the sheen of its saturated coat. It stood on hind legs, both forepaws on the boy’s shoulders, as it leaped about with him, barking and howling at the moon.

  Luis walked toward the pair, waving the bundle of fire-wood, calling out in his native Spanish tongue. “Hola! Are you stricken by the dance of Saint Vitus? Why do you celebrate on these Tierra shores in such weather? My friends, what brings you here?”

  Neb and Den halted, staring at the old fellow, unsure of what to do next. Thoughts raced between them. “Stay, Den, he is friend, I understand how he speaks.”

  Denmark licked his young master’s hand. “Grr, old one good, gurr. Den not know his speak. You do, Neb?”

  Luis put down the wood and the coal and held out his open palms to them in a gesture of peace. “Friend, you must have come here from a ship, maybe it was wrecked. Are there no others left alive?”

  Neb shook his head dumbly, not trusting his newfound voice.

  The old shepherd merely nodded. “May the Señor God give their poor souls rest. So there are only two left alive, you and the dog, eh. My name is Luis the Shepherd—how are you called?”

  Slowly the boy pointed to the dog. “Den!” Then he pressed a finger to his own chest. “Neb!”

  Luis repeated his former question. “How did you come here?”

  The strange boy did not reply, but the old man watched as tears flowed silently down Neb’s cheeks.

  Carefully the old man approached Neb. He touched the youngster’s cold, damp arm, then placed a palm on his hot, dry forehead, murmuring gently. “Young one, you are starving, soaked, and fevered. You will not have much to give thanks for if you perish out here in the open. Your dog needs rest and food, too. My hut has food and fire—you will both be warm and dry. Come with me, I won’t harm you. Come!”

  Luis took off his cloak and draped it about the boy’s trembling shoulders.

  Neb and Den exchanged thoughts. “This is a good old man, we will go with him, Den.”

  “Gurr, I go with you.”

  Luis had quite a big hut, which of necessity suited the lay of the windswept clifftops. It was dug into the lee of a slanting rock, which formed one wall and part of the roof. The rest of its construction was mainly of ship’s beams, planking, and tree boughs, chinked together with stones and earth sodding. The whole thing had a lining of ship’s-sail canvas, of which Luis seemed to possess a fair amount. It had a rough door, which had once belonged to the cabin of some sailing vessel, with a canvas curtain draped across to keep out drafts. There were no windows, so all in all it was fairly weathertight. Luis seated them in a peculiar construction made from a wrecked lifeboat, padded out with dry grass and sacking. It was very comfortable. He fed wood and coal to the fire, which was held in a deep brazier of strap iron. On a tripod over the flames was an upturned ship’s bell, with the name Paloma Verde engraved into its soot-blackened metal. Luis struck it with a ladle; it clanked dully.

  “Sometimes the sea is kind to a poor man. It washes up gifts for him. See, a cooking pot, a lifeboat couch, and many other things I have taken from the shores. Señor Neptune can be a good friend. Look at tonight—he sent a lonely old shepherd two guests to share his fire and food. Wait!” He rummaged in a corner, bringing forth a thick sheepskin poncho and some soft, clean flour sacks, which he gave to Neb. “Give me your wet clothes, dry yourself and that good dog with the sacks, then put on the sheepskin. It is a fine warm one. Do not fall asleep yet, young one. You must both eat first.”

  Neither the boy nor the dog had ever known such kindness in their short, hard lives. Luis handed them each a bowl of hot mutton and barley soup, which they ate in silence. He watched them both, refilling the bowls twice. The old shepherd then brewed a hot, dark, fragrant drink from cut and dried leaves, to which he added sugar that he broke from a big cone and creamy ewe’s milk.

  Luis sipped his own, noting their grateful reaction. “That is called tea. It comes from the east, where it grows in far Cathay. Some years ago a merchant vessel was wrecked off the coast. My friend the sea provided me with four barrels of tea. It is rare and valuable. Do you like it, Neb?”

  Sniffing at the fine aroma, Neb replied, “It is good!”

  The meal finished, Luis watched with eyes that were grey and watered from years in the hostile climate. As his guests’ heads began to droop with weariness, he mused quietly. “You are the strangest pair ever to come my way, but the Tierra has taught me to ask no questions. If one day you wish to tell me about yourself, boy, I will listen. If you should choose to keep your secret, well, who am I but a poor old shepherd who takes bad and good fortune alike. Life is but part of the Lord’s great mystery. He did not put me on this earth to interrogate others. Sleep now, you are tired, sleep.”

  A final thought communicated itself from boy to dog. “Luis is a good man, we are safe here, Den.”

  “Gurrrr, no more Dutch . . . man, grrrr!”

  9

  TIERRA DEL FU
EGO.1623.

  THREE YEARS LATER.

  DAWN CAME, AS HEAVY AND GREY AS the headland rocks, with pale light piercing forbidding cloud banks on the far horizon. Aided by Neb and Den, Luis herded his small flock back from the clifftops. Hooking a half-grown ewe with his crooked staff, the old shepherd turned her back inland.

  “Come away from the cliff edge, little one, or you will never grow to be a mother. Go, join your family.”

  He waved to the boy, who was some distance away. “That’s the last one, my son. Take them to the pen. It is not good for sheep to roam loose on a day like this.”

  Cupping both hands around his mouth, Neb called back. “Aye, winter played a trick on us, hanging about and not letting spring arrive yet. Don’t stay out too long, Luis. We’ll see you back at the hut!”

  The shepherd’s leathery face wrinkled into a smile. He stood with his back to the cliffs, watching his two friends moving the flock along, as though they were born to the task.

  Before the dog arrived, Luis had only a bellwether to lead his animals, a crusty old ram with a clanking iron bell tied about his neck, a flock patriarch who bullied and jostled his charges into submission. Sheep would always follow a bellwether, often into dangerous areas, much to the shepherd’s dismay. However, with the arrival of the dog, all that changed. Luis was astounded at how quickly Den learned to take commands; the black Labrador immediately took issue with the lead ram and gave the bellwether more than one severe lesson.

  Den became the flock leader. Though he graciously allowed the bellwether his customary position in front of the sheep, it was the dog who circled them, giving directions and keeping the creatures together and safe. Den had grown stronger. In the course of three years he was bigger and healthier with a coat that shone like black silk. A far cry from the half-starved bonebag Luis had first discovered at the sea’s edge with Neb. The old shepherd turned to stare out at the restless face of the deeps, his thoughts turning to dwell on the boy.