Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

darkness. Never would he go back, never again would the family of his stepfather treat him like an animal, a drudge, a

slave! Cold sweat streamed down into his eyes as he forced his leaden legs onward. Life? No sane being could call

that life: a mute, dumb from birth, with no real father to care for him. His mother, frail creature, did not live long after

her marriage to Bjornsen, the herring merchant. After her death the boy was forced to live in a cellar. Bjornsen and his

three hulking sons treated their captive no better than a dog. The boy ran with the resounding clatter of Bjornsen's

sons close behind him. His one aim was to escape them and their miserable existence. Never would he go back.

Never!

A scarfaced Burmese seaman crept swiftly downstairs, where he joined four others at a darkened corner of the

Barbary Shark tavern. He nodded to his cohorts, whispering, 'Kapitan come now!'

They were all sailors of varied nationalities, as villainous a bunch of wharf rats as ever to put foot on shipboard.

Drawing further back into the shadows, they watched the staircase, which led from the upper room. The long blue scar

on the face of the Burmese twitched as he winked at the others.

'I 'ear all, Kapitan goes for the green stones!'

A heavily bearded Englishman smiled thinly. 'So, we ain't just takin' a cargo of ironware out to Valparaiso.

Who does Van-derdecken think he's foolin', eh? He's only goin' out there to pick up a king's ransom of precious

stones!'

A hawkfaced Arab drew a dagger from his belt. 'Then we collect our wages, yes?'

The Englander, who was the ringleader, seized the Arab's wrist. 'Aye, we'll live like lords for the rest of our

lives, mate. But you stow that blade, an' wait 'til I gives the word.'

They took another drink before leaving the Barbary Shark.

The boy stood facing his pursuers—he was trapped, with no place to run, his back to the sea. Bjornsen's three

big sons closed in on the edge of the wharf, where their victim stood gasping for air and trembling in the fogbound

night. Reaching out, the tallest of the trio grabbed the lad's shirtfront.

With a muted animal-like grunt, the boy sank his teeth into his captor's hand. Bjornsen's son roared in pain,

releasing his quarry and instinctively lashing out with his good hand. He cuffed the boy a heavy blow to his jaw.

Stunned, the youngster reeled backward, missed his footing, and fell from the top of the wharf pylons, splashing into

the sea. He went straight down and under the surface.

Kneeling on the edge, the three brothers stared into the dim, greasy depths. A slim stream of bubbles broke the

surface. Then nothing. Fear registered on the brutish face of the one who had done the deed, but he recovered his

composure quickly, warning the other two.

'We could not find him, nobody will know. He had no relatives in the world. What's another dumb fool more or

less? Come on!'

Checking about to see that they had not been noticed in the dark and fog, the trio scurried off home.

Standing at the gangplank, the Dutch captain watched the last of his crew emerge from the misty swaths which

wreathed the harbor. He gestured them aboard.

'Drinking again, jahl Well, there be little enough to get drunk on 'tween here and the Pacific side of the

Americas. Come, get aboard now, make ready to sail!'

The blue scar contracted as the Burmese smiled. 'Aye, aye, Kapitan, we make sail!'

With floodtide swirling about her hull and the stern fenders scraping against the wharf timbers, the vessel came

about facing seaward. Staring ahead into the fog, the captain brought the wheel about half a point and called, 'Let go

aft!'

A Finnish sailor standing astern flicked the rope expertly, jerking the noosed end off the bollard which held it.

The rope splashed into the water. Shivering in the cold night air, he left it to trail along, not wanting to get his hands

wet and frozen by hauling the backstay rope aboard. He ran quickly into the galley and held his hands out over the

warm stove.

The boy was half in and half out of consciousness, numbed to his bones in the cold sea. He felt the rough manila

rope brush against his cheek and seized it. Painfully, hand over hand, he hauled himself upward. When his feet

touched ship's timber, the boy pulled his body clear of the icy sea and found a ledge. He huddled on it, looking up at

the name painted on the vessel's stern in faded, gold-embellished red. Fleiger Hollander. He had never learned to read,

so the letters meant nothing to him. Fleiger Hollander in Dutch, or had the lad been able to understand English, Flying

Dutchman.

2

MORNING LIGHT FOUND THE FOG HAD lifted, revealing a clear blue icy day. The Flying Dutchman

plowed past Goteborg under full sail, ready to round the Skagen point and sail down the Skagerrak out into the wide

North Sea. Philip Vanderdecken, captain of the vessel, braced himself on the small fo'c'sle deck, feeling the buck and

swell of his ship. Light spray from the bow wave touched his face, ropes and canvas thrummed to the breeze

overhead.

Valparaiso bound, where his share of the green stones would make him a rich man for life, he was never a man

to smile, but he allowed himself a single bleak nod of satisfaction. Let the shipowners find another fool to sail this

slop-bucket around the high seas. Leave this crew of wharf scum to pit their wits against another captain. He strode