Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

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, 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.