[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman by Brian Jacques Read Free Book Online Page B

for the crew out on the deck and get back inside quickly. I’ll ring the ship’s bell, they’ll come and get their meal then. I’ll ring the bell again in the morning when they return the empty pans. Collect them up and lock yourself in again. If they catch you with that galley door open, the scum will slay you, eat your dog, and strip the galley bare. You open this door only to me. Understand?” Neb, his eyes never leaving the captain’s, saluted in reply and set about his tasks.
    Only once did a crew member venture out on deck for reasons other than going to the galley door. Mister Vogel, the German mate, driven almost mad with hunger and cold, approached the captain’s cabin. He was a big, powerfully built man. Emboldened by the ship’s predicament, he banged upon Vanderdecken’s door. When the door did not open, he began shouting. “Kapitan, it is I, Vogel. You must turn this ship around. If we stay here longer, all will be lost. Kapitan, I beg you to listen. We are fast running out of food and water, the men are sick and weak, this ship will not stand up to these seas for long. We are going nowhere! Give the order to put about and sail for safety, Kapitan. We can go anywhere, Malvinas, San Marias, Bahia Blanca. The Americas are close. There we could refit the vessel, sell what cargo remains on board, take on another cargo, and sail for Algiers, Morocco, Spain, even home to Copenhagen. Soon you will have mutiny aboard if we sit here, Kapitan. You know what I say makes sense. Do it, now, I implore you in the name of the Lord!”
    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.
    â€œI 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