[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman Read Free Page B

presented the boy with the tray, then poked his finger several times into the lad’s narrow chest.
    â€œNeb, 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!”
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    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.
    â€œSo, you never died after all. Do you know who I am, boy?”
    Neb nodded twice, watching for the next question.
    â€œCan 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.
    â€œMaybe ’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.
    â€œLuck 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 hated 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.
    â€œNo 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