and held a finger to his tight-shut lips. It licked his hand, as if it understood to remain silent.
A sound from behind caused Neb to scuttle out from beneath the table. Captain Vanderdecken stood framed in
the galley doorway, his teeth grinding as his jaw worked back and forth. Neb cowered, expecting to be kicked.
Normally he slept beneath the galley table, but only when told to go to bed. The captain's voice had the ring of steel in
it.
"Where's Petros and the rest, not back yet?"
Wide-eyed with fear, the boy shook his head.
Vanderdecken's fists clenched and unclenched, and he spat out the words viciously. "Drinking! That's where the
useless swine will be, pouring gin and ale down their slobbering faces in some drinking den!" He stamped off, raving
through clenched teeth, "If I miss the floodtide because of a bunch of drunken animals, I'll take a swordblade to
them!"
Neb knew by the captain's frightening eyes that there was going to be trouble, no matter whether the crew
arrived back early or late. For refuge he crawled back under the table and hid with his dog. A warm tongue licked his
cheek as he huddled close to the black Labrador, staring into its soft, dark eyes and stroking its thin neck. Neb wished
fervently that he could talk, to speak gently and reassure the dog. All that came from his mouth was a hoarse little
sound. It was enough. The dog whimpered quietly, laying its head on his lap, reinforcing the growing bond between
them.
Less than an hour later, hurried and stumbling footsteps rang out on the jetty. Neb peered out. The five men
who had been sent for provisions came tumbling aboard, followed by Vanderdecken like an avenging angel. He laid
about them with the knotted rope end that he had snatched from Petros, thrashing them indiscriminately, his voice
thundering out with righteous wrath.
"Brainless gin-sodden morons. Half a day lost because of your stupidity! Can't you keep your snouts out of
flagons long enough to do a simple task? Worthless scum!"
The Dutchman showed no mercy. He flogged the five hands with furious energy, savagely booting flat any man
who tried to rise or crawl away. Neb could not tear his eyes from the fearful scene. The captain's coattails whirled
about him as he flogged the miscreants. Knotted rope striking flesh and bone sounded like chestnuts cracking on a
hearth amid the sobs and screams of his victims.
When Vanderdecken had exhausted his energy, he flung some coins at the chandler's assistant, waiting by the
jetty with a loaded cart. "You, get those supplies aboard before we lose the tide!"
Whilst the materials were being transferred, Petros raised his bruised and tearstained face. He had spotted
something none of the others had noticed. The emerald glinted on the deck where it had fallen from the captain's
pocket when he was beating the crewmen.
Slowly, carefully, the fat cook stretched out his grimy hand to retrieve the gemstone.
"Eeeeeyaaaargh!" he screeched as the Dutchman's boot heel smashed down on the back of his hand.
Vanderdecken snatched the emerald, continuing to grind Petros's hand against the deck, thrusting all his weight onto
the iron-tipped heel.
"Thief! Drunkard! Pirate! No man steals from me! There, now we have a one-handed cook. Back to work, all of
you, cast off for'ard, aft and midships! Make sail, leave no lines drifting, coil them shipshape. Seamen? I'll make
seamen of you before this voyage is out!"
He stormed off to take the steersman's place at the wheel.
Whimpering and moaning piteously, Petros crawled into the galley, falling flat on Neb's outstretched leg, which
was still chained to the stove. Raising his tearstained face to the boy, he sobbed piteously. "He broke my hand, see.
Petros's hand smashed, an' what for? Nothing, that's what for. Nothing!"
Neb felt sick just looking at the hand. It was wretched beyond healing, a horrific sight. Blubbering into his
greasy beard, the cook looked to Neb for help. "Fix it for me, boy. Make bandage for poor Petros's hand."
Neb felt no pity for the fat, wicked cook. He was secretly glad that the hand that had often beat him was now
useless, but he had to get the man upright before he looked under the table. The boy made his muted noise and pointed
at the chain, indicating he could do nothing until he was freed.
Amid much groaning and wincing, Petros found the key with his good hand and unlocked the shackle. Neb
helped him up onto a bench, where he sat weeping and nursing his hand.
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