coffee there. Denmark stayed between the stove and the far bulkhead. The dog never showed any inclination to be
near anyone except Neb. Ignoring the animal's presence, the captain gave orders to the boy.
"Take that food and coffee to the fo'c'sle head cabin, serve it to the hands. Don't hurry, but listen to what they
are saying, then come back here. Go on, boy, take your dog, too." Neb did as he was bidden. While he was gone,
Vanderdecken sat at the galley table, the door partially open, staring out at the restless waves, thinking his own secret
thoughts.
After a while Neb returned, carrying the empty stewpot, with the dog trailing at his heels. Vanderdecken
indicated a packing box, which served as a chair at the table.
"Sit there, boy, and tell me what you heard."
Neb looked perplexed. He pointed to his mouth and shrugged.
The captain fixed him with a stern, piercing stare. "I know you are mute. Keep your eyes on me and listen. Now,
the crew are not happy, yes? I can tell they're not by the look in your eyes. Keep looking at me. They are talking
among themselves. It's mutiny, they want to take over my ship and sail back home. Am I right?"
Neb's eyes widened. He felt like a flightless bird in the presence of a cobra. His gaze riveted on the remorseless
pale-grey eyes.
The captain nodded. "Of course I'm correct! Who is the one doing the most talking, eh, is it Vogel? No? Then
perhaps there's another, Ranshoff the Austrian? No, he's too stupid. Maybe there's two spokesmen, the pair I had put
in chains?
I'm right, aren't 1! It's Jamil and Sindh. Though I'll wager that Sindh is the one who does most of the talking."
Neb sat fascinated by Vanderdecken's uncanny judgment. He did not move, the icy grey eyes held him pinned,
as if they were reading his mind like a book.
The captain laid a short, fat musket on the table. It had six stubby barrels, which could discharge simultaneously
at one pull of the trigger. A pepperpot musket of the type often used in riots with devastating effect in enclosed
spaces.
"Aye, your eyes are too honest to lie, boy. Stay here, lock the door, and admit nobody but myself." Concealing
the weapon beneath his tattered cloak, the Dutchman swept out of the galley.
Locking the door securely, the boy, trembling, was left with his dog. They sat staring at one another, Denmark
laying his head upon his young master's lap, gazing up at him with anxious eyes.
Neb had no idea how long he sat thus, awaiting the report of the fearsome musket. But none came. He thought
that maybe the crew had overcome their harsh captain and thrown him overboard. The boy's eyes began to close in the
galley's warmth, when Denmark stood up, suddenly alert. Somebody banged on the door, and a voice called out.
"Open up, boy, it's your captain!"
Trembling with relief, Neb unbolted the door. Van-derdecken strode in and sat at the table. "Bring my logbook,
quill, and ink from my cabin."
Whilst he made more coffee, Neb listened to Van-derdecken intoning as he wrote in the ship's log:
"We sail back to Cape Horn at dawn's first light. This time the Flying Dutchman will make it 'round the Horn.
Every man will be on deck working. Tonight I quelled a mutiny among the crew; now there are no voices raised
against my command. Sindh, a Burmese deckhand, was the ringleader. He no longer has to wait until we get back to
Copenhagen for judgment and execution. Using my authority as captain to stem mutiny and preserve good order
aboard the vessel, I summarily tried and hanged him myself!"
Vanderdecken glanced up from his writing at Neb's horrified face. For the first time the boy saw what appeared
to be a smile on the captain's face. "If ever you command a ship, which isn't very likely, always remember this, boy,
should the voyage prove risky and the returns valuable, it is wise to sign up your crew from all nations. That way they
lack any common bond. A disunited crew is the easiest one to control. Take my word for it."
Those were the last words Vanderdecken spoke that night. He slept sitting in the chair, the pepperpot musket on
the table in front of him.
Neb and Denmark lay down together near the stove by the far bulkhead, watching the strange man. Red
reflections from the galley stove fire illuminated his harsh features: they never once relaxed, not even in sleep.
Four days later the Flying Dutchman was off the coast of Tierra del Fuego again, with Vanderdecken as
steersman and all hands on deck, striving in the depths of midwinter to round the cape once more. It was sheer
madness and folly to attempt such an undertaking at that time of year, but none dared say so. Armed with sword and
musket, the captain drove his crew like slaves. Sleep was snatched in two-hour shifts, rations were reduced to half fare,
men were constantly forced aloft to cut away, repair, or adjust battered rigging.
Neb was kept on his feet night and day, rationing out boiling coffee, cooking the meager scraps that were the
crew's diet and battling constantly to keep the galley dry and the fire going. It was extra difficult, because most hands
slept there now—under the table, on empty sacks in all four corners, catching what rest they could until lashed out by
the knotted rope end of Mister Vogel, the mate.
Vanderdecken drove himself even harder than his crew, retiring only briefly once a night to his cold, stern cabin
and eating both little and infrequently.
Neb had never imagined the sea more wild and cruel. Under the hurricane-force winds, icicles formed sideways,
sticking out like daggers astern. There was no lee side to anything on Cape Horn. Now and again, through the
sheeting mixture of sleet and rain, the coast could be glimpsed. Gigantic dark rocks, with a nimbus of ice and spray
framing them, looked for all the world like prehistoric sea monsters, waiting to devour anything that sailed too close.
Cold and wet became a thing that had to be lived with. Some of the crew lost fingers and toes to frostbite, two of them
on the same day fell from the rigging to their deaths in the bedlam of freezing waves. Sometimes Neb imagined he
could hear thunder in the distance, or was it just the boom of tidal-size waves, crashing upon the coastal rocks?
Driven forward one day, then twice as far back the next, the ship tacked sideways and often turned completely
about, sails filling to bursting, then slacking with tremendous slapping sounds. Half the cargo of ironware was
jettisoned into the sea to keep the vessel afloat. One morning Neb was recruited to join a party in the midships hold,
where groaning timbers were leaking water into the hatch space. All day he spent there, plugging away at the cracks
with mallet, flat chisel, and lengths of heavy tarred rope they called oakum.
The boy's hands became so bruised and cracked with the cold that another crewman had to take his place. Neb
fought back tears of pain as he thrust both hands into a pail of hot water on the galley stove. Denmark whined and
placed his head against the boy's leg. Even over the melee of waves, wind, and creaking timbers, Vanderdecken's
voice could be heard cursing the crew, Cape Horn, the weather, and the heaving seas with the most bloodcurdling
oaths and imprecations.
Three weeks later the Flying Dutchman was in the same position, pushed back again, halfway betwixt Tierra del
Fuego and Malvinas Isles. Defeated for the second time by Cape Horn!
Weary, sick, and half starved, the crew lay in their fo'c'sle cabin. There was a terrible atmosphere hanging over