The Flying Dutchman

Chapter 15

12

The waves run barefoot, playing football, chasing the ball of the sun, shattering it into a thousand shards, only to gather them up again and play again.

And so the Canary Isles are passed. The storm was lying in wait for them in warm waters. The wind shook the Crystal Key like a cat worrying a half-dead mouse. The sails were clewed down, but still the ship creaked and shuddered. The next wave rocked the deck and broke off a wooden plank, part of the outer hull. Panic broke out among the sailors; realising any one of them could be swept overboard at any moment, they ran for shelter anywhere they could. The bosun walked the deck, clutching spider-like onto every dangling rope or line, dealing blows left and right as usual in the hope of returning the sailors to their posts. But it was all in vain.

Just then a strange figure appeared on the bridge. He was dressed in a black Spanish camisole with silvery embroidery and a broad-brimmed hat. For a moment, the figure took in what was happening around him, then, audibly but without yelling, he gave an order:

“To your posts, all of you! Bosun, send two sailors to secure the lifeboats!”

The order came in the pause between two mighty waves, or it would not have been heard.

“The Captain! It’s the Captain!” a whisper rustled through the sailors.

The order was carried out post haste. The Captain took off his hat and everyone could see his swarthy, even yellowy face and long grey hair. Those standing closer to him glimpsed rather harsh facial features and cheeks well ploughed with wrinkles.

“I, Michael Falkenberg, cured by the grace of providence from my ailment, am now taking command of this ship according to all earthly and heavenly laws.”

He uttered this calmly but powerfully, and the sailors acknowledged this man’s authority without a second thought. No need for him to shout or back up his authority with blows as Dirk Slothem did; his word and his glance sufficed.

“Aha, Michael,” thought the bosun, who was himself seeing the captain for the first time. “Smacks of the Spanish ‘Miguel.’ Maybe he’s that Spanish renegade, the former captain of the English frigate who later sailed on our warships? He went by the fictitious name of van der Dekken – ‘man from the deck.’ And I bet Falkenberg isn’t his real name, either. No doubt our captain’s a nobleman, and who knows what his real name is…”

Dirk looked at the captain again, but he couldn’t see his eyes, they were too deep-set. And for the first time in his life, the bosun felt uneasy.

“The captain’s obviously a foolhardy man,” he thought. “I wonder if I’ll make it back to my wife and children after this voyage?”

But Dirk Slothem was a man who knew how to handle himself, so his face did not betray his doubts. And anyway, his attention was diverted to another strange event: a second man in black now appeared on the bridge. Unlike the captain, this one was dressed simply, but there was something sinister about his impassive, parchment-white face with its hooked nose. Looking closer, Dirk realised that the worst thing about this man was his smile.

“And that’s the physician. A cautious guy, never more than a yard away from the captain,” came a voice behind the bosun.

Dirk looked around. The Malay cook was standing in the galley doorway. An ageless man, he now smiled his sugary smile. Just like the physician’s.