The Flying Dutchman

Chapter 18

15

Sailing: the movement of a body through resistant matter. A matter which rocks itself, self-satisfied. “Who would take it into their head to move through me?” it thinks. “Even if they did, wherever I am, movement is only possible with my permission, with my participation. If I do bar them entry, they will not sail.”

Nevertheless, each and every exception to this rule will one day plop unexpectedly into the water from above causing an indignant spatter. “Ah, you didn’t expect that, did you?” croons the matter in its watery voice. “And actually, is it really necessary?” But as for Wind, well, it can’t wait to make mischief. It’s already shoving the sailing body towards some spot on the hypothetical shore. And this is called ‘sailing.’ Or maybe: fate.

It was evening when the watchman noticed the little boat, adrift, sail-less and lifeless. They went closer, caught the boat with the pole hook. Someone was lying in the bottom, face down. After having made sure he was breathing, they brought him aboard. He was getting on in years, and his clothes suggested he was of high birth. But now his velvet camisole was in rags, and the wound in the back of his head was caked with dried blood. He’d fallen victim to pirates, most likely, who’d somehow sailed into these southern waters even though the southernmost Canary Islands were not one of their usual haunts.

The physician came up, shooed the sailors away, and bent over the inert man.

“He won’t make it,” he said at last.

Dirk arrived just in time to catch an ironical smirk as it flitted across the physician’s face, as though he were rejoicing in this stranger’s misfortune.

The captain arrived, too, just as the physician was untying the man’s belt. Coins fell out. The captain bent down, picked up a couple of coins, and examined them.

“Doubloons,” he said. “A Spaniard. Chuck him in the sea.”

“But maybe he’ll make it?” the bosun suggested tentatively.

“A Spaniard,” repeated the captain. “An enemy. Carry out my order.”

“He’s afraid that Spaniard will recognise him,” thought the bosun.

Darkness was almost upon them. The physician took the Spaniard by the shoulders, Dirk grabbed his legs. The body swung, and was overboard. A faint moan – and the Spaniard sank to the depths.

“We’ve done a bad thing,” said the bosun, shaking his head. “He might have pulled through.”

“We’ll die soon enough ourselves,” said the captain quietly. “From thirst. His life is worth two of our people’s.”

“What shall we do with the money?” Dirk asked, practical as ever.

“It’s yours, my honest Friesian,” teased the captain.

The bosun reddened, and squinted at the physician.

“Well, that man’s incorruptible,” smiled the captain. “Like me.”

Dirk picked up the doubloons and thrust them into a trouser pocket. A certain number of young children has a way of ridding a man of certain scruples.