The Flying Dutchman, Chapter 1
Title: The Flying Dutchman, 1/15
Rating: R (this chapter, for violence)
Wordcount: 4,057 this chapter.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true. Woe.
In This Chapter: Dirk finds himself in a right old mess.
Intro post for this fic here.
Year of Our Lord Fifteen Hundred and Seventy-Four
Two Nautical Miles off the Coast of Zeeland
Dirk Kuyt of Katwikj aan Zee loved the ocean, and sometimes like to think that the ocean returned his affection. Times when he was perched on top of the mainmast watching the horizon, when he was taking to his hammock after a long day of work in the sickbay where he was a minor mate and assistant, when the Feyenoord, a handsome two-masted schooner with a crew of 15 men, completed a voyage and he had the satisfaction of seeing the goods they carried being received by buyers under the watchful eye of Captain Verbeek.
When the glint of sunlight on the waves made him forget that he was missing his wife and children back home, he was sure the ocean cared for him.
“Oy.”
A tap on his elbow made him turn from where he was leaning against the railing, staring out at the water. He turned to find a fellow sailor, a twenty-year-old from Amsterdam named Jan, grinning at him.
“You were thinking of her again, weren’t you,” Jan teased, joining Dirk in leaning against the bulwark, the early morning sun brightening his face as he crossed his legs at the ankles and let his head tilt backward over the side. “You’re such a lovesick fool.”
“Shut up,” Dirk grumbled good-naturedly, no real malice behind his words. “If you were married you’d understand.”
“Ah, spare me,” Jan grinned, waving his hands about in mock distress. “I intend to be a bachelor for a long time yet!”
Dirk snorted and looked back over the waves, which on this particular morning were large but calm, the breeze firm but not enough to require extra work from the men to take in the sails. The Feyenoord was off the coast of Zeeland, southernmost province of the Netherlands, on its way north to supply the armies of William of Oranje, the heroic (Dirk was no nationalist, it had to be said, but William certainly was heroic) prince who was battling to make the Netherlands the United Netherlands as he struggled to fight off Spanish oppression.
Not that Dirk cared about any of that. He was a sailor, a man of simple habits and of simple tastes. He had a deck beneath his feet, sails above, and a voyage that would no doubt end in success, as had all his other ventures in the English Channel and around the Provinces. He was, in a word, perfectly content.
(And on this particular morning, this oh-so-very-ordinary morning, Dirk never suspected that anything different would come of this voyage. The irony of it made him laugh hysterically in later years.)
Beside him Jan shifted and sighed happily.
“Can you believe it,” the younger man said, giggling a little. “That fool Patrick kept whining about how we had had a red sunrise this morning, that it was an omen of evil to come. Now, I don’t know about you,” he continued, prodding Dirk in the arm, “but if I see a red sunrise I might think we’ll be in for bad weather, but I mean really! The idiot’s out of his mind.”
“Ah, leave him alone,” Dirk replied, smiling. “He’s old, he’s entitled to his doddering opinions…”
“What’s that, gentlemen? I sincerely hope you don’t think I’m doddering.”
The two men turned and stood at attention as Captain Verbeek, a portly, genial middle-aged man, trundled towards them from the bridge of the ship. A good and fair captain, Verbeek was nonetheless a little bit lax in his authority on board ship, and so the work was never really too difficult for his men.
“No, sir,” Dirk said briskly, taking the responsibility of speaking for both of them. “Not at all, sir.”
“Good,” Verbeek said gruffly, smiling. “Very well then, off to your work. And you, Jan, up in the crow’s nest with you.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Jan said. In a single bound he had leapt to the shrouds of the mainmast and was scampering up them like a monkey, climbing steadily towards the little compartment at the top where he could sit and survey the ocean around them.
Verbeek nodded, then turned away and walked back to the bridge, while Dirk took a moment longer to linger at the rail, reluctant to shut himself away in the sickbay all day when it was so beautiful a morning…
“Sir!” The shout came down from the crow’s nest. Jan sounded flustered. “Captain! There’s a brigantine not far off, coming up on the port bow!”
Dirk leaned over the rail curiously, peering into the distance as he heard the captain grumbling on the bridge. Sure enough, a few thousand feet distant was the dark outline of a ship, one with two masts - solidly built, but quite a bit smaller than the Feyenoord. By this time, several other members of the crew had emerged on deck, and a small crowd was gathered along the railing.
“Well, what else, Jan?” Verbeek roared upwards. “What colors are they flying?”
“Dear God!” the cry shot down the mainmast, filled with despair, and Dirk could feel everyone around him suddenly stop moving as one. “Sir! They’re flying a red flag!”
For a moment, everything was silent. Then Dirk distinctly heard, like a pin being dropped, the captain breath the word -
“Pirates.”
For a moment everything was still. But then shouts of panic burst out, and Dirk leaned far out over the side, gaping, joined by five other sailors at least. The pirate ship was bearing down on them fast, its sails full of wind while the Feyenoord was still tacking, almost taken full aback, nearly motionless in the water.
Captain Verbeek thundered down the steps to the bridge, grabbing one seaman after another and shaking them by the lapels, bellowing. “Wake up, you fools! Come on! Find something to defend yourselves with!”
He grabbed Dirk’s shoulder, spun him around, and pushed him forcibly away from the railing. “Are you listening to me? MOVE!”
Dirk stumbled, then regained his balance and rushed to the opposite shrouds, ripping a belaying pin from its mooring, hefting the heavy rod and wondering if he would ever have the strength to use it. The Feyenoord, being a merchant ship, was largely unarmed apart from a few blunderbusses stored below decks which were now clutched in the hands of trembling, pale seamen - whereas the pirate ship was surely heavily armed.
His assumption was borne out a moment later when a loud clapping noise roared through the air, and a hole suddenly appeared in one of the Feyenoord’s sails, torn by the cannonball that had hurled itself from the guns of the attacking ship. The pirate ship was much closer suddenly, and Dirk could make out rows of cannons lining both its maindeck and its lower deck, the portholes open and the guns pointed menacingly at the merchant ship.
A cannon mounted on the bow of the pirate ship boomed once, and Dirk flinched downwards as the shot screamed over his head, skipped along the deck, leaving a deep furrow and splinters shooting through the air, and smashed through the wall into the captain’s cabin.
The two ships loomed even closer together, and for the first time Dirk was able to pick out individual forms on the pirate deck as he clutched his belaying pin. He could hear war whoops, and saw dark holes of open mouths in screaming faces. The pirate ship was smaller than the Feyenoord, much smaller - but there seemed to be twice as many men jammed onto its deck, twenty-five at least, all with - Dirk swallowed hard - swords in their upraised fists.
Closer still. And Dirk picked out a strange sight as the last of the cannon’s went off and a sailor barely five feet away from him flew backwards, dissolved into pulp - standing on the first boom of the pirate ship’s foremast, legs spread wide apart for balance in the rigging, stood a tall pirate wearing black leather, black trousers, a vest over a white shirt, black guards around his wrists and forearms. As Dirk watched, he let go of the rigging and took a firm step to the end of the boom, balancing without support, drawing a sword from his side.
And Dirk had never thought a man could fly, but it seemed he was destined to be proved wrong. Because as the two ships came together with a crash hideous enough to shake him down to his bones and throw everyone to the deck, as the first wave of brigands came spilling over the railing, shrieking battle cries, weapons upraised - Dirk saw the giant leap out into thin air, his entire body straining and spinning, sailing like some sort of strange bird, teeth bared and rapier outstretched.
He was only able to watch for a few seconds, however. One’s attention is generally lost when one is smashed over the head with a sword-hilt, and Dirk was no exception. He fell to the deck, his head spinning, unable to see, but, distressingly, still able to hear - he heard screams, sobbing, the heavy, wet noise steel makes when it punctures flesh. After several moments worth of it, had he had the presence of mind to, he would have begged for it to stop.
When he came back to himself, it was to find he was being dragged backwards over the deck, his head bumping on splintered wood and his legs sliding nervelessly behind. His eyes opened, and he instantly let out a wild cry and struggled to free himself from the grip of his captor - he had awoken to the sight of a dead man’s face, barely six inches from his own, a face so battered and bloody that he couldn’t recognize it, even though it must have belonged to one of his crewmates.
A hand descended to cuff his ear, and he fell back again onto the deck. “Stop squirming, you bastard,” a deep voice growled above him. “Sit still!”
Dirk looked up, terrified, and found himself staring at a devil. The pirate looming over him was tall, with stubble along his jaw line and shaggy black hair that fell haphazardly over his long face. He was literally covered with weapons - his belt was laden with knives, and another was sticking out of one of his boots. His grubby white shirt underneath his dark brown coat was sticky with blood, blood Dirk was sure was not his own, as he held a dripping sword in one huge hand.
A sword which, to his horror, was pointing straight at Dirk’s face.
“Stay there,” the pirate growled. “Got it?”
Dirk nodded his head up and down as fast as he could, craning his neck backwards so his nose wouldn’t get cut off. “Y-y-yes…”
The pirate smirked, then turned away. Dirk looked frantically from side to side, his breathing shallow (Jan was nowhere to be found, and a wave of panic shuddered through him), and only stopped when a body thudded to a seated position beside him and found himself shoulder to shoulder with Captain Verbeek, conscious but with a wound steadily trickling blood on his forehead.
“Sir,” Dirk choked out. “You all right, sir?”
“Yes,” the captain groaned, wiping his hand across his face to try and dash the blood out of his eyes. “No thanks to them. Where are the others, how many did we lose?”
Dirk gulped, looking around the deck. Pirates were everywhere, each man dressed in a strangely cobbled-together ensemble, many in bright colors, some with bandannas taut around their heads or scrawny scarves around their necks. Bodies were strewn all around, every single one wearing the same duck whites as Dirk.
“I think - I think we’re the only ones left, sir…”
“Christ.”
“Sorry about this, captain,” a light voice said above them, and Dirk looked up to see a tall blond pirate - the flying man - standing there, his hands on his hips, smirking. From this distance, Dirk could now see that this man was quite a few years older than most of the pirates, small wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. His windswept hair was cut short, stray pieces falling over his long, thin face.
“No need to worry,” he continued, gesturing behind him to where Dirk could see other pirates climbing up out of the hold, each hauling up a bag of the Feyenoord’s precious burden with them. “We’ll just be taking your cargo, and then we’ll be on our way. Though of course, you’re always welcome to join us if you abide by our rules.”
The captain gaped. “You - you scoundrels! Plundering one of your own!”
It was only then, in the madness of it all, that Dirk realized that yes - he could understand what the pirate was saying. He was Dutch. They all were.
“One of our own what?” the dark-haired pirate said calmly, opening one of the bags another pirate had brought to him from the hold and peering in - Dirk could see his eyes light up as he surveyed the contents.
“Your own countrymen! My God, you soulless fiends - I don’t care which province you’re from, we’re at war with Spain! Prince William needs these supplies! We’ve been sailing for a week to try and reach him - ”
“Frankly,” the blond man cut him off, leaning close, “we don’t give a damn about Prince William, or your loyalties. Are you joining us or not, captain?”
Verbeek raised his chin, and Dirk felt a thrill of nausea run through him as the captain spoke. “I’d rather die, traitors.”
The blond pirate shrugged and pulled a dagger from his belt. “Suit yourself.”
Dirk was only just able to squeeze his eyes shut in time.
“What about you?”
He opened them again, trembling and making sure not to look to his side, to find the dark-haired pirate glaring at him once again. The blond man was squatting, quietly wiping his knife on Verbeek’s unmoving pants leg.
“Are you an officer?” the pirate demanded, tapping Dirk in the shoulder with his sword.
“N-no, sir,” Dirk said, completely sure now that his heart had stopped. “Just a seaman. I-I help in the sickbay sometimes…”
The pirate leered, raising his rapier. “No use for you, then. God, all you merchant sailors, you’re never any good for anything…”
“Shut up, Ruud,” the tall one said calmly, standing and sheathing his dagger. “I say we keep him. We could use someone in our sickbay, pathetic as it is.”
Dirk’s heart leapt, hammering away in his ribcage as he cowered on the deck.
The dark one looked at him disdainfully, but shrugged. “Aye aye, sir.”
“Right.” The blond man prodded the body of the captain with one foot, wiping his hands on his dark jacket. “Heitinga, get this overboard. Klaas, Andre, scuttle her. Everyone else, back on board ship, now!”
Instantly there was movement everywhere, men running and yelling. The two sailors the lean man had named - one a skinny teenager with dark, burning eyes and the other a compact, graying veteran - scurried down the nearest hatch below decks, and Dirk swallowed hard at the thought of the Feyenoord’s fragile hull, soon to be battered in and left to sink, never to sail again.
“You.”
Dirk jumped at the sound of the voice in his ear, his raw nerves screaming in shock. The dark-haired man - Ruud, Dirk just managed to remember him being called - was standing above him, scowling menacingly. “Shift it, you worthless landlubber! Go with Giovanni, he’ll take care of you.”
Dirk scrambled to his feet, his head lowered, and hurried in the direction in which Ruud had pointed - a small, dark-skinned man was waiting for him at the railing, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, one hand resting on the sword at his hip.
“Name?” he barked as soon as Dirk got close enough.
“Kuyt,” Dirk gasped, flinching as he heard a series of splashes behind him - the captain and the others hitting the water. “Dirk Kuyt.”
“Giovanni van Bronckhorst.” He didn’t offer any other greeting. “You can call me Giovanni or Gio; I’m one of the two bo’suns. You don’t need to call me sir, but when I give you an order you will do as I say. Understood?”
Dirk couldn’t do anything but nod.
Beneath him, the deck trembled, and a crashing noise drifted up the companionway. Ruud and the tall man were conferring in hurried, low tones on the bridge, but as Dirk watched, Ruud turned away and came down the steps to the maindeck, while the taller man, returning almost the same way he had arrived, clambered up onto the railing of the Feyenoord and leapt lightly down into the bow of the pirate ship - so tall was he and so close were the two vessels that it looked like it hadn’t taken any effort at all.
“Well, what are you waiting for, idiot?” Dirk turned back to see Giovanni with one leg up on the railing, grasping one of the few shrouds that remained attached to the Feyenoord’s tattered mast as the rest of the pirates swarmed back over to their ship, laden with bags of flour and coins from the purloined cargo. “Hurry up!”
Dirk blinked. The deck shuddered and groaned under his feet, and suddenly the two men who had been sent down into the hold on the blond pirate’s orders came haring up the companionway, panting, and jumped over the railing as the Feyenoord began, ever so slightly, to tilt to one side.
Dirk turned, grasped the railing of the pirate ship (it felt cold and alien under his fingers), and jumped.
He felt immediately out of place. This new ship was smaller than the merchant ship, not as wide, its wooden planks clean but worn. The shrouds and other ropes on the stays were all coiled up and in their proper places, but somehow everything felt just a little bit tattered, organized chaos.
Dirk was surprised to see the discipline with which the pirates were moving, however - each man scurried up and down the companionways, carrying the stolen loot from the Feyenoord (Dirk couldn’t bring himself to look back at the ship that he knew was slowly disappearing beneath the waves) and then setting about their various tasks - one man scampered up the mainmast to the crow’s nest, while others swarmed up the foremast, striking the topsails with efficiency and speed.
“Welcome to the Flying Dutchman. Come on,” Gio said, clapping him on the shoulder, almost friendly. “Let’s get you down to the galley for some grub and then I’ll show you where your bunk will be.”
Dirk glanced up at the bridge of the ship (the Flying Dutchman?) and noticed the tall blond pirate standing there, his hands respectfully behind his back, as he spoke with another man, a man with black hair going grey at the temples, who wore a coat with faded brocade along its seams.
Dirk jerked his head slightly, feeling numb. “Are those the officers?”
Gio pointed carefully, making sure not to draw any attention. “The blond man? Edwin van der Sar. The man who sent you to me was Ruud van Nistelrooij. Our captain - that’s him up there - is Marco van Basten.”
Dirk stared at the two men on the bridge for a few seconds, trying to make himself remember, then turned and followed Van Bronckhorst down through the hatch.
“Edwin is first mate, Ruud is second,” Giovanni explained as he led the way down the companionway onto the middle deck. “Each of them has their own loyal men among the crew - I’m more Ed’s man, and Van Persie is Ruud’s. The two of them practically run the ship. Don’t be fooled by Marco’s parading about - if he wants to do something he needs their say-so. He’s captain, but he has hardly any power.”
“Then why aren’t Edwin or Ruud captain instead?” Dirk asked, starting to feel the adrenaline of his capture throbbing its way out of his veins as his eyes adjusted to the dark in the cramped, low space of the deck, leaving him more exhausted than he could ever remember feeling. Rows of small cannons, filthy from several layers of soot (but, judging by the state of the Feyenoord, obviously still deadly), were lined up on either side of the deck at their respective portholes, restrained by ropes from rolling about.
“Honestly? I’ve no idea,” Gio answered, sounding almost puzzled himself. “They’re happy with their lot, I suppose. They do most of the work, but they get most of the spoils as well. No need to fuss.
“Now then,” he continued as they made their way forward - Dirk almost stumbled as another crew member dashed by them in the opposite direction, one he didn’t recognize. “Rules of being on the Dutchman. Follow them and stick with me, and you’ll be all right. Rule number one,” Gio said, ducking his head down below the deck as Dirk followed, hunched over in the dim light. “Even though he might be a weakling, always obey the captain.”
Dirk couldn’t stop himself from bristling at that. “I’m a sailor,” he growled, scowling even though he knew Giovanni couldn’t see him. “I’ve always done my duty.”
“I’m sure,” Gio replied flippantly, rolling his eyes a little, which just made Dirk flush with even more anger. “Rule number two: never, ever come between Ed and Ruud.”
Gio had come to a stop at the door to the galley - Dirk came up beside him, his brow furrowed in confusion. Beyond the door he could make out the faint glow of the metal pan-fire, glowing angry red with coals. “What do you mean, ‘come between them’?”
Gio grinned, a fierce and spectral sight in the gloom. “You’ll see what I mean eventually, trust me.”
“But I thought you said you were Ed’s man, and Ruud had his own too.”
“True. But we don’t come between them. We keep our heads down.”
“I still don’t - ”
“Rule number three.” Gio curtly interrupted him as he took a step into the galley. The deck rolled as the ship hit a particularly large swell, and Dirk waited for his balance to solidify before he followed him in. “And this is the one that’s most important. Never make Ruud angry. If you do, you’ll regret it - more than if you anger Ed, more than if you anger Marco. Do. Not. Anger. Ruud.”
“I’d say that’s good advice,” a deep, sonorous voice suddenly said, ringing out from the back of the galley.
Dirk saw Gio stiffen, and he scuttled to stand out of the doorway as Van Nistelrooij loomed out of the blackness. He had been sitting at a small table on the far side of the makeshift stove, and now stood, towering over both seamen, blood from the capture of the Feyenoord still crusted on his forehead. His eyes flashed in the reflection of the fire.
“Sir,” Giovanni barked. Dirk made sure he was standing as straight as possible and then stared over Ruud’s shoulder, studiously avoiding the second mate’s gaze.
Ruud took a step towards the door, and then Dirk could feel his dark eyes on him, looking him up and down. He felt suddenly cold even with the heat of the stove so close by.
“Hm,” Ruud grunted.
And with that, he swept out the doorway and down the deck. A few moments later, Dirk heard him pounding up the companionway into the open air.
Gio let out his breath in a rush. And Dirk began to think that he truly was doomed.
FIN
Galley = kitchen
Companionway/hatch = opening with stairs leading below decks
Mainmast = the largest mast of a ship
Shrouds = the latticed ropes tied to each side of the ship which hold up the mast
Bulwark = the side of a ship, or the railing
Bridge = the raised back portion of a ship where the wheel is located, usually where the captain hangs out
Crow’s nest = observation post at the top of a mast
Rigging = another name for the ropes which are attached to the mast/are used to put up or strike sails
Boom = the piece of wood which is attached to the mast and runs along the top of each sail
A schooner: http://siarchives.si.edu/history/jhp/schooner.jpg
A brigantine: http://www.thewayofthepirates.com/images/ships/Brig.gif
