Winds of Fate [Books IV - VI]

Chapter 158: The Flying Dutchman (Part Two)

Nearly a century ago, The Flying Dutchman, before she was a terrifying legend, was a mockery. The English hated us. The French loathed us. The Spaniards happily ignored our might and power, thinking they were content in their settlements West Indies and in their outpost out on the East Indies—a group of islands they christened and united under the name of their King. We, too, could care less.

Her true name was De Reiger. It is the name we have for the heron, a shy, large bird... swift despite her appearance and demeanor. Van Der Decken, he did not name her, but he would always tell this tale first to any new crewmember. "She is not to be underestimated," he said, to me, when I joined, "so do not think the work she requires is easy, just because she is a merchant ship. We sail with priceless, countless goods and treasures, ripe for pirates and enemies. Reiger will shelter you, but you must keep her and defend her..."

Of course, I wholeheartedly agreed, and secretly, deeply, I was in awe of him, for his reverence toward his ship. He spoke of her as if she was alive; Van der Decken was too good at what he does. Making identities. Writing legends. He could recruit men by his words and promises, and more than that.

His mastery of the waves.

I joined De Reiger at seventeen, in Rotterdam, precisely when she had come home to rest. The journeys below in warmer climes where storms abound have battered her and took most of her crew into the water. Now, at that time, such infamy did not scare us—the very proof Reiger was at port, in her own country, only spoke of her captain's skill and her own endurance. For a rigger like I, this was my shot at making my own fortune.

It was then or never, and I knew my answer. I followed Van Der Decken out of the tavern, I said what little experience I had as if I were a sea wolf. My confidence and youthful foolhardiness appealed to him more than all of that. He said the journeys needed a man with a heart for the sea. I did not truly mind what he meant back then, not until we left Holland's foggy, icy waters and sailed down below, to Africa.

For many years, like the others here with us, I honed my craft aboard her. We were tested—in seamanship and battle, by Hendrik Van Der Decken himself. One time, while he was teaching me how to assess the tide and wind together, to make the right decision, I asked him why he let his talent be wasted with this lot. De Reiger is a beauty, and our goods earn well, but the merchants above us would always cut those loot larger than they should have, citing their connections and funding and God knows what excuse to justify their  blatant theft from their suffering seamen.

That is why they loved Van Der Decken. He was swift like his ship—maneuvering through storms without a sweat, forging on and seeking new routes, catching winds wherever they are just to deliver his cargo a week earlier, if not on time. A master of the waves, no one could seemingly defeat him.

And above all, he was obedient.

A man like him could be an Admiral, and we would need more men of his caliber to guard all of our interests. It cannot be ignored too, that the navy always fared better—swords, guns, and brute strength threaten fists to open better than polite agreements.

Van Der Decken smiled then, like I was a puppy who didn't know any better. "I am happy with my gossips," he unabashedly said, "politics? Dear boy, that is a different thing."

He did love his gossip, love them that he would go to madness trying to beat his own record of sailing, spending his rest nights in the tavern sharing tall tales. What I once admired in him, I now loathed, for here was an aging captain, content in fantasies about himself to fill a void in his life. It was worse than lying in order to deceive young seamen to join one in a suicidal quest. It was disgusting and pathetic. He did it all for himself.