Konick was trying to salvage the biscuit barrels from below decks. Christiaan watched him. He remembered Konick had been with them when they had a piece of that stuck-up Noorstrandt witch, had sworn he wouldn't speak of it to anyone, but with a man like him, how could you be sure? He had cheated him at cards once, and there was that girl in Amsterdam, stole her away from him right from under his nose. Never did settle with him for that.
A couple of paces across the sloping deck and the knife slipped between his ribs easy as testing the flesh of a suckling pig, a little nudge and he was over the side, just like that, good insurance. He rinsed the blade in the scuppers, and went back to the Great Cabin to drink a few more quarts of the commandeur's good brandy.
***
“You think he will come back for us?” Joost said.
There were anxious faces around the table. The effects of the wine were beginning to wear off, and with it their bravado. They were starting to think about survival. Hope was a dangerous beast and guilt and brandy wine made the worst kind of hangover. Only the van der Beeck brothers didn't seem to care, bullying the commandeur's butler to fetch more of the Company's best cognac. The cabin boy, Strootman, staggered along the sloping deck with plates of cold salted pork and beef.
Christiaan had dressed for dinner, had one of the commandeur's gold medallions around his neck. “He'll be back for us,” he said.
“The seas are rising,” Ryckert said. “I don't like it.”
“They said he was the best skipper in the whole Fleet,” Joost said. “And look, he has run us aground.”
Through the oaken doors, they heard the drunken roaring of the others still in the hold. Christiaan wondered what would happen if the good commander did return. Men might find it easier to slit his throat, in such circumstances, than face up to what they had done. Through the windows they could hear the terrible drumming of the surf on the reef. In such dire predicaments, the Devil finds his own.
The Houtman Rocks
The provost made his way across the shingle beach, muttering to himself, his sea boots crunching on the coral, his cloak flapping in the wind. His imperious bulk intimidated on a ship the size of the Utrecht; here on this God forsaken island of clinkered limestone and scrub he just looked clumsy and slow.
Michiel Van Texel and his men had at least restored some semblance of order. He had even made his soldiers set out their camp in orderly rows, as if they were on campaign, ecven though their shelters were made just from scraps of sailcloth and salvaged timber..
“Michiel!’
He jumped to his feet. “Yes, Heer Provost.”
“We have a problem.”
Michiel grinned. “I would say we have lots of them.”
The man had no sense of irony, he didn’t even smile. “I have made an inventory. We have supplies for just a few more days. Even with what we have, I will need your men to keep close guard in case there is another outbreak of lawlessness. There must be no more pilfering.”
“Don’t worry, my men know what to do.”
He pointed across the water, they could just make out the yawl, beached on the cay on the other side of the channel barely a cannon shot distant. In the fading light Michiel could make out the scraps of tents they had put together from spars and bits of canvas.
“He has to come back for us. He’s not going to leave us here.”
Michiel said nothing.
“Is he?”
“His place is here with us,” Michiel said, carefully.
“I’ve counted two hundred and thirteen of us. With the water we have left, I’ve worked out a water ration.”
“My men will make sure there is no more trouble.”
The provost nodded. He looked back towards the cay and their errant commandeur. “He’ll be here in the morning, you’ll see.”
The lonely cry of mutton birds and gulls accompanied the gathering of the dark. The relentless wind moaned and gusted.
***
The soldiers lit a fire with the aid of Michiel’s tinderbox: inside the box was a flint stone, a small bar of steel and some linen impregnated with saltpetre. They built a little pile of twigs over some of the dried fibres, and used the flint stone and the steel to make a spark. They fanned the tiny flame with their breath until they had built a small fire, and they all huddled around it, but the poor brushwood they had collected had little warmth to it and the wind quickly turned the smouldering brushwood to ash.
What a place, Michiel thought.
The island was not much larger than the kirche in his little village, just an outcrop of coral with a few gnarled salt bushes, home to a few sea birds and little else. The shoreline was a flat reef that hung over the water in jagged ledges. Already some wit had named it Utrecht Kerkhof - Utrecht’s Graveyard.
There were other larger islands around about, on the other side of a fast running channel. To the north was the smaller island from where the skipper and the commandeur had left in the sloop. There were two others, on the other side of the lagoon, much larger than this one, but so far away they might as well be the fort at Batavia.
There were certain times of day when the islands took on a strange mushroom-like appearance, as if some invisible hand was holding a mirror to the land, making them appear upside down and twice the size. Little Bean said the place was bewitched.
Despairing of their fire, Michiel huddled into his cloak and fell into a black, numbing sleep. He woke in the middle of the night with the gritty sand stinging his face, and the cold so fierce that his whole body shook. Unable to get back to sleep he built up the fire again and huddled next to it, listening to the hollow boom of the breakers on the reef.
There were no more blankets. The few that had been rescued from the wreck had been requisitioned by the pastor for his family. He had even taken ownership of some canvas washed up on the beach and used it as crude shelter. So much for sacrifice in the name of the Lord, all of that out of the window now, Michiel thought.
Somewhere in the dark two men were fighting with their fists, squabbling over ownership of a biscuit.
He lit an oil lamp and went to check on the sentries he had posted by the water barrels. Then he walked along the beach to try and keep warm, found vrouwe Noorstrandt curled up in a little depression among the bushes and hard shale, shivering with cold. He almost stumbled over her.
“Who is that? Who are you?”
She sounded panicked. He took several steps backward in the darkness. “I am sorry, vrouwe. I did not see you.”
“Stay away from me! I shall scream!’
“It is Sergeant Michiel Van Texel! I am on patrol. You are in no danger.”
She whimpered and scrambled away from him.
“Are you all right, vrouwe?”
“Who are you?”
“I told you, it’s Sergeant Van Texel. I am sorry, I did not see you there.”
She was panting like she had run a mile through the sand.
“I’ll leave you to your sleep,” he said.
“No, please! Don’t go. Stand here a while. I am frightened.”
“All right,” he said.
So he stood there, huddled into his cloak. After a while he got down on his haunches, so he was not as exposed to the wind.
“What is happening over there?” she whispered.
“On the other island? They have water and biscuit. They cope well enough.”
“Does the commandeur have plans for our survival?”
He supposed he should tell her yes, that everything would be fine. But that would insult the lady’s intelligence. “I don’t know, vrouwe. I would say he has largely lost control of things.”
“Why has he not come to our island himself?”
“Well, the seas are rough but I don’t think that’s the reason. If you ask me, those boys over there, their thoughts run only to their own salvation.”
“That is impossible. Not Sinjeur Secor!’
“It's the skipper I don't trust. He has this look on his face, m
akes my skin crawl.”
“The commandeur won't let us down. He's still in charge here, you’ll see.”
“If he’s still in charge, then why isn't he here with us?”
Cornelia wrapped her arms across her middle and doubled over.
“Are you all right, vrouwe?”
“How could this happen to us?”
“Bad luck happens to a lot of people. I don’t suppose it chose us in particular.”
“Do you not believe in God, Sergeant Van Texel?”
“If I did, I’d be hard pressed to like him very much after what has happened to us today!’
“Not like God? How can you say such a thing?”
“Look, as I see it, if a man has good luck he says it’s God, if he has bad luck he says it’s the Devil. But it’s all the same thing, really. I’m a simple man, vrouwe, I’ll pray to God if that’s what someone wants me to do, but really I don’t mind either way.”
“That’s blasphemy!’
“Is it? To me it’s just the hard truth, as I’ve learned it. God, fate, the Devil...they’re all the same. There’s good luck and bad luck and who has one and who has the other, well I’ve never seen any design to it.”
“You don’t think God is punishing us?”
“What for?”
“For the things that happened on our voyage?”
“Well I’ve been a soldier for many years now and I’ve seen men do unspeakable things in wars and some of them were punished and some of them are still walking around today, like it was nothing.”
“So who do you pray to, on nights like tonight, sergeant?”
“I don’t, vrouwe, I just try and keep warm, and make sure my sword is sharp. I’ve always been a very practical man.”
“You shouldn’t let the pastor hear you talk like this.”
“Well, I don’t, you see. That’s practical too.”
He heard the sounds of another fight, further down the beach. He picked up his oil lamp and stood up. “I’d better help sort that out. I’ll be along to check on you in a while.” He picked his way carefully along the beach. The darkness gathered and the wind picked up, wilder now, and very cold.
Chapter 33
Between the seal island
and the Houtman Rocks
THE next day there was a gale blowing, God Himself was conspiring against Ambroise and the Honourable Company. He stood on the beach, staring out at the wreck.
It was a miracle the Utrecht had held as long as it had, pinned there on the reef, battered by the rolling sea, sometimes invisible behind walls of spray as the breakers crashed against her hull. It was testament to the Amsterdam shipwrights who had built her and to the strong Baltic oak of her timbers.
The skipper's weather-burned face was twisted into a mask of resentment, as if the ship had somehow betrayed him. He didn't want to go back out there, Ambroise could see it; let her sink and be done with it was what he was thinking. The sailors, too, were of a mind, all dark looks and muttering, they just wanted to save their own skins now.
“You should forget about going back out to the ship,” the skipper said.
“Forget about it? How can I forget? We have a duty to salvage the Company goods.”
“We have a duty to ourselves first. Look around you, man. We have eighty kannen of water among forty people. Over on the other island there are over two hundred and even less water than we have. If we don't find water soon, we're all dead men.”
“There's seventy men still on the Utrecht...”
“They're dead men, too.”
“I tell you, our first duty is to get the men and the goods off the Utrecht.”
“Who cares about some Mogul's play things now? We are stranded here at the end of the world, we will be lucky to survive even a few more days!’
“We have to save the Company goods!’
“My men are not of a mind with you.”
“What's that?” Ambroise shouted over the rush of the wind.
“My men won't sit around on this God-forsaken rock and wait to die!’
And now Arie Barents, from nowhere, joined in, backing his skipper.
“He's right! The men are demanding we take the yawl and find some water while we still have the strength for it.”
“They will do as I order!’ Ambroise shouted.
The skipper hesitated, then nodded to his understeersman. “All right, let’s do as he says.”
***
“Heer Commandeur returns!’ someone shouted and men crowded onto the sloping deck, among the tangle of lines and canvas. Christiaan joined them, watched the yawl battling for headway against the rising swell. He clung to the poop rail for the better part of the morning, nursing a bitter hangover of terror, guilt and regret. He was not alone, no doubt, in his confusion. Those who had snubbed their noses at Death when they had the commandeur's fine brandy inside them brought a little less bravado to that cold, grey dawn.
He prayed for the yawl's progress with dread in his heart. There was salvation on that small boat, he thought, but there was also a high VOC official who would look for retribution if he discovered what had taken place in his cabin last night. Perhaps we can blame the wreck of his cabin on the storm, he thought. With luck his rage will be reserved for men like Hermanus Schenck, the gunner, who had threatened to break his butler's head with a sword when he tried to chase him from the wine barrels, and Guysbert van der Beeck who had split open a money chest with an adze.
Still there was another side to this. The commandeur was only alive now by God's good graces, let him get us to dry land first and then see then if he survives another night. There will be precious little gratitude among these hearty souls.
The wind had picked up again, hurling immense breakers against the hull. The water had risen alarmingly, and hungry as they were, no one would venture into the swirling waters in the holds to plunder the rest of the wine barrels.
The minutes turned to hours, his fingers froze around the timbers. The yawl made no headway, as hard as the sailors rowed. Finally he watched them hoist the sails and retreat through the surf. He wept in fear, snot and tears ran into his beard. He was going to die.
God had pronounced His judgment on them all.
***
The skipper shook his head. “We have to turn back,” he shouted over the wind.
“Your men are not trying!’ Ambroise screamed at him, though he could see for himself the muscles in their backs and shoulders were knotted from the effort. The morning was almost gone and the rowers were exhausting themselves just holding their position, a cannon's shot from the wreck.
“Damn you,” the skipper muttered. “We can make no headway in this without sweep oars.” No need to damn me, Ambroise thought, as he stared in agony at his ship; I am damned already if I don't get back there. I should never have allowed you to persuade me to leave her. He stared at the Utrecht, thinking of the rix dollars and silver, his career wrecked now with the ship.
Chapter 34
The seal island
WHEN they were back on the beach the skipper and Ambroise went at it. “The best course is for me and my men to search for water on that high island we see in the west.”
“We cannot abandon all these people!’
“We do not abandon them. But the search for water must take precedence over the bullion, and the people. My men and I will be gone a day, no more. If we can find water, our immediate survival at least is assured.”
He is planning to go without me, Ambroise thought. Look at him. It is written plain on his face. “Very well,” he said. “We will search for water first. But I will come with you.”
The skipper looked disappointed. “Suit yourself.”
“But first we must go over to the people and tell them what we plan to do.”
The skipper stared at the sky, sniffing at the air like a wild animal. “I can smell more weather coming.” He slapped his hand against his thigh, in an agony of impatience. “We do not have the time for this.”
“I have to explain to them our plans, so they know they are not abandoned. We cannot just leave them here without assuring them of our good intentions.”
“Good intentions! You go back there, that scabrous rabble will take the yawl and keep you with them.”
“I cannot just abandon them!’
“They will not be ruled by you or anyone now.”
“The soldiers are there to keep order! I have to take them at least a barrel of water.”
“This is no time for fine scruples. One barrel of water will make no difference to so many. If we do not find good water, and plenty of it, we are all of us dead men and your conscience means nothing to anyone!’
“It is an order.”
The skipper stepped closer, towering over him. “You can't give me orders now! We're stuck on an island in the middle of God knows where and I'm your only chance, so don't be so high and mighty with me.”
“Disobeying my order is tantamount to mutiny!’
That word. The skipper changed tack. “We shall only be away a day, two at the most.”
“No. I cannot leave them without explanation.”
The bosun came over, the other men standing in anxious knots behind him. He saw Vrouwe Noorstrandt’s maid there too, what a sorry sight she looked now. “What’s happening?”the bosun said.
“Heer Commandeur wants to go over there with a barrel of water and get their blessing on his journeys.”
Ambroise saw the look the bosun gave him. Two weeks in Hell had sent the poor bastard over the edge. He would stick me here and now, he thought, if it wasn’t for the skipper.
“We need all the water we have,” he said. “Why give it away to those dogs over there?”
“We can spare one barrel,” Ambroise said.
“See if you think that when your tongue has fur on it like a dead dog!’
The skipper sighed and stepped between them.
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