“I hope you will be back from the long island soon. You are my only friend on this god forsaken island.”
“Cornelia,” he said, using her name for the first time, ‘even if God forsakes you, I will still find you. I promise you.”
She smiled. “Hurry back, Michiel Van Texel.”
“I will,” he said flustered, and as he walked away he stumbled on the shale. Funny. She had never seen him take a misstep before.
Chapter 48
The long island
THEY made their way through the shallows, cursing and stumbling on the coral. They had to leave on their buckled shoes or the coral would have cut their feet to pieces. The beach was no wider than the gallery on the Utrecht and had the same strange mushrooming of white rock and scrub as the kerkhof. But this island was much bigger, perhaps a mile long.
They unloaded the water barrels, and stacked them on the beach. The jonker van der Linde watched them, swaggering about with a feather in his hat. Look at him, Michiel thought. He thinks he's a general now.
Oliver van der Beeck yelled to them from the raft: “There is a lake at the south end of the island. You have to walk, there is no place to land down there.”
“When you're finished, make a fire,” Van der Linde said. “When we see your smoke we'll come back and get you.”
“You're not staying with us?” Michiel said.
“The undermerchant ordered me and Gus ten Broek to explore the other islands.”
Michiel looked at the others. The Undermerchant hadn't said anything to him about that. He didn’t want the jonker’s company, but he didn’t like being stranded here.
But if that was the Undermerchant’s order, there was nothing he could do about it. Still, he didn't like the way things were turning out. Van der Linde was already wading back through the shallows to the raft.
“See you in a few hours,” van der Linde shouted.
What if they don't come back for us? Michiel thought and immediately pushed the thought aside as absurd. Of course they would come back.
They all needed the water.
The Houtman Rocks
When they had been on board the Utrecht, the ship's affairs had been decided by council; the commandeur and the skipper headed it, assisted by Christiaan along with the high boatswain, the provost and the pastor. After the wreck, the provost had reconvened the council, replacing the skipper and the boatswain with Krueger and Salomon du Chesne. Christiaan had automatically assumed his place at the head of the council after his miraculous survival from the wreck.
The people were allowed to listen to their deliberations, but none had a voice save the councillors themselves. They were no longer the grand affairs they had been in the state room of the Utrecht, with its great mahogany table and ewers of wine at their elbows. Here the five men had to squat in the sand outside Christiaan's tent.
The pastor arrived for the meeting in his long black coat, his Bible in his right hand. How I despise these preacher men and their sanctimonious ways, Christiaan thought. He imagined a bench of them sitting in judgment on Torrentius, ordering him to be put to the question, their little minds shut off to the higher ideals of God. They claimed to do the works of the Lord but their minds were better suited to clerking.
He called the council to order and got straight down to business. The island, he said, was too crowded for them all to survive together in harmony. He had decided it was time to spread the community among the islands.
He watched them muttering to each other like fishwives on the wharf. Some of the people wouldn’t like it, of course. Already they had fallen into a routine and were comfortable with their accommodations and their neighbours.
“Is this necessary?” the provost asked.
“Hygiene is bad here,” Christiaan said. “And already we have to fetch food and firewood from the other islands. It makes good sense to separate our communities in order to better husband our resources.”
“What do you intend?” Salomon asked.
“Bastiaan Rees, the provost, will take the surviving passengers to the seal island and take care of them there.”
“But that is more than a hundred people,” the provost said.
“The seal island is a bigger island and it has more food.”
The pastor nodded. “I think it's a good plan,” he said, with an oily smile in Christiaan’s direction. “It has my full support.”
Christiaan returned the smile. You stupid little man.
Only the provost seemed unconvinced. He does not trust me, Christiaan thought. But what can he do? He cannot go against my authority. And besides, it is undoubtedly what the commandeur would have ordered, if he were here.
“Furthermore, I have heard reports of bloodshed before I came to the island,” Christiaan said. There was a deadly silence. He looked around the group. “Is this true?”
“There was indeed some lawlessness,” the pastor agreed.
“I have therefore decided that all weapons are to be surrendered and lodged with me, in the chest in my tent. That way there can be no repeat of unchristian behaviour.”
A few of those soldiers who had not gone with Michiel Van Texel to the long island glanced nervously at each other. Even the pastor looked shaken at such a radical step.
“Does the council agree?”
Almost a full show of hands. He stared at the provost and finally his hand went up as well.
“Good. We shall institute these changes immediately. Be assured, that when the commandeur returns he shall find us hearty and hale. He shall scarce believe his eyes when he sees us established here as if we are back in Amsterdam! Now, let us ask the pastor to lead us in prayer.”
somewhere between the
Southland and the Indies
Men lay sprawled across each other like corpses on a battlefield, hair brine-stiff and wild, some red-eyed and delirious with festering salt sores on their legs. One of the sailors had gone mad, had been caught drinking seawater, and they had been forced to bind him and throw him in the scuppers, where he lay now, bleating for water.
Ambroise yet made an effort to maintain the dignity afforded him by his office, had contrived to retain his black felt commandeur's hat even through the wild gales they had encountered after leaving the islands, and though his lace edged collar was stiff with salt and grey with wear it set him apart from the common sailors.
The bosun stirred, his eyes bleary with exhaustion. “Where are we, skipper?”
The skipper sat at the tiller, features set like rock against the spray and wind. He was almost inhuman in what he could endure, he never seemed to tire or thirst. “We'll sight land soon,” he grunted.
“You said that yesterday,” someone grumbled, ‘and the day before.”
The skipper snorted in derision to show what he thought of a common sailor's opinions.
“It's a week since we left the Southland,” someone else said.
“You don't know where we are, do you?” It was Messeker.
“I shit on your head,” the skipper said.
“If you hadn't been so busy covering that little tart,” Messeker said, nodding at Sara, who was snoring like a pig at the skipper's knees, ‘we'd still be on the Utrecht.” She didn't look a girl worth risking so much for now, Ambroise thought, slumped in the scuppers like an old saddlebag from a horse.
The skipper's cheeks flushed scarlet.
“You wouldn't listen to me,” Messeker said, wouldn't leave it alone.
The skipper drew his knife. “Maybe the fish will listen to you, idiot.”
“I think we should let the skipper do his job,” Ambroise said evenly, and now all eyes were turned to him. “Unless anyone here thinks he can do better.”
That quietened them. The skipper put the knife back in his belt.
Ambroise looked around at the rest of the men. “Can anyone else here find our way safely to Java?”
Eyes were lowered to the deck, there was a mumbled acknowledgment that the skipper was, indeed, thei
r only hope on this vast, empty sea. The dangerous moment passed.
Ambroise caught the skipper's eye, received an almost imperceptible nod of the head in acknowledgment. All he would ever get by way of thanks from a man like him. But for the first time in nine months of voyage, perhaps they were on the same side.
Chapter 49
The Houtman Rocks
Christiaan had called an emergency meeting of the island council. Cornelia was among the spectators that morning, she had heard the women talking about it--they all said there was going to be trouble.
The night before, one of the soldiers assigned to guard the wine barrels had himself tapped off some wine and then given some to one of his fellow guards. The crime had been discovered the next morning, for the idiots had drunk themselves into a stupor and passed out, where they were found by the relief.
Christiaan kept the council waiting in the sun for almost an hour before he finally appeared. He had on a fresh lace collar, pilfered - if Salomon du Chesne was to be believed - from the chest that the commandeur had sent ashore. He also wore a white felt hat, with a gold chain around its brim, another trophy from Sinjeur Secor's personal possessions. Among the rest of them, in their salt-stiff clothes, he looked utterly ridiculous. She would have laughed if the look on his face had not so disturbed her.
She had rarely seen him without his benign smile, but this morning he was strangely agitated. His eyes were unnaturally bright, his expression quite at odds with his dandy clothes.
He did not sit down but stood, his hands on his hips, glaring at them all. Only Krueger did not seem perturbed by their chief officer's manner.
What is wrong with him? Cornelia thought. What is the purpose of this?
“Well,” he said at last. “You all know why I have called the council together.”
“Heer Undermerchant,” the pastor said, with an ingratiating smile, ‘please, take your ease and we will discuss the matter.”
He ignored him. “These two men have flagrantly defied the laws which I have set for our own survival here. They are worthy of death without grace and without delay.”
Death. The councillors stared at each other, horrified. The onlookers fell to frozen silence.
The provost frowned. “Heer Undermerchant, I agree that the soldier Jean Monfort has indeed violated the law and should be punished most severely. But the other, Abraham of Delft, was only guilty of taking what was given to him. He may not have even known what his comrade had done.”
“You think he did not know that the wine was stolen?”
“I think his sin was not as great as his fellow's.”
“Why will you not listen to me!’ Christiaan screamed, his voice shrill as a woman's. “I will not be defied in this!’
An appalled silence.
The provost tried again. “We do not defy you, Heer Undermerchant. But a decision such as this is surely the responsibility of the whole council. A man's life is at stake here.”
“If you allow men to steal our rations without punishment, what hope have we to survive until rescue comes?”
“Then we should punish the soldier Jean Monfort,” the pastor said. “But I agree with the provost, the other should not suffer to die as well.”
“You will vote that they both be drowned!’ There was a froth of spittle at the corner of his lips.
The provost and the pastor murmured to each other, clearly panicked by what was happening. The Undermerchant was the voice of the Company, and not easily defied. Krueger did not join in their deliberations--he sat back, his mind on the matter apparently made up. Salomon du Chesne stared at the ground, saying nothing.
Christiaan grew impatient. “I demand the punishment of death for Abraham of Delft and Jean Monfort, soldiers in the employ of the Company. What say you?”
Krueger alone raised his hand.
Christiaan looked as if he was about to swoon away. “How can you let this happen?” he screamed at the other three men. “Well, soon enough, you will have cause to regret this!’
He stormed off. Krueger got to his feet and trailed after him. Cornelia watched them go, astonished. The Undermerchant's petulance was so comic, she was forced to stifle nervous laughter with her hand. But there was no amusement on the faces of the council or any others who had witnessed this performance.
One by one everyone drifted back to their tents. A sense of foreboding settled over their crowded little colony as they waited for the repercussions of that morning's events.
***
She found Salomon slumped on the beach. He was alone, his long face more troubled than usual. His long fingers coiled and uncoiled around each other like bloodless worms.
He got to his feet when he saw her and bowed. “Vrouwe,” he said.
Cornelia was startled, for no one treated her like a great lady on this island anymore.
“What's going on, Salomon?”
“The council has been dismissed. Christiaan has replaced me with Joost van der Linde and the provost's place has gone to the lance corporal.”
“Steenhower? That clod? On the council?”
He nodded.
“The provost has allowed this?”
He shrugged. “What can he do? Besides, nearly all of the soldiers who might have backed him against the undermerchant are on the long island getting water. Nothing he can do about it until they get back.”
“They should have been back days ago. Michiel said it would take them just a few hours to fill the wine barrels.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Where is the provost now?”
“He has taken those Christiaan selected over to the Seal Island. I think he’s scared of him.”
She sat down, and he squatted beside her, at a respectful distance.
“It was only a matter of time, anyway,” he said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“There are things most of the people here don't know.”
“What things?”
Salomon picked up a piece of coral, tossed it into the shallows. “Do you know how much wine we have, vrouwe, how much water?”
She shook her head.
“Neither does anyone else, except for Christiaan and the butler, Welten. But I tell you this: we have more than he says. Who is getting the extra share?”
“He is lying to us?”
“It was his wine the soldiers stole.”
“So that was why he was so angry?”
“Have you been to his tent these last days?” Salomon asked her.
She shook her head.
“Only a favoured few are allowed entrance. Do you know why? He does not want anyone to see how he lives. He has claimed the commandeur's great carved chair, which they salvaged from the wreck, together with a Persian carpet, and he has had them dried and brought to his tent. He also has the commandeur's silver candlesticks, his ink pots, anything of value goes to him now.”
“Well he is our most senior official.”
“But I ask myself why a man needs such luxuries here.”
“Have you spoken to anyone about this?”
“Just the pastor. When he confronted Christiaan about it, he went into a rage.”
A shadow fell along the beach. Christiaan was watching them, his hands on his hips. “Salomon,” Christiaan called to him. “Shouldn't you be helping Krueger with his work?”
Salomon jumped to his feet and set off back in the direction of the tents.
Cornelia looked up at Christiaan. He had his back to the sun and she had to shield her eyes against the glare. He was smiling. Such a difference from that morning at the Council. Hard not to like a man who smiled so warmly; yet really, she thought, it was just a trick of the light.
“All they want to do is sit around here all day,” Christiaan said, laughing. “Idle hands make mischief.”
He waved to her and headed back to his tent after Salomon du Chesne.
Chapter 50
South west
of Banten, J
ava
THE sky was the colour of pewter, the sea flat as oil. It was the skipper who saw it first, steenkros, seaweed torn from the rocks. They must be near land.
“You see, man?” he jeered at Messeker. “Eight days since we left the Southland coast. What did I tell you?”
They sighted land towards evening, two days later. Their first glimpse was a mountain that at first they mistook for cloud, then a green cape came into view behind a veil of drifting rain. In front of it lay an island, guarded by a reef. They saw a village but kept sailing, not trusting that the villagers would be docile. It might be within the kingdom of the Matarams, with whom the VOC were at war.
Instead they anchored off the coast, under a quarter moon, sweltering and gasping for water. The gales and freezing winds of the Houtman Rocks were a distant memory now. Two men lay unmoving in the bilges, black tongues protruding from their mouths. The madman had died during the night and had been pitched over the side for the shark fish.
Ambroise sat slumped by the tiller next to the skipper, sipping his meagre ration of water. It was too hot to sleep. He listened to the slap of gentle waves against the hull, the snores of the sailors. The skipper leaned over to him, put his lips close to his ear. “What happens when we get to Batavia?”
“We must find a ship that can take us back to the site of the wreck as soon as it is possible to sail.”
“I mean between you and me.”
“What are you saying, skipper?”
“I mean, what will you say to the Governor General about what happened on the Utrecht?”
He took his time to answer. Finally: “I would have to tell him how you saved all our lives and somehow navigated this skiff to the Indies, against all odds.”
“Will you tell him it was my fault she came upon the rocks?”
“You will have to answer to the Lord General about the wrecking of the Utrecht. I know nothing of nautical matters so that is beyond my judgment.”
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