“It was a small reverse,” he told them.
“Not for Gerrit van Hoeck and Gilles Clement,” Steenhower said.
“So what are you going to do? Hide over here while they use our women and then warn the rescue boat about our plans?”
“We should use the muskets,” Krueger said. “We'll make short work of them then.”
“Those bastards,” Joost shouted. He pointed a finger at Steenhower. “You said we didn’t need the guns!’ “We’ve no time for that,” Christiaan said, “We must get that raft back so they cannot warn the rescue boat when it comes. Steenhower, Krueger go and check the powder and the muskets. Tomorrow we go back to the island. Enough of playing around with them. It’s time to finish this.”
The long island
A RUST dawn creeping along the sky. Michiel stood on the beach, Cornelia beside him, staring at the Houtman Rocks, wondering when they would come.
“Do you have a wife, Michiel?”
“What a question. Of course not. Who would have me?”
“I can think of a lot of women. One of them is standing right here.”
“You say that now because we are far away from Holland and only the herring gulls to hear you. When this is over you have to go back to your husband and we will never be able to talk like this again, trust me.”
“I wish I could be like you. Do what I want.”
“It’s funny, I wish I could be like you and never have to work for Company silver.”
She squeezed his arm.”These last few nights have been the best of my life,” she said.
“Now you’re talking crazy.”
“I mean it. I went to sleep next to a man that I loved. Not every woman can say that, even if they live to be an old woman. What would you do, Michiel, if I wasn’t married?”
“What could I do? You could never be the wife of a soldier.”
“Could you be the husband of a fine lady?”
“And have you keep me?”
“Would you go back to the farm with your brother?”
“And what about you? I cannot see you in the dairy every morning, milking the cows.”
“No, I would get a servant to do it for me.”
He laughed.
“I can’t go back to him, Michiel. I know what it’s like to be alive now. I can’t go back to feeling dead again.”
“We should not be saying these things.”
“Can you imagine the sort of life that is waiting for me in East India, Michiel? Trapped inside a fort with a man I don’t care for. It would have been all right until these last few nights, knowing what life could be like if I was with a man I really loved.”
He held her shoulders, made her look into his face. “You have to forget about this. It is just because you have lived with so much danger--it makes you think crazy things. You have a good life, Cornelia. Don’t throw it away, promise me.”
“I promise you, Michiel. I will not throw my life away again.” She had something in her hand. She pressed it into his palm.
“What is this?” Hard to see it in the dawn light; a coin, no half of one, with a jagged edge.
“Here,” she said. “I have the other half of it. You must promise me you will not lose it and one day when this is over we will bring the two halves together again.”
“I don’t know, Cornelia.”
“What’s wrong? Don’t you want to?”
“More than anything. This is a good bargain for me, not such a good one for you.”
“Oh believe me, Michiel, I am robbing you blind.” She smiled and kissed him. They heard shouts from the lookout on the far side of the island. The muyters were coming.
“Whatever happens today, Cornelia, I will never forget you. Ever.”
“We will bring these coins together, Michiel. I promise you.”
Chapter 92
THEIR day of reckoning: clear skies, fair weather, flat seas. The Captain-General appeared at the head of his troops, dressed in the commandeur's fine red cloak, a mutton bird feather in his tall black hat. He strode down from his headquarters, Krueger, Joost, and Steenhower with him. He splashed through the shallows and was helped aboard the raft by Oliver van der Beeck and Hermanus Schenck.
He held up a silk purse from his cloak and took out a gemstone. “A ruby stone for the man who kills the most muyters!’
More cheering. With a little wine and bravado they had convinced themselves that the disgrace of yesterday would not be repeated. David Krueger grinning as he tested the edge of his sword. Life held such strange twists; if not for the reef, he would be sitting in Batavia Castle right now, a quill in his hand, copying bills of lading.
They pushed away from the beach. Those bastards had robbed him of his woman and their raft. Well, he would show them. Today would be his greatest victory. He would rid of himself of the final rebels in his kingdom, and he would claim his queen.
The light on the water hurt the eyes, just a gentle chop on the midway channel as they set the sail and headed west towards the long island.
***
Two rafts drifted into the arm of the lagoon. Michiel's verediggers were already on their feet, stiff and cold from the freezing night, but their hearts were pumping now and they were eager to have the fight finally under way.
Michiel threw himself face down in the bush, watched them come from the lip of the cay’s shallow cliffs. Even from here he could see the wicks burning, they had brought their muskets with them this time. If they stayed in their hiding places, the muyters would reach the beach, and any advantage they had would be lost. If they tried to pelt them with rocks, as they had the first time, they would make good targets for the muskets.
There was no choice. Some of them would die, for certain, but once the muyters made the land they were all dead men anyway, their poor assortment of weapons would be no match for theirs. The issue was: how much dry powder and musket shot did these bastards have left?
Well, it was time to find out.
Chapter 93
MUTTERINGS as they drew closer, no sign of movement along the beach. They were there, of course, the smoke from their cook fire drifted on the morning wind.
“Where are the bastards hiding?” Quick said.
He watched Krueger, Oliver van der Beeck and the others; their eyes shone, hungry men before a banquet. The boy Strootman was first out of the boat. He stumbled on the coral and fell headlong into the water.
“Take your time,” Christiaan chided, ‘there is plenty here for all of us.”
But this wasn’t like the seal island, and they were not all as eager as Strootman.
The others were more careful, treading gingerly in the coffee-coloured water, the thick mud studded with the terrible wadcutter shells. They had to keep their clogs on their feet and it was hard going.
Christiaan stayed on the raft. He adopted a heroic pose, hands on hips, the Captain-General surveying the battlefield.
Still no sign of the soldiers. The long island was much bigger than the Houtman Rocks. The strip of beach was no wider than the gallery of the Utrecht, guarded by limestone cliffs the height of a man's shoulders. It made him uneasy. Perhaps that was where they were hiding.
Steenhower stayed on the boat with the gunner Schenk and some of the other soldiers, ready with the muskets, they couldn’t risk wadiing through the water and getting their powder wet. His jonkers were still making hard progress. Several of them slipped and went under, emerged from the water streaming blood from coral cuts. Gysbert van der Beeck went down in a pothole as deep as his armpit and let out a shrill scream, thinking he was about to drown.
A dozen or more of Michiel’s soldiers emerged from the bushes atop the low cliffs, and a volley of rocks arced through the air. A large slab of coral hit van der Beeck on the head, just as he had regained his footing in the shallows. He howled in pain and dropped his sword. He held his hands to his face and blood spurted through his fingers and down his wrist.
There were soldiers ranged right the way along
the cliffs. Lumps of coral, some the size of a man's head, rained down on Christiaan’s proud army, there were cries of fright and outrage, shouted oaths of shock and surprise. As the rocks splashed into the water around them, several of the men went down. Quick wanted to keep going but Krueger was already stumbling back towards the raft, as eager now to retreat as he had been to start killing.
***
Michiel saw Joost and his fellow jonkers slip from the rafts and wade through the shallows, followed by a dozen others. They were close enough that he could see the soldiers' matches burning, their muskets primed and raised. What he and his fellow verediggers were about to do was suicide but they had no choice.
As soon as the jonkers were within range, he gave the signal and his men rose from the brush as one and sent the first salvo of rocks at them. His first missile caught Gysbert van der Beeck on the head and he was gratified to hear the big oaf's howl of pain.
He heard the sharp crack of musket fire from the rafts. One of the Frenchies screamed and fell back, clutching at his throat, coughing blood everywhere.
But his boys were battle hard and up for a fight. Another salvo of rocks splashed into the water. The muyters crouched in the shallows, uncertain whether to advance or retreat. Michiel knew it would take Steenhower and his men time to reload their muskets. He screamed an order and jumped from the low cliff, a dozen of his best fighters following--armed with their homemade weapons, pikes and morning star clubs. They charged into the water. The bastards retreated, wouldn't fight. They know they're no match for us, Michiel thought. They're going to let the muskets do the work for them. He ordered them back to the cliffs, heard a second crack of musket fire from the rafts and another of his Frenchies went down screaming. He and Du Trieux grabbed the wounded man and hauled him back up the beach.
Michiel felt something hit him in the back and his legs gave way under him. Gerrit Westerveld helped him to his feet. “You’ve been hit, sergeant.”
“I’m all right. Keep going.”
He thought being shot with a musket ball would hurt more than this. It must be just a minor wound. He kept going, and two of his men helped him scramble up behind the barricade.
The Zandaam
“Smoke,” Barents said, pointing.
Praise be to God, now he saw it, too. This was the site of the wreck, he was sure of it, though they were approaching from the north this time. Those high islands off the starboard bow were the islands where he and the skipper had gone in search of water. The smoke alone was proof that some had survived.
He closed his eyes and pictured Cornelia's face. The Zandaam edged forward under shortened sail, the schotsman again busy with the line. Reefs foamed all around them.
“You were right, thanks be to God,” Barents said.
Ambroise allowed himself a smile. In silent prayer, they drifted in.
Chapter 94
The long island
MICHIEL lay face down on his belly behind the limestone barricade. Cornelia had pulled off the red coat and tunic, washed the wound, there was a bowl of bloody water and rags beside her. “It is only a small hole,” she said, ‘but the ball is still in there. It went in near the shoulder blade.”
“I can’t worry about it now,” he said. “Go and help the women with the other wounded. I’m all right.”
He saw the look on her face. Who would ever have thought a fine lady like this would worry if he lived or died?
The fight had been going on for hours. Each time the muyters came, they beat them back, but at a cost. Already there were a dozen of his verediggers bleeding and groaning from musket wounds, half his entire force.
Clever tactics. If the muyters had enough powder they could pick them off like this all day until there was none of them left.
The sun rose up the sky, leeching colour into the lagoon. He heard the droning of the pastor’s voice, down on his knees again, praying to the Lord. Well, it had worked before, when they were dying of thirst on the Houtman Rocks, perhaps it would happen again. But he didn't know why anyone, least of all the good Lord, would want to listen to that bag of wind.
He looked around at Groot, lying on the ground at his feet, trussed and gagged, his eyes doing his talking for him. “Don't think they're going to rescue you, Groot,” Michiel whispered. “Last thing I do before I die, I'm going to cut your throat for you.”
He wriggled and squirmed. Michiel thought about getting one of the Frenchies to piss on him again.
“What are we going to do?” du Trieux said.
They were all looking at him, like he had an answer for them. But there was nothing else in his bag of tricks. Would the muyters run out of powder before he ran out of men to fight them?
Steenhower and the inkpot marines were back on their rafts, preparing powder and shot for another sortie. The Frenchie with the musket ball in his throat had finally finished with his dying and the blood had congealed like jelly around his neck wound, and there were flies swarming round this unexpected feast. The body was unnerving his men, not all of them had been in a battle before. One of the wounded men was screaming, over and over, and his keening frayed at the nerves. It was a belly wound, the worst kind.
If we retreat,” du Trieux said, ‘then we can ambush them as they come looking for us. They don't all have muskets.”
“But then they will find the raft,” Michiel said.
He knew what the muyters planned to do when they had the other raft; they had to protect it, at all costs. But how? He doubted they could hold them off for much more than a few hours.
The pastor droned on with his prayer of supplication. No, I think God has forgotten us this time, Michiel thought.
“Look!’ someone shouted.
“Zeil in zicht!’
A ship, just her topgallants aloft, was creeping into the lagoon, to the north of the seal island. Well, how about that, Michiel thought. The pastor had his miracle a second time.
“We're saved,” the pastor said.
“Not yet,” du Trieux told him.
“We have to get to the raft!’ Michiel stumbled to his feet and started running. A dozen men leaped to their feet and went after him.
The Zandaam
Now they had come closer to the islands, the smoke had disappeared. He could not be sure from which island they had seen it. More frustration.
“The wreck is further to the south,” Arie Barents said. “The island where we landed the people is much smaller than that one.”
“Yet the smoke came from here, I'm sure of it’ Ambroise said. Surely the people had seen their sails? So why had they not kept the beacon burning?
He experienced the first gnawing of unease.
“The smoke came from the long island.”
“The island we landed the people on is over there,” Arie Barents insisted, pointing to the smaller of two cays to the south east.
“The lagoon is too shallow for us to navigate,” the skipper said. “We must turn about and come in again, from another direction.”
“No, we will go and investigate,” Ambroise insisted. “Break out the yawl.” He shouted for the soldiers to fetch barrels of water and bread from below, in case they found survivors.
They dropped anchor, and the scow was dropped over the side, its mast and sail quickly hoisted. Ambroise nearly fell into it in his haste. Barents jumped down beside him.
“Hurry,” Ambroise shouted at the sailors. After three months a few more minutes would make little difference to the survivors. But it made every bit of difference to Ambroise Secor.
Chapter 95
The long island
THEY had hidden the raft in the brush four hundred paces to the north, opposite the northern tip of the seal island. Michiel could see the Zandaam anchored in the lagoon; the orange white and blue banner of the royal house of Holland fluttered at the stern. A Company ship, for certain.
They dragged the raft from its hiding place, their strength born of desperation, knowing the next hour would decide their fat
e. They hauled it down to the water, poled through the shallows and then set to at their rough-hewn oars, knowing they had to reach the ship first, or their miracle might just disappear in front of their eyes.
The Houtman Rocks
They steered the yawl onto the beach, and Ambroise was first out of the boat, splashing through the muddy shallows in his haste to get to the shore. He saw movement away to his right, but it was just a seal, watching him with liquid eyes, warming itself on a rock.
The shelters were ragged and deserted: was no one left? He found a child’s clog on the beach, a discarded ceramic bottle that smelled as if it had once contained brandy.
He took off his hat and ran, stumbling on the loose coral, calling out Cornelia’s name. Soon he was out of breath. He heard a shout from one of the sailors and looked around. The man was pointing towards the northern tip of the island. A raft had appeared around the headland, Praise be to God!
The men on the raft were on their feet, threatening to overturn their flimsy craft, shouting and waving their arms in joy at their rescue.
Or were they?
“Go back! Get back to the boat!’
He stared, astonished. Then he heard a woman’s voice behind him. He spun around. It was Hendrika, the pastor’s daughter.
Dear God.
It was not just her physical appearance that was different, though that had changed more than he could have imagined; her skin, burned red by the wind, was peeling from her nose and forehead, and her pretty fair hair was bleached almost white by salt and sun and hung loose about her shoulders, so stiff it could have been lacquered. Her dress was just a rag.
But it was her eyes that scared him. They were lifeless, like a fish that had lain all day in the bottom of the boat. She wore an expression he had never seen before. She looked like a ghost.
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