Above, the ship was a hive of activity. Now that the trials and hangings were over, the Commander was sending men to salvage everything they could from the islands, especially precious cargo from Batavia. Every item was listed meticulously and stored on board. Pelsaert was a loyal Company man and it was his duty to save what he could for the Company.
Jan wondered if he had been forgotten. He saw no one apart from the soldier who fed him.
Then one day, all the surviving mutineers came back from Seals’ Island. Among them was Wouter.
‘What’s going to happen to you, Wouter?’ asked Jan. ‘Has the Commander told you?’
Wouter shook his head. ‘No, nothing,’ he said gruffly.
‘Why have they brought you on board?’
Wouter shrugged. ‘They say we are to set sail for Java soon.’
The days passed, and preparations were being made for the Sardam’s voyage.
One morning, Wouter and Jan were called to the Commander’s cabin. Pelsaert looked up from his writing table as they were brought in.
‘You know that we are about to make sail back to Java?’ he said.
‘Aye, sir,’ said Jan and Wouter in unison.
Pelsaert fiddled with the seal on his desk. ‘I have decided your fate, Wouter Looes,’ he said at last.
Wouter stood to attention, only a slight twitch beneath one eye betraying any emotion.
‘Sir?’
‘I have thought long about this, Wouter. Your crimes are as bad as those of the other mutineers, but there was one passenger who pleaded for your life to be spared. So,’ said Pelsaert, putting his long fingers together as if in prayer, ‘you are to live.’
Jan glanced at Wouter, and saw his shoulders drop with relief.
‘However,’ continued Pelsaert, ‘You will not come back with us to Java.’
Wouter looked puzzled. ‘Am I to stay here, sir?’ he asked.
‘No. I have decided that you shall be marooned on the South Land, Wouter Looes. Though you are a murderer and a mutineer, you are a leader of men, that much is clear. You are resourceful and you will find a way to survive and make contact with the Aborigines there.’
Wouter said nothing for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. ‘And if I find my way back to Java?’
‘You will not find your way back to Java,’ said the Commander, firmly. ‘Your orders are to stay on the South Land. Other ships will pass this way and, who knows, you may be able to make contact with them. If so, then the Company would be interested to learn more of this unknown land and its people.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Wouter.
The Commander grunted. ‘We shall cast you off in an inlet we have already visited. You will have a yawl and plenty of provisions.’
Wouter nodded. Then Pelsaert turned to Jan.
‘And you, Jan Pelgrom de Bye,’ he said.
Jan held his breath.
‘You shall be his companion.’
Wouter looked up sharply, and Jan saw the dismay in his eyes.
Jan couldn’t speak. His head was a muddle of emotions. He was not to die – at least, not yet – but how would they survive, the two of them, in the great empty, unknown South Land? Just a few provisions, in a hostile country with wild natives, and probably a slow and painful death at the end of it all.
‘Dismissed,’ said Pelsaert.
But it was some days before Jan and Wouter were cast adrift. The captain of the Sardam and four companions had gone missing. Pelsaert had sent them to look for any valuable flotsam left on the islands and they had not returned. Up and down the Sardam went, searching the waters, but there was no sign of them. A fierce wind had got up on the day they set out, and it was feared that their boat had turned over.
Wouter and Jan sat side by side, in leg irons, surrounded by the mutineers who were going back to Java to be tried there. No one spoke much.
‘Maybe the Captain and his companions reached the shore,’ said Jan.
Wouter sighed. ‘Maybe.’
Day after day, Pelsaert searched for them, but at last he gave up and in mid-November, on a beautiful calm day, the Sardam sailed into an inlet close to the shore and dropped anchor.
Jan and Wouter were brought up on deck and their leg irons removed. They looked at each other – both pale young men, yet so different from each other. Wouter was a strong and well-built soldier of twenty-four; Jan, a puny youth of eighteen.
The yawl had been provisioned and lay alongside. Pelsaert and a few others were on deck to see them go.
Pelsaert nodded towards the shore. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘From here you can clearly see a river.’
Jan shaded his eyes, but he could see nothing.
‘There,’ said Wouter, pointing. ‘I see it, sir. There it is.’
Jan followed the direction of Wouter’s finger and at last he saw a clearly defined channel which passed around a steep point before flowing into the dune land and making its way to the sea.
‘We’ll make camp near the river, sir,’ said Wouter.
Pelsaert nodded, and beckoned the preacher forward.
Reluctantly, the preacher came towards them, scarcely able to conceal his distaste, and Jan remembered that terrible evening when he had forced the man to drink goblet after goblet of wine while Wouter and the others were murdering his family. He bent his head. He couldn’t meet the preacher’s eyes.
‘May God go with you and preserve your souls.’
Jan and Wouter climbed down into the yawl and as soon as they were cast off, he heard Pelsaert shout to one of the sailors, ‘Weigh anchor and set course for Java.’
As he and Wouter fought to keep the loaded boat afloat, Jan took one last last look at the Sardam. The anchor was pulled up, the sails hoisted and the ship started to move away.
A solitary figure stood at the rail. Lucretia was looking after them, her hand raised in silent farewell.
PART TWO
MAROONED
Chapter Eight
Jan
A soldier and a cabin boy. Neither of us knows how to handle a boat, and we shout and swear at each other as the craft spins and plunges. We have been given a barrel of biscuits and other victuals, some tools for making camp, three blankets, a musket and shot, a few trinkets to trade and a supply of water and wine, and all this rolls and pitches in the bottom of the boat as she is flung through the waves. It is not far to the shore, so we don’t put up the sail. Wouter is far stronger than me and he takes the paddle.
‘Watch out for any rocks or reefs, Jan, and steer the boat. That will be your job,’ he shouts, trying to make himself heard above the sound of the waves.
I try to look out for hazards ahead, but it is hard to steer with the pole and stay in the boat, so I almost miss spotting some.
Then: ‘Rocks! Rocks on the starboard side!’ I shout.
Just in time, Wouter puts out the paddle to stop the boat crashing into the jagged rocks.
I try to steer the boat, but I am no sailor and it bucks and turns under my hand. The salt spray is over me and I wipe my stinging eyes. We are closer in now, among the great rolling waves crashing on the shore.
Wouter says something, but I don’t hear him over the sound of the breaking waves. Suddenly he drops the paddle and lurches towards me, grabbing the steering pole.
‘Take the paddle, damn you!’ he yells. ‘If you can’t steer the vessel, then row instead.’
I scramble over him and grab the paddle.
‘Now row, Jan! Row with all your strength.’
I grit my teeth. I plunge the paddle into the water and try to steady the craft as it heads for the shore. I feel pain in my hands. I don’t have the gnarled, hard hands of a sailor and the rough paddle is stripping my skin, the salt burning my raw flesh.
The surf is breaking around us and we are crashing with it towards the beach.
‘Hold on, Jan,’ shouts Wouter. ‘This surf is wild.’
Then I cry out, ‘We’ve hit a reef!’ as I feel the boat jar against something.
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Wouter laughs out loud. ‘It’s not a reef, you stupid boy,’ he says. ‘It is sand. We’ve reached the shallow water. God be praised, we’ve reached the shore of the Southern Land.’
We climb out into the shallows and between us manage to drag the boat on to the sand and beach it.
‘We’ve done it, Jan!’ yells Wouter, flinging himself down on the sand.
I raise my bleeding hands to the sky and echo his words.
Then Wouter sees my hands.
‘Take your shirt off, boy,’ he says gruffly. ‘Tear it with your teeth and wrap the cloth round your hands.’
I pull my shirt over my head. Pelsaert ordered us to wash and gave us clean clothes before setting out so, for the first time in months I smell better and am wearing fresh linen. But I don’t hesitate. I rip the new shirt into bandages for my hands.
When I am more comfortable, I look about me and the excitement I felt when we landed starts to drain away. This is a desolate place. There are no trees, no birds – just white sand and a few scrubby bushes among the dunes.
‘Where is the river?’ I ask stupidly.
Wouter gestures to the north. ‘Up there, round the point,’ he says.
He tells me to search round for driftwood, but it is not easy to find and our fire, when it is lit, doesn’t last long enough for us to cook on it.
‘Why did you light it?’ I say to Wouter as he sits by the fire looking out to sea. ‘You could see it was too small to cook on.’
‘You’ll be glad of the warmth from the embers at night, Jan,’ he says, poking at it and watching as the flame flares for a moment. ‘And I told the lady I’d light a fire.’
‘The lady Lucretia?’ I ask.
‘Aye. I promised her that I’d light a fire to let her know we are safely landed.’
‘She won’t see it from this distance.’
He looks sad. ‘Probably not.’ He knows he will never see her again.
We drink a little water and eat some of the biscuits from the barrel, and then we settle down to sleep. I wrap myself in one of the blankets, but it is sodden with seawater and I fling it off and move near the warmth of the dying fire.
When I wake, Wouter is still sleeping, stretched out like a starfish beside the dead fire. I get up slowly, my swollen hands still raw, and search for more driftwood for our fire. I am hungry, and plan to cook something for the two of us. If I learned nothing else on that island of death, I did learn to find food and cook it.
I walk a long way before I find more driftwood and drag it back. Then I try to strike the tinder-box with a flint, but my hands are too swollen. I fling the box down and go off to see if I can find some shellfish. But there are no rock-pools nearby, so I come back to the camp empty-handed and in low spirits.
Wouter is awake when I return and has laid out our provisions on the ground and rekindled the fire.
‘Look, Jan,’ he says cheerfully. ‘We shall not starve for a while. There is black bread, salt pork, flour, biscuits, cheese and salt, as well as two sealed jugs of wine.’
Some of the food has been damaged by the sea but my spirits improve as I help Wouter prepare a meal. We have a small iron cooking-pan amongst our provisions and I show him how to make flour cakes with the flour and water.
As we eat, the sun grows stronger and my fair skin reddens. I am no longer hardened against the sun, having been kept below deck on the Sardam these past weeks.
Wouter looks at me. ‘We need to make some shade here,’ he says. ‘We can’t spend all day in this sun.’
‘We could make the sail into a tent – as we did on the island,’ I suggest.
We find a stout branch lying on the sand and Wouter drives it into the ground with the blunt side of our small axe. Then we spread the sailcloth over it and huddle underneath, hauling all the foodstuff in with us.
‘What else have we got?’ I ask.
Wouter counts our goods off on his fingers:
‘A spade, an axe, flints and tinderbox, a burning glass, a lantern, two jars of ointment, two shirts and two pairs of breeches, two hats, a roll of thread with needles, the cooking-pan, water and food. Oh, and a journal with a set of quills and some ink.’
‘And the trading goods?’
‘Pelsaert has listed toys, knives, beads, little bells and small mirrors,’ he says, ‘but I’ve not opened the trading chest. We can look later.’
We are quiet after we have eaten. Now that we are on our own, we are awkward with each other. Wouter smears some of the ointment on my hands and tells me to rest.
‘When we are rested, I shall explore. We only have a small barrel of water and we must find the river if we are to survive.’
I nod. ‘Wouter?’
‘Yes.’
I hang my head.
‘Well, what is it?’ he asks gruffly.
‘Shall we ever be forgiven for what we have done?’
Wouter looks at me and frowns. ‘Don’t mention the past, Jan. Think to the future. Think how we shall survive now. What happened on those islands was madness.’
I swipe a fly away with my sticky hands. ‘We all followed him, Wouter. We all believed Corneliez,’ I mutter.
Wouter turns on me angrily. ‘Don’t mention his name, Jan,’ he says, and spits on to the sand. ‘Aye, we believed him, fools that we were. We thought he would lead us to a better life.’
‘There were so many killed.’ I shudder at the memory.
Wouter takes me by the shoulders and shakes me.
‘Stop it, Jan. You will drive us both mad. It was a matter of kill or be killed. You know that. And I am a soldier. Killing is what I do.’
‘But…’ I faltered. I couldn’t find the words to tell him how I’d enjoyed the power, enjoyed seeing the fear others had of me, how I’d even got a taste for killing.
His voice interrupts my thoughts. ‘For pity’s sake, be quiet, Jan! We shall not speak of it again. We have enough troubles. We must make plans.’
I nod silently.
A little later, Wouter sets off to search for the river and I am left at our camp. I have begged him to let me go with him but he wouldn’t allow it.
‘Use your head, Jan. We only have a little water. If both of us go, we shall use double rations. No, you must stay here and guard our supplies.’
‘But what if I am attacked?’
Wouter shrugs. ‘If anyone attacks you, you will have plenty of warning, Jan,’ he says, and suddenly he smiles and throws out his arms. ‘See, there is nowhere here for an attacker to hide, to come upon you unawares.’
‘But…’
‘Enough! You cannot come with me. I am stronger than you and the heat does not bother me as it does you. I shall return later when I have found water.’
‘What if you don’t return?’
Wouter loses patience. ‘If I don’t return, boy, then I shall have been killed and you must make your own way.’
Sullenly, I creep back into our makeshift tent.
Wouter takes some of the water and sets off along the shoreline to the north. I watch him until his figure is just a dot in the distance. When I can see him no more, I am left alone with nothing but my thoughts to plague me and again I see the face of the cabin boy I killed and the faces of the others, too. But most of all, I remember the smile of the preacher’s youngest boy as he stretched out his hands to greet me – and the married woman who gave herself to me to save her daughter.
I know that I shall never be forgiven. On board Batavia, the preacher used to read passages from the Bible every day at prayers and there is one phrase which sticks in my mind: Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Vengeance! The preacher explained what it meant. Will God take vengeance on us for our crimes?
I sleep for a while, but my dreams are full of horrors and I’m glad to wake up again.
I find one of the hats and ram it on my head, then I put on one of the shirts we’ve been given. Thus protected from the sun, I wander about the beach collecting any driftwood I can find and drag it back
to camp. It is hot work but I dare drink only a few sips of water.
I try to open the clasps on the trading chest, but my hands are still swollen and clumsy.
I pick up the journal and look at its blank pages. If only I could write, I would tell what has happened. Maybe Wouter will teach me my letters.
I fling the journal aside and go out again. This time I climb to the top of the nearest dune and shade my eyes to look towards the steep hill we saw from the Sardam. I can make out a ridge on the other side of the hill, so the river must flow through the valley between the two.
I stay there a little while hoping to see Wouter coming back, but it is much hotter away from the sea so I return to the boat and the shelter of the sail.
As the day wears on, I become more and more certain that Wouter has been attacked and killed by some wild animal or by hostile Aborigines.
I pace up and down the shoreline staring in the direction Wouter went, willing him to reappear and tell me he has found the river.
Then, at last, I see a dot in the distance. My heart pounds. Is it Wouter?
My eyes strain and I watch fearfully as the dot turns into a man. It is Wouter! I run towards him, arms outstretched.
But as I get close I see that he looks spent. I start to question him but he shakes his head and walks towards the boat. He slumps down in the shade of the sail and takes the leather water bottle off his hip belt. I see that it is still half-full.
‘Did you find the river?’
He nods, and continues to drink.
I wait for him to tell me more, but he takes his time and I know better than to press him.
At last he says, ‘There’s a sand bar across the mouth of the river close to the duneland that makes a lagoon, but the water in it is undrinkable, so I went further round the side of the ridge and I found a fresh waterhole.’
I clap my sore hands. ‘So we can make camp there, by the waterhole?’ I say.
Wouter picks up a handful of sand and lets it trickle on to the ground through his fingers.
‘Perhaps for one night, but then I think we should move further away, follow the river up the valley.’
The Blue-Eyed Aborigine Page 8