The Triangle and The Mountain: A Bermuda Triangle Adventure

by Jake von Alpen

  ***

  Madeleine made lunch, which was scrumptious and Grant informed her so. She was beginning to fulfil his original expectations, he told her. “And I don’t mind stacking away the dishes,” he added.

  She looked pleased.

  “Look up there,” he said. “Do you see the milkiness in the sky above the clouds?”

  “I do.”

  “And do you see those lines that look like the spokes of a wheel?”

  “I can see them. I assume that something is happening there where the spokes converge.”

  “You are absolutely right. That is our storm. Tonight its edge will start blowing on us if it is strong enough.”

  “What if it blows harder on us than we want it to?”

  “We don’t allow that. We simply sprint away, leaving the worst of it behind us. By the time the bad stuff arrives, we will be safely ensconced in St George.”

  “And by then I would have taken you across to meet with my family. Hopefully we will arrive before they close the causeway.”

  “Exactly. We will be sitting by the fireplace in your big house with eighty rooms.”

  “Sixty.”

  “Pardon. And we will be listening to the wind howl around the corners and rattle the windows and feel sorry for those seafarers who dare to be out at sea during such a weather.”

  “And what will you be drinking?”

  “Cognac, if you have.”

  “We have some very old, very good cognac.”

  “Beautiful, but I don’t think the storm will reach Bermuda. It will just give as the push we need to get there.”

  “It’s a pity. I was just about to consider making fire in some of those hearths again. We only do that about once a year.”

  “But you’ve got them?”

  “We do. So what are our plans now? Do we wait for the wind?”

  “We wait. I will lounge in the cockpit while you get your sleep. Perhaps tonight will be a busy one. Who knows? If we have to change sails or tack I will call you, so you can get some practice. And yes, on your way please open all the hatches that are not open yet. We need to give this boat a bit of air, so she dries out properly after last night.”

  Grant watched Madeleine disappear. He looked for something to do and his eyes fell on the rod holders. Aha! Mahimahi!

  He peered into the clear blue water. With his previous crew he saw Mahimahi while becalmed in the doldrums of the Southern Atlantic. They tended to be attracted to a slow-moving boat. Yes indeed, with their horrible speed a whole school was following them. How many were there? He counted six, no, seven and thought he saw more of the same further on, their flanks shimmering blue and green. Why had he not seen them before? They must have attached themselves during the night, he mused.

  He stepped down the companionway. “I’m going to catch us a Dorado for dinner,” he told Madeleine, who was still busy in the galley.

  “Oh, yippee!” she said and danced a little jig. “I love Mahimahi. It’s my favourite fish. On the other hand,” she said, going from flippant to serious in under a second, “they are so beautiful. It’s a pity to kill one.”

  “They are swimming with the boat. Why don’t you come out and choose the one you’d like for dinner?”

  “You can be such an awkward tease,” said Madeleine. “Rather let’s have the greediest of them all. They must choose for themselves.”

  “First, I must find a way to catch one,” said Grant. He went into the cockpit, opened the locker with the tackle box and retrieved the plastic Tupperware container with the lures. The last time they were in use were seven months before but he still remembered what to do.

  “They like colours,” he called to Madeleine. “Preferably colours that look like themselves.”

  “Maybe they are cannibals,” she called back.

  “I can hear you lose sympathy as we speak,” called Grant.

  He landed a big one within fifteen minutes. It struggled valiantly in the cockpit but he gave it a whallop between the eyes with the little hammer that they kept in the tackle box exactly for that reason and the struggles ceased. With the fish in his arms he stepped into the companionway to show Madeleine but she had already retired to bed. Perhaps she was serious about not wanting to see a Mahimahi die. With nobody else to show his prize to, he set up his camera and took a selfie. Then he got to work on the fish preparation platform that he had had built in, together with the barbeque stand. First, he considered making a barbeque of at least half the fish but decided against it. What if the wind changed and they got busy? It was much better to do it in the galley, he decided, and sawed the whole fish into steaks. He was sure that Madeleine in her cabin was already dreaming up a way to prepare it.

  ***

  The two sorcerers showed industry in their cave, just behind the tree where they killed their babies, until their potions were just right. Then they loaded up with the finished products in calabashes, pouches and small clay pots, as well as with their bags of ship parts. Going slowly, they took the path that led up to the col between the two peaks, where they branched off to the right. Stepping from rock to rock they avoided the thorny green scrub that grew on hyrax dung until they found the footpath that followed a millennia-old seabed that still clung to the mountain. Within an hour they had reached the last peak in the jagged row. They found a piece of sandstone terrace that hung precipitously over a long drop, right there where the mountain range stopped. They could see to their left the landscaped farms founded by the previous governor and to their right the thin wisps of smoke that rose from the Dutch settlement of Stellenbosch as housewives and their slave women prepared for lunch. In front of them, on the other side of a wide band of green with no discernable features, lay False Bay. Further on, against the entire far horizon lay the range of Sea Mountain, with Table Bay just below it to the right. Tiny little dots were visible in the Bay. These were ships. It was a beautiful, clear day.

  Hadah knew what to do. He put down his load and started scouring the mountainside for firewood. He found several dead stalks of sugar bush, scarred black from old fires. They were tough and he had to use his knife and some rocks to break off those he could not pull out. Eventually they ended up with an untidy heap of sticks and kindle wood and left some on the side as well to keep things going. While Hadah was struggling with the tough plant material the master was himself busy. He shook the ship parts from their bags and placed them on one side of the growing heap of firewood in neat little rows. Hadah looked at this and wondered if he should recognise a fleet sailing on the open sea. Or were they at anchor? The master spoke quietly to each little piece.

  At last the scene was set. With the master’s flint they got a ball of grass burning and Hadah stuck it under the kindle wood. As a final measure the master cleaned up loose bits of rock around the fire and threw them into the abyss. Again, Hadah knew what he had to do. He positioned himself several steps away from the fire on the ground, with an upturned clay pot between his legs and a short stick in his hand.

  Then the master addressed the spirit of the mountain and reminded it of who they were. Were they not his chosen ones? Surely he would listen to them and grant their request. He danced, Hadah keeping time with the stick on the pot. In the kraals, dancing was done by the men. The women provided the rhythm with drums and clapping. Once again, Hadah had to take over this role but there was no alternative.

  The master gyrated around the fire and without missing a step, every now and then grabbed a pot or pouch with potion, which he sprinkled on the flames. He inhaled the smoke and danced on, sweat appearing on his forehead. Hadah got a few whiffs of smoke and its effects made his head swim but he kept up his rhythm. The master’s whole body was soon glistening with sweat but he kept going, now in a world of his own.

  Chanting, he addressed himself to the mighty sea serpent, who, wrathful and bitter, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation, found refuge in the mountain. He reminded him of his powers. He told him how he could churn up the sea int
o giant waves as he once had done. How he could magnify the winds into a power the no human could withstand. And he told him where to direct his anger to. He showed him the chips on the ground, which were now representing Dutch ships, those that are in the harbours and bays and those that were on their way. He inhaled smoke and blew it toward the ships, covering the neat little rows. He also blew smoke all around, to the fertile valley on the left, to the hamlet of Stellenbosch to the right, to the town at Table Bay. His main focus, however, stayed on the ships.

  He also addressed himself the forefathers of the KhoiKhoi, especially Aitsi-!uma, and spoke of revenge, for the cattle taken, the land taken, lives lost. He spoke of the devastating effects of the pox that came with the Dutch and which was decimating the last of his people. Then he returned to the serpent, reminding him of the babies they have sacrificed, imploring him to use the power of these unblemished spirits to wreak havoc on ships. Ships that carried destruction in their bellies, of which the pox was the latest. It had to be revenged.

  The master repeated the cycle many times, straining every muscle in his ageing body until the veins bulged on his neck and face, demanding, imploring, beseeching. At last all his potions were finished and all their firewood, including their reserve bundle, was burnt up.

  They have launched the curse with all they had. The old man was spent. Hadah feared that he would die on the spot, but he slowly recovered. He drank two full gourds of water and Hadah used another to douse him down. Then they were ready to return.

  Slowly they made their way along the familiar path. They passed through a troop of baboons but the hairy primates barely moved to make way for them. They probably sensed that the two humans were so depleted that they did not pose a threat.

  Was it possible that they sensed something else? Because the two sorcerers were no longer going to be part of the community of living things on the mountain. Business had died out with the pox victims.

  They reached their workplace and packed up the balance of their potions. With bulging bags they set off for the hinterland, following the same path that they recommended to some runaway slaves just months ago. They were heading for the remnants of their people, pockets of them far away, who were hopefully not affected by the pox and where they could practice their calling. As they reached the gap in the Great Mountains, the only gap that it offered for many days’ travel, they turned and looked back.

  The mountain stood as it had done for six million years, slowly crumbling as mountains do, dreaming in the late afternoon sun. There was nothing that indicated to the naked eye that it also hid terrible secrets, secrets that only they shared.

  Far away they made out the silhouette of Hoeri Kwagga. Soon the Batavia fleet was going to drop anchor in its shadow.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The fleet that was to suffer destruction of historic proportions was still in the middle of the Indian Ocean when the sorcerers launched the Curse of the Mountain.

  Its commodore was Gijsbert van Rjikhoff. His flagship was the Engelenburg, which was one hundred and sixty feet long and displaced one thousand one hundred tons. From his position on the poop deck he had an overview of the whole fleet, which consisted of nine more ships of similar size and carrying capacity. They were a most impressive sight, sailing in formation with white sails billowing.

  Most of the displacement went into cargo space. The Lords of Seventeen had seen to that in the ships’ design. Because it was all about cargo. What they held in these ships was the crowning achievement of meticulous organization, effort and risk.

  Van Rijkhoff was intimately familiar with what each of his ships was carrying. Commodore was not his natural title. He was not a seaman. As second in charge of the Batavian operation his regular title had been Superintendent. They offered him the position of Commodore as a last honour. After twenty years in Asia he was retiring. It was a long, hard road.

  As a junior merchant he had served in Ceylon, exporting elephants to China in order to get Chinese porcelain and to the Javanese islands in order to add to the Company stores of salt, pepper, nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves. He was promoted to senior merchant on the island of Deshima, in the bay of Nagasaki, trading Indian silks for Japanese gold, silver, copper and porcelain. For seven years after that he had overseen the important Dutch factory in Bengal, making sure that the fine cotton and silk was prepared the way the Europeans wanted it.

  Always, always, there were deadlines. Because the homebound fleet aimed to sail in November every year. Everything had to make it to Batavia by then. It was a truly career-limiting event if the goods from your station caused the delay of the entire fleet. But, as he impressed on the higher-ups several times in his letters while serving in Bengal, it was usually not the factory’s fault when there was a delay. Everything depended on the seasons and the weather. There were windows, sometimes narrow, in which ships could sail from one port to another. You had to wait your chance and take it when conditions turned favourable.

  Yes, he worked hard and made his sacrifices. The wife who accompanied him to Asia died of fever. He married another one and she also died. He got the fever himself at that time, but thankfully he survived and married a young girl. The fevers, especially of Batavia, was something that you took in your stride. A day without a funeral was strange. It was something you commented on. Sickness and death was an everyday reality. You hardened yourself, paid your obligatory respects without too much show of emotion and stayed focussed on the reason you were there, which was to make money, for the company and for yourself.

  The company allowed employees to trade for their own account. He knew the capacity of the ship, because filling her and her sisters in the fleet was his main task over the last months, but they were carrying much, much more. Everywhere he looked there were chests and parcels belonging to the crew. Every Dutchman and his mate fancied himself to be a trader. The crew quarters were stuffed to the roof and elsewhere between decks it was the same. There were spare sets of sails in there as well as spars, tar and so on for emergency repairs but he could not see any of it since it was covered by tons of private trade goods. He prodded some of the bundles with his ornate walking stick as he took his dog Tap on its daily constitutional. It was impossible to see what was inside, of course. Every bundle and chest was tightly enclosed in canvas and then bound in many rounds of rope. But he knew. There were silks and finely decorated cottons, tea and coffee and quantities of every spice that the ship carried in its holds, including quantities of opium. These they were going to sell at prices just above that of the auctions to retailers and even to wholesalers who would be on the lookout for them. He looked at some of the names written boldly on the bundles. There was a bundle for Jan van Kikkers, one for Jochen Outjes, another for Jacob Welgevaren and many others. Hansen over there was a Swede and Kronbach over here a German. Most of the lower ranks were indeed foreigners. They were the ‘mates’, the gunner’s mates, the sailmaker’s mates, and so on. If they survived this journey, they were going to make their profits for sure. He was not concerned that it was going to hurt the company. The company dealt only in serious bulk and sold to the really big merchants, who always took everything.

  Condemning these seamen and soldiers would be a matter of the pot calling the kettle black, of course. The commander of the ship had moved next door to the first mate’s cabin so that he as commodore could occupy the main cabin - all ten by four metres of it. It appeared much smaller. In fact, for sheer living space it was one of the smallest, since all the built-in cupboards and most of the free space had been taken up by his own goods.

  Apart from the usual trade goods there were pieces of handcrafted furniture, including his favourite writing desk with his most valuable belongings locked inside, other priceless items such as porcelain sets from China and Japan, swords and rapiers with ivory inlays, ornate servers and glasses, statues of ivory and jade, mementoes of his time in the various places where he had served, often presents offered by princes. In addition there were chests packed
more than a year ago by his wife and these were mostly things that she wanted to decorate their new home in Amsterdam with, things that went on walls, display cases, beds and floors.

  Gijsbert van Rijkhoff spent most of his time on the highest part of this treasure trove of a ship, on the poop deck, under a canvas tent cover and had green tea. The Chinese drank it like that and they told him that it would be beneficial for his health to do the same. His personal slave, Samson, brought him several cups a day.

  ***

  Gijsbert van Rijkhoff’s thoughts ranged into the future. Even at the age of sixty, the fever that gripped him like clockwork every year could not dampen his ambition. No doubt the Lords of Seventeen were going to draft him into a committee or two once he had arrived in Holland, mostly for the purpose of updating the already thick volumes of regulations governing trade in the Far East. If he did a good job, he expected that they were going to offer him a post as a director. But first he had to get this fleet home. For that reason, he took a keen interest in what was going on.

  The ship’s bell rang. It was noon. Van Rijkhoff watched the ship’s officers, who had already gathered below to take the reading of the sun. There were frowns of concentration as they made their calculations and checked them again. The first and second mate carried out the procedure with the third mate watching carefully since he was still learning. Then they recorded it all in a logbook. The commander appeared and on his heels followed the surgeon and the chief boatswain. It was time for the daily conference. They climbed up to join him under the shade of the tent. Everybody nodded respectfully, but without any show. They knew each other intimately by now.

  Van Rijkhoff was the only one who wore full uniform. He braved the heat and always appeared dressed in a good wig, formal frock and breeches, with his rapier by his side. In stark contrast, his commanders and officers went about their duties dressed in camisole and hat only. It was just that much more practical in the tropics and they were not reclining in the shade all day.