by John Jarvis
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Boredom stretches time and each day Subtile sailed on untroubled and uncluttered seas seemed to be a month. The last of the monsoons had topped up the water casks, but now officers and crew were doomed to weeks of ever-increasing heat and the sight of an empty ocean. Only the occasional patch of rough weather kept the crew on their toes before returning to routine. The odd sighting of an atoll, group of rocks or small uninhabited islands did little to restore morale. The Captain and his navigation officers despaired as to how far south they should continue to sail before turning west and returning home. The dream of finding a lost continent became a folly. The Navigation Officer and Senor Diaz agreed that Abel Tasman’s charts were of little use because they only recorded a series of large and small islands and their longitudes but no other references. Diaz suggested that the Dutch Navigator Generals guarded their rutters or records of time and directions with great care and further suggested that Tasman was something of an egocentric; therefore his claims should be viewed with caution. Fortunately this opinion did not reach the Hollanders. On the sixth week the decision was made to west and for home. Water and food supplies were running dangerously low.
Tacking at night into a westerly wind gave Subtile enough time to shorten sail when the bow lookout reported hearing the crash of waves against a shore. The Captain ordered heave to, and Subtile wallowed in the water waiting for the dawn. The navigation officers consulted charts, took sextant readings and estimated their position. They agreed that if the land before them was extensive it could be the islands Staten Landt that were discovered and named by Captain Abel Janszoon Tasman, but he made his discoveries while sailing east – Subtile was sailing west.
The rising sun behind them illuminated a densely forested land with trees and bushes growing almost down to the sea. Tall ranges clouded by mist dominated the background that extended from the far port of the Captain’s telescope range to the far starboard. No smoke arose from the primeval forest, indicating the absence of humans and the presence of stillness.
“Must be an abundance of water with all that lushness, First,” the Captain spoke from under his telescope. “Take her north until we find a more hospitable landing – and have the soundings reported continuously,” he added unnecessarily. Subtile cruised through deep water until a shallow bay presented itself and a change in the sea’s coloring indicated the presence of fresh water. Orders came thick and fast: “Scouting party ashore, water party stand by and the cartographers may start earning their guineas, First.”
Richard had come on deck after securing his pistol powder and shot in his jacket pockets; he had hoped to join the water party but Smyth spotted him and ordered him into the lowered longboat: “You there, into the longboat and take an oar, it is about time you did a man’s work.”
Richard looked about the deck; there was no one to appeal to and he had no option but to clamber down the bosun’s ladder and take his place on an oar. He joined eight other crewmen, all armed with muskets and cutlasses. Smyth took the helm. “Right, look likely, pull away together now,” ordered Smyth, and the men strained at the oars. They were all rusty, weakened by food and water rationing, but enthusiastic at discovering a new land. The bow crunched into the pebbly beach, and the men shipped oars and jumped ashore holding their muskets high above the water. “Right, men, deploy in a screening formation and we will forage up the beach; boy, secure the boat!”
The men checked their priming and moved off with Smyth safely at their rear. Richard tied the painter to a large rock and looked around. In the descending silence he thought he heard the gurgling of water in the opposite direction Smyth had taken. Smyth had not ordered him to stay with the longboat, so Richard headed off to investigate. He entered the jungle and stopped in awe.
Never had he seen such dark green foliage in a multitude of shapes and forms. Giant ferns fronded over his head and almost obscured the massive trees that stretched boughless until breaking the canopy far overhead. ‘What great ships’ masts they would make,’ Richard noted. Lesser trees fought for the lower spaces, some embraced snake-like parasitic species that sucked sap from their hosts. There were no signs of animal life, but birds of types never before seen were in abundance, flapping and contributing to a continuous cacophony of calls. They showed no fear at Richard’s intrusion; giant pigeons in radiant plumage flopped through the air and landed on branches that bent and groaned under their weight. Tiny birds with fan-like tails hovered and pirouetted around him searching for some small insects, and brown wingless birds scuttled away to the safety of the dense bush.
Richard was fascinated by the uncurling and spiraling fronds of the giant ferns and leaned in to pluck one out. In the space behind the removed frond were spirals of a different pattern: tattooed into the most horrifying face Richard had ever encountered. Two malevolent eyes surrounded by blue tattoos stared into Richard’s soul and a large red tongue speared towards his face. Terrified, Richard stumbled back to draw his pistol. He was far too slow, and the huge almost naked native jumped forward and raised a green hand-club to dash out Richard’s brains. He changed his mind at the last moment and turned the club flat on to smash Richard unconscious into the ground. Richard never smelled the pungent forest floor as his head burrowed into it; he did not hear the flurry of musket shots, nor did he see four of Smyth’s men clubbed to death. Smyth ran screaming back to the longboat but his remaining four men, seeing that the native warriors were scared and confused by the thunder and their men killed from a distance, were determined to recover their mates’ bodies. They would have succeeded but for a warning cannon shot from Subtile.
Two large war canoes had rounded the headland and were paddling furiously towards the large intruding vessel. The men cursed, stripped the muskets and cutlasses from their mates’ bodies and ran for the longboat. Smyth had already released the painter, and the men jumped aboard and began to row for their lives toward Subtile. One of the war canoes headed towards Subtile and the other bore down on the longboat. In the prow was a magnificent warrior dressed in a feather cloak urging his men to greater efforts and Smyth, with a cry of despair, realized they would be intercepted. Then came a puff of smoke followed by the crack of a swivel gun, and the Chief was blown overboard in a hail of grapeshot. The war canoe immediately veered away toward the shore. The deeper boom of a six pounder followed by a spout of water convinced the other canoe to do likewise. Smyth brought his longboat alongside and it was immediately hauled onboard. Subtile set sail and sailed out into the safety of open water.