“Is anyone here?” he shouted. “It is Christiaan van Sant! Am I alone?”
Not quite alone. A sailor lay face down on the deck, his body crushed under the fallen main mast. There was a dark pulpy mass around his skulland his limbs were askew--he looked like a marionette with broken strings. Christiaan heard something scuttling along the deck, the crabs feasting on their unexpected meal. He turned aside and retched, but there was nothing left in his stomach.
Clinging to the windward rail, he climbed along the canted deck as if he was scaling a cliff face. The money chests were still lashed to the deck, unclaimed, a ransom for the fishes.
There was water pooled in a pillow of sail. He cautiously dipped one finger there, put it to his lips. Rainwater. He lapped it up with his tongue, every drop.
He looked towards the land, the nearest cay rose out of the sea like a giant toadstool, inverted on itself. Witchcraft. He was sure now they were on some enchanted place, never before known.
A barrel floated from a gaping hole in the side of the ship and drift with the current towards the islands. I should take my chances now, while the weather holds, he told himself. If I cling to one of those barrels I will reach them with little effort.
He knew he was a dead man if he did not act, but could not make his fingers loose their hold on the gunwale. He clung to the breaking ship, too terrified even to save himself, alone with the dead men and the clicking crabs.
The Houtman Rocks
The day after the wreck great combers had rolled in from the ocean sending up seething towers of spray on the reef. But today there was just a lace of foam out there, and barely a ruffle of wind. The Utrecht herself had all but disappeared under the water. Each morning there had been less of her above the surface, and this morning all she could see was the top of the sterncastle.
Cornelia shivered in the early morning cool, and her nostrils twitched at the scent of smoke from a fire of green twigs. Some sailors were cooking a small fish over their poor fire. Her stomach growled at the thought of this meagre feast.
“Vrouwe.”
She looked over her shoulder; it was Hendrika, the pastor’s daughter, holding out a small fish. “This is for you.”
It was about the size of a bait fish and she supposed that once she would have considered a dozen of them adequate for a light breakfast. But now she could not have been more overwhelmed if the girl had given her a necklace of sapphires.
She stared at her, wondering if it was a trick.
“My father makes people give us their food. I am ashamed. I hid this from him.” She proffered it again. “Here, you have it.”
“Why me?”
She shrugged her shoulders. Cornelia realised the girl felt sorry for her. “Thank you,” she said and took the small cold fish from her hands.
“Hendrika,” a voice said. They both looked around; it was the jonker, Joost.
He did not look quite as grand now; there were salt stains on his coat, and his hair had been bleached by seawater and the sun. There were running blisters on his soft, pale skin.
But he had survived.
“Joost!’
“You thought I was drowned.”
“I am much relieved to find you safe and well.”
“As I you.”
“Did you swim from the wreck?”
“When she started to sink, ten Broek and I found a loose spar and we clung to it, let the current do the rest.”
“God is merciful.”
Joost shrugged, unconvinced on that subject.
Cornelia noticed the coral cuts on his hands. She had thought him perhaps a little soft, like the rest of the boys, but the swim from the wreck would have taken spirit and strength and more than a little resolve.
“I am glad to find you in good spirits,” he said.
“Well, we are alive at least. Some died of thirst. We thought we should all die before the rain came. It was the Lord's miracle that saved us.”
“If the Lord had made it rain the day before, he could have saved everyone,” Joost said. “Still, perhaps it was just the sinners that died.”
“My father believes it was the power of prayer that saved us,” Hendrika said.
“Of course he does.” He looked around, his eyes wild and unfocused. “This is as desolate a spot as I could ever imagine.”
“My father says we shall soon be rescued.”
“Does he say that? Oh, they will come for us eventually. There are twelve barrels of rix dollars out there under the reef that makes that a certainty. We just have to make sure some of us are alive to see that happy day.”
“We must put our faith in God.”
“We have relied on His good graces enough, don't you think? It's probably up to us from now on.”
Cornelia remembered how Joost had tormented the Groot girl during the voyage. She wondered now if his survival was an act of God or if some other agency was involved. They did say that the devil looked after his own.
***
She hardly slept that night, jerked awake each time she felt herself dozing. In truth she had not slept more than a few hours since those men raped her on the Utrecht. Even lying out here in the open with the night wind rippling the canvas she could still smell the stink of them.
She was afraid to look at anyone, afraid of what she would see in their eyes. Any sailor or soldier or gunner might be one of them.
How long had it been since the shipwreck? She had lost track of time. She did not remember the last time she had eaten real food; Michiel Van Texel was the only one who seemed to care what happened to her, always made sure she had her ration of food and water. For herself, she no longer cared very much if she lived or died.
She wondered if she would ever feel anything again.
This accursed little island. The only thing that flourished here were the tiny white salt daisies, just now coming into flower. She held one between her fingers and savagely ripped off the blooms.
No beauty left in this world. None at all.
Chapter 42
THEY were chased by a long blue swell; on their starboard was the brooding line of the great Southland. Ambroise allowed himself hope, perhaps there was still a way out of this. If they could find water they could return and save those they had left behind.
“We can't be more than twenty miles east of the wreck,” he said, looking at the skipper.
The skipper said nothing.
“Look at that,” he said, nodding towards the smudge of land. “The night we hit the reef you said we were six hundred miles from the Southland.”
The skipper frowned and shook his head.
“It was the Houtman Rocks, wasn’t it?” Ambroise said.
“It was not the Houtmans!’
“What was our last position?” Ambroise said to Barents.
Barents shrugged and looked instead at Messeker.
“I don’t remember,” he said. “The last instruction received from Governor Coen warned all navigators that the distance between the Cape and the Southland may have been overestimated by up to eight hundred miles. He said that ships should run no further than one thousand miles to the east before turning north for the Indies.”
“I know what he said.”
“It must have been the Houtman Rocks,” Ambroise insisted.
“I will not be lectured on seamanship by one such as you.”
“You ignored Governor Coen's warnings.”
“When we can devise a way to calculate distances between east and west as well as we can north and south, even men like you will be able to sail us to the Indies. Until that time I would think it best if you kept your opinions to yourself.”
An uneasy silence fell over the boat. Sara tried to put her arm around him to calm him, but he shrugged her off. She was no longer the beddable little trollop who had flounced onto the boat in Amsterdam, her hair hung in salt-stiff knots around her shoulders and her face was red and blistered from the sea and the wind.
The mess some fellows
get themselves in over women.
Through the day they came closer to the shore, and the skipper looked for a place to beach the yawl. Huge ochre-coloured cliffs loomed behind a mist of spray where the great combers smashed against the rocks, which were guarded by honeycombs of reefs. All day they searched and Ambroise again felt his frustration mounting. It was impossible to land here through such seas. God was laughing at his poor efforts again.
The next day the wind veered back to the north-west, and squalls howled in from the ocean. They captured what water they could in their pannikins as the rain dimpled the sea. The red cliffs appeared again briefly under the arc of a rainbow, and the skipper tried again for a landing, but found nothing but rocks falling sheer to the waves.
At dusk he turned back out to sea, wary of the wind, keeping the lead swinging for soundings. A sail canvas had been stretched across the bows for shelter and the two women and some of the sailors curled in the scuppers beneath it and slept, exhausted. After a while Ambroise joined them, praying that the next day they would find harbour and water and an end to his torment.
The Houtman Rocks
The salvaging of the wine barrels from the lagoon had been a mixed blessing. Tonight the sailors helped themselves to whatever they could find, and there was nothing Michiel or the provost could do about it, it seemed. Cornelia lay in the crude shelter, huddled in a threadbare blanket, as the wind whipped at the sail canvas over her head. The rough laughter of the men frightened her. Never trust a man with a bottle in his hand, she thought; a little grape in him and he thought he was God and wouldn’t listen to a sergeant or a provost and certainly not a pastor, not when the grim judges of Batavia were so far away.
A group of drinkers were huddled around a small fire not ten paces from where she lay. She could hear every foul word they said, though she tried to close her ears to it. Like animals, all they talked about was rutting and fighting.
And their stomachs, of course.
One of the men started sobbing--the wine had made him maudlin.
‘ ...so much for the great Jacob Schellinger. I will spit in his face if I ever see him again...”
“Shut up, Ryckert. You'd do the same thing in his position.”
“I was ready to swing for him. He said we were all together in it.”
“Keep your mouth shut!’
“Don't tell me to shut up, you're just a clerk.” Whoever it was, they were slurring their words. Probably too drunk for his own good, she thought.”We were his companions to the death, that’s what he said, then he left us all here to rot, sailed away with that fancy commander, the one we were going to throw over the side! Feed him to the sharks, isn’t that what the skipper told us? Now look, a bit of trouble and the officers all stick together, just like always!’
Cornelia hardly dared to breathe, straining to catch the words. She could not believe what she was hearing; but then, why should she think it so fantastic? Men who would do what they did to her would not stop at mutiny.
The speaker's companions were agitated now and tried to shut him up. But whoever he was, he was too far gone with wine to be still. “Fuck it, and fuck you too, Krueger! We're all going to die here, what do I care who knows about it now?”
“Take that fucking bottle out of his hand!’ someone else said.
“Get away from me, you bastard. You think I'm wrong, eh?”
“The skipper's gone to get help. If anyone can do it, he can!’
“He's not coming back for us. He wouldn’t dare go within a hundred miles of Jan Pieterszen Coen. He'll throw Secor over the side and then head for Melaka, the bastard. I put my neck in the noose for him, and this is what I get. We're all going to die on this God-forsaken place.”
“Just shut up, Ryckert!’
“Fuck the lot of you,” Ryckert said and he stumbled away. She heard the sound of his water on the coral as he relieved himself not more than three or four paces from where she lay.
His companions muttered among themselves, and then they all moved off towards the beach, leaving Ryckert behind. A while later she heard snoring, decided that it must be Ryckert, fallen over dead drunk, a few paces from her shelter.
She lay rigid with fear. What had she just heard? Was it all just the raving of men with too much wine in their bellies?
Or had there been an even darker intention behind the attack on her that night?
She wondered how many others would have joined the commandeur as banquet for the shark fish. Well, it didn’t matter because they were all doomed now, if what this Ryckert said was true, Ambroise Secor would not be coming back to save them. Nobody would.
She lay awake through the long night, every small scuttling of a crab the cry of a bird made her heart leap. How many of her fellow survivors were muyters?
Who was there left she could trust?
Just before dawn she heard other strange sounds, something heavy being dragged across the rocks and splashing into the water, but she dared not leave the shelter. Next morning, she searched the island for Ryckert, but he had disappeared.
She never saw him again.
The Utrecht
The Utrecht was dying.
There was little of her left; a body hooked on the fallen lines, bloated with gas, alongside a cask of vinegar and a few broken timbers. Just the sterncastle was still above the water, and each breaker threatened to finally roll her into the deeps.
The gulls, screeching and circling around her, saw a strange creature hanging among the ripped shrouds and tangled lines. Its hair and beard were stiff with salt, its clothes matted with filth; it was shouting and swinging its fists at invisible demons.
As the ship finally broke apart, it was left clinging to a piece of driftwood, still screaming, half mad. Its head dipped for a moment below the surface, but then it clawed desperately for the flotsam and pulled itself back to the surface, clinging on as this last piece of the Utrecht drifted with the current.
Chapter 43
THE big corn-haired soldier was standing there with a mutton bird in his hand, a desperate looking thing, blackened from the fire, barely a mouthful of flesh on it. But the smell of the roasted meat made Cornelia’s stomach growl. She tried not to stare at it.
“I brought you something to eat,” Michiel said.
Cornelia grabbed it from him and started pulling at it with her teeth. She had never known hunger like this; it set you apart from yourself, made you forget about the way a Christian woman was supposed to behave.
She bolted down the roasted bird, sucking every last morsel of meat from the bones and licking the juices from her fingers. Hardly a meal, if anything it only made the hunger worse.
“Thank you,” she muttered, suddenly ashamed.
He shrugged as if it were nothing. “They make a poor breakfast.” He looked around. “Are you all right? The men aren't giving you trouble?”
She shook her head.
She was suddenly conscious of her appearance; her dress was ripped at the hem and the velvet crackled with salt when touched. Her fingernails were broken and filthy, her hair stiff as wool. Sara would be pleased to see it. Not Miss High and Mighty anymore. For some reason she was embarrassed for this humble soldier to see her this way.
“Why are you doing this?”
He could not meet her eyes. “I am just being Christian.”
“No, that is not the reason.”
“You know what the reason is?”
“Well I am used to men doing things for me, but they are always thinking of something else they would like in exchange. When you are a woman you know what that is.”
“Well, even if I should dare think such a thing, it would be impossible.”
He turned to go. He looked so sad.
“Have you watched the herring gulls in this place, Sergeant Van Texel?”
He turned around and shook his head.
“When they do their courting, they bring their lady bits of food. It’s a very crude way of showing what a fine bird they are.�
�
“But of course there is a difference.”
“And what is that?”
“Herring gulls are all the same. They have the same feathers, the same nests. A bird can choose any other bird. But me I’m just a scrubby gull with bad manners and you’re an exotic phoenix with coloured feathers that everyone wants to stare at. So really this is one very stupid gull. Shall I stop bringing you mutton birds?”
She smiled. “I am hungry so my beak is always open.”
He hesitated. There was something on his mind. “I know what happened on the ship,” he said at last.
She felt the blood rush to her cheeks and she looked away.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shame you...I am just saying, if anyone makes problems for you, you should let me know.”
“Are you my protector now?”
“I suppose you think I’m a rough sort, vrouwe, and you’d be right. I’m not a gentleman like Commandeur Secor. I earn my living with sword and musket. But I don’t hold with hurting women or children. Makes my blood boil.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Van Texel.”
He shrugged and turned to go.
“I heard something last night.”
He frowned, puzzled.
“I heard men talking. It sounded as if they had been planning a mutiny on the ship.”
“Muyters? On the Utrecht?”
She nodded. “One of the men was called Ryckert.”
“Yes, I know him. He’s the master gunner, second in command on the gundeck to the Constable. Did you recognize any of the others?”
“One of them was David Krueger.”
“The clerk? He’s just a milksop. Are you sure?”
“I know his voice. Anyway, the others called him by name.”
“Who else?”
“That was all I could make out, the wind was blowing, I was straining even to hear Ryckert. I searched all over the island this morning but I can’t find him everywhere. Do you think they killed him?”
“I don’t know, vrouwe. I’ll tell the provost about it, that’s all I can do, for now. You think that...?”
East India Page 16
