Sea Robber hl-3

by Tim Severin

  ‘She’s finally bulged,’ Captain Vlucht commented to Hector.

  It was mid-morning on the tenth day since they had run aground, and the two men had strolled down to the mouth of the creek to look out at the wreck of the Westflinge. The ship lay heeled at a greater angle than before, and they could see a gaping hole in her side where the hull had split open. Her main topmast had collapsed, giving her an increasingly bedraggled appearance.

  ‘In another few days we can start building something bigger than the skiff. One of my men is a carpenter,’ Vlucht added. ‘He’ll be able to put together a launch big enough for the entire company. There’s plenty of timber out there.’ He nodded towards the Westflinge. ‘Then we can sail coastwise until we reach Tidore.’

  Hector was about to say that it would have saved him a lot of worry if he’d known earlier about the carpenter. Instead his attention was caught by a new sound – a steady rhythmic chant, very faint. He listened again. He heard the lapping of water on the beach, the thin piping calls of a seabird standing on a tiny coral outcrop, and then on a waft of the breeze he heard the sound again. He recognized a chorus, a single phrase repeated over and over by many men, and behind it the regular thump of a drum maintaining the tempo.

  Vlucht heard it too. He blanched and looked anxiously along the coast in both directions, and then out to sea. ‘Hongitochten,’ he blurted out, shocked.

  Hector was still baffled. The sound grew louder, but he still couldn’t see where it came from. Then suddenly, from behind the wreck of the Westflinge, something emerged that looked like a giant insect, rippling forward on a double row of short legs, its head and tail raised in anger. It was a long, snake-like native vessel, and the moving legs were row upon row of paddles, flashing up and down. Two ranks of paddlers sat on the edge of the main hull, but at least sixty more were perched on boards attached to the outriggers, which projected from each side of the hull. All of them – close on a hundred men – were churning up the sea vigorously with their blades. They chanted together as a drummer on deck thumped out the rhythm. Occasionally a cymbal clashed. Out on the prow, like a living figurehead, stood a man in a long, flowing white gown. He had a hand cupped around his mouth and called out encouragement in a high, wailing voice.

  ‘Kora kora,’ said Vlucht anxiously. ‘Native war canoe. The Company sends them on punitive sweeps, called hongi-tochten, to impose their control on the islands by brute force.’

  ‘But I don’t see any white men aboard,’ said Hector. He could make out a cluster of men standing on the main deck, just in front of a small cabin of thatch, all of them gazing intently towards the mouth of the creek. None was dressed in European clothes. They wore long shirts and loose pantaloons and coloured turbans.

  ‘Each Sultan maintains his own fleet of kora koras. They use them for personal transport and wars against their neighbours,’ said the Dutchman.

  The kora kora raced towards them, much closer now. Hector could see crimson, green and yellow ribbons fluttering from short staffs on the prow and stern. A chance gust of wind caught the huge banner flying from the stubby central mast so that it rippled sideways. The flag had an unusual shape, two triangles, one above the other. Its background was a deep distinctive violet, and the symbol on it was a golden python, coiled, tongue flickering and about to lunge.

  SIXTEEN

  THE KORA KORA headed directly towards them. Clearly the commander of the vessel knew exactly where to find the river mouth, and he’d seen the two castaways on the shore. Hector judged it wiser to stand his ground. Beside him Vlucht shifted nervously. ‘Vicious bastards,’ he warned. ‘Treat them respectfully. They take offence easily and would lop off your head if they thought you lacked respect.’

  Within minutes the war canoe was close enough for a shouted command and a final thump of the drum. The paddlers relaxed, and the vessel glided into the little creek and nuzzled gently into the muddy bank.

  With the chance to examine the crew more closely, Hector decided they weren’t as fearsome as their reputation. Many of the paddlers were scrawny old men with stick-like arms and there was a sprinkling of youngsters who were little more than boys. They were half-naked, wearing only faded blue loincloths and head shawls, and their skins ranged from coffee-brown to a rich, dark mahogany. With short, fuzzy hair and broad, flattish noses, they were distinct from any of the people Hector had encountered on his travels. None of them looked particularly fierce or frightening as they rested on their paddles and cast curious glances at the two Europeans. In contrast to the huge, shimmering silk banner of violet and gold, the rest of the vessel was grey and shabby. There were several discoloured areas where the hull had been patched, and the thatch on the small hut that served as a cabin was frayed and tatty. Nor was the group of men clustered on the kora kora’s deck very imposing. One or two were smartly turned out in long white gowns, but most of them were dressed in scraps of old uniforms, mismatched jackets and skirt-like sarongs, and they clutched matchlock muskets that were poorly maintained. The only weapons that appeared to be in good order were their long daggers with broad, slightly curved blades and a number of well-honed spears. There was no sign of any deck armament, and Hector doubted that the kora kora was sturdy enough to carry cannon.

  Hector and Vlucht hurried forward to greet the landing party. It was led by the tall, thin man in the white gown. He had a narrow, scholarly face and shrewd brown eyes beneath a plain white turban. He appeared to be wary, rather than hostile, as he sprang ashore.

  Unexpectedly he greeted them in heavily accented, but clearly understandable Spanish. ‘From which country do you come?’ he asked.

  Hector nodded towards the wreck of the Westflinge. ‘The ship is from the Netherlands, so too are her crew, and her captain here.’

  The tall man was quick to note the omission. ‘And yourself?’

  ‘I come from Ireland.’

  The tall man looked vaguely disappointed. ‘Yet you speak Spanish?’ he asked.

  ‘I learned it from my mother. I had not expected to hear the language spoken so far from her homeland.’

  ‘The Spaniards first came here during the reign of my Sultan’s great-grandfather. They sought trade and we established good relations with them,’ the tall man explained. He watched Hector and Vlucht closely, trying to decide what sort of people they were. ‘I am Ciliati Mansur, and my family has provided court chamberlains over many generations. I was taught to speak the foreign tongue. But in the time of the present Sultan, the Spaniards have not returned.’

  ‘Forgive me if I seem ignorant or impolite,’ said Hector, ‘but our vessel was leaking badly and we had no choice but to run her ashore. We do not wish to trespass, nor do we know on whose territory we have landed.’

  The court chamberlain drew himself up to his full height and said with grave formality, ‘You are on the lands of His Majesty Said Muhammed Jihad Saifuddin Syah ab Ullah, Sultan of Omoro. I have the privilege of presenting you to his son, His Highness Prince Jainalabidin.’

  During the exchange a small, slight figure had emerged from the cabin on the kora kora and made his way to the bow. Hector saw that it was a child. One of the half-naked paddlers had left his place and gone to stand on the muddy bank, immediately beneath the upturned prow. He bent forward, hands on knees. The child stepped down on to the shoulders of his attendant, who carried him up the slippery bank and set him on his feet beside the chamberlain. Hector found himself looking down into the solemn yet haughty expression of a boy who could not have been more than seven years old. He was dressed in a dazzling white sarong, over which he wore an elegantly cut miniature jacket of cloth of gold with red facings. A turban of the same material was wound around his head, and his small feet were encased in white silk slippers. The lad’s complexion was noticeably fairer than that of his attendants.

  The boy spoke in a light, clear voice. There was no mistaking that he was giving orders to the chamberlain.

  ‘His Highness,’ Mansur translated, ‘says that you a
re to come immediately to the palace. There you are to stand before the Sultan and explain your presence to him.’

  Hector bowed diplomatically as Vlucht beside him muttered under his breath, ‘Do whatever the puppy asks.’

  The chamberlain turned to the kora-kora crew and waved. A score of the Omoro left the war canoe and began to move off towards the camp.

  ‘If Your Highness will excuse me, I must attend to my companions,’ Hector apologized and hurried off to catch up with them.

  The Sultan’s men wasted no time in dismantling the camp. They took down the makeshift tents, rolled up the canvas and retrieved the ropes and cordage. They collected all the items that had been brought ashore from the Westflinge – the boxes, blankets, guns, tools, Vlucht’s navigation instruments and Jacques’ cooking gear. Everything was carried back on to the kora kora and stowed. Nothing was left behind, and soon the campsite was nothing more than a bare patch of ground. Jacques, Jezreel, Stolck and the invalids could only look on until the moment they were ushered firmly but politely on to the kora kora. The skiff, which had been moored to the bank, was untied and attached by a towline to the stern of the war canoe. Maria was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Where’s Maria?’ Hector asked Dan, catching him by the arm.

  ‘She went off for a walk in the jungle,’ the Miskito answered. ‘She cannot have gone far.’

  Hector turned to the Omoro chamberlain. ‘One of our party is missing,’ he said.

  ‘We cannot delay,’ Ciliati Mansur answered. ‘The Sultan expects our return in time for maghrib, the sunset prayer.’

  ‘Please allow me a few moments,’ Hector begged.

  Fortunately it took him no more than a few minutes to locate Maria. She had only gone as far as the tree, hoping to catch another glimpse of the remarkable birds. When Hector returned with her, the chamberlain was taken aback.

  ‘You did not say that your travelling companion was a woman,’ Mansur said in surprise.

  ‘She is my betrothed,’ Hector answered.

  ‘But you are not yet married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And her family permits her to travel without female companions?’

  ‘That is our custom,’ Hector answered.

  The chamberlain sucked in his breath softly. Hector guessed Maria was the first European woman he’d ever seen, and he didn’t approve of her lax foreign ways. ‘Then she must remain in the cabin until we arrive home,’ he said firmly.

  THE JOURNEY to the Sultan’s capital proved to be a short one. The kora kora’s crew looked to be frail, but they kept up a brisk pace. Four hours of steady paddling along the coast brought them to their destination, and Hector used the time to question Ciliati Mansur about what to expect. The Sultan of Omoro, the chamberlain informed him, had ruled for nearly forty years over a small coastal kingdom that was once rich and powerful, but now increasingly impoverished. Mansur blamed this decline on the shadow of the Sultans of Ternate and Tidore. They had intercepted the only trade that brought much money to Omoro – the sale of exotic bird skins.

  ‘We call them manuk dewata, “God’s Birds”,’ explained the chamberlain. ‘In truth, Allah put the creatures in our jungle so that we can have something to offer in exchange for the items we lack – guns, powder, and so forth. Traders come from as far afield as Malacca to buy our bird skins.’

  ‘Are the feathers really that precious?’ asked Hector.

  A slight smile twitched the corners of Mansur’s mouth. ‘Yes, thanks to the vanity of man. We pretend the birds are enormously difficult to catch. We claim they have no legs and so they can never alight on land, but soar up into the sunbeams and catch and fix the colours of the rainbow in their plumage.’

  ‘I’ve seen the creatures settle and squabble on the branches of a tree, and they were noisy and very down to earth,’ said Hector.

  ‘Then you are one of the very few outsiders to have witnessed such things,’ said the chamberlain. ‘In reality the birds are not so difficult to take. The hunters spread a sticky gum on the branches where the birds gather, and the creatures are trapped. The bird catchers wring their necks, strip off the skins with the feathers attached and bring them to the Sultan’s agent. He alone has the right to sell them on to the Malay traders. That tale of the legless birds started because the hunters cut off the birds’ legs while they are skinning them.’

  Hector glanced across to the young prince seated on a cushion by the door of the cabin into which Maria had gone. ‘Does the Sultan have other sons?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Prince Jainalabidin is the Sultan’s only male child. Allah withheld that blessing for many years. Our Sultan is old enough to be Prince Jainalabidin’s grandfather.’

  Hector remained silent. When both he and Dan had been prisoners of the Barbary Turks, he had observed how greatly the Muslim rulers valued having a male heir.

  ‘When will I be allowed to speak with my betrothed? I have to reassure her that all is well,’ he said. Everything had happened so quickly that he hadn’t had a chance to exchange more than a few words with Maria, and she’d been confined to the cabin since coming on board.

  ‘That will be for the Sultan to decide,’ the chamberlain answered blandly. He paused, as if considering what to say next. Then he added in a cautionary tone, ‘When you meet His Highness, please remember that he is full of years, and that old men are given to strange fantasies. Their decisions sometimes seem erratic.’

  Hector was left wondering uneasily whether his fate, and that of his companions, would now depend on the whims of a capricious dotard who ruled a bankrupt kingdom.

  THE KORA KORA turned into a narrow, steep-sided river mouth on which the Sultan’s capital was situated. The place, Pehko, was a ramshackle settlement of bamboo and thatch houses. The nearest were little more than shacks poised on stilts over the grey-green surface of the fetid backwater. As the kora kora glided into harbour, Hector could see women and children standing on the rickety platforms, their arms held up to shade their eyes as they gazed at the return of their menfolk. A strong odour of drying fish and rotting debris mingled with the scent of wood smoke from the cooking fires and drifted across the water. Chickens and ducks foraged along the foreshore, where dozens of small dugout canoes were drawn up, and festoons of nets hung to dry on posts driven into the mud. He glimpsed more thatched dwellings farther up the slope, half-hidden among groves of tall trees, their foliage a deep, luxuriant green with glimpses of red and yellow fruit. There were only two buildings of any size. One was the mosque, for he could hear the call to prayer from its roof. The other was an untidy sprawling structure situated on high ground behind the town, where a curve of hillside gave a view directly down into the estuary. Even at a distance he could see the extravagant profusion of flags and banners sprouting from every corner and angle of the building, along the ridge of the roof and from triple flagstaffs in front of the grandiose portico.

  ‘Kedatun sultan, the palace of the Sultan,’ murmured the chamberlain as the kora kora came to rest against the wooden pilings of a jetty on the right bank. On the dockside six Omoro warriors were waiting. They were armed with spears and shields trimmed with horsehair. Behind them stood a bizarre-looking vehicle. The two rear wheels were almost the height of a man, their spokes and felloes painted in blue and green patterns, now faded and peeling. The two front wheels were one-third of the size and similarly decorated. Slung between them by leather straps hung a gilded sedan chair, its door panels showing pictures of leaves and flowers. But instead of horses between the shafts, the contraption was to be pulled by four servants, barefoot and wearing loincloths. On their heads, in imitation of horse decoration, they wore long, nodding plumes, orange and black, thrust into their turbans. As he watched, the young prince disembarked from the kora kora and stalked across to the carriage. The door was held open by a kneeling servant. The small prince stepped inside, and a moment later the team of humans were trotting away, dragging the carriage up towards the Sultan’s palace on the hillside.<
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  A discreet nudge from Dan brought Hector’s attention back to his immediate surroundings. The chamberlain was indicating that it was time for him and his party to disembark and follow him. Hector turned to look for Maria, but it was too late. A cordon of armed Omoro already blocked his view and they were hustling Vlucht and the other Hollanders on to the jetty. Hector had a feeling that while he and his friends were not exactly prisoners, neither were they free to do as they pleased. He tried to push through the cordon back to the cabin, but his path was barred. Thwarted, he ran to catch up with Mansur, to ask again if he could speak with Maria. But Mansur was already at the entrance to a long, low building erected on pilings over the water.

  ‘Please make yourselves comfortable in here until the Sultan sends for you,’ he said suavely, standing aside so that Hector and the others could enter. ‘Food will be brought to you very soon.’ There was an awkward pause, and then he added, ‘The baru baru will be on hand to make sure that you are not disturbed.’ Then without another word he turned away, and an armed guard took up his position at the door. It was clear that the baru baru were the Sultan’s soldiers.