by Tim Severin
‘Hendrik Vlucht, captain and part-owner of this shitten, luckless Westflinge.’
A slight movement in the open doorway behind Vlucht caught Hector’s attention. Another man emerged. He hung on to the door jamb to keep from falling. He too was coughing, his skeletal frame racked with spasms.
As the newcomer tottered forward, Hector noticed Ma’pang backing away, keeping his distance. There was an expression on his face that Hector hadn’t seen before: a look of alarm.
Hendrik Vlucht spoke again. ‘Thought our luck couldn’t get any worse, and then we saw your vessel coming towards us. No one fit to man the ship, let alone fight her guns.’
‘Where’s the rest of your crew?’ Hector asked.
‘Haven’t had time to check recently,’ answered the Dutchman sourly. ‘Started out with twenty-three, and dropped a dozen of them overboard before we lost the strength to do so.’ He doubled up and retched. When he straightened up, his knees sagged and he had to reach out to hold on to the launch for support. He nodded vaguely towards the poop deck. ‘Piet and I are strong enough to pull a trigger. But the others are too weak to move.’
‘What about the surgeon? Couldn’t he help?’
The Dutchman gave a cadaverous grin. ‘Never shipped a surgeon. Couldn’t afford one and there were no volunteers.’
‘But I thought every Company ship had to carry a surgeon.’ It was a piece of information that Hector had picked up from Stolck. Every ship of the Dutch East India Company carried a medicine chest and some sort of doctor. He presumed that the Westflinge belonged to the Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie, which held Holland’s monopoly of the East India trade.
‘Who says we’re a Company vessel?’ retorted Vlucht with a twist of his mouth. Hector recalled the colours of the ensign on the stern. They were not the red, white and blue of the Company.
Ma’pang broke into their conversation. The Chamorro warrior was still standing several paces away. ‘Hector, we must get off the ship at once. They have the shivering sickness.’
‘No, Ma’pang. I think they are suffering from sea fever.’
He could see that the big Chamorro did not believe him. Ma’pang’s voice was thick with fear and disgust. ‘If my people become ill like this, they die.’
He was already moving away across the deck, returning to the sakman.
‘Believe me, Ma’pang. I have some knowledge of this illness. I was once an assistant to a doctor,’ Hector called out to him.
Ma’pang shook his head vehemently. ‘Even the most skilful makhana cannot drive out the evil spirits that cause this sickness.’ He had reached the rail now.
‘At least take some guns with you,’ Hector said. ‘That’s what you came for.’
‘I know that the sickness travels. I do not want to bring it back to Rota with me. You and your people can do what you want.’
‘Then ask Dan, Maria and Jacques to join me,’ said Hector. He turned to face Vlucht. ‘There are four healthy men with me, all experienced seamen.’ He was speaking hurriedly, trying to make his point before Ma’pang left with the sakman. ‘There’s also a woman, and she can nurse your invalids. If you supply these natives with muskets and powder, we will stay aboard and help bring your vessel to safe harbour.’
The Dutch captain allowed himself a cynical laugh. ‘And if I refuse, then these savages will take our guns anyway. Of course I accept your offer.’
‘Wait, Ma’pang, wait just a few minutes,’ Hector called out. He turned back towards Vlucht. ‘Quick, where’s the arms chest?’
The Dutchman pointed towards a door under the overhang of the quarterdeck. Hector beckoned to Jezreel and together they ran to find the Westflinge’s store of guns. Moments later they had dragged the arms chest to the ship’s rail. Jezreel smashed open the lid and they began handing its contents down to the Chamorro, who nervously accepted the weapons while keeping as safe a distance as possible.
Maria and the others had scarcely set foot on the deck of the Dutch vessel before the Chamorro were casting off the lines holding the sakman alongside. They were in near-panic, handling the ropes as though fearful to touch them. They wouldn’t even reach out and fend off against the side of the merchant ship. Instead they waited for the rise and fall of the swell to drift the sakman clear. Nor was there a backward glance as the spidery shape of their vessel turned and headed back to the Thief Islands.
FIFTEEN
THE REGULAR THUMP and shudder as the Westflinge’s steering gear slammed from side to side with each roll of the ship was grating on Hector’s nerves. ‘Do you mind if I deal with that?’ he asked the Dutch captain. Vlucht was racked with another fit of coughing and weakly waved a hand, indicating that, as far as he was concerned, Hector and his comrades could do as they liked.
Leaving Maria and the others, Hector went with Dan and Stolck to the half-deck. The helm was an old-fashioned, heavy whipstaff and it was banging back and forth. Dan picked up a short length of rope, took a turn around the tiller bar and secured it. The slamming stopped. Hector climbed on up to the quarterdeck with Stolck and walked aft to inspect the flag tangled around its staff. He unwound the cloth and let it flap in the breeze.
He had never seen the design before: three diagonal silver stripes on a dark-blue field. Stitched on the stripes were red heart-shaped symbols. He counted seven of them.
‘Whose flag is that?’ he asked Stolck.
‘Frisia – the place I come from,’ answered the Hollander. ‘Those red hearts represent the seven islands of our region. Some say there should be nine of them; others insist that they aren’t hearts, but pompebledden, leaves of water lilies.’
‘And why would Vlucht choose to fly such a flag?’
Stolck snorted. ‘Because we Frisians are pig-headed and stubborn. We like to show our independence.’
‘So Vlucht doesn’t see himself as a Hollander?’
‘Not unless it suits him. I’d say this ship is an interloper.’
Hector had come across interlopers before, in the Caribbees. Smugglers in all but name, they made surreptitious voyages to places where they had no right to be and trespassed on trading monopolies belonging to larger companies.
Stolck spat over the rail. ‘If the holy and sainted Dutch East India Company caught Vlucht in this area, the Westflinge and her cargo would be confiscated and he’d be given a stiff gaol sentence, whatever flag he was flying.’
‘Then surely there’s little advantage in sailing under false colours?’
‘It helps in foreign ports. If Captain Vlucht goes into Canton, for example, and claims he’s a Frisian ship – not Dutch – then the local merchants can do business with him directly, instead of going through the Company’s local agent and paying a commission.’
Hector looked at Stolck thoughtfully. The Hollander seemed to be remarkably well informed about interlopers and the China trade.
They made their way back to the main deck. Maria had just emerged from the forecastle, where Vlucht and his crew had been holed up. ‘Hector, we need to attend to the sick quickly,’ she said firmly. ‘You should see for yourself how ill they are.’
Hector followed her through the open door to the crew accommodation. As he stepped inside the gloomy, unlit cabin, the rancid stench of damp, sweat and vomit caught him by the throat. With its low ceiling, the forecastle was so dark that it was difficult to make out any details. There was a rough table and two benches in the centre of the room, all of them fixed to the floor. Crude bunks like stable mangers extended along the bulkheads, and sick men lay in them all. On the floor were several shapeless bundles. One of them moved slightly, and Hector realized it was a man struggling to sit up.
‘There are very sick men in here,’ Maria said. ‘They must be cared for.’
Hector made no reply. He’d recognized one reason for the smell. It was the rotting stink of scurvy, mixed with a sweetish fetid odour that he knew was the smell of dead flesh.
‘It started with Batavia fever,’ said Vlucht. He’d com
e into the doorway behind them, blocking out most of the already feeble light. ‘A few of the men began to complain of headaches and bone pains when we were only a couple of weeks into the voyage. That’s normal enough in these waters. Nothing to worry about.’
The invalid on the floor held out a tin cup. His arm was shaking. Hector saw that the man’s mouth was deformed by some sort of soft growth bulging from his gums. Maria took the cup and went to find water.
‘The fever did the rounds, as we expected, and soon we were accustomed to it. But the Chinese customs people used it as an excuse to send us on our way,’ Vlucht continued. ‘Quarantined the ship for a month before obliging us to leave.’ He laughed savagely. ‘Of course that was after they had impounded our cargo.’
Maria returned carrying the water and knelt down by the sick man, holding the cup to his ghastly mouth so that he could drink. Even from a yard away, Hector could smell the foul stink of his breath.
Maria rose to her feet. ‘Hector, we must get these men onshore or they’ll not live.’ He didn’t answer, but took her by the elbow and gently led her outside. Speaking softly so that no one else could hear, he said, ‘Maria, I’ll do what I can. But this ship is a near-wreck, and I have no idea how far it is to the nearest port.’
She pulled her arm from his grasp. ‘Then find out. That Dutch captain has little care for his men.’
‘I’ll check if there are any medical stores aboard,’ he assured her. ‘Jezreel can help move the sick men out on deck so that the forecastle can be cleaned up. We might even be able to fumigate it, or spread some vinegar if it’s available. But don’t expect too much. Most of the invalids are likely to die.’
She glared at him. ‘Two of the men back in there are dead already.’
‘Captain,’ Hector called out. ‘What’s the Westflinge’s current position?’
‘I may be sick, but I can still navigate,’ said the Frisian sourly and set off at a slow shuffle towards his cabin. Hector followed him and helped spread out the chart that lay on the captain’s unmade bed.
‘This was our position yesterday at noon,’ said Vlucht, laying a grimy finger on the map. Hector took in the situation at a glance. The Westflinge lay a little south of the direct route from the Thief Islands to Manila, less than a hundred miles from the Philippines. The makhana had been a remarkable navigator. The sakman had followed the patache’s track like a bloodhound.
‘And where are you headed?’ Hector asked.
The Frisian’s finger hesitated and then slid across the map, south and west. It came to rest on a cluster of islands. ‘Tidore is our destination.’
Hector looked up at Vlucht in surprise. ‘But that’s in the Moluccas, the Spice Islands.’
‘Indeed it is,’ said the Frisian. A crafty look crept into his eyes. ‘Young man, I do not take you for a fool, and doubtless you have guessed already that I would seek to avoid anything to do with the Company. But I have had dealings with the Sultan of Tidore, and we have an understanding.’
Hector looked back down at the chart. It was all laid out before him. A series of small crosses and pin pricks marked the Westflinge’s outward track. The ship had sailed from the Spice Islands, visited the port of Hoksieu in China and then begun to retrace her route.
Vlucht guessed his thoughts. ‘The Chinese turned us away at the instigation of the Company’s agent of course, and because they saw a chance to get something for nothing. The contagion spread because my crew were denied a chance to go ashore and recuperate, or even to have a change of diet, because the port authorities also refused to let us take on fresh supplies. For the past month we’ve been limping south, with scarcely enough men to manage the ship.’
‘But you will find an agent of the Company in Tidore as well.’
Vlucht’s voice had a contemptuous edge. ‘The Company isn’t as all-powerful as it likes to make out. The Sultan of Tidore pretends to heed what their local agent says, and even allows the Company to keep a few soldiers on his island. But he has plenty of back-door dealings with the likes of me.’
‘Do you think the Westflinge in her present condition can make it as far as Tidore?’
‘We could always divert to Manila. That’s closer.’ A sly look passed across Vlucht’s face as he made the suggestion.
Hector thought about what might happen to Maria if they sailed into a Spanish-controlled port. She would be arrested as a runaway and a traitor. He felt the Dutchman’s eyes on him, watching for a reaction.
‘I believe my friends would be willing to help get the ship to Tidore,’ he said.
‘I thought you might prefer that course,’ said Vlucht meaningfully. ‘When I heard you and the young lady speaking Spanish together, and I took account of the strange circumstances of your arrival, it occurred to me that your own situation is similar to my own – there are certain places we would wish to avoid.’ He sat down heavily on his bed, beads of sweat breaking out on his grey face. ‘I’m in no condition to bring my ship to Tidore, so I would welcome your help. I suggest you check the hold. You’ll see there’s no time to be lost.’
Hector left the Frisian in his cabin, and went to find Dan. As he made his way across the main deck he noticed that Jezreel and Stolck had already carried several of the invalids out on deck, and that Jacques was stoking up a fire in the galley. Dan had filled a bucket with a mixture of wood chips, rags and tar, ready to fumigate the forecastle.
‘Dan, leave that to Jezreel. I think the two of us should take a look below,’ he said. Together they removed a hatch cover and descended into the darkness of the cargo hold. If anything, it was gloomier than the forecastle and it too had a strong smell. Hector pinched his nose.
‘Cloves. It’s lucky the ship was carrying a cargo of spice to China. This hold hasn’t been cleaned for years, and someone’s been using it as a latrine,’ he said. The distinctive fragrance of cloves was still discernible, overlying the stench of human waste.
Dan went forward, stooping low under the deck beams as he explored. ‘Nothing much here,’ he called back. ‘Just a few odds and ends. A couple of boxes. The ship is virtually empty.’ He paused. ‘Do you hear that noise? Let’s check the bilges.’ They could hear the slop and gurgle of water surging back and forth beneath their feet. Dan hooked his fingers underneath a deck board and prised it up. They peered down into the dark gap. A shaft of light from the open hatch above them glinted off a black, gleaming surface less than a foot below.
‘No wonder she rides so sluggishly,’ Hector exclaimed. ‘There must be at least four feet of water in the bilge.’
They stared in dismay at the gently swirling water.
‘The crew did not have the strength to pump her out,’ said Dan. ‘Let’s hope the leaks are not too bad.’
They hurried back up to question Vlucht, who told them that the vessel hadn’t been pumped for a week. He’d intended to dry her out and recaulk her hull in China, but that was another thing the Chinese had refused to allow. He suspected the Westflinge’s seams were seeping badly.
Hector called a hasty conference with his companions. The five of them were enough to set and manage the sails, handle the ship, keep watch and steer. But whether they could keep the ship afloat long enough to reach Tidore was another matter.
‘We’ll have to take it in turns to man the pump and see if we can lighten the ship. If she continues this waterlogged, she’ll barely crawl.’
‘We can start by dumping her cannon overboard,’ suggested Jezreel. ‘There’re several tons of useless metal there.’
Hector was more cautious. ‘Let’s keep one gun each side. Just in case we have to defend the ship. There are enough of us to make a single gun crew.’
Jezreel went off to find an axe and a maul, and soon he and Dan had hacked a hole in each bulwark wide enough for the guns. They found long hand-spikes and, one by one, levered the cannon into the gaps and shoved them overboard. They made a satisfyingly deep plumping sound as they struck the water and vanished into the opaque depths.
Then the team moved to the halyards and sheets and set more sail. There was a steady breeze out of the north-east, and with an adjustment to her mizzen sail, they found they could make a course for the Spice Islands without the help of the rudder, so they left the whipstaff lashed in place.
‘Time to try the pump,’ said Jezreel. He and Stolck went to the aft side of the mainmast, where the T-shaped handle of the pump protruded from the deck. Like her steering gear, the Westflinge’s bilge pump was an old-fashioned affair. A wooden tube made from a hollowed-out tree trunk led to a foot valve in the bilge, and a long shaft worked up and down to provide suction. They gave the pump handle a tentative pull and, after a couple of strokes, the water began to trickle out on to the deck and run to the scuppers.
‘Twenty minutes each,’ grunted Jezreel as he began to send a steady jet of water across the deck.
Hector took an oar from the skiff and went back below to plumb the bilge. As he had feared, there was close on four feet of water. With his knife he scratched a mark on the oar handle as a reference. Turning to leave, his eye fell on a line drawn with chalk on one of the frames. Above it someone had scrawled a crude cross in broad strokes. He guessed it marked the level at which someone had calculated the ship would founder and drown her crew. The line was less than a foot above the water.
Twenty minutes at a time, the men took it in turns to pump. Jacques rummaged through the cook’s stores and found some dried peas, half a cask of rancid butter and a box of biscuit. The last was mostly dust and weevils, so he cooked up a thin gruel, which Maria fed the invalids, though several of them had mouths too damaged to accept the food.
In mid-afternoon, after three hours of continuous pumping, it was time to check the water in the bilge once more. To Hector’s disappointment, the level had dropped barely an inch. Dispirited, he returned to Vlucht’s cabin and asked to borrow the chart and a pair of dividers. The Frisian captain was lying huddled in his bunk, his eyes bright with fever.
‘Will we make it?’ he whispered after watching Hector make his calculations.
