Sea Robber

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 come 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.

Hector put down the compasses. ‘If the wind holds fair, it could take seven or eight days to reach Tidore. I doubt we can last that long. Sooner or later the water will gain on us.’

‘Then we should abandon ship before she sinks. Head for land in the skiff, once we are close enough to the Spice Islands,’ the captain murmured.

‘But there isn’t room for all of us in the skiff,’ Hector objected.

‘Leave the worst of the invalids behind,’ wheezed Vlucht. ‘You and I both know they’ll die anyhow.’

Hector left the cabin without answering and made his way back to the main deck. What Vlucht had said about the invalids was true. With men so far advanced in the grip of scurvy, their chances of survival were slim. Yet Maria would never agree to leave the ship and abandon her patients. For that reason, if no other, Hector had made up his mind that as long as the Westflinge was afloat, he would keep her on course for Tidore.

OVER THE NEXT few days progress was achingly slow. The ship advanced at less than walking pace, heaving and wallowing sluggishly on a sea that seemed determined to hold back their progress. They kept at the pump until muscles and backs were aching, hands blistered. From time to time they formed pairs and hauled buckets up through the hatches and dumped the bilge water overboard. Jezreel spent one entire morning lugging up ballast stones and dropping them into the sea. But it made little difference. On the second day they only managed to hold their own, and during the morning of the third day the water was gaining on them perceptibly. Dan stripped off and pulled up boards at various places up and down the length of the hold and wriggled in through the gaps. He held his breath, ducked down and groped in the noxious water, feeling between the frames and among the remaining ballast, trying to locate the source of the leak. But he found nothing – no eddy or current that indicated an obvious weakness in the hull. The water appeared to be seeping in all along the seams.

It was after the last of these fruitless dives that he reappeared on deck carrying in his arms one of the wooden boxes that had been left in the hold.

‘I could do with some more kindling for the galley,’ Jacques remarked. He was scraping green mould from a piece of salt fish he’d discovered in a locker.

‘First, let’s see what’s inside,’ said Dan. Scratches and gouges showed that the box had been opened and loosely nailed back down. The Miskito took a marlin spike and levered open the lid.

‘This will make you happy, Jacques,’ he said, peering in. ‘There is a fine fat chicken nesting here in straw.’

‘All that pumping has turned your brain to soup, lourdaud,’ retorted the Frenchman.

Dan reached into the box and took out several handfuls of packing straw. He lifted out a large, rusty metal cube. On top of the cube stood an eight-inch-tall model of a hen, with four chicks at her feet. They too were covered in rust.

‘What have you there?’ Jacques demanded.

‘Some sort of clock,’ said Dan. He brushed off stray wisps of the packing material and turned the cube to show Jacques that one side was inscribed with a clock face. He felt again inside the wooden box and found the hour and minute hands, which had become detached.

‘Pity we cannot get that hen to lay. Fresh eggs would be useful,’ Jacques commented, turning back to his work, his nose wrinkled in disgust at the rank smell of the putrid fish.

Dan was examining the hen more closely. ‘The wings are hinged at the base, and the chicks are fixed to some sort of disc,’ he said. He put the clock down on the deck. ‘I wonder what it is supposed to do.’

‘Sweeten the Governor of Hoksieu and his chief of customs,’ said Vlucht. The Frisian had shuffled out of his cabin. ‘Give a Chinaman a fancy clock, and the happier he will be. They’re mad for those things. I purchased that hen-and-chickens in Batavia, and several other plain timepieces. Cost a fortune, but nearly got me flogged for insolence.’

‘What happened?’ Jacques was intrigued.

‘The device worked well enough when I bought it off a thieving Zeelander. Must have got damaged during the voyage. When I presented the clock to the Governor at a formal reception, he asked for a demonstration. Nothing happened except that it made a nasty sound like a slow fart. He took it as an insult. Did more harm than good.’

Dan opened the flap in the back of the clock and inspected the mechanism. ‘Looks as though a mainspring was dislodged.’

‘So you think you know something about clocks?’ said Vlucht scornfully.

‘Looks much the same as an old-fashioned wind-up musket lock,’ said the Miskito. ‘Do you mind if I try to make it work?’

‘You can throw it overboard for all I care,’ grumbled the Frisian and stumped away.

Tinkering with the insides of the clock was a diversion from the chore of pumping. Dan took most of a day to clean and replace the cogs and wheels, and to work out how they should mesh and turn. Jacques used his knowledge of locks and metal springs to advise, and provided dabs of rancid butter to grease the mechanism. Finally, when they were satisfied with their efforts, they invited everyone who was fit enough to climb to the poop deck at five minutes before noon, there to witness a grand inauguration of their handiwork. When their audience had gathered, Jacques held up the cleaned and polished clock to show it off. Dan wound the mechanism with a key, closed the flap and carefully positioned the two hands to show just before noon. Then Jacques placed the device on top of the helmsman’s compass box, stood back and waited.

Hector entered into the spirit of the occasion. He stepped forward with his backstaff to take his usual noonday sight. When the sun reached the zenith he called out the time. Everyone turned round and watched the clock expectantly. There was a long pause while nothing happened. Then the minute hand jerked to the vertical with an audible click. Cogs and wheels whirred internally. The four chicks began to move around in a circle at the hen’s feet. The mother hen tilted forward and half-raised her wings, only for something to go wrong. Instead of flapping, the wings stuck halfway and vibrated with a grinding noise. Then, to a general burst of laughter, the automaton let out a false, rusty cockerel’s crow. ‘Even if the device had worked in front of the Governor of Hoksieu, I doubt he’d have been very impressed,’ commented Hector to Vlucht with a smile. ‘Surely even in China, hens don’t crow.’

LATER THAT SAME afternoon the weather turned against them. The wind, which had been steadily in their favour, backed into the south-west and then rose to a half-gale with driving rain. The Westflinge lurched and shuddered on the increasingly boisterous waves. Vlucht shambled off to his bunk, leaving Hector in charge. Hector helped his comrades to hand the sails, then went with Dan to check the hold once again.

‘The vessel is working badly,’ Dan commented. Little jets of bilge water were now spurting up between the planks in the floor of the hold as the vessel rolled.

They returned to the half-deck and Hector tried moving the whipstaff. He felt the ship barely respond under his hand. With each passing hour she was becoming more of a floating hulk. ‘I don’t know how much longer she’ll stay afloat,’ he confessed.

‘How much farther to Tidore?’

‘Another hundred leagues, maybe more.’

Dan gazed downwind. A large grey seabird, an albatross, cruised back and forth, unconcerned by the gale, the tips of its immense wings skimming the surface of the sea.

‘The vessel will never make it,’ the Miskito said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Hector thought back to the calculations he’d made, estimating and re-estimating the distance to the nearest land. He wasn’t confident the ocean currents had not affected their course, and he doubted the accuracy of the chart that Vlucht had on board. He marvelled once more at the way the Chamorro makhana had been able to navigate. ‘Our best chance is to try to beach the ship as soon as we sight land,’ he said at last.

He was aware of Maria approaching up the companionway. She was bare-headed, and her bodice and working skirt were rumpled and stained. She’d found a man’s large shirt, which she wore loose as a gown, and the sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. The expression on her face was infinitely weary, resigned. Since coming aboard the Westflinge, Maria had spent all her time with the sick in the forecastle.

‘There are two corpses to be dealt with,’ she said simply.

‘We must put them overboard without delay,’ he said, knowing he sounded heartless.

‘Then please do so,’ she said, turning away.

He heard the catch in her voice and answered, raising his voice so that, without meaning to, he sounded harsh. ‘Maria, every hour we keep the bodies on the ship, we risk spreading the sickness. And depressing the surviving invalids.’

She wheeled around. There were tears in her eyes. ‘This voyage began so well. When we set sail with the Chamorro, I was so excited and full of hope. But the last few days have been a nightmare. Everything we do seems so pointless.’

A sense of helplessness swept over Hector. He dreaded telling her the full extent of their difficulties – that the ship was likely to founder. ‘Maria, we all have to be patient . . . as you were at Aganah. Things will change, I promise.’ He sounded so feeble, he thought. He was stating the obvious.

She put a hand to her cheek. Hector couldn’t tell if it was to wipe away a tear or raindrops. He was aware that Dan had moved away to a tactful distance.

‘In Aganah it was different,’ she said. ‘I got used to waiting and had set myself a deadline. I knew it would all come to an end, one way or another. But now, I’ve allowed myself to hope, and that makes the disappointment and setbacks harder to bear.’

‘Maria, you’ve done all you could to save those two men. They were mortally sick when first we came on board. I promise you we’ll head for the first land we see. If you can keep your patients alive until then, they should survive.’

‘And how long will that be?’

‘One or two days at most.’

‘I pray you’re telling me the truth,’ she answered. She turned and made her way to the far rail and stood facing out to sea, her hands gripping the wet rail, her knuckles white.

Hector nodded to Dan and together the two men descended quietly to the main deck and entered the cabin. It still reeked of sickness and damp, but it was much more orderly and cleaner than before. The invalids in their cots and on the floor rested quietly on mattresses. Hector looked around, wondering where to find the dead men. One of the invalids in a bunk struggled up on an elbow, watching him silently. He moved his eyes deliberately, looking across and down. Two long shapes lay on the floor, covered with blankets. Without a word, Hector took one end of the nearest bundle while the Miskito picked up the other. Together they carried the corpse out on deck. It was a few steps to the gap in the rail they had cut when they dumped the cannon overboard. The burden between them was very light. ‘Wait a moment,’ said Dan as they reached the gap. They laid the dead man gently on the deck.

Jacques was nowhere to be seen, but Stolck had noticed what they were doing, and walked across and stood looking down at the corpse.

‘Would you care to say a prayer over him?’ Hector asked Stolck.

‘I’m no pastor,’ answered the Frisian in a defensive tone. ‘But I’ll help you carry out his companion.’

With Stolck’s assistance, Hector brought the second corpse out from the forecastle.

Dan had disappeared down into the hold and now he reappeared with several fathoms of cord and two of the remaining ballast stones. ‘We won’t be needing these,’ he said as he knotted a web of cord around each rock, then fastened the weights securely to the dead men’s feet.

As soon as he was done, they slid the dead men overboard without ceremony. The whole business had taken no more than fifteen minutes. When Hector looked up, he saw Maria still standing at the rail, her back to the ship. She was drenched, her clothes plastered against her body, and she still gripped the rail with both hands.

THANKFULLY THE RAIN eased early on the following day and the visibility improved. It revealed a dark smudge on the horizon to starboard. At first it was so indistinct it could have been a low bank of cloud, but as the hours passed it gradually became evident that land lay in that direction.

‘What do you make of it?’ Jacques asked Hector as they stood on the quarterdeck, gazing at the faint shadow. The sea had calmed, but this only served to emphasize that the Westflinge was almost dead in the water.

‘Difficult to tell. But my guess is that it’s one of the Spice Islands, possibly the north end of Gilolo.’ Hector turned his attention to a small, yellow-brown clump of floating seaweed. It was nuzzling against the side of the ship. ‘If I’m right, we’ve drifted farther south than I’d hoped and we have no hope of reaching Tidore, not with the ship in this condition.’

The clump of seaweed had barely moved an arm’s length along the hull. The Westflinge was virtually stationary.

‘Is there a harbour on Gilolo?’ Jacques asked.

‘Not on this side, according to Vlucht’s chart. The east coast of the island is very little known. Nevertheless, I propose we run the ship aground there. At least we have a chance of getting everyone ashore, including the sick.’

‘And if we come upon a coast full of rocks and reefs?’

Hector shrugged. ‘We have no choice.’

Slowly, desperately slowly, the Westflinge edged closer to the land. The wind fell slack, barely filling the sails, and now only the current carried her along. The coast crept by, low and featureless and covered with dense jungle. There was no sign of a barrier reef, fortunately. The ship was so low in the water that she did not answer to the helm at all. Those on board could only watch and wait.

By dusk less than a mile separated the ship from the shore and she drifted onwards through the darkness. A heavy overcast obscured any light from the moon. It was pitch-black though close to dawn when they finally heard the low, grinding sound as the Westflinge’s keel touched. There came a series of shuddering, scraping noises as she slid gently on to her final resting place. A last muffled groan of timber, and all forward motion ceased. The only sound was an occasional low thump and tremor as a slight swell lifted and dropped the vessel, still upright, farther on the seabed.

They all waited on deck to see what daylight would reveal.

The Westflinge had gone aground a quarter of a mile from land. The water around her was clear enough to see the wavering outlines of grey and brown coral heads on which she was stranded. Directly ahead was a long, straight shoreline where a solid mass of vegetation came right to the water’s edge, the branches of the larger trees overhanging the sea. The same dense green wilderness extended inland across broken country, and without a break as far as the eye could see. Except for the slow drift of pale-grey shreds of morning mist curling up from the jungle canopy, everything was silent and still.

Hector pointed a little to the north. There seemed to be a slight break in the wall of trees.

‘That looks like a place where we could try to come ashore.’

‘And what then?’ demanded Stolck bluntly. ‘This is a wasteland.’

‘At least it’s dry land,’ Jezreel reminded him. ‘Let’s get off the ship while the weather’s calm. The ship’s so rotten she’ll fall to pieces the moment there are waves of any size.’

They manhandled the skiff overboard, and Dan and Jezreel rowed off to investigate. They returned in less than half an hour to confirm they’d found that a small river emptied through a narrow creek and there was enough depth for the skiff to enter and unload.

All that morning they laboured, making several trips with the skiff. Dan selected a level spot on the river bank suitable for a campsite and they cut back the undergrowth, leaving small trees between which they ran ropes and draped sails as makeshift tents. They worked fast because thunderclouds were building up, towering over the interior and, as the first raindrops fell, they ran for shelter in the newly erected camp. Water drummed on the canvas, the rivulets carving runnels in the soft black soil. The unaccustomed smell of wet earth filled the air, and when the tropical downpour ended as quickly as it had begun, they heard the dripping and splashing from myriad leaves and branches as they shed the last of the deluge. While the others ferried the invalids ashore, Dan pushed his way through the wet thickets to investigate their surroundings. He came back to report that the river quickly dwindled into a stream and ran through rocky shallows, where he was sure they would be able to catch fresh-water prawns. He also brought back handfuls of small yellowish fruit the size of crab apples. They were full of seeds and had a sour, astringent taste, but Jacques thought he could use them in a stew that would help cure the sick.

‘Not a bad place to be cast away. Reminds me of my days cutting logwood on the Campeachy coast,’ observed Jezreel, slapping away an insect as he dug a small channel to drain away future downpours from the campsite.

Hector watched Maria carry a pitcher of water to the tent designated as a sick bay. She appeared to have regained her composure.

‘Tomorrow we’ll take off anything else from the ship that will be useful,’ he said to no one in particular. Now that they’d abandoned the Westflinge, there seemed to be a general acceptance that Captain Vlucht had no further authority.

‘How long do you think we will have to stay here?’ asked Stolck.

Hector looked out to the wreck on the coral shelf. The merchant ship lay slightly canted over on one side, her three masts still standing.

‘Not long,’ he answered encouragingly. ‘Anyone sailing along this coast will see the ship and come ashore to investigate.’

‘And what if no one passes this way?’

‘We’ll have to think about sending a scouting party inland or along the coast in the skiff. See if they can fetch back some help.’

As usual Stolck chose to be pessimistic. ‘And what about the invalids?’

‘If they’re not well enough to travel, you might have to volunteer to stay behind to look after them,’ Hector snapped. He was becoming irritated by the morose Hollander.

That night few of them slept well. The sensation of being on solid land was unsettling and strange. All around them in the darkness they could hear the sounds of the jungle – the snap of a branch breaking, the slower and more ponderous crash of a dead tree falling, unidentifiable noises as wild creatures moved through the undergrowth.

SHORTLY BEFORE DAWN, an ugly cacophony of cawing and squawking woke them. The sound was so strange that Dan left his tent to see what was causing the commotion.

‘Come and take a look. They’re the strangest birds I have ever seen,’ he said when he came back some minutes later. He led his friends along the river bank towards a clump of small trees. The noise got louder and louder as they approached, and they saw the branches were covered with a flock of jungle birds, several hundred strong. The birds fluttered, jostled and flitted incessantly from branch to branch, maintaining their raucous chatter.

‘Reminds me of magpies back at home,’ Hector whispered to Jezreel.

‘No need to lower your voice,’ said Dan. ‘They will ignore you. Probably have not seen humans before.’

One of the birds was still for a moment, and Hector blinked, thinking he’d seen double. The creature appeared to possess two pairs of wings. He looked again, and saw that he was mistaken. The forward set of wings was a remarkably long, pointed ruff of striking iridescent green, which the creature could extend at will. Then, as he watched, the bird suddenly raised four long, feathery white plumes from its back so that they stood straight up in the air, like a peacock spreading its tail.

‘What’s the creature so excited about?’ muttered Jezreel.

‘What do you think, mon ami?’ observed Jacques. The bird pranced up and down excitedly on the branch, fluttering his white plumes in a blur and calling out harshly. ‘He is trying to impress that little dark bird opposite him. This is cock and hen.’

Abruptly the male bird stopped his frantic fluttering, gripped the branch with bright-red claws and squatted down. Then he extended his glistening green ruff and held his position, quivering with desire. Jezreel guffawed. ‘There you are, Jacques. That’s just like your iron chicken, stuck halfway and vibrating.’

OVER THE next week Dan made several exploring trips. He cast in a wide circle around the camp and tramped for hours over the soggy leaf mould at the foot of huge trees eighty and ninety feet tall. But he found no trace of any humans. The others continued to take the skiff out to the wreck of the Westflinge daily. They stripped the ship of anything that might be remotely useful. Vlucht retrieved his charts, almanacs, hourglasses and navigation instruments. Jezreel and Stolck collected muskets, powder and shot, and Jacques, besides salvaging two copper kettles and a gridiron, brought back the hen-and-chicks timepiece, though he endured some mockery from Jezreel. Meanwhile the diet of wild fruit that the Frenchman prepared each day was proving effective. The five survivors from the Westflinge’s original crew began to regain their health. Their stiff joints eased and their swollen gums shrank, although the invalids were left toothless. Soon they were sitting outside their tent in the sunshine and even taking some exercise.

‘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.