Tim Severin - Sea Robber

The sakman suddenly swerved as Ma’pang twisted hard on the steering paddle, and the boat swept under the stranger’s overhanging stern. There was a brisk flurry of action as the palm-leaf sail was dropped, and at the same moment the three crouching crew members raced out along the struts and put their full weight on the outrigger. The float dipped into the water, caught and held, and the sakman slowed abruptly to a halt, almost as if she had dropped anchor in mid-ocean.

‘Ho there! Anyone aboard?’ Hector shouted up at the silent ship. There was no answer. He put down his musket and grabbed for one of the trailing ropes. He hauled himself upwards hand over hand, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the stained side of the ship. Beside him he was aware of Ma’pang armed with a spear and moving even faster, and of Jezreel with his backsword hanging from a lanyard around his wrist.

Hector reached the ship’s rail and clambered over. He found himself standing in the waist of the vessel, on the deserted main deck. To his right a short ladder led to the foredeck, and to his left a similar companionway gave access to the half-deck and the quarterdeck above it. All around him was the usual clutter of ship’s gear – blocks, ropes, a wooden bucket, several chests lashed to the rail, a small skiff lashed upside down over the central grating. He counted six cannon ranged along each side. None of them was prepared for action, their gun carriages were still lashed to ring bolts in the deck. He heard someone’s tread on the deck behind him and turned hastily, heart pounding. It was Stolck. The Hollander was breathing heavily, his shaven head shiny with sweat. He had his reloaded musket in his hand.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘There’s no one aboard,’ answered Hector.

Just then he caught a whiff of something burning. Stolck let out an oath, ran across the deck and began to stamp frantically on a thin rope. Hector saw a wisp of smoke beneath his feet.

At that moment a musket shot rang out, and a musket ball whirred past his head. Shocked, he spun round on his heel and was just in time to get a glimpse of a musket barrel being withdrawn through a small hatch in the bulkhead under the foredeck. A cloud of gun smoke hung in the air.

Hector dived for cover behind the skiff. Now he knew. The crew of the merchantman had retreated to close quarters. They had barricaded themselves into the forecastle, from where they would shoot down any boarders at point-blank range.

He lay flat on the deck, his eyes searching out the objects around him. A crew in close quarters usually left explosive devices on deck. They filled chests and glass bottles with gunpowder and scraps of metal and fitted fuses that could be lit from within their refuge. When the boarders arrived on deck, the home-made bombs and grenades were exploded, with devastating results. Stolck must have stamped on one such fuse. Perhaps there were others.

Ma’pang appeared from behind the mainmast, sprinting towards the forecastle. Another musket shot, and it must have missed, for the naked Chamorro vaulted up on to the foredeck in one huge leap. Now he was out of the line of fire.

Hector watched as Ma’pang poked and prised with his spear point, searching uselessly for a way to break into the stronghold from above.

Someone inside the forecastle began coughing loudly. The black powder must have blown back into the loophole. Then came a shout, and Hector caught words that sounded like ‘swart bastert’.

The accent sounded familiar, and Hector was trying to identify it when Stolck’s voice came from less than an arm’s length away, from the other side of the launch, where the Hollander had also taken cover. Stolck bellowed, ‘Halt ofsjitte, du idioat.’

There was a sudden silence.

‘Hwa bisto?’ called the voice from inside.

‘Stolck ut Friesland.’

Another long silence. Hector could hear the creaking of the ship. He wondered what was happening on the sakman, still lashed alongside the merchantman and out of sight.

There was another shout from within the forecastle.

‘What’s he saying?’ Hector hissed.

For the first time in several weeks the Dutchman gave a smile. ‘He asks what the hell I am doing in the company of naked savages.’

‘Tell him we’re trying to get a lift,’ Hector said. When Stolck relayed the answer, there was a pause. Then a heavy wooden door in the forecastle slowly opened and a strange figure emerged shakily. It was a heavily bearded man, coughing and stooped, dressed in worn sea-going clothing, his greasy, matted hair hanging down to his shoulders. He was nervously fingering a musket. He gave a great start as Ma’pang dropped down on the deck from behind him and wrenched the gun from his hands.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ called Hector, rising to his feet. ‘He’s a friend.’

Now that the man was closer, Hector could see he had the pasty skin and rheumy eyes of an invalid. ‘Are you in charge of these sea robbers?’ the sick man wheezed, speaking English now and in a very evident, deep guttural accent.

‘Ma’pang here is our leader. Who are you?’

‘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.