The Triangle and The Mountain: A Bermuda Triangle Adventure (16 page)

They reached the bottom of Eland’s Pass and the master
looked up at it for a long time. Hadah had the strange feeling that there was a
kind of farewell in that look.
 
Once more they did not follow the shortest route to their cave, but again took
the road to Stellenbosch. Again it was to avoid contact with people. Several
kilometres before the turnoff to the De Villiers farm they turned off to the
right into the shrub and headed toward their mountain, linking up with the
hyena path. They passed the place where they waylaid the porcupine without
comment. On another day they would have cracked a few jokes about their exploit
but not today. Neither of them felt like hunting either. For the next few days
the bulbs of the mountain would suffice.

On their way the master gathered some plants. There were
roots from this one, leaves from another. Hadah could recognised these items by
now. The master was planning a potion. Wordlessly and without needing
instruction he helped where he could, looking out for what he thought the
master needed.

They spent the night in their cave, pensive and quiet. As
they sat around the fire, roasting the bulbs that Hadah had dug up earlier,
they involuntarily observed each other for the dreaded symptoms. Not in an
obtrusive way, just through the occasional glance. When the master returned
from a pee and stumbled on a loose stone in the dark, Hadah started and jumped
up.

“Why do you do like that?” the master asked. “You must learn
that the spirit protects us.”

Hadah was nevertheless glad that when he later laid his head
down to sleep, he was still feeling healthy and strong.  As a bourgeoning
professional in the field of human illness he wondered how the pox could affect
so many people at once. Was it in the air? Was it in the water? Was it a kind
of curse? If it was a curse, who would do such a thing? He was still busy
eliminating possibilities when sleep overcame him.

The next morning they got busy once more in their place of
operations. The dissected remains of their recent six sacrifices were already
wind dry. The master carefully selected what he needed, took some items from
their stock of lion, hyena and baboon as well and made up his potions, mixing
them with the plant material, some from their stocks and some from what they
had picked the day before.  Most of it was poisonous and almost all of it,
including the large proportion of dagga, was hallucinogenic.

***

Madeleine made lunch, which was scrumptious and Grant informed
her so. She was beginning to fulfil his original expectations, he told her.  “And
I don’t mind stacking away the dishes,” he added.

She looked pleased.

“Look up there,” he said. “Do you see the milkiness in the
sky above the clouds?”

“I do.”

“And do you see those lines that look like the spokes of a
wheel?”

“I can see them. I assume that something is happening there
where the spokes converge.”

“You are absolutely right. That is our storm. Tonight its
edge will start blowing on us if it is strong enough.”

“What if it blows harder on us than we want it to?”

“We don’t allow that. We simply sprint away, leaving the
worst of it behind us. By the time the bad stuff arrives, we will be safely
ensconced in St George.”

“And by then I would have taken you across to meet with my
family. Hopefully we will arrive before they close the causeway.”

“Exactly. We will be sitting by the fireplace in your big
house with eighty rooms.”

“Sixty.”

“Pardon. And we will be listening to the wind howl around
the corners and rattle the windows and feel sorry for those seafarers who dare
to be out at sea during such a weather.”

“And what will you be drinking?”

“Cognac, if you have.”

“We have some very old, very good cognac.”

“Beautiful, but I don’t think the storm will reach Bermuda.
It will just give as the push we need to get there.”

“It’s a pity. I was just about to consider making fire in
some of those hearths again. We only do that about once a year.”

“But you’ve got them?”

“We do. So what are our plans now? Do we wait for the wind?”

“We wait. I will lounge in the cockpit while you get your
sleep. Perhaps tonight will be a busy one. Who knows? If we have to change
sails or tack I will call you, so you can get some practice. And yes, on your
way please open all the hatches that are not open yet. We need to give this
boat a bit of air, so she dries out properly after last night.”

Grant watched Madeleine disappear. He looked for something
to do and his eyes fell on the rod holders. Aha! Mahimahi!

He peered into the clear blue water. With his previous crew
he saw Mahimahi while becalmed in the doldrums of the Southern Atlantic. They
tended to be attracted to a slow-moving boat. Yes indeed, with their horrible
speed a whole school was following them. How many were there? He counted six,
no, seven and thought he saw more of the same further on, their flanks
shimmering blue and green. Why had he not seen them before? They must have
attached themselves during the night, he mused.

He stepped down the companionway. “I’m going to catch us a
Dorado for dinner,” he told Madeleine, who was still busy in the galley.

“Oh, yippee!” she said and danced a little jig. “I love
Mahimahi. It’s my favourite fish. On the other hand,” she said, going from
flippant to serious in under a second, “they are so beautiful. It’s a pity to
kill one.”

“They are swimming with the boat. Why don’t you come out and
choose the one you’d like for dinner?”

“You can be such an awkward tease,” said Madeleine. “Rather
let’s have the greediest of them all. They must choose for themselves.”

“First, I must find a way to catch one,” said Grant. He went
into the cockpit, opened the locker with the tackle box and retrieved the
plastic Tupperware container with the lures. The last time they were in use
were seven months before but he still remembered what to do.

“They like colours,” he called to Madeleine. “Preferably
colours that look like themselves.”

“Maybe they are cannibals,” she called back.

“I can hear you lose sympathy as we speak,” called Grant.

He landed a big one within fifteen minutes. It struggled
valiantly in the cockpit but he gave it a whallop between the eyes with the
little hammer that they kept in the tackle box exactly for that reason and the
struggles ceased. With the fish in his arms he stepped into the companionway to
show Madeleine but she had already retired to bed. Perhaps she was serious
about not wanting to see a Mahimahi die. With nobody else to show his prize to,
he set up his camera and took a selfie. Then he got to work on the fish
preparation platform that he had had built in, together with the barbeque
stand. First, he considered making a barbeque of at least half the fish but
decided against it. What if the wind changed and they got busy? It was much
better to do it in the galley, he decided, and sawed the whole fish into
steaks. He was sure that Madeleine in her cabin was already dreaming up a way
to prepare it.

***

 The two sorcerers showed industry in their cave, just
behind the tree where they killed their babies, until their potions were just
right. Then they loaded up with the finished products in calabashes, pouches
and small clay pots, as well as with their bags of ship parts. Going slowly, they
took the path that led up to the col between the two peaks, where they branched
off to the right. Stepping from rock to rock they avoided the thorny green scrub
that grew on hyrax dung until they found the footpath that followed a millennia-old
seabed that still clung to the mountain. Within an hour they had reached the
last peak in the jagged row. They found a piece of sandstone terrace that hung
precipitously over a long drop, right there where the mountain range stopped.
They could see to their left the landscaped farms founded by the previous
governor and to their right the thin wisps of smoke that rose from the Dutch settlement
of Stellenbosch as housewives and their slave women prepared for lunch. In
front of them, on the other side of a wide band of green with no discernable
features, lay False Bay. Further on, against the entire far horizon lay the
range of Sea Mountain, with Table Bay just below it to the right. Tiny little
dots were visible in the Bay. These were ships. It was a beautiful, clear day.

Hadah knew what to do. He put down his load and started
scouring the mountainside for firewood. He found several dead stalks of sugar bush,
scarred black from old fires. They were tough and he had to use his knife and
some rocks to break off those he could not pull out. Eventually they ended up
with an untidy heap of sticks and kindle wood and left some on the side as well
to keep things going. While Hadah was struggling with the tough plant material
the master was himself busy. He shook the ship parts from their bags and placed
them on one side of the growing heap of firewood in neat little rows. Hadah
looked at this and wondered if he should recognise a fleet sailing on the open
sea. Or were they at anchor? The master spoke quietly to each little piece.

At last the scene was set. With the master’s flint they got
a ball of grass burning and Hadah stuck it under the kindle wood.  As a final
measure the master cleaned up loose bits of rock around the fire and threw them
into the abyss. Again, Hadah knew what he had to do. He positioned himself
several steps away from the fire on the ground, with an upturned clay pot
between his legs and a short stick in his hand.

Then the master addressed the spirit of the mountain and
reminded it of who they were. Were they not his chosen ones? Surely he would
listen to them and grant their request. He danced, Hadah keeping time with the
stick on the pot. In the kraals, dancing was done by the men. The women
provided the rhythm with drums and clapping. Once again, Hadah had to take over
this role but there was no alternative.

The master gyrated around the fire and without missing a
step, every now and then grabbed a pot or pouch with potion, which he sprinkled
on the flames. He inhaled the smoke and danced on, sweat appearing on his
forehead. Hadah got a few whiffs of smoke and its effects made his head swim
but he kept up his rhythm. The master’s whole body was soon glistening with sweat
but he kept going, now in a world of his own.

Chanting, he addressed himself to the mighty sea serpent,
who, wrathful and bitter, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation, found
refuge in the mountain. He reminded him of his powers. He told him how he could
churn up the sea into giant waves as he once had done. How he could magnify the
winds into a power the no human could withstand. And he told him where to
direct his anger to. He showed him the chips on the ground, which were now representing
Dutch ships, those that are in the harbours and bays and those that were on
their way. He inhaled smoke and blew it toward the ships, covering the neat
little rows. He also blew smoke all around, to the fertile valley on the left,
to the hamlet of Stellenbosch to the right, to the town at Table Bay. His main focus,
however, stayed on the ships.

He also addressed himself the forefathers of the
KhoiKhoi
,
especially Aitsi-!uma, and spoke of revenge, for the cattle taken, the land
taken, lives lost. He spoke of the devastating effects of the pox that came
with the Dutch and which was decimating the last of his people. Then he
returned to the serpent, reminding him of the babies they have sacrificed,
imploring him to use the power of these unblemished spirits to wreak havoc on
ships. Ships that carried destruction in their bellies, of which the pox was
the latest. It had to be revenged.

The master repeated the cycle many times, straining every
muscle in his ageing body until the veins bulged on his neck and face,
demanding, imploring, beseeching. At last all his potions were finished and all
their firewood, including their reserve bundle, was burnt up.

They have launched the curse with all they had. The old man was
spent.  Hadah feared that he would die on the spot, but he slowly recovered. He
drank two full gourds of water and Hadah used another to douse him down. Then
they were ready to return.

Slowly they made their way along the familiar path. They
passed through a troop of baboons but the hairy primates barely moved to make
way for them. They probably sensed that the two humans were so depleted that
they did not pose a threat.

Was it possible that they sensed something else? Because the
two sorcerers were no longer going to be part of the community of living things
on the mountain. Business had died out with the pox victims.

They reached their workplace and packed up the balance of
their potions. With bulging bags they set off for the hinterland, following the
same path that they recommended to some runaway slaves just months ago. They were
heading for the remnants of their people, pockets of them far away, who were
hopefully not affected by the pox and where they could practice their calling.
As they reached the gap in the Great Mountains, the only gap that it offered
for many days’ travel, they turned and looked back.

The mountain stood as it had done for six million years,
slowly crumbling as mountains do, dreaming in the late afternoon sun. There was
nothing that indicated to the naked eye that it also hid terrible secrets, secrets
that only they shared.

Far away they made out the silhouette of
Hoeri Kwagga
.
Soon the Batavia fleet was going to drop anchor in its shadow.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The fleet that was to suffer destruction of historic
proportions was still in the middle of the Indian Ocean when the sorcerers
launched the Curse of the Mountain.

Its commodore was Gijsbert van Rjikhoff. His flagship was
the
Engelenburg
, which was one hundred and sixty feet long and displaced
one thousand one hundred tons. From his position on the poop deck he had an
overview of the whole fleet, which consisted of nine more ships of similar size
and carrying capacity. They were a most impressive sight, sailing in formation
with white sails billowing.

Most of the displacement went into cargo space. The Lords of
Seventeen had seen to that in the ships’ design.  Because it was all about
cargo. What they held in these ships was the crowning achievement of meticulous
organization, effort and risk.

Van Rijkhoff was intimately familiar with what each of his
ships was carrying. Commodore was not his natural title. He was not a seaman.
As second in charge of the Batavian operation his regular title had been
Superintendent. They offered him the position of Commodore as a last honour.
After twenty years in Asia he was retiring. It was a long, hard road.

As a junior merchant he had served in Ceylon, exporting
elephants to China in order to get Chinese porcelain and to the Javanese
islands in order to add to the Company stores of salt, pepper, nutmeg, cinnamon
and cloves. He was promoted to senior merchant on the island of Deshima, in the
bay of Nagasaki, trading Indian silks for Japanese gold, silver, copper and
porcelain. For seven years after that he had overseen the important Dutch
factory in Bengal, making sure that the fine cotton and silk was prepared the
way the Europeans wanted it.

Always, always, there were deadlines. Because the homebound
fleet aimed to sail in November every year. Everything had to make it to
Batavia by then. It was a truly career-limiting event if the goods from your
station caused the delay of the entire fleet. But, as he impressed on the
higher-ups several times in his letters while serving in Bengal, it was usually
not the factory’s fault when there was a delay. Everything depended on the seasons
and the weather. There were windows, sometimes narrow, in which ships could
sail from one port to another. You had to wait your chance and take it when
conditions turned favourable.

Yes, he worked hard and made his sacrifices. The wife who
accompanied him to Asia died of fever. He married another one and she also
died. He got the fever himself at that time, but thankfully he survived and
married a young girl. The fevers, especially of Batavia, was something that you
took in your stride. A day without a funeral was strange. It was something you
commented on. Sickness and death was an everyday reality. You hardened
yourself, paid your obligatory respects without too much show of emotion and stayed
focussed on the reason you were there, which was to make money, for the company
and for yourself.

The company allowed employees to trade for their own
account. He knew the capacity of the ship, because filling her and her sisters
in the fleet was his main task over the last months, but they were carrying
much, much more. Everywhere he looked there were chests and parcels belonging
to the crew. Every Dutchman and his mate fancied himself to be a trader. The
crew quarters were stuffed to the roof and elsewhere between decks it was the
same. There were spare sets of sails in there as well as spars, tar and so on
for emergency repairs but he could not see any of it since it was covered by
tons of private trade goods. He prodded some of the bundles with his ornate
walking stick as he took his dog Tap on its daily constitutional. It was
impossible to see what was inside, of course. Every bundle and chest was
tightly enclosed in canvas and then bound in many rounds of rope. But he knew.
There were silks and finely decorated cottons, tea and coffee and quantities of
every spice that the ship carried in its holds, including quantities of opium.
These they were going to sell at prices just above that of the auctions to
retailers and even to wholesalers who would be on the lookout for them. He
looked at some of the names written boldly on the bundles.  There was a bundle
for Jan van Kikkers, one for Jochen Outjes, another for Jacob Welgevaren and
many others. Hansen over there was a Swede and Kronbach over here a German.
Most of the lower ranks were indeed foreigners. They were the ‘mates’, the
gunner’s mates, the sailmaker’s mates, and so on. If they survived this
journey, they were going to make their profits for sure. He was not concerned
that it was going to hurt the company. The company dealt only in serious bulk
and sold to the really big merchants, who always took everything.

Condemning these seamen and soldiers would be a matter of
the pot calling the kettle black, of course. The commander of the ship had
moved next door to the first mate’s cabin so that he as commodore could occupy
the main cabin - all ten by four metres of it. It appeared much smaller. In
fact, for sheer living space it was one of the smallest, since all the built-in
cupboards and most of the free space had been taken up by his own goods.

Apart from the usual trade goods there were pieces of
handcrafted furniture, including his favourite writing desk with his most
valuable belongings locked inside, other priceless items such as porcelain sets
from China and Japan, swords and rapiers with ivory inlays, ornate servers and
glasses, statues of ivory and jade, mementoes of his time in the various places
where he had served, often presents offered by princes. In addition there were
chests packed more than a year ago by his wife and these were mostly things that
she wanted to decorate their new home in Amsterdam with, things that went on
walls, display cases, beds and floors.

Gijsbert van Rijkhoff spent most of his time on the highest
part of this treasure trove of a ship, on the poop deck, under a canvas tent
cover and had green tea.  The Chinese drank it like that and they told him that
it would be beneficial for his health to do the same. His personal slave,
Samson, brought him several cups a day.

***

Gijsbert van Rijkhoff’s thoughts ranged into the future. Even
at the age of sixty, the fever that gripped him like clockwork every year could
not dampen his ambition. No doubt the Lords of Seventeen were going to draft
him into a committee or two once he had arrived in Holland, mostly for the
purpose of updating the already thick volumes of regulations governing trade in
the Far East. If he did a good job, he expected that they were going to offer
him a post as a director.  But first he had to get this fleet home. For that
reason, he took a keen interest in what was going on.

The ship’s bell rang. It was noon. Van Rijkhoff watched the
ship’s officers, who had already gathered below to take the reading of the sun.
There were frowns of concentration as they made their calculations and checked
them again. The first and second mate carried out the procedure with the third
mate watching carefully since he was still learning. Then they recorded it all
in a logbook. The commander appeared and on his heels followed the surgeon and
the chief boatswain. It was time for the daily conference. They climbed up to
join him under the shade of the tent. Everybody nodded respectfully, but
without any show. They knew each other intimately by now.

Van Rijkhoff was the only one who wore full uniform. He
braved the heat and always appeared dressed in a good wig, formal frock and
breeches, with his rapier by his side. In stark contrast, his commanders and
officers went about their duties dressed in camisole and hat only. It was just
that much more practical in the tropics and they were not reclining in the
shade all day.

“Go ahead, first mate,” said the commander without ceremony.
 

The first mate lifted up the logbook to see his
inscriptions. “Course due south-west,” he said. “Wind south-east fifteen to
twenty knots. Average speed five to six knots.”

“It’s too slow,” said Van Rijkhoff.

They were going to get slowed down even more, although he
did not know it at that point. It was going to be marked by disaster but not by
any fatalities - yet.

“It’s the
Schotse Lorrendraaier
,” said the commander.
“She’s old, the wrong design and does not carry the same press of sail as the
rest. She is sailing as fast as she can but she still keeps us back. I do not
understand how the Lords of Seventeen could have included her in this fleet.”

“On the other hand, think of all that cargo that would have
stayed behind,” said the second mate cheekily. Everybody ignored him. Especially
Van Rijkhoff, since it was his decision to include her. He had pressed the
shipbuilders at the massive shipyards on Onrust Island, not far from Batavia,
for another ship and they did the best they could with what they had.

 “It is a pity,” continued commander Schouten. “We have to
take full advantage of this favourable wind.”

“Does it mean we will fall behind schedule?” asked Van
Rijkhoff. “Once again I remind you that there will be a bonus for every officer
if we make
patria
within two hundred days. Having left only on the first
of January, we have no time to lose.”

“If the wind stays in our favour, there is a good chance
that we will be able to make the Cape within the sixty day target,” reassured
the commander. “Then we will see how it goes from there.”

At sunset Van Rijkhoff and Tap took another stroll on deck
amidships. He met de Marre, the surgeon.

“Finished your rounds, doctor? How are we keeping up?”

“So far not many problems,” said de Marre. “As you know, we’ve
had a few deaths from the fevers that people have contracted on Batavia but no
scurvy yet.”

“That is still to come?”

“I reckon we still have another two weeks before we will see
the first cases.”

Van Rijkhoff was actually on his way to a dinner invitation.
Mrs Vis, the wife of a high-ranking colleague who died a few weeks before
departure, had prepared something special. She was fully aware that Van
Rijkhoff had a wife who was half her age, but on the other hand everyone was
living dangerously. Less than half the people who had left
patria
came
back alive. Who knows whether the young Mrs van Rijkhoff had survived the
rigours of the journey one year ago? You had to make your bets and keep them
covered.

It was a multi-course meal, served in the lady’s compartment
by her slave, whom she dressed in yellow and green silk. Van Rijkhoff enjoyed
it tremendously.

“It reminds me of the best of Asia,” he said and meant it.

It was on his way back that he noticed a commotion amongst
the ship’s company. The weather had taken a sudden turn for the worse and the
activity was to be expected. He quickened his steps to get out of the rain that
appeared from nowhere.

“Ah, Commodore,” said commander Schouten when he saw him.
“We’ve been looking for you. We just had an accident.”

“What happened?”  

“We were befallen by a sudden squall of extreme ferocity. On
our ship the main topsail split, which is not what I wanted to tell you.  It is
easy enough to fix. There was, however, more damage elsewhere. The
Zoetigheid
was caught completely off guard. She tried to wear, was taken aback and bore
down on the
Standvastigheid.  
She ripped off the
bowsprit of the
Standvastigheid
and snapped the forestay, which brought down the fore topmast, main topmast and
main yard.”

Van Rijkhoff looked out in the darkness and wondered how his
captain was able to see all that. A light was blinking in the darkness.

“Is that her? What is the
Standvastigheid
signalling
now?” he asked.

“Unable to proceed but they are not taking water. There were
some injuries. No deaths.”

“Can we take her in tow while they do repairs?” asked van
Rijkhoff.

“This is more than just a squall,” said commander Schouten.
“We have ourselves a cyclone. I suggest you give orders for the fleet to stand
to and to prepare the drogues. First mate, give instructions to all passengers
and soldiers to stay confined to their quarters. I want to see experienced
seamen only. In a very short while we will have waves washing over the deck.”

Reluctantly, the commodore ordered the signal sent to heave
to. Ships dispersed from the tight formation and prepared for the gale. For
four days Van Rijkhoff stayed in his cabin, while torrential rain lashed the
decks and gusts howled like banshees through the rigging. His belongings were
forever moving about in the cabin but Samson was on hand to keep order. From
the time the topsail split to the time that the fleet got under sail again,
seven days elapsed. Van Rijkhoff was not impressed. As the feet continued on
its way he became a rather grumpy presence at the daily meetings. He was not
the only one. There were some caustic opinions aired as the entire fleet
crawled along at four knots, keeping pace with the jury-rigged
Standvastigheid
.

“Can’t we leave her to proceed at her own speed?” suggested
the commander. “We are more than halfway to the Cape. Nothing much can happen
to her.”

“We will stay in formation as prescribed,” said commodore
van Rijkhoff. “I will not lose any ships. Not even one.”

***

A cheer went up when a lookout on a masthead shouted that he
saw Table Mountain. They had to endure two more nights before the ships dropped
anchor in the bay, beating against a strong South-Easter that fell over the
impressive grey rock in a white cloud.  They fought the wind for an afternoon
and most of the night and only managed to reach their spots in the roads after
the sun had risen again.

There were five other ships in the bay. Van Rijkhoff
scrutinised them eagerly through a spyglass and confirmed that they were ships
from Galle, Ceylon that were joining his fleet. They were now fifteen
altogether, all under his command.