The Covenant (23 page)

Toward midnight he woke the fort commander and said, “Sir, my whole heart pulls me toward Java.”

“And mine,” the officer responded, and with swift phrases he explained how any man of character who had once seen the Spice Islands would never want to work elsewhere: “It’s a man’s world. It’s a world of blazing sunsets. Java, Formosa! My God, I’ll die if I don’t get back.”

“My mother argued—”

“Son, if I weren’t commander of this fort, I’d ship aboard the
Tiger
like that!” And he snapped his fingers.

“My mother says that no Dutchman has a chance with Jan Compagnie if he’s born in Java—unless he gets back home for education and proper church training.”

“Well, now!” the commander said in the dim candlelight. “Well, now, Mevrouw van Doorn is the smartest woman in the islands, and if she says …” In some irritation he banged his fist on the table, causing the candle to flicker. “She’s right, goddamnit, she’s right. Jan Compagnie has no respect but for Amsterdam trading gentlemen. I’m from Groningen and might just as well be cattle.” Mention of this word diverted him, and he gave Willem no more guidance, for in the darkness he intended to send a troop of gunners out to fetch those Hottentot cattle.

When dawn illuminated Table Mountain, young Willem van Doorn made his decision: the
Tiger
would sail without him; he would obey his mother’s orders and sail on to Holland with the March fleet—but as the
Tiger
was about to hoist anchor he set up a great shouting, “Captain! Captain!” until the commander thought he had changed his mind and now wished passage to Java.

Not at all. He was running to the post-office stone under which he had buried the six letters addressed to Java. Puffing, he ran to the
Tiger
’s longboat, and the documents were on their way.

When the ship pulled away he felt little regret, for as it went he had the curious sensation that he was intended for neither Amsterdam nor Batavia: What I’d like is to stay here. To see what’s behind those mountains. That night he read long in his Bible, the sweet Dutch phrases burning themselves into his memory:

And as he studied other texts dealing with the reactions of the Israelites to the new land into which they had been ordered to move, he felt himself to be of that exploring group; he had gone up into the mountain to spy out the land; he had journeyed inland to see how the people lived and whether the land was good or barren. It was ordained that he should be part of that majestic land beyond the mountains; and when three days later the swift little flute
Noordmunster
left to overtake the two slower vessels bound for Java, he saw it go with no regret. But how he might manage to stay at the Cape he did not know, for the Dutch were determined to abandon it as soon as a homeward fleet arrived.

In the empty days that followed, Van Doorn occupied himself with routine life at the fort. On a field nearby he shot a rhinoceros. In a stream inland he shot a hippo. He went aboard the English ship
Sun
to deliver mail, which the captain would forward from London, then helped two sick Dutch sailors aboard for the long trip home. Of great interest, he headed a hunting party to nearby Robben Island, where the men shot some two hundred penguins; he himself found the flesh of these birds much too fishy, but the others averred that it tasted better than the bacon of Holland. And twice he led parties that climbed Table Mountain.

Only one unusual event occurred during these quiet days. One afternoon, at about dusk, a small group of Hottentots approached the fort from the east, leading cattle, and when the sailors saw the fresh meat coming their way—animals much larger than those at home—they cheered, but the trading was not going to be easy, because Jack was in charge, and in broken English, said, “Not sell. We live in fort. With you.”

The officers could not believe that these savages were actually proposing that they move into the fort, and when Willem insisted that this was precisely what Jack was suggesting, they broke into laughter. “We can’t have wild men living with us. You tell them to leave the cattle and go.”

But Jack had a broader vision, which he tried to explain to the Dutchmen: “You need us. We work. We grow cattle for you. We make vegetables. You give us cloth … brass … all we need. We work together.”

It was the first proposal, seriously made, that natives and whites work together to develop this marvelous tip of the continent; Jack knew how this might be accomplished, but was brusquely repelled: “Tell him to leave those damned cattle and begone!”

Van Doorn alone, among the white men, understood what was being suggested, and he had the courage to argue with his officers: “He says we could work together.”

“Together?” the officers exploded, as if with one voice they spoke for all of Holland. “What could they do to help us?” And one of them pointed grandiloquently to the Dutch guns, the ladders, the wooden boxes and other accouterments of a superior culture.

Van Doorn suggested, “Sir, they could help us raise cattle.”

“Tell them we wish only to deal with them for the beasts.”

But when the officers proposed to start the bartering, they found that Jack and his little people refused to trade: “We come. Live with you. Help you. We give you these cattle. Many more. But no more trade.”

This was incomprehensible, that a band of primitives should be laying down terms, and the officers would tolerate no such nonsense. At Banda Island east of Java when the sultan opposed them over the matter of cloves, the entire population of fifteen thousand had been slaughtered. When the Lords XVII heard of this they demurred, but old Jan Pieterszoon Coen had explained firmly, in letters which reached Amsterdam four years after the event: “In Holland you suggest what we should do. In Java we do what’s necessary.” When the sultan on another island refused to cooperate, he and ten thousand of his people were forcibly resettled on Amboyna. If the Compagnie did not tolerate opposition from Spice Islanders, who, after all, were semi-civilized even if they did follow Muhammad, it was certainly not going to allow these primitives to dictate trading terms.

“Take the cattle,” the officers said, but at this, young Van Doorn had to protest: “In the villages beyond the hills are many Hottentots. If we start trouble …”

“He’s starting the trouble. Tell him to take his damned cattle, and if he ever comes back here, he’ll be shot. Get out!”

The officers would permit no further negotiation, and the Hottentots were dismissed. Slowly, sadly, they herded their fat cattle and started back across the flats, unable to comprehend why their sensible proposal had been rejected.

Willem saw Jack again under pitiful conditions. A group of six sailors applied for permission to hunt the area well north of the fort for eight or nine days, and since barter with the Hottentots was no longer possible and meat was needed, they were encouraged to see if they could find a hippopotamus or a rhinoceros, both of which provided excellent eating. Because the land they were exploring was more arid than that to the south and east, they had to go far, so that they were absent much longer than intended, and when they returned, there were only five.

“We were attacked by Hottentots, and Van Loon was killed by a poisoned arrow.” They had the arrow, a remarkable thing made in three sections bound together by tight collars of sinew, and so made that when the poisoned tip entered the body, the rest broke away, making it impossible to pull out the projectile.

“We cut it out,” the men explained. “And he lived for three days, always getting weaker till he died.”

The officers were outraged and swore revenge on the Hottentots, but Van Doorn recalled something Jack had told him during his stay at the village: “We don’t ever hunt north. The San … that’s their land.” That’s all he could remember; it had been a warning which he had overlooked, and now his companion was dead.

He suggested that he go east to discuss this tragedy with Jack, and although the officers ridiculed the idea at first, upon reflection they saw that it would be unwise to engage in open warfare with the little brown men if the latter enjoyed superior numbers and a weapon so frightening. So they gave consent, and with two armed companions Van Doorn set out to talk with Jack, taking the arrow with him.

As soon as the Hottentots saw it they showed their fear: “San. The little ones who live in bush. You must never go their land.” They showed how the arrow worked and explained that they themselves were terrified of these little men who had no cattle, no sheep, no
kraals: “They are terrible enemies if we go their land. If we stay our land, they let us alone.”

It was amusing to Willem to hear the Hottentots speak of this vague enemy as “the little ones,” but Jack convinced him that the San were truly much smaller: “We keep our cattle toward the ocean. More difficult for little ones to creep in.”

And so open warfare between the Hottentots and the Dutch was avoided. One of the men drafted a report to Amsterdam, explaining that the Cape was uninhabitable, worth positively nothing and incapable of providing the supplies the Compagnie fleets required:

At the moment this man was composing such a report, an officer was walking through the fortress gardens and noticing that with the seeds rescued from the wreck of the
Haerlem
his special group of gardening men had been able to grow pumpkins, watermelons, cabbages, carrots, radishes, turnips, onions, garlic, while his butchers were passing along to the cooks good supplies of eland, steenbok, hippopotamus, penguins from Robben Island and sheep they had stolen from the Hottentot meadows.

In January the sailors at the fort observed one of the great mysteries of the sea. On 16 September 1647, two splendid Compagnie ships had set sail from Holland, intending to make the long journey to Java and back. This could require as much as two years, counting the time that might be spent on side trips to the Spice Islands or Japan. The
White Dove
was a small, swift flute, economically handled by a crew of only forty-eight and captained by a man who believed that cleanliness and the avoidance of scurvy were just as important as good navigation. When he arrived at the Cape for provisioning, all his men were healthy, thanks to lemon juice and pickled cabbage, and he was eager to continue his passage to Java.

He told the personnel at the fort that the Lords XVII had them in mind and thanked them especially for their rescue of the peppercorns,
which would be of immense value when they finally reached Amsterdam.

“Thanks are appreciated,” the fortress officer growled, “but when do we get away from here?”

“The Christmas fleet out of Batavia,” the captain said. “It’s sure to pick you up.” He asked if any sailors wished to return with him to Java; none did, but his invitation rankled in Willem’s mind.

It was not like before. He did not oscillate between Holland and Java. His whole attention was directed to a more specific question: What could he do now to best ensure his return to this Cape? He was finding that it contained all the attraction of Java, all the responsibility of Holland, plus the solid reality of a new continent to be mastered. It was a challenge of such magnitude that his heart beat like a drum when he visualized what it would be like to establish a post here, to organize a working agreement with the Hottentots, to explore the world of the murderous little San, and most of all, to move eastward beyond the dark blue hills he had seen from the top of Table Mountain. Nowhere could he serve Amsterdam and Batavia more effectively than here.

He found no solution to his problem and was in deep confusion when the
White Dove
prepared to sail, for he could not judge whether he ought to go with her or not. His attention was diverted when that ship’s sister, the towering East Indiaman
Princesse Royale
, limped into the bay. She was a new ship, grand and imposing, with a poop deck like a castle, and instead of the
White Dove
’s complement of forty-nine, she carried three hundred and sixty-eight. Her captain was a no-nonsense veteran who scorned lemon juice and kegs of sauerkraut: “I captain a great ship and see her through the storms.” As a consequence, twenty-six of his people were already dead, another seventy were deathly ill, and the tropical half of the voyage still loomed.

When the two captains met with the fortress officers, Willem could see clearly how dissimilar they were: A man who runs a big, pompous ship has to be big and pompous. A man who captains a swift little flute can afford to be alert and eager. He was not surprised next morning when the
White Dove
hauled anchor early, as if it wished to avoid further contact with the poorly run
Princesse Royale
, nor was he surprised when he found that the
White Dove
had taken with it a healthy portion of the available fresh vegetables and fresh meat. After sixty-eight steaming-hot days the flute would land in Java without having lost a man.

When Willem loaded provisions aboard the
Princesse Royale
he was appalled to find that more than ninety passengers lay in their filthy beds, too weak to walk ashore. Many were obviously close to death, and he saw for himself the difference between the management of the two ships. They had sailed from the same port, on the same day, staffed by officers of comparable background, and they had traversed the same seas in the same temperature. Yet one was healthful, the other a charnel house whose major deaths lay ahead. But when he asked the men at the fort about this, they said, “It’s God’s will.”