‘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.
SIXTEEN
THE KORA KORA headed directly towards them. Clearly the commander of the vessel knew exactly where to find the river mouth, and he’d seen the two castaways on the shore. Hector judged it wiser to stand his ground. Beside him Vlucht shifted nervously. ‘Vicious bastards,’ he warned. ‘Treat them respectfully. They take offence easily and would lop off your head if they thought you lacked respect.’
Within minutes the war canoe was close enough for a shouted command and a final thump of the drum. The paddlers relaxed, and the vessel glided into the little creek and nuzzled gently into the muddy bank.
With the chance to examine the crew more closely, Hector decided they weren’t as fearsome as their reputation. Many of the paddlers were scrawny old men with stick-like arms and there was a sprinkling of youngsters who were little more than boys. They were half-naked, wearing only faded blue loincloths and head shawls, and their skins ranged from coffee-brown to a rich, dark mahogany. With short, fuzzy hair and broad, flattish noses, they were distinct from any of the people Hector had encountered on his travels. None of them looked particularly fierce or frightening as they rested on their paddles and cast curious glances at the two Europeans. In contrast to the huge, shimmering silk banner of violet and gold, the rest of the vessel was grey and shabby. There were several discoloured areas where the hull had been patched, and the thatch on the small hut that served as a cabin was frayed and tatty. Nor was the group of men clustered on the kora kora’s deck very imposing. One or two were smartly turned out in long white gowns, but most of them were dressed in scraps of old uniforms, mismatched jackets and skirt-like sarongs, and they clutched matchlock muskets that were poorly maintained. The only weapons that appeared to be in good order were their long daggers with broad, slightly curved blades and a number of well-honed spears. There was no sign of any deck armament, and Hector doubted that the kora kora was sturdy enough to carry cannon.