Lands of Red and Gold #28: Cruel World
“According to the judgement of all knowledgeable people it is considered certain that the war in this land will neither cease nor be ended as long as the king of Spain remains peaceably in possession of the kingdom of Portugal and that kingdom’s East Indian dependencies; and of the West Indies, which have made him powerful and rich such that he can afford to continue the war here in the Netherlands.”
- Anonymous pamphlet printed in Amsterdam in the early 17th century
* * *
Renewal Season, 29th Year of King of Kings Kepiuc Tjaanuc / August-September 1631
Archers Nest / Fort Nassau [Perth & environs]
Tiayal / D’Edels Land [western coast of Australia]
“Land ahoy!” came the cry from somewhere far up amongst the sails of the Wapen van Hoorn.
Lars Knudsen uttered a silent prayer of thanks. He heartily despised long sea voyages. This leg of the journey from the new settlement at Port de Warwick [Mauritius] had been especially difficult, with endlessly strong winds, immense waves and storms. Two of the other ships in the fleet had been scattered by the inclement weather; no way to know whether they had been wrecked in the endless seas.
He stood with a hand against a mast to steady himself. Sailors claimed that all men could learn to balance themselves on a rolling ship’s deck, but he had never acquired the art. One more reason to dislike sea voyages, along with boredom, risk of shipwreck, seasickness, ever-present danger of scurvy, and so much else. If not for the riches to be found here at the far end of the world, he would never have accepted this commission.
The rocking of the ship lessened as it drew nearer to the shore. Behind him, Knudsen heard the ship’s officers shouting orders about turning to port and changing sails, but he gave it little heed. It was the captain’s job to command the ship; he would only interfere if he asked questions or watched too closely.
Besides, he had much more interest in what could be seen on this new land. He made his unsteady way to the right side of the ship – sailors called it starboard, but he cared little for sailors’ talk – to look out over the land. To his disappointment, he was too far from the shore to see much other than glimpses of cliff faces interspersed with occasional beaches. No sign of the natives, or of their wealth.
“They are nearby,” he murmured, only half-aware that he had spoken aloud.
The land he saw now, however imperfectly, was the land which had sustained his hope throughout the rigours of the journey from Amsterdam.
A land with many names, and many promises. D’Edels Land. The South Land. Teegal. A land of gold and sandalwood, of exotic animals and plants, of strange crops and stranger men. Smaller but more alien even than the first discovery of the Americas.
A land of promise, balanced by horrors. A scourge had come out the South Land which ravaged Europe, felling monarchs and commoners alike. Calls had come both within in the Netherlands and from elsewhere in Europe – including his own Danish homeland – for closure of all contact with this land.
The Company had refused those demands. So far, the Dutch Republic backed them. The South Land simply offered too much profit, and the Company and the Netherlands had great need of its wealth. Spain assailed the Dutch at home and around the globe. The South Land’s gold could pay for their homeland’s defence, and support Dutch actions in eliminating their Catholic enemy’s colonies wherever they could be reached.
More, the English were reportedly gazing longingly at the Dutch outposts, too. Fellow Protestants they might be, but under the aggressive guidance of their new Regent, they were looking remarkably unfriendly. If war came, then there would be even more need of the South Land’s gold to pay for driving out the English, too.
The Wapen van Hoorn sailed steadily north. Knudsen kept his place at the ship’s side. His broad-brimmed hat spared him from the sun, both its glare and its burning touch. He caught impressions of the features of the land as the ship passed: long beaches with sand stretching on sand; small, empty islands; and occasional signs of cultivation.
The cultivation interested him most, for what it might tell him about the natives. Unfortunately, he could not recognise much of consequence. None of the fields had familiar crops or animals– no grain, no horses, no cattle. Of course, he had known that this land had strange crops. Many of the fields were empty, while others were covered with strange trees. The trees intrigued him; many of them bloomed with an abundance of yellow flowers, so that whole fields looked golden. He hoped that was an omen of what he would find when the ship reached Fort Nassau.
As the day faded into afternoon, the Wapen van Hoorn rounded a large island and sailed into calmer waters. Soon afterward, Knudsen had his first glimpse of Fort Nassau.
“Doesn’t look much like a fort,” he murmured. A cluster of buildings constructed from stone and timber, nestled in a triangle of land formed by sea and the inlet of a river. The buildings sprawled back out of sight, but there were no walls or other signs of fortifications. Only a rather impressive collection of docks – even the largest of Company trading fleets could anchor here – and the construction beyond.
As the ship docked, Knudsen made a closer inspection of his new home. There was a sort of order to it; a broad cobbled avenue separated the docks from an open square behind, and a cluster of buildings in stone. That avenue looked as if ran around all of the stone buildings. Within that avenue, most of the people he saw were Dutchmen, or at least others of white stock. Outside of that avenue, away from the docks, most of the buildings were timber, and built up against each other in a slap-dash manner. All of the men he saw there had dark skins, like the natives here were reported to have. It looked as if the Company had built its own premises, and then the natives had decided to live nearby.
I’ll have to check whether my command runs to those native buildings, he thought. He was, or rather was about to become, the governor of Fort Nassau. But how could he govern properly if Company authority did not run to the natives who lived right next to his hometown?
Men on shore helped the Wapen van Hoorn to dock, but the current governor did not seem to have sent anyone out to greet the new arrivals. Maybe the current governor ran a lax fort. Knudsen hoped that was the reason, since anything other explanation would be worse – it would mean that he had arrived to face a major problem on his first day of his new governorship.
Knudsen made sure that he was one of the first men ashore. If he had to arrive without being greeted, then he would make sure that he presented himself at the governor’s residence. A few murmured words to one of the sailors ensured that his goods would be brought to the governor’s residence soon enough. A brief question of one of the men ashore told him where that building was – just across the avenue and main square.
Judging by the men constantly entering and leaving, the single-floored governor’s residence plainly served as the centre of administration too. That was reasonable enough; Fort Nassau was not that large, and the wealth it earned would be better used paying for the Company’s operations elsewhere than in building an opulent governor’s residence. For his own part, Knudsen expected to earn much from his tenure as governor, but he would take that wealth back home with him, not spend it here.
Inside the governor’s house, a man smoothly moved to block Knudsen’s path. He had a thin face with pockmarks that showed he had survived smallpox. “You are...?”
Impolite man, I will remember you, Knudsen silently promised. Then he pitched his voice to make sure that it carried. “Lars Knudsen, by the grace of God and the commission of the Lords Seventeen appointed to the governorship of Fort Nassau!”
Stillness descended around him, as men stopped whatever errands or tasks they were performing to look at him. All as he had hoped.
The thin-faced man, though, just nodded slightly and said, “We’d heard you were coming, but yours is the first ship from the Netherlands that we have seen in over three months.”
Knudsen said, “Never mind that. Just take me to the former governor.”
The thin-faced man said, “Governor Hermanszoon is at church. Would you like to join him there, or wait for him here?”
“I’ll wait here,” Knudsen said. He had lived in the Netherlands for fifteen years, and worked for the Company in one role or another for ten, but he still followed the Lutheran creed of his youth. He had no interest in attending a Calvinist service except where protocol required it.
The thin-faced man became somewhat more helpful then, showing him to a comfortable room to wait. Perhaps an hour later, a tall, full-bearded man strode into the room and gave a quick bow. “Governor Claes Hermanszoon. Welcome to Fort Nassau.”
Knudsen returned the bow. “Governor Lars Knudsen... or I should say, Governor-to-be.”
Hermanszoon waved a hand. “However you like. The appointment is yours. I have served my five years and more. I will leave for Batavia whenever the next ship is ready.”
He took a seat.
Knudsen returned to his, then said, “I will have questions for you first. Many questions. I’ve been told much by the Company before I left Amsterdam, but I’m sure there’s much still to know.”
“Indeed.” The former governor tilted his head. “Duguba jangganyu ngarru, wirri [1]?”
Knudsen said, “Warari.” He repeated himself in Dutch: “Some.”
“Learn more,” Hermanszoon said. “A few of these Atjuntja understand Dutch, but they will usually not deign to speak it. Be careful, too. A few of the craftier natives will listen when you speak with each other in Dutch, or have interpreters with them who do. The better to help them trade.”
“Trading is hardly my role,” Knudsen said. Apart from ensuring that he collected his rightful share of the profits, but that was another matter. “The factors will handle that, surely.”
“The factors will be with you, of course, but the natives here have strange expectations. Most of those who you will be trading with are nobles – the nobles are usually the merchants here, too, with a few exceptions. Atjuntja nobles always expect to have what they think of as a man of substance present at any negotiations. Factors won’t count, I’m afraid. It has to you, as the governor. Even if the factors do most of the talking, the nobles will refuse to speak with them unless you’re nearby.”
Knudsen nodded. No-one back in Amsterdam had seen fit to mention that to him. Perhaps they didn’t know, or just assumed that he would learn it when he came out. They had chosen him in part because he had a gift for learning languages, so maybe they did know a little.
“Still, if the factors are doing the bargaining, why do I need to know the language?”
“Anything you can do will help,” the former governor said. “Some of the natives are sharp negotiators.”
“I’d heard that they were easy to bargain with.”
Hermanszoon frowned. “At first, yes, but some of them have learned. They have a pretty good idea of the value of our goods. You will strike a good deal if you bring something exotic or unfamiliar, but if it’s something they recognise, then they will often bargain hard.”
“Anything else I should know about bargaining with them?”
“Yes. Grow a beard.” Hermanszoon saw the look which Knudsen directed at him, then said, “The nobles here respect beards, although they won’t allow the peasants to grow them. Not full beards, anyway – the peasants have to trim theirs short.”
The former governor paused, then added, “Your black hair will be an advantage here, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why the Company sent you here.”
Knudsen raised an eyebrow.
“The Atjuntja equate black hair with being of their race, not their Yaora subjects. Not all of their nobles have it, and a few non-Atjuntja do, but still, it is never far from their minds. They will respect you more for it.”
Knudsen considered that. It was not the most welcome of thoughts. No-one back in Amsterdam had mentioned this, either. He had believed that he had won appointment to the governorship because they had recognised his talents. No doubt that was true, in part, but how much of a factor had been the simple fact of his black hair?
Something of his disappointment must have shown on his face, since Hermanszoon laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. When fortune deals you a card, you play it.”
“I suppose. Apart from the trading, what are the biggest problems with governing this fort?”
“Obtaining native labourers to do much of anything. You can’t just pay them wages to work for your. The natives have no idea of coinage. Payment of everything is in kind, and labour is usually commanded by their own governor, off to the east. You can sometimes bid for workers by negotiating with the nearer holdings – they will use our goods to meet their tribute. If not, you will have to work with the native governor for the use of their labour. I’ve done both, but it can be difficult. Sometimes they demand more valuable goods for their labour than I’d like to pay them – those are trade goods which could be put to better use. Expect the Governor-General to write you some threatening letters from Batavia condemning your wastage of trade goods. But it’s a price of doing business here. What we earn in gold and sandalwood more than makes up for it.”
Knudsen nodded. “What about local news? Has anything important happened here?”
“Recently?” The former governor shrugged. “The native governor has gone back to the White City for some reason. I don’t know why; it’s never happened before in all the time I’ve been here. It makes things difficult, since whenever I need any workers the natives just look blank and say I have to wait for the governor to return.”
Hermanszoon drummed his fingers on his chair, then said, “Not much else worth mentioning. A couple of sicknesses have afflicted the locals – mumps, I think – but nothing for us to worry about. Oh, and two ships have recently gone missing along the coast of the South Land. I’ve ordered other ships to search for them, and apparently Batavia has done the same, but without any success so far.”
“Ships sailing north, I presume,” Knudsen said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
“Yes. Our treaty with the Atjuntja forbids us from trading further south. We’ve sent a couple of ships south anyway and made contact with the Islanders further east, but no-one’s got around to establishing proper trade with them.”
Knudsen nodded, although he had in fact already known that. One part of his instructions in Amsterdam – rather more secret than the rest – had been to do what he could to establish more regular contact with these Islanders and find out how to trade with them, bypassing the Atjuntja. He knew that the explorer Thijssen had made contact with them back in 1626, but the disruptions of war and plagues had meant that the Company had not yet put proper resources into trading with the Islanders. Now that things were stabilising, that would become more of a priority.
Hermanszoon said, “How about your voyage here?”
“Two ships scattered in storms, and the rest half a day behind us, we think. Hopefully they’ll arrive soon. Some sailors dead of scurvy, I hear, and many sick, as can only be expected.”
“That can be dealt with.” The former governor rang the bell beside him. A moment later, the thin-faced man reappeared. “Send word to the new-come ship to have all of the sufferers of scurvy report to the hospice immediately. Their captain may not know about it.”
The thin-faced man nodded and left.
Knudsen looked a question at the former governor.
Hermanszoon explained, “The natives have a very good remedy for scurvy. A kind of sarsaparilla which can be turned into a drink that will relieve scurvy very quickly. We give it to all of the ship captains who visit us here [2].”
“Useful,” Knudsen said. “Many things for me still to learn about this place, then.”
He settled down to question Hermanszoon in much greater detail.
Knudsen had a week to familiarise himself with his new duties as governor. In that time, four more ships from the fleet arrived in Fort Nassau, including one of those which had been scattered in the earlier storm. He watched the native nobles begin to gather to trade with the fleet, although on the former governor’s advice, he did not let the trading begin yet. Better to wait until there were as many nobles present as possible, so that the natives could compete with each other for Company goods.
He learned the name of the thin-faced man: Piet Janszoon. Unfortunately, he also found that Janszoon had the best command of the Atjuntja language of any European at this outpost. Removing him from office would hinder the efficiency of operations at Fort Nassau. Janszoon probably knew that, too; it would explain his attitude. Knudsen decided that there was nothing he could do about Janszoon for now, but he would remember.
A week into his tenure, a native messenger came to Fort Nassau to tell him that the Atjuntja governor had returned to Archers Nest, and summoning him to attend.
He thought the demand sounded ominous. Hermanszoon was of no real help, saying that the message could simply be because the Atjuntja governor wanted to meet the new fort governor, or it might mean something more dangerous, since the native commander had just come back from conferring with their Emperor.
In any case, Knudsen knew he had to attend. He wanted to bring Hermanszoon with him, but the former governor declined, saying that would simply confuse the issue of who was the true governor of Fort Nassau. “The Atjuntja don’t like ambiguity,” Hermanszoon said, as if that was sufficient answer.
Instead, Knudsen took Janszoon with him. Insubordinate the man might be, but a fluent speaker of the Atjuntja language would be extremely helpful. There were native interpreters available, both in Dutch employ and those which the Atjuntja used, but Knudsen did not trust them, and he was not yet completely confident in his command of the Atjuntja language.
A Dutch boat took them up the river, then they had to walk the remaining distance to Archers Nest. A fortified city, of course. With towering walls of grey stone, topped by crenellations. The natives built fortifications, but they denied them to Fort Nassau. He would have to see what could be done to change that, after he had met the Atjuntja governor.
Once at the gates, they were quickly ushered in to meet the Atjuntja governor. Janszoon murmured, “This is unusual. Normally he would make us wait for hours.”
Knudsen did not take much notice of the buildings or the people. Time to think about them later. For now, he had to prepare himself for meeting with the native governor – Namai, if he remembered the name properly.
Namai proved to look much like any of the Atjuntja: tall, skin almost as dark as an African, black beard growing far down his chest. The shape of his clothes was similar too: cloth wrapped around his body and arms, leaving most of his legs clear. But everything about him was much more ornate, from the intricately-dyed patterns of blue and scarlet on his clothes, to his gem-studded gold neck-ring and bracelets.
Namai spoke in Atjuntja. Knudsen followed most of it, but he still turned to the thin-faced man for a translation.
Janszoon said, “He offers you greetings in the name of his Emperor, and calls the blessing of the Lady on your term as governor.” The thin-faced man paused, then added, “The Atjuntja worship two gods: a good goddess and an evil god. He is offering you his best wishes, in effect.”
“Return my best wishes in whatever manner is polite among these Atjuntja,” Knudsen said. He could have done that himself, but he thought it would be better to let Janszoon do it. That would let him hide his own knowledge of their language, for now. Besides, the thin-faced man would have more understanding of the natives’ protocols.
Janszoon spoke, and then Namai looked directly at Knudsen. His words came slower than before, enough that Knudsen could understand without translation. “I have a request of you, on behalf of the King of Kings.”
Knudsen waited for Janszoon to murmur a translation, for the look of the thing, then said, “Tell him to ask.”
Namai’s next words sounded ritualised and formal, enough that Knudsen could not follow them entirely. He did recognise the Atjuntja word for sacrifice, though, and that was enough to make his stomach start to knot. He knew – all of the Dutch knew, by now – that the natives of the South Land were as bloodthirsty as the vanquished natives of the Americas.
Janszoon turned paler than usual while he offered the full translation. “He says that, in the name of his Emperor, he asks you to send three Dutchmen to the White City to be sacrificed in their heathen rites.”
“No,” Knudsen said, automatically, and then realised that he had answered in the Atjuntja language.
Namai answered, “I did not hear you.”
Knudsen opened his mouth to repeat himself, but Janszoon touched his arm. “He heard you just fine. That is the polite Atjuntja form for showing that he does not accept your response, and gives you a chance to make another reply.”
“There’s only one answer to that heathen murderer,” Knudsen said. Namai’s eyes narrowed at that, perhaps at the tone, or maybe he understood more Dutch than he showed, too.
“We need to give him a more diplomatic answer than that,” Janszoon said.
“Any suggestions?”
“These Atjuntja will only sacrifice volunteers. You could say that you will ask, and then a few days later say that no-one volunteered.”
“That only puts off the problem,” Knudsen said. “But it gives us some time, I suppose. Tell him that I’ll ask.”
Through Janszoon, Namai replied, “You have thirteen days. Leave me now, and return on the thirteenth day with volunteers.”
Knudsen hurried out, before the Atjuntja governor could add any more demands.
*
Namai of the Urdera watched the new Raw Man governor scuttle out like a rat when a quoll stepped into its sight. Not for the first time, he was glad that he had troubled himself to learn the basics of their strange language. So, they would simply play for time and then refuse the King of Kings’ wishes, would they?
“Attend me,” he said, and the three available scribes stepped forward. “Orders to Fingerman Nagan: he is to move his Fist to Sea-Eagle Tree, and conduct manoeuvres outside the town for the next thirteen days.”
That town was the nearest to the Raw Men’s trading post. It would mean that they would know that the warriors were nearby, but not so close that their presence would be threatening. Let that be a warning to the Raw Men, if they were astute enough to understand it. Hopefully, it would be enough to make them see reason.
It was not.
Thirteen days later, when the Raw Men returned, it was the same two men, the appropriately-bearded governor and the strangely pock-marked scribe-translator who accompanied him. After the customary greetings, Namai said, “Where are the three men you have brought to be sacrificed to the Lord?”
The scribe said, “The honoured governor expresses his regrets, but no men offered themselves up for the Appeasers.”
Namai said, “Tell him that I did not hear his answer.”
The scribe said, “The honoured governor expresses his disappointment, but no men would volunteer for sacrifice to the death.”
Impertinent outlanders, who stand on the soil of the King of Kings but do not heed his will! Still, however much it troubled him, Namai knew not to say that. The Raw Men needed to be treated with care, for they had much knowledge, and many goods that the Middle Country needed. “Tell him that your people have brought the Lord’s attention to this land, in plagues and famines. It is up to you to appease this affliction. Only blood can divert the Lord’s attention. If men will not volunteer of their own will, persuade them to volunteer.”
The scribe translated that, then the two outlanders had a heated argument in their own language. Namai followed only the gist: that the scribe wanted to make another delaying response, and the governor wanted to make an outright refusal.
Their argument ended when the governor, Nuddhin, asserted his authority. He spoke in the true language: “It is against the law of our Lord to give up any man for sacrifice.”
The scribe added, “The honoured governor asked whether your King of Kings will refuse us trade because we refuse sacrifices.”
Namai said, “I do not speak for his exalted majesty. The land-stone permitting trade still stands. Unless he orders us to destroy it, trade is permitted.”
And if Namai understood the political situation in the White City correctly, then the King of Kings did not dare to close off trade entirely. Perhaps he would subject it to restrictions, or perhaps not.
“Your short-sightedness disappointments me. Death is part of the order of the world. If you choose not to conduct it properly through sacrifices, you will find that it comes anyway. Your inaction has brought affliction to the Middle Country, but it will come to your lands, too.”
The scribe started to translate, but Namai spoke over him. “Nuddhin, I know you understand me. Leave my presence now. Your servant can interpret for you later, and may you consider my words and choose the path of wisdom instead.”
When they left, Namai released a sigh he had only barely known he was holding. The Raw Men were great craftsmen, but it seemed that in their understanding of the divine order they were as ignorant as Islanders. They would have to learn wisdom through more direct attention from the Lord. He just had to hope that the lessons would not make the Middle Country suffer too greatly in the meantime.
The first lesson came much sooner than he had expected.
Five days later, an exhausted messenger arrived at Archers Nest. He was one of the soldiers in Nagan’s Fist, and he had run all the way from Sea Eagle Tree. He gave a confused tale of new outlander ships appearing in the sea, and using chained kuru to throw thunder at the Raw Men’s outpost, bringing fire and death. Outlander soldiers had landed from these ships to attack; strange new raw men who were enemies of the more familiar Dutch. Fingerman Nagan had responded with commendable urgency, leading his Fist to fight alongside the Raw Men, and sending the messenger back for reinforcements.
Namai sent out orders for every available soldier to gather for a march to battle, save for one Fist retained to defend the walls of Archers Nest in case those ships came up the Goanna [Swan] River. The rest, five Fists strong, were at his command. If they could reach the Raw Men’s outpost – Fort Naddu, they called it – in time to matter.
A column of smoke rose from the western horizon as the army set out. Despite forced march pace, no enemies remained by the time Namai and his soldiers reached Fort Naddu. Instead, he looked out over the ravaged ruins of what had been a thriving trading outpost only hours before.
One of the Raw Men’s still burned beside the docks. The docks themselves had been badly damaged. Many of their grand stone buildings had smoke rising from their interiors, too. Some had walls collapsed, as if struck by some great force. Maybe the invaders here truly could chain kuru to serve their needs; the power to smite stone so effortlessly certainly appeared divine.
The Djarwari peasants who had taken up residence outside the trading post proper had suffered even worse. Many of their timber homes were aflame. Without Namai needing to give any orders, the Fingermen ordered their Fists to help put out the fires and collect the dead – Atjuntja, Raw Men and peasants – whose bodies were scattered around.
Finding out the details of what had happened took longer. Fingerman Nagan had survived, it turned out, along with many of the nobles who had been here waiting to trade. From what he could gather, Atjuntja soldiers had fought alongside nobles retainers and Raw Men guards against the enemies from the sea, who were another kind of Raw Men. They had come to raid and destroy, and carried away as much sun-kin [gold] and other goods as they could find.
Namai ordered that some of the soldiers be sent to patrol outside Fort Naddu while the rest contained the fires and collected the dead. That done, he brought Fingerman Nagan with him and eventually found the Raw Man governor, Nuddhin, and his scribe-translator.
“Who were these raiders?”
“They are called Pannidj,” Nuddhin said. “We have been at war with them for years, but I never expected that they would come here.”
“They were led here,” Namai said.
“How could that be?” Nuddhin said. “We have been careful not to let the Pannidj or anyone else know exactly how to sail here.”
“As I warned you, violence will come with the Lord’s attention. You have not turned His gaze away with sacrifices, or allowed us to do the same. So He turned his gaze here, and He has called these Pannidj in to make sacrifices for Him.”
Nuddhin did not look convinced, but for now Namai did not care. The warning had been delivered; it would take time for the Raw Men to understand it. He had other things to worry about, such as how the King of Kings would respond to this latest affliction. He could only hope that his exalted majesty’s decisions did not include compelling Namai to volunteer for sacrifice to the death.
* * *
[1] This is an Atjuntja phrase which means “Speak you the true tongue, honoured one?”
[2] As has happened in many other cultures around the world, the Atjuntja have identified plants with high levels of vitamin C which can be used to cure scurvy. The particular plant which is being used here is sweet sarsaparilla (Smilax glyciphylla), native to the east coast of *Australia but easily cultivatable elsewhere. While the native peoples mostly use it as a flavouring, it is also helpful for relieving scurvy.
* * *
Thoughts?
