Batavia (37 page)

But that is all right, that is just Andries being a
hoerenjong
, son of a whore.

The main thing, as the next coughs, gurgles and ripping sounds come to them, is that he is clearly getting on with the job, and silently at that, preventing an outcry that could have woken the whole island and been very upsetting.

Ten minutes later, Andries emerges, with the dripping knife hanging loosely by his side. More butcher than bookkeeper, he is covered in blood from head to toe – whole streaks of it drench his shirt, as if he had himself been slashed six or seven times with a sword across his torso.

Job well done, Andries. Fine handiwork indeed.

The butcher cannot speak, just nods mutely and wanders, as if drunken, alone to the small beach in the vain hope that he can wash the blood from his clothes, if not his soul.

11 July 1629, Hayes’s Island

Wiebbe Hayes just cannot work it out. It is more than passing strange that their smoke signals have drawn no response. For the last two days since they discovered the water, they lit their bonfires, sending the smoke spiralling skywards and thereafter peering out hopefully towards the south-east, expecting to see David Zevanck or Coenraat van Huyssen returning with the promised yawls to fetch them. But there has been not the slightest sign.

Were it not for the fact that in all their time on these islands they have regularly seen smoke coming from the fires of the people on Seals’ Island and Batavia’s Graveyard – though, strangely, no longer on Traitors’ Island – Hayes would have feared that the people left there had been wiped out by thirst or hunger. Yet that is clearly not the case. So what is the explanation? For the life of him, Wiebbe Hayes cannot make sense of it. Nor can any of the other men, though it is a subject of constant discussion. For now, all they can do is continue to establish themselves in their new base, right by the water supply, and wait to see what happens.

11 July 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

From the time they left Texel, things have not been easy for Jan Pinten, the only Englishman of the ship’s company. He’d be buggered if he could understand a word anyone was saying, and when an order is issued from on high, rather than snapping to it immediately, all he can do is to carefully watch and imitate his fellow soldiers.

As an Englishman, the sole representative of a nation that the Dutch bitterly resented, he found that life at sea was a surprisingly lonely affair, just as it has proved to be on this cursed island. While others have formed small groups, capable at least of looking out for each other, no one wants
De Engelsman
, the Englishman, in their group. The net result is that, when he falls ill through dehydration and malnutrition in the second week of July, no one realises it for quite some time. It isn’t until he remains in his tent for a number of days in a row that Zevanck bothers to poke his perfumed head around the tent flap to see what might be the matter. Confronted by the grey spectre of what has formerly been a strapping young man, Zevanck quickly reports the matter to the
Kapitein-Generaal
.

In response, Jeronimus nods and then whispers just a few words to the gunner Allert Jansz and Jan Hendricxsz, both of whom nod in keen agreement and quickly head off to Pinten’s tent.

‘Goede morgen aan u, Engelsman,
good morning to you, Englishman,’ Hendricxsz greets him upon entering, as the sick man manages to lift an arm in pathetic salutation.

With not another word spoken, Hendricxsz then nods to Jansz, who has followed him in, and the younger Mutineer suddenly drops down and sits with his full weight on the invalid’s chest.

‘Kalmeer u, Engelsman,
calm yourself, Englishman,’ Hendricxsz says to him kindly in simple Dutch as he stands over him. ‘It will only make matters worse.’

Too weak to resist, yet a soldier to the last, Pinten arches his back to try to throw Jansz off, his neck automatically forming a tight part of the arch.

Alas, in one smooth action, Jansz draws his dagger with a flourish and slits the taut neck of the sick soldier. The murderers watch in mute fascination as gouts of blood quickly stain the crude deathbed stark red.

And that is the end of Jan Pinten.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Say Your Prayers

It was a busy time of it all right.

Gillis Phillipsz of Malmediers, blacksmith

12 July 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

As supreme ruler, Jeronimus is now all but in his hay. Apart from the fact that he still has not managed to lure the fragrant Lucretia into his bed, the only thing that has not gone his way is that they haven’t yet managed to kill off Wiebbe Hayes and his men, who have now found water. Although, the fact that Hayes and his soldiers are not with them on Batavia’s Graveyard has proved to be a masterstroke . . .

Under different circumstances, there would be an obvious option open to the Survivors: uniting as one and attacking the Mutineers, whom they still greatly outnumber. It would be brutal, it would be bloody, but if such an attack were well organised – striking in the middle of the night, killing first Jeronimus, David Zevanck and Coenraat van Huyssen to deny the Mutineers leadership – there would be a good chance of exacting a bloody triumph. But an attack of that nature on Batavia’s Graveyard, leaving aside the issue of weaponry, requires two things: moral resolution among the men left on the island and sufficient leadership to organise it properly. Neither is present without Wiebbe Hayes and his band.

Instead of rising up against the tyranny of Jeronimus, most of the Survivors on Batavia’s Graveyard simply cower in the face of his reign of terror. Though fearful, the only way out the men can see is to do the tasks that are allotted to them, keep their heads down and remain as inconspicuous as possible, hoping that they will not attract the attention of the Mutineers. As to the women for common service, their best chance of surviving is quite the reverse. They must continue to attract a different kind of attention from all of the Mutineers they can accommodate, and that process continues day and night.

All up, not only is there a lack of organised resistance from the Survivors to the rule of the Mutineers, but Jeronimus and his lieutenants are now inundated by men wanting to join them. In fact, with each fresh brutality they are gaining in strength.

This drive to join them is largely through fear of the consequences of not being with them, partly through a desire to share in the improved rations and exquisite red finery of the Mutineers (while the starving Survivors remain dressed in rags), not to mention their access to the women as well as the boats, and partly because of the still seething anger among the Survivors at their abandonment by Pelsaert and Jacobsz.

Whatever else, Jeronimus has
not
abandoned them. Ironically, with his departure to Batavia, Pelsaert has provided the very thing that Jeronimus was looking for, the act that would turn the broad mass of the people against the
Commandeur
.

As soon as they join up, they get to carouse with the other Mutineers in the tent of the
Kapitein-Generaal
. They love to guzzle his fine wine and eat the best fish and birds that have been caught on the day, together with the remaining delicacies from the stores of the
Batavia
. They adore running their fingers through the jewels stored in his tent and talking about the gloriously rich future before them – the
women
they will have, the
finery
they will wear! – once they have captured the rescue yacht and got away from these infernal islands. And, of course, they delight in gossiping lightly about their most recent killings.

The bond between them is tight. For, if there is an honour among thieves, there is a cult among killers, most particularly in an environment where – with the notable exception of Jeronimus – the more you kill, the more you are respected. Stonecutter, Jan Hendricxsz, Coenraat van Huyssen and David Zevanck, particularly, have proved themselves again and again, and take their place at the
Kapitein-Generaal’s
side, the most powerful men after him.

Jeronimus does not merely want a loose confederation of men who are broadly on his side; he wants a brotherhood of blood, a tightly controlled gang of murderers devoted to each other and to him personally, who will do his bidding without question and who have proved their worth to the Mutineers by committing whatever murders and brutality are asked of them. He knows from his days with Torrentius that once the first corruption of a man’s soul is accomplished, the rest is relatively easy. Let a man commit adultery just once, and the next time his conscience will not trouble him half so much. He is already an adulterer, so the next step is not so great. So, too, let a man but once kill another and he is a murderer, innately bound to other murderers in the very bloody bond that Jeronimus is now cultivating. And, once a man is a murderer here, it is not just that he will no longer be able to bear witness against brother murderers, it is also, in Jeronimus’s view, that in no time he will be able to participate in an orgy of murdering, too! The result is that Jeronimus’s own power will be enhanced as his bloody band grows. By this time, it even includes Hans Hardens, who, despite having had his daughter murdered by the men of Jeronimus and his wife continually leered at by the Mutineers, is fully determined to do
whatever it takes to survive.

Curiously, though, even though they are murderers, they are still predominantly
Dutch
murderers, in the employ of the VOC, so it is important that an official written statement be made. So it is that, on this particular evening – almost a month since Jeronimus arrived on the island – he requires all 25 of his fellow Mutineers to sign the oath he has prepared. The mood is festive as the signing takes place.

‘Sign, sign, sign, sign!’ the two dozen cheer to a man, as each merry Mutineer steps forward, takes the proffered quill from Jeronimus and puts his name or his mark upon the parchment:

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If the last signatory is a little hesitant, a little shame-faced as he commits himself to what he knows to be a murderous band, still, he and Hans Hardens are the only exceptions.

As they sign away their lives, the signatories are presented with the golden goblet filled with wine. ‘Drink, drink, drink, drink!’ the band exhorts once the commitment is made.

And drink they do. Once done, the empty vessel is upturned over their heads, tongues extended to catch the last remnants of red wine dripping down their lupine jowls.

From this point on, each man knows that, should he break the bond he has just put his name to, his own life will be forfeit, practically
legally
. After all, Jeronimus is the official representative of the Company among them, and he has no less than Salomon Deschamps, the
Commandeur’s
favourite notary, forming up such documents for him. Their oath is official.

With the signing of that oath accomplished, Jeronimus decides it is time to consolidate the bond between the members of his coterie, by bathing them in yet more blood.

This particular night is so cold and blustery that even the moon refuses to show its face, and the wind moans a long lament that this infernal island is beyond the edge of the world and all who lie upon it are doomed.

In their tent, the carpenter Jacob Hendricxsz, Passchier van den Ende, a gunner without his gun, and a sick boy are all disconsolately lying on their makeshift sleeping mats, trying in vain to get to sleep, when they hear the sound of approaching footsteps and men talking. Through the canvas flap, they can see a bobbing lantern approaching. All three freeze,
willing
the footsteps and the voices to move on. But they do not. They can even recognise the voices right outside their tent as belonging to several of the
Kapitein-Generaal’s
men: David Zevanck, Lenart van Os, Lucas Jellisz and Jan Hendricxsz.

Jan Hendricxsz, holding the lantern, his face grotesque in the light shining from below, enters the tent and addresses them personally, in a voice deliberately loud enough to be heard by all in the immediate vicinity. ‘Jacob Hendricxsz and Passchier van den Ende,’ the swarthy brute intones in his most official and authoritative voice, ignoring the lad. ‘Do you have any stolen goods from the Company?’

Passchier van den Ende, aware of the danger, answers sorrowfully that they do not. Terrified, scarcely believing that this is actually happening, both Jacob Hendricxsz and the ailing lad now join in, begging desperately for their lives to be spared.

For a brief moment, there is total silence but for the lapping of the small, sad waves on the shore, the thundering of the sea in the distance and the constant plaintive cry of the seabirds. From all the hovels nearby, there is nary a whisper as the whole encampment listens in terrified silence, fearing what is about to happen.

And, sure enough, Zevanck finally tires of all this drama, when what he has on his mind is murder, pure and simple.