To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (15 page)

“My chest,” she said, pressing a hand to her breast.

“And see?” Cornelisz opened it with a flourish.

“My dresses. Oh, how wonderful.” How long had she worn this same, salt-stained dress? Three weeks? No, closer to four since the ship foundered. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She lifted the top garment out, a silken gown that glowed in the soft light under the canvas, the colours dancing as the fabric moved, like light on water. The lace at neckline and wrist was fine and delicate. A gown for evenings in a salon.

“A beautiful dress for a beautiful lady,” Cornelisz said. A smile lurked around his lips and his eyes—those disturbing hazel eyes—held that gleam. Unlike many of the other men, he’d continued to be shaved and dressed properly.

“You’ve been most kind,” she said.

He bowed, smiling. “It is my pleasure and privilege. Will you join me for dinner tonight?”

“That would be pleasant. Will the predikant be there too, with Judyck?”

His eyes flickered. Not what he’d intended, she was sure, but he took it well. “An excellent notion. I’m sure Coenraat would be happy to join us.”

Lucretia wore the silken dress for dinner. The soft light of the lanterns hanging on the crossbeam between the two tent poles lent a glow to the satin sheen of the fabric.

“Creesje, it’s magnificent. You look beautiful,” said Judyck, clapping her hands in delight.

Cornelisz grinned, looking her up and down. She wished she’d covered her breasts a little more, but the gown was designed to reveal, exposing her bare shoulders and some cleavage.

“Only you could do this garment justice,” he purred. He took her hand in his and bent over it.

The heat rose in her cheeks, not least because of the way the predikant and his wife pursed their lips. Van Huyssen, standing next to Judyck, was frankly admiring.

“Wine, Lady?” Jan Pelgrom, erstwhile cabin servant on the Batavia and now Cornelisz’s servant, offered wine in silver goblets.

“Thank you,” she murmured. The whole situation seemed so incongruous, almost a parody of society as they stood in a tent on a wind-swept island with silverware and linen and fine clothes. At least for her and Cornelisz. In comparison, everyone else looked shabby.

Cornelisz proposed a toast. “To Lucretia,” he said. “May her beauty light the way for us all.”

Lucretia turned the goblet in her fingers, hot with embarrassment. “You’ve certainly made a difference to us all, Master Cornelisz. The island is so much less crowded and so much safer.”

Cornelisz led her to the table. It seemed extravagant and yet they would eat no more than their daily ration. Predikant Bastiaensz and his wife had both visibly lost weight. But then, she had, too.

“How goes it with the groups on the other islands?” asked the predikant as he settled into his chair.

“Very well. Very well indeed,” said Cornelisz. “The Seals’ Island group has found sufficient water and food for them all and the group on the High Islands is surviving well. In fact, I’m thinking of sending more people there, to help.”

“Excellent news, Master Cornelisz,” said Gijsbert. “And what of Traitors’ Island?”

“We supply Pieter’s group once a week,” said van Huyssen. “Although, of course, they collected some of the rain that fell the other day. It all helps.”

“Indeed, it would,” said Bastiaensz. “God has been merciful.”

“Ah, well, sir, I think God helps those who help themselves, would you not say?” said Cornelisz.

Lucretia noticed van Huyssen’s smile. His lips curved but his eyes… they didn’t match. Then he looked at Judyck and his pleasure was genuine.

“I must agree with Lucretia that your presence has made a difference to us all,” said the preacher. “I confess I feared for the safety of my wife and children with so many rough folk around us.”

Maria nodded. “We have a little more room and some hope. For that we are grateful.” She sat back a little to let Pelgrom put a plate of stewed seal meat with pulses in front of her.

“Amen,” said her husband. “And now, before we commence to eat, I should thank the Lord for his beneficence.”

Lucretia bowed her head. Easy for him to say. He had seven children, all of them with him now. Her heart cried out to Hans, Lijsbet and Stefani, all taken from her. Sometimes her faith was sorely tried.

Olivier van Welderen coughed and gripped his jacket around his chest. Cornelisz didn’t blame him. The point at the end of the island wasn’t the most pleasant place in this weather. A blustery wind laden with salt spray whistled through the coral spikes and dark clouds that threatened showers passed towards the east. But here, it was safe to talk. He perched on his usual rock, his core group around him.

“How is progress, gentlemen?”

“We’ve sounded out the cadets,” said van Huyssen. He shared a glance with Gijsbert van Welderen. “Most are willing to join us. A few we know, won’t. Hans, Andries, a few others.”

“The soldiers are realists,” said Pietersz. “They’ll go with the winning side.”

“So. Name names,” said Cornelisz. “The ones you’re sure you can rely on.” He counted as they listed them. Nineteen.

“Not enough,” said van Huyssen. “Even if you leave out women and children, there must be three times that many able-bodied men here.”

“Then we have to reduce the odds,” said Cornelisz.

“How will you do that?” asked Zevanck. He rubbed his finger along the edge of his knife, a gesture that had become a habit.

“We will enforce the law,” said Cornelisz. A chance would come, soon enough. He just had to be patient. He led the way towards the little tent-town, today less active than usual. With rain threatening, the men had stretched out as much canvas as could be spared to catch the water. A couple of children, oblivious to weather, played a hopping game; a few men chatted together, others brought in fish, some sat outside tents. Too many people.

Cornelisz hid his scowl.

“Jeronimus,” shouted Zevanck.

Cornelisz’ scowl deepened. Zevanck had better have a very good reason for his interruption. The day had dawned fine and clear and Lucretia was actually talking to him, telling him about her house in Amsterdam as they walked together along the scrap of beach a short distance from the settlement. She stepped back as Zevanck approached them at a jog. Behind him, Pietersz led three soldiers, the middle one, it seemed, reluctant.

“I shall leave you, Jeronimus,” said Lucretia, already moving away.

“I’ve enjoyed our chat.” One last glimpse at her retreating form—lovely in the blue dress—and Cornelisz turned to Zevanck. “Well?”

Zevanck’s grin faded a little. “We caught this fellow tapping a wine barrel.” He jerked his head at the man in the grip of two of Pietersz’s trusted men, Janssen and Beer.

“Is that so?” purred Cornelisz. Just what he’d been waiting for. And he hadn’t had to wait very long at all. “Corporal Pietersz, I’ll put you in charge of interrogating our friend. What’s his name?”

“Abraham. Abraham Hendricksz.”

“I shall convene a special meeting of the council,” said Cornelisz. “Just tell me when you’ve finished your questioning.”

He smiled as Pietersz hustled his prisoner away.

*

Abraham, dishevelled, bruised and with a swollen eye, appeared before the council as the sun started to dip towards the horizon. Arms tied behind his back, he stood, downcast, between Beer and Janssen.

“He’s admitted his crime, gentlemen of the council,” said Pietersz. He loomed over the man, justifying his nickname, the Stonecutter. “Says he’s tapped barrels several times before.”

A sigh went around the assembled councillors. This was more than stealing; given their straitened circumstances, it was low and selfish.

“He’s stolen enough to be drunk,” said Pietersz.

“What have you to say, Abraham?” asked Cornelisz. “Is this true?”

The prisoner shuffled his feet, silent until Beer jabbed him. “Yes.”

“You have selfishly stolen wine meant for others. We have little enough to go around. Only one punishment is fitting for such a low act,” said Cornelisz, shaking his head as if in sorrow. A quick glance at his fellow councillors’ faces confirmed his judgement. “Death. Death by drowning.”

Hendricksz staggered, the colour draining from his face. “But it wasn’t just me.”

“No? Who else?” asked Cornelisz.

“I shared. Shared with a gunner,” stammered Hendricksz.

“Name?”

“Adriaen,” he gasped. “Adriaen Adriaensz.”

“Well, then, you will both die,” said Cornelisz. This was even better. As Abraham’s lips opened and closed like a caught fish, around the table, the councillors stirred.

“Now wait a minute, Master Cornelisz,” said Frans Jansz. “I agree this Adriaen should be punished but if he didn’t steal the wine, death seems a little excessive.”

Haas nodded. “A flogging, yes. Short rations, perhaps.”

“The gunner stole as much as Abraham did,” said Cornelisz. He stared at the others, voice laced with outrage. “Just because he wasn’t there when the wine was taken, he is no less culpable for what happened next. They must both die. It will set an example to others.”

“Master Cornelisz, I’m sorry, I cannot agree,” said the barber. “The soldier, yes. But the other deserves some mercy.”

At his side, Salomon Deschamps nodded agreement.

Fools. Soft-hearted, weak idiots. Cornelisz hid his elation. He’d expected this. According to the way the council was established, he had no choice but to agree with the majority decision. “Then so be it. Abraham Hendricksz, you have admitted to the charge of theft of provisions and I hereby sentence you to death by drowning. Take him away.”

Hendricksz struggled, gasping ‘no, no’ as Beer and Janssen dragged him outside. Cornelisz would have liked to watch the punishment, but first things first. “Corporal,” he said, “after the sentence has been carried out, find this gunner Adriaen and arrest him.”

Pietersz grinned and lumbered out, leaving Cornelisz and the council.

“Gentlemen, I have acceded to your decision,” said Cornelisz. He kept his voice deep. “But I am frankly amazed at your conduct and deem it is not in the best interest of the people we represent. Therefore, I thank you for your service. You are all dismissed as councillors.”

Faint splashes and cries drifted into the tent from outside.

“You can’t do that,” said Frans, eyes bright with outrage.

“Er, in fact he can,” said Deschamps. “The Chairman of the Council has the legal right to remove any councillor from the council, provided a replacement is made within a day.”

“And that,” said Cornelisz, “I will do.” He stood. “Good day to you all.”

15

Latitude, wind, weather and course. Pelsaert looked down at the daily list of entries in his journal, sparse commentary for this endless voyage. Eight days. Eight days since they’d left the desiccated shores of the South Land. But what else could he write? The men on duty sagged, conserving their energy, their faces reddened by salt and sun. Those off duty rested or slept, leaning against each other. No one spoke unless they had to. Waves lapped the hull; the ropes that held the sail creaked against the bollards.

He passed his tongue over cracked lips. A pointless reflex reaction. He had little moisture in his mouth and his tongue was thick and stiff. They’d subsisted on two cups of water each day since they left the South Land and even so, if the merciful rain had not fallen once or twice, well death comes as the end.

Saartje wriggled beside him, no doubt trying to relieve muscles tired of sitting. He’d tried the same thing himself. What could you do if you couldn’t stand, couldn’t lie down, couldn’t stretch? The child swung in the sling at her breast. Young Wouter had complained long and bitterly last night but he was better fed, better protected, more comfortable than anyone else. Now he whimpered as his mother adjusted a shawl over his head to protect him from the sun, hot and fierce in the tropical sky.

“Seaweed,” mumbled the man in the prow. He pointed to starboard.

More seaweed. Pelsaert leaned forward, eyes narrowed against the reflected glare and spied the lump of seagrass riding the swell. You got that when land was close by, they’d told him. He hoped they were right. And that the land was the Indies.

Evertsz, officer of the watch, stood to take his noon measurements, holding the backstaff against the side of his face, his back to the sun. Pelsaert loaded his quill with ink and looked at him, expectant, while he did his calculations.

“Eleven thirty. Thirty-one. North by west. Wind to south-east.” Evertsz laboured to speak, his tongue slurring the words.

By now, Pelsaert could translate his words. Latitude eleven degrees thirty minutes, they’d sailed thirty one miles, bearing north by west, with a wind from the south-east. He added a note that they’d hoisted the top gallant and that they’d noticed seaweed floating.

Another day, another two degrees further north. The sun burned, the water glittered. Saartje leant over the side to collect water so she could wash Wouter, who complained lustily. Nobody grumbled. It seemed to Pelsaert that for everyone the baby was a symbol of hope, something to strive for. If this tiny infant could survive, why could not they? If only to deliver him safely to Batavia.

Jacobsz’s voice announcing the change of shift roused Pelsaert from the fitful doze which passed for sleep. He joined in the routine as they moved around the boat, practised now as they all were. At dawn the breakfast ration was passed around—a small mug of water and a sliver of bread each. He sipped, savouring each precious drop, before handing the mug back for the next man. The bread could have been paper but he forced himself to eat it. He wasn’t hungry. His shrunken stomach was now well used to short commons. Ah, what he’d give for real bread, with butter and cheese, good Dutch cheese.

“We’ll get some rain today,” said the captain when he’d finished his water. “Be ready to catch what you can.”

“Can’t be far now,” Gerritsz said.

“No. Wake me if you have landfall, huh?” said Jacobsz. He settled himself down to rest.

Rain, thought Pelsaert. It had rained a few days after they’d left the High Island and that with the huge seas had almost been enough to sink the boat. Some rain was a blessing; too much rain and they would surely drown. Best to think of landfall. Jacobsz had seemed sure and—loath as he was to admit it—the man had never been wrong.