To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (17 page)

“I’ll have the captain launch our longboat,” van Dommelen said. “Will you wish to take any of the other people with you? The captain, perhaps?”

Pelsaert swallowed to smother his retort. “No. No, I’m sure he’d want to stay here, with his officers and men. It’s only a few more days from here to Batavia, after all.”

16

“To the new council, gentlemen,” said Cornelisz, raising a goblet.

“The new council,” the three men murmured, and tossed back the contents.

They stood in Cornelisz’s tent, beaming and pleased with themselves.

As was he, thought Cornelisz. It had been so easy. The people on the island had accepted his actions with barely a murmur, but then, he was the legitimate authority here, was he not? Senior representative of the Company? Certainly his new councillors would be an effective team. Coenraat van Huyssen smiled in satisfaction at his new position, Davidt Zevanck was pleased but Jacop Pietersz, the erstwhile lance corporal, positively glowed. Not the brightest star in the sky, Pietersz, but he had a commanding presence because of his sheer size—and he would do as he was told.

“Now then, down to business,” said Cornelisz, leading the way to the council table. He sat in his usual chair with Pietersz on his right and Van Huyssen and Zevanck on his left. He waited while they organised the chairs on the uneven ground.

“Things are proceeding well,” said Cornelisz when the four men were seated “We’ve reduced the numbers to about one hundred and ten here on Batavia’s Graveyard and we have perhaps twenty we can be sure of.”

“There are still too many men who will oppose us,” said van Huyssen. “A few soldiers, some of the sailors.”

“I agree,” said Cornelisz. “I think we should send some reinforcements to help Wiebbe Hayes and his people on the High Island, don’t you?”

Pietersz frowned in concentration. “But why would we want to do that? Don’t we want them to…” he whispered the last word, “die?”

Van Huyssen grinned. “What do you have in mind, Jeronimus?”

“I said we’d send them—even take them over there. But I didn’t say they had to arrive.” That was the difference, wasn’t it? Van Huyssen was quick—maybe too quick. And Pietersz wasn’t quick at all.

“An accident on a raft?” asked Zevanck. He started to clean his fingernails with his knife.

“Could that happen?” asked Cornelisz. “Or should I ask, how could that happen?”

“Pick a group of reinforcements and a couple of people to sail the raft. But make sure that most of the group are our supporters. Out in the deep water—oops, what a shame, fell into the sea and drowned.”

“Who drowned?” said Pietersz, brow furrowed. “I don’t follow.”

Zevanck chuckled, eyes hooded and put an arm on Pietersz shoulder. “It’s simple. Five of us take three of them on a raft. They’ll think we’re taking them to the soldiers. Out in the deep water, we take them unawares, tie them up and throw them over the side. They drown.”

“Yes,” van Huyssen said, grinning, “and no one need know.”

“That’s clever. Very, very clever,” said Pietersz, lost in admiration.

“Well, then, Davidt, I’ll leave it to you,” said Cornelisz. Zevanck, it seemed, was a willing murderer. “Coenraat, perhaps you would help me to inform the reinforcements. You should have a list of names.”

Zevanck wiped his knife on his breeches. “I’ll want Matthijs Beer and a few of your cadets, Coenraat.”

“Now then, gentlemen, to other business,” said Cornelisz. “Put away that knife, Davidt. It has been reported to me that two of the carpenters were intending to steal a yawl they had built and use it to join the party on the Seals’ Island. I’ve had them arrested. Corporal Pietersz, have the prisoners brought in.”

Pietersz lumbered off to fetch the latest victims.

Two men, arms bound behind their backs, were shoved into the tent and Pietersz resumed his seat. Cornelisz glanced between them, both youngish men with ragged beards and frightened eyes. Although the taller one looked defiant.

“We’ve done nothing wrong,” said the taller man. “What’s this about?”

“Your name?” asked Cornelisz.

“Egbert. Egbert Roeloffsz.”

“And you?”

“Warnar Dircx.”

Cornelisz looked down at the paper on the desk as if to check his information then back up to the two men. “You are both carpenters?”

They exchanged a glance and nodded.

“You’re accused of plotting to steal one of our boats.”

Warnar gaped like a landed fish but Egbert spluttered, “You can’t be serious. To take it where?”

“I’m told to the Seals’ Island—but that’s not the issue,” said Cornelisz, voice stern. “The mere fact that you wish to steal from us is sin enough.”

The members of the council nodded.

“Who told you that? It’s stupid, malicious lies,” said Egbert. Warnar nodded, desperate, his eyes imploring.

“In our straitened circumstances, no theft can be tolerated. Any action against the common good is punishable by death.”

The shouts of protest were replaced with grunts of pain as the soldiers behind each man used their own ways of silencing the prisoners; a kidney punch for Egbert, an upward jerk of his bound hands for Warnar.

“Members of the council, do you concur with this judgement?” asked Cornelisz, looking this way and that along the table.

Pietersz grunted.

Zevanck, smiling, nodded.

“Justice must be done,” said van Huyssen.

“A unanimous verdict,” said Cornelisz. He stood. “Take the condemned men out.”

The carpenters were hustled out, a man on each side, still protesting, reluctant feet sliding on the coarse coral sand.

The usual bustle of activity in the tent town stopped. Eyes turned to the two men and their escorts. Cornelisz stood, hands on his hips, his councillors on each side of him. The canvas of the tent flapped in a brisk breeze. The islanders waited, silent, expectant.

“You see before you the legally appointed council, representing the interests of the Company on these islands.” He waved a hand to include van Huyssen, Pietersz and Zevanck. “By the authority so vested in us, we have found these men, Egbert Roeloffsz and Warnar Dircx, guilty of a plot to steal from us all.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “The sentence for theft, as you all know, is death.”

His audience sighed. Men looked at each other, shifting their feet. Someone cleared his throat and a sailor spat on the ground. Egbert tried to speak but was silenced by a blow.

Cornelisz hid the surge of triumph. They accepted his judgement—as they should. He stepped back. “Take them away, up to the end of the island and carry out sentence.”

The cadets almost had to carry Warnar, white-faced and pleading. Egbert was made of sterner stuff, yelling his innocence until one of his guards struck him hard across the face. From this distance, Cornelisz couldn’t see the details but he saw the rise and fall of arms, the glint of sunlight on the blades and the final splash as the bodies were cast into the ocean. Maybe sharks would come to feed.

Around him, the daily noises of the settlement returned to normal. The two small boats the men had built were pulled up on the sand on the little beach. A sailor mended fishing nets, another plucked birds.

“So. That’s over,” said Cornelisz. He turned towards his tent.

“Two more down,” muttered Zevanck. “It’s a long way short of where we need to be.”

“Patience, Davidt,” said Cornelisz, putting his arm around the younger man. “We’ve made an excellent start. Now you and Coenraat have a job to do.”

Cornelisz returned to his tent and pulled out the cameo again. Should he sell it? he thought, his fingers caressing the cool agate. Or keep it to hang on his wall? Not here, of course, but on a wall in the mansion he’d have. Maybe in Macau or perhaps somewhere in Spain. He’d prefer Spain. More civilized. He could take Lucretia with him, dress her in Spanish lace.

*

Judyck beamed. “Thank you so very, very much.” She twirled again in the dress, one of Lucretia’s, dark blue with embroidered sleeves and a neat white collar at the throat.

“It looks lovely, Judyck,” Lucretia said. And isn’t it nice to be able to wear something that isn’t frayed and stiff with salt?”

Judyck sat on a stool in Lucretia’s tent and leant forward, keeping her voice low. “Mama wouldn’t let me keep the other one. Said it wasn’t proper. Papa agreed.”

“Well, he is a predikant.”

“Mm. But it was so beautiful.” She ran a hand over the dress she’d just returned, red with pearls all around the bodice. “And it wouldn’t have been revealing with a proper chemise underneath.”

“Ah, well. The one you’re wearing is lovely and really suits your skin.”

“Yes. And I really am grateful.” Judyck bit her lip.

Lucretia patted the girl’s hand. “I know.” She supposed it was to be expected. She’d been a little surprised when Judyck had selected that dress as one of the two she’d offered.

“Creesje.” Judyck’s voice interrupted, almost a nervous whisper. “What did you think about… you know… what happened today?”

“The two men?” Lucretia hadn’t known them, of course. But she’d seen them working, building the little boats. They’d seemed pleasant enough young men and always treated her with respect. But then, everyone did, now.

Judyck nodded, eyes wary.

It had seemed harsh. And yet. “We have so little here. And if they were guilty, well, I suppose justice must be seen to be done. There are still a lot of rough soldiers and sailors. Remember how it was at first? Always fighting, stealing things from each other?” And their lecherous looks and the remarks as she walked past. Just the memory made her skin crawl.

“They killed them with a sword,” whispered Judyck. “Just…” she lunged with one hand, inexpertly miming a stabbing action. “And then when they fell down, they were both stabbed again.”

“Where were you?”

“Coming back from the point. Agnete and I had gone to look for eggs. They came right past us.” Her eyes flicked to Lucretia’s face. “They looked really, really frightened.”

Lucretia sighed. “I expect they would have been.” It seemed brutal. But then, life was brutal and without rules, without law, who knew what might happen?

*

The raft crunched on the coral as the men poled in to the shallows.

Cornelisz frowned. Wasn’t Andries de Vries supposed to have been a casualty? Yet Zevanck seemed happy, a satisfied smirk plastered over his face as he approached, a hand on de Vries’s shoulder, propelling him along.

“We have a new supporter, Jeronimus,” said Zevanck. “Isn’t that right, Andries?”

De Vries’s lips trembled but he squared his shoulders and answered steadily enough. “That’s right. I want to join you. I swear I’ll do anything you want of me.”

“Anything?” said Cornelisz. Now this could become entertaining. And useful.

“Anything at all.” De Vries shot a nervous glance at Zevanck, who was cleaning his nails with that infernal knife again.

“All right.” Cornelisz jerked his head. “You’ll be called.” The lad almost sagged with relief, stumbling off to his tent without a backward glance.

“Well?” Cornelisz asked when de Vries had gone.

“He begged for his life.” Zevanck grinned. “It was so easy. We waited until we were over the deep water and out of view, then we jumped them and tied their hands and feet. We had three over the side, but Andries pleaded.” He laughed. “I do declare he wet himself. Swore to God he’d do whatever we wanted.”

“Yes. You’ve done well, Davidt. In fact, so very well, maybe you and Coenraat should organise for a few other people to head over to the High Island in a day or two? What do you think?”

Zevanck laughed again.

17

Nerves twanging, Pelsaert hesitated for a moment at Coen’s door and hitched his breeches up. The borrowed clothes would have been a little too ample even had he not been so emaciated, but at least they were clean and he had been shaved. Even so, the perspiration on his brow was not just the result of the tropical heat and the over-warm clothing.

“Sir?”

The escort, a clerk in black wool costume, interrupted his reverie.

“Yes. Let us proceed.” Pelsaert stood back and let the fellow knock, and then open the door for him.

A polished wooden floor, heavy dark wood desk, a couple of fine landscapes on the walls. Grey light filtered in through tall windows that opened into the fort of Batavia’s courtyard, the painted shutters flung open. Coen, tall and elegant in black, his beard trimmed to a point, his moustaches curved up, stood beside the desk. Stern he looked, stern but interested. Pelsaert took off his hat, stepped inside and bowed. “My Lord Governor.”

“
Commandeur
Pelsaert. Sit, sit. I have heard something of your ordeal from Councillor Raembruch. He came to me directly the remains of your fleet dropped anchor.”

Coen gestured to a padded chair and sat in another. Pelsaert accepted a glass of wine from a silver platter, brought noiselessly by a slave.

“An ordeal indeed, Lord Governor. I would not wish this experience on anyone and I thank the good Lord that I have lived to tell the tale.”

“And I am as pleased as you—though saddened, of course, by the loss of lives and a fine ship. Please—tell me your story.”

“The ship ran aground on the fourth of June, before dawn. The captain assured me that we were far from land and I took his word, of course. I am no sailor. The watch was his when the accident happened. I asked if he had not seen the white water but he said he had mistaken it for moonlight on the waves.

“A reef, he explained, hoping that we could float the ship off with the rising tide. But alas, as the tide began to ebb, we realised we had struck at high tide. I gave orders to fling all the heaviest items over the side—the cannons in particular, but all to no avail. And then the weather turned, bringing high seas and rain.

“The captain persuaded me to allow him to fell the mast, saying the ship, so lightened, may float off the reef into the deeper water to stern. So with some misgivings, I allowed the action to be taken. But the mast, thus cut through, fell to the port side of the vessel and did even more damage.” He was silent for a moment, for dramatic effect. “At this point, I knew the ship was finished and we must do what we could to bring the people and the Company’s goods to safety.”