To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (19 page)

Cornelisz joined Zevanck, Pietersz and van Huyssen to gaze across the water to the High Island just in time to see a third column of smoke rise into the air.

“Water. They must have found water,” somebody cried.

Damnation. How could this happen, thought Cornelisz. They’d been there for weeks without food or water. They should have been dead. They should all be dead, damn them. Van Huyssen, Pietersz and Zevanck all stared at him.

“That’s wonderful, isn’t it,” he managed to choke out. “It means more for all of us.”

“The Lord be praised,” said Bastiaensz, raising both hands to heaven. “We can send more people there.”

“Indeed we can,” said Cornelisz. “Indeed, we can.” He shared a smile with Zevanck.

“Jeronimus.” Van Huyssen clutched his arm and pointed. On Traitors’ Island, not half a mile away, figures stepped onto rafts held steady at the beach. Pieter Jansz and his wife and child, two other women and another child. And then the rest of the men.

“They’ll be going to the High Islands,” said Pietersz.

Of course they were, raged Cornelisz. They’d seen the signal fires too, and the provost knew what they meant. He couldn’t have this. It could not be allowed. He had not given permission. It was mutiny. Mutiny against the council. Against him. He turned to van Huyssen and Zevanck. “Stop them.”

*

“What are they doing?” breathed Judyck.

Van Huyssen and Zevanck peeled away from the crowd and rushed past, towards the beach where the boats were kept, calling for their friends as they went.

“Maybe they’re going to help?” said Lucretia. Cornelisz had given them some order but she hadn’t heard what he’d said. He stood on the shore, hands on his hips, Pietersz towering at his side. The ostrich feather on his hat fluttered in the breeze.

The little boat grated across the sand and splashed into the water. One of their number held it steady as the other six climbed in and set the oars and then they were off, rowing hard to cross the space to where the rafts drifted in the channel, propelled by two long oars set on each stern. The yawl caught up quickly. Shouts were exchanged but the watchers on the island were too far away to make out the words. Three men leapt from the boat onto each of the rafts, causing them to rock violently. Lucretia put her hand to her mouth. If anyone should fall into the sea... But no. The new arrivals pointed at Batavia’s Graveyard and the rafts changed direction, heading towards them.

“Stay here.” Zevanck shouted the order as he jumped from the boat and ran to Cornelisz. A few words and he ran back, drawing his sword as he did so.

“Kill them.”

The rasp of swords on scabbards rang as all the men from the yawl drew their blades. Time seemed to stand still, the world to stop, except for this horrible spectacle played out in the shallow water. To Lucretia’s disbelieving eyes events proceeded in slow motion. A sword blade struck the provost’s neck, biting deep. Blood sprayed for a moment and he fell, sprawled back on the raft. Another blade thrust through the child, right through his body like a spitted bird. A few men jumped off the rafts and floundered in the water. Four of them struggled away from the killers, splashing through the shallows to sprawl at Cornelisz’s feet. “Help us. Stop them”

No one moved. No one spoke. No one tried to help.

Lucretia held her breath. He would stop this. He must.

Cornelisz’s words were clear in the silence. “Spare no one.”

She lurched forward, crossing the space between them, arm outstretched. “You can’t do this. What have they done?”

He turned his head. The hat cast shadows on to his face, hiding his eyes. “They are mutineers. They have defied the express orders of the Council. Mutiny is punishable by death.”

As if on command, one of Cornelisz’s men drove a pike down through the throat of one of the supplicants. His scream became gurgles, then nothing. Lucretia closed her eyes. Dear Lord, how can this happen? How can you allow this to happen? The dull thud of bodies, splashing, the sickening sound of swords slicing and spitting. Shouts of fear—no—absolute terror changed to howls of anguish and finally all that was left was the distant roar of the surf and the wind whispering through the coral.

Lucretia opened her eyes again. Her heart hammered in her chest while all around her people stood motionless, white-faced, as if struck dumb. Bodies drifted in the water, lay like broken dolls on the shore. Blood stained the coral sand.

Only the women remained, fists in their mouths, terrified, dumb-struck. They were spared, but their husbands, their children, were dead. She wondered where they’d take them. Seals’ Island? It was certainly the closest spot.

“Do you want them?” asked Cornelisz.

His voice echoed in her head, as if coming from a distance. Want them for what?

An exchange of glances between Cornelisz’s men. A curled lip, a shake of the head, a shrug.

Zevanck, van Huyssen and Gijsbert van Welderen herded the whimpering women into the yawl at sword-point. One hesitated and van Huyssen urged her along with the flat of the blade. Van Huyssen and Gijsbert each took an oar while Zevanck stood over the captives, sword in hand. In mid-channel Zevanck sheathed his sword, the ring of the metal clear across the water. The other two stopped rowing. They rose, feet apart in the rocking boat. Each grabbed a woman and shoved her, screaming, into the sea. They flailed, threshed, churning the water. Lucretia wanted to look away, wanted to close her ears to the shouts, ever more desperate, as the men rowed away. Arms reached out, mouths filled with water. God, dear God. This can’t be happening. Even if they could swim, in their heavy dresses they couldn’t survive. One by one they disappeared.

The current swept on.

Lucretia swayed, legs trembling, gradually aware of pain in her arm. Judyck clung to her, fingers bruising.

“Oh, God,” Judyck whispered. The girl’s face was parchment white. Abruptly she turned and vomited and vomited again until she had nothing left but could only retch, hands clutching her stomach.

Lucretia sank down beside the trembling girl and draped an arm around her shoulders, as glad of the contact as Judyck. The tears flowed, punctuated with sobs and Lucretia became aware of great fat drops sliding down her own cheeks. How could this happen? How could this be allowed to happen? Cornelisz was gone, no doubt back to his tent. The killers brought the yawl back and beached it, then walked off grinning, their weapons in their hands, past a crowd of onlookers. And Judyck’s father, the predikant, the man of God, stood there as if rooted to the spot, his wife clutching his arm. Anger surged. What a useless, pathetic excuse for a man. He hadn’t even
tried
to stop this.

“You fellows, take these bodies away,” said Pietersz, his rough voice carrying easily. “And you, wash the blood away. Come on, let’s get a move on. The rest of you, it’s all over. Get on with your work. If you haven’t got any, I’ll find you some.”

“Come on, Judyck,” said Lucretia. She urged the girl to her feet. “Do you want to go to your mother and father?”

“No.” her voice was a whisper, eyes full of tears. “No. Coenraat. He… he
murdered
people.”

Lucretia thought she was going to retch again. “Then come with me. I still have some water in my tent.”

They crossed the short distance, arms around each other until they passed into the dubious sanctuary under the canvas. With trembling fingers Lucretia handed Judyck a mug of water. The girl gulped the liquid down and then sat clutching the mug in both hands, rocking backwards and forwards. “Awful, awful,” she moaned. “And after last night, too.”

“I heard the fuss. But Cornelisz said it was just a domestic disturbance between the Hardens.” Her blood chilled. What if it had been more?

“No.” Judyck whispered, her words barely audible. “Hilletgie disappeared in the night.”

Lucretia choked. The Harden’s six-year-old daughter who had played with Judyck’s little brother Roelant. She recalled their high-pitched laughter as they chased each other between the tents. “Disappeared? Where? How?”

“No one knows.” Judyck sobbed again. “Everyone was talking about it this morning.”

But not to her, thought Lucretia. No one spoke to her about these things. “What did people think?’

“Perhaps a monster came out of the water in the night and took her. But there were no signs. No blood. Perhaps God has taken her away, to somewhere better.” Judyck’s voice trailed away.

“Surely no one would…” Lucretia stopped. Kill a child? Yes, she’d just seen two men slaughter children. She felt cold, chilled with dread.

“Some of the men are very frightening. Matthijs Beer. Jan Hendricxsz who…” Judyck’s voice failed and she swallowed. “Jacop Stonecutter.”

Lucretia bit at her lip. Everyone had some ideas about who might murder a child. Especially after this morning. No wonder no one had tried to intervene.

In the distance above the dark blur that was the High Island, three columns of smoke still rose, until, caught by the wind, they merged into the cloud band and disappeared.

*

The murders haunted Lucretia, as they haunted everyone. She refused to dine with Cornelisz that night, preferring her own company. He hadn’t been happy but she insisted. She was unwell, she told him, a woman’s complaint. He backed away quickly enough. The excuse usually worked.

Jan Pelgrom brought her a plate of stewed meat and beans but the very smell revolted her. She pushed the food aside and stood at the entrance to her tent. Night had fallen swiftly, as it always did. No long twilight here. The wind blew sharp from the south-west, carrying the usual tang of salt and seaweed. The last cries of roosting birds had died away leaving only the ever-present boom of the surf on the reef.

A baby’s thin wails rose above the silence. Poor Mayken. Her baby had been born on the ship. She’d been diligent, even in the terrible first few days of thirst but whatever she did, the baby remained irritable. Even Cornelisz had noticed.

A chorus of male laughter rose. Cornelisz and his cronies, in his tent. Lucretia watched their silhouettes raise goblets and wondered if they felt any remorse for what they had done. The rest of the tent village lay silent. Probably as dumb-struck as she was herself.

Lucretia prepared for the night and lay down on her bed—a mattress, at least, rescued from the poop deck—and prayed for sleep. But when she closed her eyes she found herself drifting helpless on a dark sea, caught in a fast-running current. Something undulated towards her, a swirling mass with strange tentacles and pale fins. As it approached she recognised the dead body of a woman, swept along with her hair floating around her face and her skirts billowing. Dead eyes, accusing, grim, stared at her and the mouth hung open in a soundless scream. Lucretia flailed, trying to keep the thing off but the skirts enveloped her, pushed her under…

Gulping air she sat up, a hand pressed to her chest. A nightmare. Nothing more than a nightmare.

19

The day dawned wet and cold with the sort of misty rain that chilled and irritated but did little else. In need of company, Lucretia went to find Judyck and joined everyone else in prayer. Cornelisz’s men carried their weapons openly now, strutting amongst the survivors with knives and swords tucked into belts.

Judyck looked terrible, dark circles under her eyes. “I’ve had nightmares,” she said.

“So have I.” Lucretia didn’t elaborate. In those darkest hours of the night, between midnight and dawn, the children had invaded her sleep. One perhaps ten, the other maybe six, spitted like so much meat, eyes wide with… fear, astonishment, pain? The faces of her own children rose unbidden. What if they had been here with her? She shuddered.

“Coenraat says they’ve done nothing wrong. It was the will of the council.”

The will of the council. To murder women and children? She’d have to dine with Cornelisz this evening. Perhaps she could find out more.

“He says he wants to marry me,” said Judyck. She fidgeted, picking at the stitching on the sleeve of her dress.

“And do you want to marry him?”

Judyck sighed and shook her head. “After what’s happened… I don’t know what to think.” Her voice shook.

Lucretia felt for her. Van Huyssen had seemed such a good match. “Have you said anything?”

“Not yet.”

“That might be wise. You never know. He might repent.”

But he wouldn’t, thought Lucretia as she trudged back to her tent. He’d shown no hesitation, no remorse. A man—one of the carpenters, she thought—doffed his cap as she passed. They all did that now, respectful and polite. A far cry from the lascivious stares and lewd remarks she’d received in the first weeks before Cornelisz took over. She’d been impressed. But could he control van Huyssen and Zevanck? And those other fellows who wielded pikes and swords so willingly? She hoped so, for everyone’s sake.

She tackled him over dinner that night. “You say they mutinied, and I must accept that, but what about the children?”

He swallowed and put the bone down on the plate. “What would the children do without parents?” he asked. “We are in no position to look after orphans.”

“They wouldn’t be orphans if Davidt and Coenraat hadn’t killed their mothers.”

His eyes glittered in the lamplight. “They were all guilty. The women, too.” He frowned and banged down his fork. “Why do you care? What does it matter? You didn’t know those people. They meant nothing to you.”

Lucretia sipped at her wine. He was angry. He’d never been angry with her before. Her courage faltered. What if she had been on Traitors’ Island? Would she now be drifting down the channel, caught in the current?

For a moment he glared at her, then he sighed. “Lucretia… Creesje, this is politics. We are in an awful, survival situation. Sometimes I have to make decisions that may seem harsh, but believe me, I am doing God’s will. Everything I do, every direction I give is for the benefit of the people here, who look to me as their leader.”

He leant over and took her hand in his. “Believe me, Creesje. I do what I must. God is with me. If God had wanted those people to live, they would not have died.”