To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (20 page)

His hand was warm and gentle. She let the contact continue for a few moments before she withdrew her fingers. He seemed so sincere, so sure. And yet. A pike through a man’s throat, the brief spurt of blood; a vicious sword slicing a body; the provost hacked as he tried to protect his wife and child.

“Let us hear no more of this. It’s men’s business and should not concern you.”

“As you wish,” she answered. “Do you still believe we will be rescued?”

He leant back in his chair, goblet in hand. “Oh, yes, I’m sure.” He smiled. “They may already be on their way.”

“Let us pray so,” she said, standing.

“So early?” he asked.

“Forgive me. I’m still not quite recovered.”

“Of course.”

He escorted her back to her tent and she let him brush her fingers with his lips.

Tired as she was, still she couldn’t sleep. She lay in the darkness and listened to the silence of the night. It was summer in Amsterdam. The markets would be full of flowers. The shops would have fresh bread, soft, ripe cheese, the first of the berries. She sighed. And here she was, on an island hardly larger than the city square.
Why did you do this? Why did you leave your house on the Heren Gracht?
Stupid thoughts. She waved them away. She knew why she’d come. And soon, very soon, she would be reunited with Boudewijn. She smiled to herself, picturing his face; handsome, solid, dependable.

A muffled scrunch intruded from outside.

She sat up, straining to listen above the pounding of her heart. Footsteps passed, going to Cornelisz’s tent. Well, why not, she berated herself? It was not late yet. Muffled voices, words unclear and then men passed again. A voice—Cornelisz’s—“…sure it’s done…” Someone chuckled.

Done? Do what? She crept to the entrance of her tent and peered through the crack. Where had they gone? There. Four figures—no, five—barely visible in the light of a lantern, going towards the hospital tent. Her skin prickled. Logic said that one of them was sick or injured. That must be the reason. Mustn’t it?

She stuck her head through the gap. No one was about. Nerves jangling, she slipped outside just enough so that she could see what was happening.

The five men walked around the side of the tent to the entrance. A moment later, the canvas glowed from the inside with soft lantern light. A chill wind stirred her hair. A figure, silhouetted against the light, bent over, straightened, moved on, bent over, straightened. What could be happening? Someone offering drugs? Cornelisz was an apothecary but why would the others be there?

The wind blew harder, causing the canvas to snap against the ropes, and a sharp shower of rain rattled the ground. Lucretia, dressed only in her undershirt, withdrew to the shelter of her tent, her mind reviewing what she’d seen. Nothing really, she conceded. Just a few men, going to the hospital tent in the night. She yawned. Nothing at all.

*

The morning dawned dry. The wind still blew sharp and cold, but the clouds chased each other across the sky. Lucretia pulled a shawl around her shoulders and went for her daily walk around the tent town. The mood seemed strange. She fought to put a name to what she felt. The men glanced up sharply as she approached and then relaxed a little, dragging off their woollen caps and murmuring good morning. In sharp contrast a number of Cornelisz’s men strutted about. One came out of the sisters’ tent, smirking. She lifted her chin as his eyes flicked over her, no doubt making a mental comparison. Even so, the fellow took off his hat and greeted her with respect.

Lucretia looked for Judyck but she wasn’t about so she walked on, along the island’s longest axis to the point. A figure sat there, limp and sad. As she approached, she recognised Andries de Vries, one of the Company assistants. She’d spoken with him on the
Batavia
, more than once, a nice, well-spoken lad with soft brown curls. But now he looked drawn, hollow-eyed. His hands shook as he shredded a plant stalk.

“What’s happened, Andries? You look terrible.”

His body jerked like a puppet and he stared at her. The look in his eyes was frightening, a pit into horror. Lucretia shivered.

He looked down and picked up the plant stem he’d dropped. “I… Nothing.”

“Tell me. Please tell me. Everyone seems strange, today. Is it just… just what happened yesterday?”

Silence.

De Vries slipped a fingernail into the plant stem, split it and pulled the two halves apart.

“Is there illness?”

His hands stopped their movements. Haunted eyes looked up into hers.

“What happened last night?” She asked. Fingers of dread slid down her spine. “I saw people go to the hospital tent.”

He flung the plant down and buried his face in his hands. “They made me kill them,” he mumbled.

Blood roared in her ears. Kill them. Was that what he said? “Kill them?”

He dropped his hands and let tears trickle down his face. “Kill them.” He passed his tongue over his lips. “They were going to kill me. Davidt and the others. Three of us were meant to go to the High Islands to join the people there. They took us on a raft but out in the deep water they jumped us. We weren’t expecting it. They tied us up, hand and foot. Then they just… threw the other three over the side, one at a time. They didn’t stand a chance, struggled on the top for a moment and then they disappeared. Gone.” He rubbed his face, pushed back his hair. “I pleaded for my life. Said I’d do anything. Anything they wanted. Only let me live.”

Lucretia sank down onto her haunches so she could see his face. He trembled, fat tears dropping unheeded from his chin to the sand. “And then?”

“They called me in the night. Gijsbert van Welderen took me to Master Cornelisz’s tent. Master Cornelisz said it was time to prove my loyalty. He gave me a knife, said I was to kill the sick.” His face contorted in pain. “They came with me. Master Cornelisz, Coenraat, Davidt and Gijsbert, to make sure the job was done.”

Lucretia laid a hand on his shoulder. The poor boy. The poor, poor boy. He gazed up at her, pleading for forgiveness.

“I had no choice, lady. I slit their throats. All of them, except Gijsbert’s brother.” He sobbed. “I had no choice. I had no choice.”

Lucretia put a hand on his shoulder as he cried. Forgive him? What choice did he have? Kill or die. What would she have done in his position?

“I’m sorry, lady,” said de Vries. “I should not have burdened you with that.” He stood, awkward as a boy, and rubbed his sleeve over his face. “Forgive me.”

“Only God can forgive you, Andries,” she said, voice low.

“Andries.”

Cornelisz. Lucretia’s nerves jolted. She hadn’t heard him coming. His glance flicked between them, suspicious, angry.

“Andries told me what you had him do,” said Lucretia.

“This has nothing to do with you,” said Cornelisz. “Nothing whatever. Go back to your tent. Now. Go there and stay there until I summon you.”

She hesitated, chin high. But Cornelisz’s eyes blazed and his lips were a tight, hard line. “As you wish.” But still she turned to de Vries, scarlet to his ears and clearly frightened. “I wish you well.”

As she turned to leave she heard Cornelisz’s last, furious instructions to de Vries. “You will not speak to her again. Understand? Ever. If you do, you will die.”

Lucretia went back towards the tent town, stumbling a little over a coral outcrop or a tussock of tough grass. How could Cornelisz justify this? To send a lad, a Company assistant to slit the throats of the sick in their beds? Tears filled her eyes. Would this never end? Where was Captain Jacobsz with a rescue ship?

“Lady?” Matthijs Beer appeared beside her, a sword at his hip, his hat in his hand.

She stared up at him.

“I am to escort you to your tent, my lady.” He gestured with one hand.

She nodded, defeated. Where else was there to go?

She dropped the tent flap behind her, aware that Beer stood guard outside. At least she had her embroidery, salvaged from the wreck. She pushed the needle through the material, concentrating on the fine stitches to keep her mind off other things. A commotion outside interrupted, scuffles and muffled shouts. She set down her sewing and went to the entrance.

“You are to stay here,” said Beer.

“What’s happening?”

His face split into a grin. Lucretia was reminded of the devils she’d seen in engravings, evil and malicious.

“We’ve found stolen goods in a tent. The thieves have been punished.”

Her head throbbed. How much more? “You mean killed, don’t you?”

“That’s the punishment for theft.”

She turned away, back into the tent and picked up her sewing again. But her fingers shook too much to hold the needle. She cast the work down and pressed her palms to her temples. She felt empty, numb. Helpless. The people on the island were like a room full of mice with a dozen hungry cats.

Cornelisz came himself to escort her to his tent for dinner. He seemed pleased with himself, elegant in silk stockings, buckled shoes, breeches and a beautifully patterned orange coat.

“Wear the evening gown,” he told her. “I’ll wait outside for you.”

She thought about the coat he wore as she changed. A moment’s reflection and she realised with a pang that it had been Pelsaert’s. She wondered where the
commandeur
was now, what he might be doing; if he was still alive.

“Beautiful, as ever,” said Cornelisz when she appeared. He walked beside her as if they paraded across the city square in Amsterdam, and his tent was a fine house on a canal.

Cornelisz’s servant parted the tent flap for them to enter, and brought wine. She sipped and cradled the goblet between her hands. Her pulse raced. Jeronimus wouldn’t like this, but she had to know.

“You made Andries murder the sick.”

“Murder? No, not murder.” He smiled. “They were sick. Most had the scurvy, the others fever. We have nothing to help them here, nothing to give them. They would have died anyway. It is a more merciful end.”

“And Andries?”

His eyes went hard, like coal. “All must share the pain.”

She stared into her wine.

“I am not heartless, Creesje. You must believe me. I do what I must for the greater good of all. Surely you understand?”

He lifted her chin with his fingers so she was forced to look into his face. It was as though two people inhabited his body; one heartless and callous, the other seductive and smooth. She wanted to rant at him, denounce him and yet a part of her urged caution. If she handled this properly, she could survive. If she did not…

“You have enchanted me, do you know that?” he murmured. “I worship at your feet.”

He turned away and disappeared behind the curtain to his private area for a moment to emerge with a paper in his hands. “See,” he said, offering it to her. “This is what I have written, all alone here when you retire to your tent and I am left with my dreams.”

Lucretia put down her goblet and took the paper from his hands.

Flee not from me nor from me turn away
For ardently I do for you so long;
You fill my very soul with thoughts that play
As viols on my mind a Circe-song.
With magic stronger than the salt seas’ roar,
Each look, each glance, each waking hour I see
Before me, these, which render me more yours
Than mine, yet still you turn with enmity
From me; till I, all broken on the shoals
Of love, do plead, now take me wholly, all,
Or let me, as Odysseus on that knoll,
Lament, enslavéd still by Circe‟s call.
For waking, sleeping, I do you but see;
Flee not from me, but loving, set me free.

Dear God, he’d written her a sonnet, as would an aspiring lover.

The legend flowed through her mind. Odysseus tied to the mast of his ship, while the sailors stopped their ears with wax so he could hear the siren’s song that drew mariners to their deaths, while they did not. He likened her to Circe, beautiful and evil; she had enchanted him. Surely it had not been she who had released a demon in his breast?

She gazed up at him, aware of his waiting, anxious presence. She smiled and folding the paper, said, “It’s beautiful. I shall cherish it.”

He beamed, relief and joy written on his features, handsome as Adonis. “Then you will accept my suit?”

“I am a married woman, sir.”

“Are you so sure, my lady?” he asked, approaching to stand close before her. “Who knows, in these times? Years it has been, has it not, since last you saw your husband?”

Years it had been, indeed, since Boudewijn had sailed away. Neither of them had ever doubted they would be together again. At a salon in Amsterdam she would have given Cornelisz short shrift. But this was not a salon in Amsterdam and she teetered on the edge of a chasm where the Devil walked in darkness.

“Give me time to consider, Master Cornelisz.”

20

Lucretia walked past the armoury out of the cluster of tents reserved for Cornelisz and his officers—and her—into the wider community.

Life seemed normal enough. Smoke rose from a fire where some of the men rendered seal blubber, making oil for the lamps, others fished or made nets. But the people huddled together, talking in furtive groups.

Her feet followed the familiar path to find Judyck. She sat outside her parents’ tent, showing Willemientje how to repair a tear in her skirt, while the three younger children fossicked on the shore.

Judyck smiled at Lucretia and turned back to her sister. “We’ll do some more later, Mien. You go and play with the others. Quietly, mind. No yelling and screaming.”

Willemientje shot a glance at Lucretia, nodded and went off. No sparkle, no joy in her step. She almost seemed to carry a lead weight on her shoulders.

“Everyone’s frightened,” said Judyck, as if she’d heard Lucretia’s thoughts. “Even the little ones. And Mien’s not little. She’s fourteen.”