To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (22 page)

“Maybe you should talk to Adriaen?” said Cornelis.

“Adriaen?”

“Adriaen Adriaensz. He came over from there to join us… oh… ten, eleven days ago.”

“Point him out to me,” said Hayes, rising to his feet.

Adriaensz looked up at Hayes warily. “Yes, I’m Adriaen.”

So. A story to tell, thought Hayes. He’d seen that shifty-eyed expression often enough. “Cornelis says you floated over to Seals’ Island ten days or so ago.”

The sailor struggled to his feet and wiped his hands on damp breeches. “That’s right.”

“Why?”

A hint of panic flicked in the man’s eyes. “I thought it’d be better. More room.”

“You floated over on a beam.”

“‘S right.”

“Why not to Traitors’?” Hayes stared at him, legs apart, hands on hips. It didn’t take much to intimidate men like this.

Adriaensz squirmed. “Look, I didn’t do anything.”

“Just tell me. What happened over there?”

The sailor scratched his head, eyes on the ground for a few moments. Then he seemed to make up his mind. “They would’ve killed me.”

“Who?”

“The council.”

“Why?”

“That’s just it. Look, I was mates with a fellow who stole wine from the stores. I didn’t steal it, see? Then he brought it back to the tent and I helped him drink it. That’s all.” He stopped, searching Hayes’s face, anxious.

“Go on.”

“They arrested Abraham. He was the one who stole the wine. I saw them drag him out of the Council tent. Pietersz the Stone Cutter made this announcement that he’d stolen and that was punishable by death and a couple of soldiers forced his head under the water until he drowned. What’s a man to do? They would’ve killed me, too, if they’d caught me. So I hid amongst the tents until night-fall, then I waded into the water, found a piece of driftwood and worked my way over to Seals’. Huh. Thought I’d be safe there. That was wrong, wasn’t it?”

It sounded reasonable. “Why not Traitors’?” asked Hayes.

“Too close and too small,” said Adriaensz, shaking his head. “And they brought over supplies. I might have been recognised.”

“All right,” said Hayes. Adriaensz sagged.

“What were things like before you left?” asked Hayes.

“Quite good. It was much more comfortable after the people went to the other islands. And then later on, a few more came over here, so there was more room in our tent.”

“Here?” interrupted Hayes.

“Yes. Volunteered, they did, to help you.”

“How did they get here?”

“On a raft,” said Adriaensz. He frowned, puzzled. “Five or six fellows dropped them off here and took the raft back. Happened a couple of times.”

“They never arrived.” Hayes caught his lip in his teeth. Dead. He’d bet his next month’s pay on it. “All right, Adriaen. But I hope you’ve learnt your lesson. No pilfering here, understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Adriaensz’s head bobbed like a cork in a river.

Hayes turned away, looking for Smit and Jansz. “Get the men together. We need to incorporate these fellows into our teams. And we have some work to do.”

The soldiers sat around a circle in their teams. First, Hayes allocated the arrivals. Then he told them what he’d learnt.

“I can come up with a reason for killing the fifteen on Traitors’,” he said. “Fewer mouths to feed. But there seems to be no sensible reason why the folk on Batavia’s Graveyard should murder people on Seals’ Island. Like us, the people there had been abandoned to fend for themselves.” A murmur ran around the group. “But we were luckier, because we found water.”

Smit raised a hand. “Maybe they killed the folk on Traitors’ to stop them from coming here.”

Hayes hadn’t considered that option. “But if that’s true, then the question is still why?”

“They must be crazy,” somebody muttered.

“Well, whatever the reason, I think we’d better assume that at some stage, we’ll be next.” Hayes waited for the rustle of movement to subside. “We’re soldiers. We won’t be easy prey like children and pregnant women.”

“We have no weapons, Wiebbe,” one of the Frenchmen said.

“We can make weapons. We have wood, nails.” He held one up, one of the sixteen-inch nails from the Batavia’s hull. “And we have our knives.”

The suggestions came from all sides. Clubs, clubs with nails in the head, pikes from long pieces of wood with nails or knives tied to the tip, morning stars attached to rope.

“Stones. There are plenty of stones here,” said Jean Coos.

“Excellent. From now on, we go on alert. I want look-outs stationed on the top of the High Island all the time. We’ll set up teams to make weapons…”

“And we can build up our lodgings into a fort,” said Jansz.

“A fort?” They’d used rocks to build a shelter near the water cisterns, and roofed it with timbers and sailcloth. It could double as a last line of defence. “Yes, good idea,” Hayes said. “We’ll fortify by the shore here, too. When they come it will be across the causeway.” He put his hands on his hips and stared around at his men, his army. “And when they come we’ll be ready.”

22

The night was over. Another night that she could thank God she had been spared. Still he tried to seduce her, still she refused, still he accepted. Lucretia stared up at the stained canvas while Cornelisz dressed. He stood beside her for a moment, hat in hand, gazing down at her recumbent form.

“Remember what I told you. You may speak to the predikant and his family. No one else.”

“I understand.”

He pushed aside the curtain and walked out, letting the canvas swing back behind him. Lucretia understood very well. Talk to anyone else and she may be responsible for their death. Like Andries de Vries, chased into the water and slain because he’d spoken with her. So many deaths, so many people she hadn’t really known at all. She’d never realised how isolated she and the officers were in the stern of the ship.

Judyck came to meet her as Lucretia approached, and matched her pace as she walked. “How is it with you?”

“I am safe enough. And he does not mistreat me. You?”

The girl nodded. “It’s hardest for the children. They don’t understand. Roelant wanted Hilletgie to come and play with him—there are so few children. Father tried to explain again that she was with God.”

“And Coenraat? How does that proceed?”

“He visits most evenings. Father says I should count myself lucky that he has an interest in me.” She swallowed. “Otherwise they might treat me like the other women.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lucretia

“They just use them. The Merchant’s men take whichever one appeals to them and have their way. The women have no choice. Even Hans Harden’s wife.”

Lucretia recalled the married soldier whose little girl had disappeared. She’d known about the sisters but they’d been perfectly willing. “And Hans allows this?”

“I fear he has no choice,” whispered Judyck.

“How many women are there?”

“Mayken Cardoes, but she has her baby, the sisters Tryntgie and Susie, Anneken Hardens, Anneken Bosschieters, Judith Gijsberts, Marretgie Louys.”

“I don’t even know who they are,” Lucretia said.

“The wives of sailors. I’ve only met them here because of Father.”

“I had no idea,” murmured Lucretia, as her unwilling mind struggled to accept what she heard. “And this is without their consent?”

“For the most part, yes.”

Seven women, thought Lucretia. How many men? Apart from Cornelisz himself and van Huyssen, twenty-three had signed Cornelisz’s oath of allegiance a couple of days ago. Oh, God in Heaven, how truly horrible, to be shared amongst them like a cow. And to have no choice.

“Oh.” She stopped, heart hammering, as she remembered the three women from Traitors’ Island who had been drowned. The provost’s plain wife, a woman whose face was scarred from some disease and the third, young but ugly.
Do you want them
Cornelisz had asked. The answer was swift and brutal.

Judyck stared at her, lips parted. “What’s wrong?”

“I… I just realised. We are trade goods. No. Not even that. Chattels.”

Judyck still stared, uncomprehending.

“Remember the three women on Traitors’ Island? Not young, not pretty. They died. These men—they kill whatever is of no use to them.” She reached out a hand to Judyck. “Your father is right.”

Lucretia’s feet followed the familiar path back to Cornelisz’s tent. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—think of it has her tent. Her meeting with Judyck had brought her no comfort, only more sorrow. Who was safe? Who was not? Wijbrecht Claasen, the predikant’s maid, young but thin and bony. Maria, his wife, old and frumpy. But surely Judyck’s relationship with van Huyssen would keep them from harm.

She pushed aside the flap of the tent and walked inside.

“What do you think?” Cornelisz had draped a swathe of beautiful red material around his shoulders like a cloak. It fell all the way to the floor, like something a king would wear.

“It’s laken, isn’t it?” she said, stepping forward to feel the cloth. She noticed he hadn’t cut a length yet, merely pulled it up from the bolt lying on a piece of canvas on the ground.

“It is. I fancy it would make a magnificent long coat. Appropriately decorated with
passementerie
. Don’t you agree?”

Gold lace lay upon the table. He scooped up a piece, held it against the fabric and grinned at her like a child with a new toy.

“Very nice. Perhaps four rows around the wrists? And a little at the neck?”

“You think? Yes. Yes, four rows.” He dropped the cloth back onto the bolt. “You can sew it for me.”

Lucretia met his gaze, warm and innocent. How well he hid the tiger within. “Of course. Come, I’ll cut a length and begin.” It would help to pass the time, keep her mind off other matters.

*

“It’s finished, Jeronimus,” reported Zevanck. “It worked very well, going over there at night. We caught them all unawares in their tents.”

He sat at the council table with the others, clearly tired but happy after a good night’s work.

“Excellent,” said Cornelisz. “So there is no one left alive?”

“Well… a couple of lads escaped in the darkness. Two or three is all.” Zevanck squirmed a little, frowning. “But we got everybody else.

“They were asleep. The lads put them to the knife or clubbed them where they lay.” He illustrated the action with his arms.

He laughed. “I had to help one or two. I gave Andries Jonas my knife so he could cut Mayken Soers’ throat. That counts for two—she was fat with child.” He cast a glance at Jan Pelgrom, standing silent behind Cornelisz’s chair. “And I had to help Jan, too. He wasn’t having much success with the woman he was trying to kill, so I did it for him.” He laughed again, catching Pelgrom’s eye while the lad smouldered, red-faced. “Didn’t I, Jan?”

Cornelisz smiled to himself. Zevanck loved killing. His eyes held a manic sparkle even when he talked about committing the act. Amazing, really, how he’d changed from a mild Company assistant into such an efficient killer. Totally different from Andries de Vries, who hadn’t relished killing at all. It seemed with most of these men, give them a weapon and a target and they would willingly kill. Fascinating. He felt sorry for young Pelgrom. The lad was so anxious to be a killer like Zevanck, Beer and Jan Hendricxsz but he just didn’t have the muscle.

“The coat is magnificent, Jeronimus,” Pietersz said, covetous eyes on the richly decorated sleeves.

“Ah, yes. You like it? Lucretia sewed it for me,” said Cornelisz. They were all envious; he’d seen the looks when they came in.

“Maybe we should have coats, too,” Pietersz said.

“Good idea. Judyck can sew mine,” Van Huyssen said.

“The other women have nothing much to do in the day,” Zevanck said. “And the coat would show everyone who supports us. And who does not.”

“True, true,” said Cornelisz. “Excellent idea, in fact. All our colleagues who signed the oath can have a coat. You three, as members of the Council, may have three rows of gold lace. Let’s see now.” He pulled out the oath of allegiance and scanned the names. “Two rows for these men.” He pointed out the names. “One for these, and the rest will just have a coat without decoration.”

Cornelisz turned to Pietersz. “Can I trust you to see to it, Jacop? Have the material brought to the women and put them to work?”

The big man beamed. “A pleasure.”

“That will do for the day, gentlemen,” said Cornelisz. He watched them leave, one by one, a brief shaft of sunlight accompanying each departure.

He’d never killed anyone. Ever. He picked up a knife from the table and ran his finger along the edge. Keen, sharp. He wondered what it felt like, to stab a man, cut a woman’s throat, feel that brief spurt of hot blood on your hands. But the stains remained. All of his chief executioners—Van Huyssen, Zevanck, Hendricxsz, Beer—had brown stains on their clothes, testimony to their activities. He flicked a lace-trimmed wrist. It wouldn’t do to have stains on his jacket. But he would like to know how it felt to take a life. To act as God.

A whimpering wail rose from outside. Cornelisz scowled. That bawling brat again. For the last two nights his sleep had been disturbed. The child had been restless early in their stay on the island but Mayken had calmed her. Not any longer, it seemed. Perhaps he should do something about it, send one of the men…

“Jan?”

Pelgrom stepped forward.

“Fetch Mayken for me.”

23

Batavia bustled. Troops marched, officers shouted orders, merchants in black clothes wiped sweat from their brows. Jacobsz was hot himself. Truth to tell, he didn’t much like the tropics. Too hot, too humid. A man always felt like he was walking through a warm mist. And the smells; spice, cloves, shit, mud from the river. They hung in the unmoving air, despite the closeness of the port. A few sailors weaved through the throng, off to find a bar or a brothel. The Company had learned to turn a blind eye to what went on in the city beyond the castle’s bastions.

A slim slave girl passed him, hips swaying, wearing the cool cotton skirts they draped around their bodies, a basket on one hip. Nice. Much more sensible the way the natives dressed.