To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (24 page)

“We’re ready to sail, Your Honour.”

Jacopsz’s words interrupted his reverie. The captain stood at his side, hands behind his back, awaiting orders.

“Of course, Captain. Please proceed.”

“Weigh anchor, lads, unfurl the sails,” shouted Jacopsz.

Men scrambled up the ratlines, while others turned the capstan to raise the anchor. Sails flapped in the breeze, wood creaked, waves lapped gently against the hull.

Pelsaert’s gaze returned to the fortress, where Captain Jacobsz was now a prisoner of the Company. Well-deserved, too. Pity Coen wasn’t prepared to accept Jacobsz’s complicity in the incident with Lucretia. But he’d make sure the arrogant drunkard paid for his negligence. His thoughts drifted to the cameo and its gem-encrusted surrounds. And the silverware, the gold, the jewels. All in a barrel on a desolate speck in the ocean. All because of Jacobsz.

If he couldn’t recover those, well, at the very least, he would exact his revenge.

24

The poison hadn’t worked. Cornelisz scowled at the child in Mayken’s arms.

“I gave her the potion,” Mayken said, “just as you explained. But she lies in this coma, hardly breathing.”

He smiled. “Don’t concern yourself, Mayken. The child is at ease, is she not?”

The woman stared across the table at him. Her lip trembled as if she intended to say something but she remained silent. She nodded and left, the child clutched to her breast.

He’d used mercury. It should have worked. Probably would in time. But at least the brat was quiet. Then again, even if the stuff worked, the baby would just… die. Cease to breathe. No blood, no last gasp. Nothing. He picked up the knife he always left close by and thrust the point deep into the wood of the table.
Thunk
. The blade quivered slightly. So his one attempt at killing was a dismal failure. How pathetic.

This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Wasn’t he the supreme power here? Was not his word the law? The will of God?

And if that was so—and it was—perhaps some other outcome had been ordained.

Deschamps entered his tent, hesitating in front of the desk, eyes on the knife. Cornelisz noted the sudden spurt of fear. The man was a clerk, that was all. Nothing more, albeit he’d signed his name to the group’s oath.

“I have the tally of the stores, Master Cornelisz,” Deschamps said, lifting the document in his hand. “As you requested.” His tongue passed between his lips.

Deschamps. Perhaps he should be tested, to prove his allegiance? Everyone else had obeyed orders for the common good; even Frans Jansz the barber had killed during the attack on the Seals Island.

“Thank you, Salomon,” Cornelisz said. “You may go. Ask Corporal Pietersz to attend me, if you will?”

*

It rained a little in the night. The wind blew cold and fresh from the south-west, causing the tent canvas to billow. Lucretia jolted awake. Raindrops beat a staccato tune above her head, her mind filled with nightmare images taken from the very halls of Purgatory itself. Laughing demons with pikes and swords tormented their victims; people whose faces she recognised even if she hadn’t known their names.

The rain squall ended. A few last patters and the island was left to the wind and the darkness. A sound. A muffled sob from somewhere. Oh, God. Not more deaths. She wouldn’t have been surprised to open the tent-flap to see the Grim Reaper himself, scythe in his skeletal hand, walking abroad. Would this never end?

She raised her head and looked across at Cornelisz, who slept, untroubled, peaceful, on his own mattress beside hers. At least Mayken’s child no longer wailed. She’d been worried about that, concerned the infant would go the way of anyone who fell ill, but he’d used his apothecary skills to brew a potion for the infant. Settling down again, she promised herself to check on Mayken in the morning to see if the medicine had worked.

A shawl pulled around her shoulders, Lucretia left Cornelisz with his group in their shared tent and hurried through the settlement to find Mayken’s small shelter.

“Mayken?”

No answer.

“Mayken?”

Still no reply. Stomach a knot, Lucretia opened the tent-flap a little, afraid of what she might see. The girl lay face-down on a piece of canvas, head on her arms. A cot, built from driftwood, stood in the corner. Apart from that the space around the central pole was bare.

“Mayken?” said Lucretia.

A gasp, a sudden tension and then a gusting sigh. She rolled over and sat up. “My lady.” Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks wet.

Lucretia took a step closer. “I… I wondered about your child.”

Tears welled and flowed. Her shoulders jerked but Mayken made no sound.

Lucretia glanced at the cot. It was empty. “Is she… has she passed on? Has God taken her?”

“God? No, not God. The Devil and his servants.” The girl swallowed a gulp of air as Lucretia knelt beside her. “They came in the night. The Stonecutter, with Davidt, Jan, Cornelis and Salomon. The Stonecutter plucked my baby from my arms and… and gave her to Salomon.”

“And then?”

But Mayken dashed back her tears. “What do you care? You are safe, with him. The Merchant. You eat well, while we exist on meagre rations. You can sleep at night. The footsteps in the dark won’t lead to your tent.” The words hissed, sharp and bitter as knives, cutting into Lucretia’s soul.

“They killed her. She’s dead. They wouldn’t even let me bury her.” New tears bubbled over. “He poisoned her. I expect you knew that. Said it was medicine.” She spat the word. “To stop her from crying. Well, it did that. She just lay there, barely breathing. And then last night they forced Salomon to finish the job. Gave him a… a little noose. To strangle her.”

Mayken struggled with renewed sobs, trying in vain to keep her anguish silent. “Get out.” She flung the words at Lucretia, her lips bared. “Get out.”

Cold and trembling, Lucretia withdrew. She’d not known, never really realised how it was for those not in Cornelisz’s favour. And the child, the poor child. Her heart ached for the bereaved mother. She knew how that felt, none better. She wondered if the murderers had buried the baby. She knew some of the dead had been interred in shallow graves. But most had been flung into the sea, to feed the sharks.

Laughter echoed from Cornelisz’s tent. Blinking away tears, she went to find Judyck.

“No. I don’t believe it,” said Judyck when Lucretia told her the news. “A helpless baby.”

“I fear the baby was not the only one who was helpless,” murmured Lucretia, intent on sewing gold lace onto the sleeve of a red coat. “Salomon is a clerk. Nothing more. He has done this thing to save his own life. Some seem to kill for pleasure. Those who do not, he drives. Not just Salomon Deschamps. Andries de Vries, Frans Jansz. No doubt others.”

Judyck bit her lip and pushed her needle through the material. “Not Coenraat,” she muttered. “He has no need to drive Coenraat.”

“No. Or Jan Hendricxsz, or Matthijs Beer, or Davidt Zevanck.”

“I feel so selfish,” said Judyck.

“And I. I had not truly realised the shroud of dread that lies over those who have not signed the oath until I spoke with Mayken.”

“There are so few left who do not wear these dreadful red coats. My family, the under barber, a handful of others.”

“Let us pray they realise there is no need to kill anyone else,” Lucretia said.

When she returned to their tent late in the afternoon, Cornelisz greeted her, pleased with himself and smiling. “Coenraat has invited us for dinner this evening, Creesje. With Judyck and her father. We’ll join them about sundown, for drinks.”

“Just Gijsbert? Why not Maria, too?”

“Oh, Maria is such a bore,” he replied, pouring himself a goblet of wine.

True, thought Lucretia. But then the predikant was a bore, too. It seemed strange to invite one without the other. But best not to argue. At least in someone else’s tent Cornelisz would be forced to curb his continuous wooing. “Well, I shall look forward to this evening.”

Van Huyssen, resplendent in his red coat, greeted them. Judyck looked pretty in her dark blue gown, and although she smiled, Lucretia saw the strain around her eyes. Her father, too, did his best to appear jovial. His grubby black coat and breeches hung on his much-reduced frame. Van Huyssen’s servant brought wine as they all stood together outside the tent to watch the glory of the sunset.

“It is God’s work, is it not?” said Bastiaensz.

Towers of white cloud rose into the sky like a cathedral, the arches and vaults blushed with red and gold. Gradually, as the sun dipped the cloud darkened and the colours deepened to fiery orange and the crimson of metal in a forge. The sea echoed the splendour of the sky until the wavering orb slipped at last below the horizon.

Lucretia sipped her wine and shivered. The temperature outside dropped quickly when the sun had gone. Cooking smells drifted in the air; fish frying here, roasting seal meat there. Served always with beans or rice. What she would give for a plate of vegetables, or at least some variety.

Cornelisz put a hand on her elbow. “We should go inside.”

Lucretia, who had never been in van Huyssen’s tent, gazed around with interest. The layout was much the same as Cornelisz’s, but not so large, and the chairs were built from driftwood.

She sat on Cornelisz’s left, opposite Judyck, with van Huyssen between Judyck and her father. The lamp burned steadily above the linen-clad table, the light winking in the polished surface of the silver tableware. So different from Mayken’s poor tent.

The first course was fish poached in wine. Bastiaensz, Lucretia noticed, ate quickly, hungrily as if half-starved. Perhaps he was. She listened with half an ear to Cornelisz and van Huyssen discussing the strange life of the Indies. Pelsaert’s name was mentioned several times. She wondered if the small boat had ever reached Batavia. And if it had, was a rescue vessel even now sailing towards them? She whispered a prayer to God that it be so.

Main course was what the island had come to call ‘sea chicken’—the bird that nested in tunnels underground. Lucretia preferred the slightly fishy flesh to seal meat or the very salty meat remaining from the ship’s stores. She ate slowly, as a lady should. Judyck followed her example.

“I was watching a sea eagle fishing today,” said van Huyssen as he cut into the food. “They’re wonderful to watch, aren’t they?”

“A beautiful bird, said Cornelisz. “So elegant with that white breast.”

“And such an efficient hunter. Whoosh,” van Huyssen said, illustrating his words with a sweep of his hand, “they sweep down over the sea and beat up, a great fish in their talons. Reminds me of hawking at home.”

“You had hawks?” asked Judyck.

“Oh, yes. At least, my uncle did. We’d go and stay weekends with him. What days they were. We would start early in the morning. The dogs are always eager, ready to go. The horses, too.” Van Huyssen laughed and settled back in his chair. “I think they enjoyed the chase as much as we did.”

“What did you chase?” asked Cornelisz.

“Oh, pigeons, quail. Whatever the hounds would start. Ah, it’s grand to have the bird on your wrist and send it off. When they make a catch in mid-air… Pow! And feathers drift down. Magnificent.”

Hunting, thought Lucretia. The animals they chased with hawks were almost as defenceless as the poor people on this island. She sipped her wine. Noises, muffled voices in the night. The cold of dread froze her hand. A woman’s cry, abruptly ended. Then a high-pitched scream that curdled the blood, as quickly silenced.

Judyck jerked to her feet, lips parted, eyes staring. “Roelant.”

Van Huyssen pulled her down. “It’s nothing, dearest. Not your concern.”

“That was Roelant,” Judyck said. “I’d know his voice anywhere.” She pulled away from van Huyssen, but he held her fast.

“Not your concern,” he said again, the words sharp, commanding.

Lucretia caught the girl’s eye. Hopeless terror. Not fear for herself, but for the child. She wondered if Bastiaensz would say anything but he sat rigid, watery eyes fixed on Cornelisz. Cornelisz ignored him, ignored Judyck and continued the previous conversation as if nothing had happened.

“Did you catch hares, rabbits?” asked Cornelisz.

Chuckles from outside, voices muttered. Lucretia was sure she’d heard Mayken’s name. The knot in her stomach twisted, tightened. Silent, appalled, she signalled to Judyck with the barest shake of her head. Say nothing, stay still.

“With snares,” said van Huyssen, his hand tight on Judyck’s arm. “Although sometimes we let the dogs loose and let them run. Often, there isn’t much left when they bring the prey back, all battered and bloody.”

Somewhere in the settlement, a scream swiftly ended in a gurgle. More laughter.

Lucretia stared at Cornelisz. Should she intervene, speak? She’d just warned Judyck off. But he couldn’t let this happen. Surely not. “What—”

“It is no concern of yours, my lady,” he butted in. A dangerous spark smouldered in his eyes.

“I should go,” said the predikant, rising slowly to his feet.

“Sit,” Cornelisz ordered.

Bastiaensz wavered, mouth flapping open and closed, his face pasty behind the beard. A long moment and he subsided back into his chair. Lucretia’s gaze slid to Judyck. She sat head bowed, rigid. Helpless.

“The falcons occasionally caught a rabbit,” said van Huyssen. “But only small ones.”

More voices in the night. Lucretia concentrated, willing the people in the tent into background, deciphering the words outside. Someone calling Aris. Yes, Aris, the under-barber, she was sure of it. Running feet, scraping on the coral grit and then splashing, splashing through water. She prayed. Prayed for his deliverance, begged God for respite.

“More wine, my lady?” Cornelisz said.

The servant stood at her side, the bottle in his hand. Lucretia glanced up at the young man. The lamplight cast strange shadows on his face. She was reminded of a satyr, lewd, cruel and evil.

“Yes,” she said.

The wine, dark red as old blood, splashed into the goblet.

“A pity there are no rabbits here,” said van Huyssen. “I confess I become a little tired of the same fare.”