To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (26 page)

He turned and caught sight of Lucretia, standing at the entrance to the tent. Had she really thought he didn’t realise she was awake? He’d tried gallantry, tried to woo her. Perhaps another type of persuasion might be of use. “I have been able to persuade all but my lovely lady.”

“Lucretia? Persuade what?” Zevanck walked beside him, eyes on Cornelisz’s face.

“Still she refuses me. I’ve tried kindness, persuasion, anger.” He sighed a deep, heartfelt sigh. “Yet still I sleep alone.”

Zevanck’s jaw dropped. “And you don’t know how to manage that? I’ll soon make her do it.”

She’d gone back inside, no doubt to find her sewing. She stiffened when Zevanck stormed in, eyes wide. Cornelisz watched from the entrance. As long as he didn’t hurt her, the results may be interesting.

“I hear complaints about you,” Zevanck said, lips curled in a snarl.

Lucretia’s gaze flicked to Cornelisz for a moment. “On what account?” she asked.

“Because you do not comply with the captain’s wishes,” he said. “You’ll have to make up your mind. Either you go the same way as Wijbrecht Claasen or else you do that for which we kept the women.”

Lucretia took a step backwards and stared at Cornelisz.

“Enough, Davidt,” he said. Had he noticed a hint of fear in her eyes? “Here is the letter. See to it, hmm?”

With one last glare at Lucretia, Zevanck strode away. The tent flap fluttered closed behind him.

“He loves violence,” said Cornelisz. He stepped towards her, gauging her reaction. “You’re safe with me. You know that.” Another step. Her face was pale, eyes bright. “I just want to make love to you, Creesje.”

He lifted his hands and laid them on both her cheeks. “I have no wish to hurt you.” She didn’t move and he bent his head and brushed her lips with his. “Come, Creesje. Let me love you.”

This time her lips parted beneath his.

Yes. At last.

Exultant, triumphant, he slipped his hands down around her back and pulled her to him. Diffident fingers slid around his neck. He dragged himself away. Her face was flushed and lovely.

“Take off your dress,” he murmured.

Her tongue passed across her lips. She unlaced the bodice, released the fastenings at the back and let the gown slip down enough for her to step out of it and lay it over the clothes rail. She stood in just the chemise, her nipples dark blurs behind the material.

Heat surging through his blood, Cornelisz dragged off his coat and threw it aside, then his shirt. “And the chemise.” He kicked off his shoes, pulled off stockings and unfastened his breeches, his eyes devouring her as she lifted her garment over her head. Dear God she was beautiful. Creamy skin, pointed nipples, the dark smudge of hair between her thighs. He kissed her first, easing his tongue between her lips while his hands moved down her back to her buttocks. Ah. Smooth, silken skin, warm, pliant. Her breasts pressed against his chest. He longed to enter her, thrust himself to orgasm. No. He had waited too long. Slowly he eased his breeches over his raging erection, aware that she watched his every move.

*

What choice did she have? As the days progressed, he and his people had become worse and worse. And then, dear God, that horrible night when they’d murdered the predikant’s family and the others. The screams and shouts haunted her dreams. She’d walked that thin line for as long as she could and now it was her turn. She had no wish to die. Would he be gentle? Or would he want some strange behaviour? She’d heard whispers, hints behind hands, of depravity she couldn’t begin to imagine. And now he stood before her stark naked, his manhood stiff. She’d never seen Boudewijn like that. They had coupled in the dark and she had worn her nightdress.

At least he wasn’t physically unpleasant. His skin was smooth, except for the little bit of hair on his chest and his hands were not hard and calloused. She could endure. Maybe it would be over in a few minutes, then she could dress herself again.

He stepped towards her and cupped her face in his hands. This time the kiss was demanding, intimate, but he didn’t pull her to him, just let her nipples brush against his chest.

He ran his hands over her body, cupped her breasts, teased first one nipple then the other with his fingertips. They tightened to points and she trembled. It must be the cool air. He laughed, bent over her and sucked a nipple into his mouth while he caressed the other with his hand. A shiver of lust snaked down through Lucretia’s body and before she could stop herself she gasped. He smiled at her, eyes glittering between half-closed lids. His hand slid down her belly, down to cup the mound between her thighs. His fingers rested there for a moment, flexing in the hair. What now? Her flesh quivered. She wanted him to do more. No. No, that was wrong. She just wanted it over with. Finished.

As if in answer to her thoughts, his fingers slid down into the folds between her thighs. “Part your legs,” he murmured.

She did as she was told, leaning against one arm while his fingers probed the warm wetness of her. She flushed, she knew she did, ashamed of her response. And then a searching finger found that little nub of pleasure. Gently he rubbed, while his tongue flicked her nipple.

She sucked in a breath. No. This was wrong. How could she enjoy this? Yes, she would have to give him what he wanted, but she was married, a wife, a mother. In vain she tried to imagine Boudewijn, but his face kept slipping from her mind as her body trembled and ached with desire.

At last he released her. Was it over? Was that all? No, she wasn’t disappointed. She was relieved.

But he sat in his chair and drew her towards him. “Don’t be alarmed. Come here. Sit on me.” Cupping his hands around her buttocks, he pulled her closer. His tongue flicked her breast again. Sit on him. Take his member into her body. She moved over him and eased herself down. And sighed. “Put your arms around my neck,” he commanded, “and move with me.”

Slow it was, slow and delicious. His body was hot, his hands possessive. Her nipples trailed against his chest, so hot and hard they hurt. His lips nuzzled her neck, his hair brushed her face. Think of Boudewijn. Think of the children. Oh dear God, this felt good. It was wrong.

He pushed her away. Thank God. She disengaged, panting. But now he led her to his mattress, behind the curtain. “Lie down.”

She lay down. This time he would finish it. She could stare at the stains on the canvas and make them into animals—a rabbit, a dragon, a distorted horse. She jerked as he put his face between her legs. He paused and looked at her, a smile lurking around his lips. “Relax, Creesje. Don’t worry.”

She stiffened. He used his tongue. Down there. She’d heard of it, but… Tickling, insistent. Delicious. Tension built within her, spreading from her loins and she was aware of nothing but her body. She arched her back, moaning and a moment later he entered her, smooth as honey. “Lift your knees,” he murmured, “put your legs around my back.”

She obeyed, wrapping herself around him, legs and arms, too, his skin warm and damp and tasting of musk. Deeper he thrust, even deeper. This is wrong, the voice whispered, but the words were drowned in a surging torrent, wild as an ocean storm, that carried her with it on its crest. “Oh,” she gasped. “Oh oh oh.” She’d never felt like this with Boudewijn. Never. This heat; this sudden flood of a pleasure she didn’t realise existed. She moaned, her fingers gripping his shoulders as her body convulsed.

The wave released her and swept on and her muscles relaxed, while on top of her, Cornelisz thrust again and again, hard, urgent until, rigid with tension, he grunted his release.

Cornelisz smiled and brushed her hair off her face with gentle fingers. “Did you like that?” His voice was smug.

What could she say? “I did.” It was true. Shame settled on her like a shroud. This time, if she looked hard at the stains on the canvas she could see Maria and Wijbrecht. Agnete, Willemientje and Roelant. She felt dirty, like a whore, a slut. God, not even Zwaantie would have done what she had just done. And in the middle of the day.

Cornelisz stretched like a cat and stood. “I’d best go and see what’s happening,” he said.

Lucretia pulled on her own clothes as he dressed. He looked relaxed, smirking. Hat in hand, he lifted her chin and brushed her lips. “I’ll be back later.”

He left, pushing through the curtain. He’d tell Zevanck. Of course he would. And he’d tell van Huyssen and then Judyck would know. Heat rose to her face. Shame.

27

“He came in on a raft, Wiebbe,” said Smit, jerking his head at the newcomer standing a few feet away. “We brought him straight here.”

“Do you know him?” Hayes asked, keeping his voice low. Smit was doubtful, betrayed by the neutral tone of his voice and the look in his eye.

“He’s a cadet. Daniel Cornelissen.”

“You don’t trust him.”

“No. Not really. He’s different. Not like the others who’ve come here.”

Hayes nodded. He’d learned to trust Smit’s judgement. He walked over to the fellow, looking him up and down. This young man wasn’t desperate, terrified, injured. Nor did he look undernourished, as all the others had. “Your name?” he asked.

“Daniel Cornelissen.”

“And why should you wish to join us?” asked Hayes.

“They’ll kill me if I stayed. I know they would.” Daniel’s eyes flicked towards the ocean, to Batavia’s Graveyard and then he rubbed his hand across his mouth.

Hayes doubted that. He might say he was in fear of his very life, but he didn’t look it.

“You’ll have to be searched,” said Hayes. He gestured to a soldier.

“I have no weapons—nothing. See?” Cornelissen opened his shirt, his jacket, turned out his pockets.

“Search him anyway.”

Smit stepped forward. “I’ll do it. Take off your jacket.”

Cornelissen handed the coat over and watched as Smit checked the seams, felt through the lining. Nothing.

“Hold your arms out,” said Smit.

He patted down over Cornelissen’s shirt, breeches, even his stockings.

“You see? No weapons,” said Cornelissen.

No, no weapons, thought Hayes. But the Merchant isn’t a soldier. What would he be trying to do? If he sent Cornelissen here, to what end? As a spy? Perhaps. Well, in that case, should he just let the fellow stay? Wait until he made a mistake?

“What about inside his breeches?” said Smit. “Take them off, let me see.”

“What?” A glint of alarm, quickly stifled.

“We’re all men here,” said Hayes. “No need to be shy.”

While Cornelissen stood clutching his genitals, Smit felt through the breeches. His fingers stiffened, feeling around an outline. “There’s something here.” He slipped out his knife and cut around the seam holding the object. It tumbled out, flat and slim. A folded paper, sewn into the inside leg.

“Show me.” Hayes held out a hand. A letter. A merchant’s weapon. He broke the seal and unfolded the note. “It’s in French.” A whole letter written in French was beyond him. “Get Jean Reynoux.”

The Frenchman jogged over, sparing a glance for Cornelissen’s bare rump.

“What does this say?” As Hayes gave Theroux the document he could have sworn he caught a hint of a smile, instantly extinguished, on Cornelissen’s face.

Theroux, forehead wrinkled with concentration, mouthed the words as he read. It took some time but at last he looked up, lip twisted. “What rubbish is this?” he asked, shaking the letter under Cornelissen’s nose. “You seek to divide us.”

He turned to Hayes. “This merchant, Cornelisz, he says there have been no murders, but rightful executions of wrong-doers. The people fleeing from Seals’ Island are
mutiné
, running from the justice. Huh.” The Frenchman’s voice oozed contempt. “He talks of
mutiné
—women and children slaughtered like chickens. And says those people who have come to us will betray us. We are to tell you secretly.” He spat on the ground at Cornelissen’s feet.

Hayes grinned. Yes, a merchant’s weapon. Divide and conquer, as he had already done with the survivors of the
Batavia
. And then sow dissension, play on the grudge between the soldiers and the sailors. It might have succeeded, once.

“You’ll be staying. But not as a guest. Bind him.”

“The Merchant will come for me,” snarled Cornelissen. “You can’t win. You have no weapons. You’ll all die.”

A sharp slap across the face shut him up.

Hayes picked up Cornelissen’s breeches. “You and I are going to have a little chat. Maybe you’d like to help, Jean? And you, Thomas?”

Thomas tied Cornelissen’s hands behind his back, dragged him over to the campfire in the lee of some rocks and shoved him to the ground. The soldiers gathered to watch the spectacle. The cadet was frightened but his chin was firm, his eyes defiant despite his bare backside. He’d lifted his knees to protect his manhood from the cold.

“What’s this all about?” asked Hayes.

“It’s in the letter. The Merchant has nothing against you soldiers. He wants you to join him. But these others, these mutineers, they were sentenced by the ship’s council, of which Master Cornelisz is the head and they should be punished.”

“Don’t give me that rubbish. Why did you kill the people on Traitors’ Island and Seals’ Island?”

“They were traitors. Mutineers.”

Theroux sharpened his knife with a stone. Zzzzt…zzzzt. The fire crackled.

“Women? Children?”

“Yes. Master Cornelisz is Head of the Council. They disobeyed his directive.”

Cornelissen’s chin still jutted, despite the catcalls and murmurs from the ring of men. It seemed he really didn’t believe Cornelisz and his council had done anything wrong.

“What about Frans?” asked Hayes. “What did he have to say about this?”

“Frans Jansz? He has no say. He’s not a councillor.”

“Who is?”

“Pietersz the Stonecutter, Davidt Zevanck and Coenraat van Huyssen.”

The lance-corporal, somebody Hayes had never heard of and a cadet.

“Who’s this Davidt fellow?”

“He was an assistant,” said one of the men watching. “He led the attack on Seals’.”

“He’ll find we’re a little harder to beat than women and children,” Hayes said mildly. “But look, what I’d really like to know is why? What is there on these bleak little islands that a man would kill for? Birds, seals, fish a plenty. Water, perhaps. But Traitors’ and Seals’ have no water. What else?”