To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (30 page)

Hayes listened. The predikant was a weak man, confronted with horror, in fear of his own life and that of his daughter. But he survived, with his Bible and, it seemed, his faith intact. Preserved by the Merchant for his own purpose. Ah well. Who was he, Hayes, to judge?

“Go back and tell the Merchant we do not trust him. We have nothing more to say.”

Bastiaensz glanced at the Merchant’s party on the other island and licked his lips. For a moment, Hayes thought he would say something more but he nodded and set off.

As the predikant walked into the water, Smit caught Hayes’s arm. “Look. They have muskets.”

Two men had waded into ankle-deep water, fifty yards or so off shore. As they watched, one of them dropped the long piece of rope, one end smouldering, from his left hand. His frantic, fruitless attempt to catch the wick only resulted in splashes.

Hayes snorted. “Idiots. Look at that. He’s dropped his match into the water and managed to douse the other one.”

Smit chuckled. “God is on our side. Lucky they didn’t bring soldiers with them.” Another thought struck him and he frowned, staring for a moment at the ground. “Wiebbe, maybe if they come here, the Merchant and his lieutenants, we can capture them.”

“Would he be so foolish?” Hayes flicked a hand at the musketeers, already retreating, defeated. “He’s shown he’s quite willing to try any ploy. Does he think we’ll swallow any foolishness?”

“Well… perhaps. After all, why has he come here himself?”

The preacher reached the islet and met with Cornelisz for no more than a few minutes. Then he set off again, back towards the watchers.

Why indeed, thought Hayes. Some devious merchant’s trick, with which he sought to bedevil stupid soldiers. Or so he might believe.

The preacher approached, plodding through the water, one slow stride at a time. At last, he dragged his weary limbs onto the shore.

“He says he will bring red wine and cloth to prove his good intentions,” said Bastiaensz, “if you will agree to talk.”

Smit met Hayes’s eyes. Wine would be welcome, clothing even more so. The time on the island had taken its toll on every man’s breeches and shirts and many now wore home-made clogs.

“Maybe you’re right, Otto,” Hayes said.

“He will try to deceive you,” the predikant said.

“But if we know that, we can prepare,” said Hayes.

“You will meet with him?” Hope rose in the predikant's face. “Only do not trust him.”

Hayes rose to his feet. “Trust him I do not. But I will meet with him, if only to see this man with my own eyes. He must come here, to our island.”

“I… I think he expected that you would cross to him,” the predikant said.

“No. He must come here.” Hayes pointed at his own feet. “Tell him.”

“Please… can you insist that I return to you?” pleaded Bastiaensz. “Every day my life is in danger. They mock me, taunt me with all manner of bestiality. Drowning, poisoning or even to cut off my head.” His voice faltered. “As they did, not more than ten days ago, to a boy who mended nets.”

“What?” Hayes stiffened. “Cut off his head?”

Bastiaensz’s whole body moved up and down as he nodded. “For sport. Nothing more than sport. They bound his eyes and Matthijs Beer cut off his head with one stroke.” He swept his arm around. “And they laughed. They laughed.” He stared at Hayes, suddenly intense. “Do not trust him, Wiebbe. Trust nothing that the Merchant says. He told the boy it was a joke, as another bound his eyes. I swear the Devil has taken the Merchant as his own. He looks like a man but a demon lurks behind his eyes.”

“And yet I must believe that he will bleed, like any other man,” said Hayes, “for I don’t know how to fight a demon.” He laid a hand on the preacher’s shoulder. “Tell the Merchant he must come tomorrow at ebb tide, unarmed, with his wine and cloth, he and his councillors. We will talk. They must send you back here, now, to tell me they agree.”

Bastiaensz flung his arms around Hayes. “Thank you. Oh, Lord be praised, thank you,” he sobbed.

Hayes peeled the man off, aware of the grins and titters of his soldiers. “We’ll await your return.”

The predikant waded into the sea, leaving a rippling wake with every step.

*

Bastiaensz stumbled the last few steps onto the shore of the islet, soaked up to his thighs. He looked exhausted, his breathing laboured.

“Well?” demanded Cornelisz.

“He… Wiebbe has agreed,” said Bastiaensz, puffing between words. “He says to come tomorrow at ebb tide, with wine and cloth and without weapons. You and your councillors must go to him. I must return to him to tell him you agree.”

“Go to him?” van Huyssen asked. “Over there, to his island, unarmed?”

“Peace, Coenraat,” Cornelisz said, putting a hand on the other man’s arm. He turned to Bastiaensz. “Go back to Hayes and tell him we will come back tomorrow.”

Bastiaensz bowed his head and turned away, back into the sea.

“Is this wise, Captain-General?” van Huyssen hissed. “To go to them?”

“Look at it logically. Even from here you can see how ragged they look. And yes, they have water—but that is all. No bread, no wine. Hayes will negotiate, because he must. Then, once we transfer all our folk to this island we will convince them to join us… or… Davidt, you will have some more sport.”

“Daniel did not succeed,” van Huyssen muttered.

“Yes, but this time, they will have me to contend with. You will see, my friends. Tomorrow, we prevail,” Cornelisz said. He always knew he would succeed, as God had intended but not even he had imagined it would be so easy. But then, he understood his fellow man—much more so than van Huyssen and Zevanck. Greed. Basic greed was usually enough.

“Come, let us return to our island,” said Cornelisz. He swallowed, dreading already the long crossing back to Batavia’s Graveyard. The trip across the reef-flats he could abide. But when the boat turned towards Seals’ Island, across the deep channel, his heart became a frozen lump in his chest. And now, in the afternoon, the wind whipped the froth from the tops of the waves.

A sailor carried him to the yawl and he took his seat as far from the sides as he could. He had no wish to make this crossing; none at all. But if it must be done, then he would make sure tomorrow would be the last time.

“Do you think Hayes will agree, Captain-General?” asked Zevanck.

“I am certain I can persuade him,” said Cornelisz, pleased to be distracted from the motion of the boat and the slap of the waves. “But I think we will try once again to interest some of his followers. While I talk to Hayes, you and Coenraat should explain to the soldiers what we intend—to take the rescue ship and earn a fortune through pirating. Offer them silver—six thousand guilders each—if they will help us against those on the island.”

“But Daniel tried that,” said van Huyssen.

“Yes. But we don’t know why he failed,” Cornelisz said. “If you were there on that island and someone made you such an offer, would you refuse?”

Zevanck and van Huyssen exchanged a look. “No.”

“Well then.”

The boat lurched as the sailors ran up the sail. It blossomed and filled and Cornelisz concentrated on the horizon, his stomach and his destination while the foam-flecked ocean churned and surged around him.

*

Lucretia looked up from her sewing when Cornelisz entered their tent.

“Success,” he declared, a broad grin splitting his face as he flipped his hat onto the table.

She stood as he approached her and let him kiss her lips as he swung her around in his arms.

“What have you done, Jeronimus?” she asked, hands on his shoulders.

“Tomorrow I talk to the captain of the soldiers—Wiebbe Hayes. Their island is much larger than this speck. It has fresh water. Fresh water, Creesje. Imagine that.”

He kissed her again, pressed her against him.

“That’s wonderful. Will you trade with them?”

“Trade?” He laughed. “I will prevail, my lady. We will move, all of us, to that island. Wiebbe and his people will join with us. And if they do not…” his fingers slid to the ribbons that laced her bodice, “they will die.”

His hand slid under the material and cupped her breast, smooth as cream. “Come.” He took her hand and drew her behind the curtain.

He made love to her as he always did, expertly, sensuously, exciting her naked body with his caresses. She hated herself almost as much as she hated him. She was his toy, his plaything and she had no choice but to respond to him. She must submit or die or—even worse—be given to his followers like a common whore. But oh, how she wished her enjoyment was pretence. In that private place of worship in her mind she prayed to God for forgiveness.

*

Hayes and his men were ready and waiting as usual, forewarned long in advance by the watchers on the hill of the High Island. The sun danced with the clouds, long horses’ tails high in the sky but down here the usual breeze sighed through the bushes and ruffled the reef-flats.

This time they came with two boats, riding low in the water, both crammed with people.

“No sign of weapons,” said Allert Jansz, peering narrow-eyed across the sea.

“They’ll be down under their feet,” said Hayes.

Twenty men ranged behind him, while back at their dry-wall fort, Otto Smit and his group kept watch, ready to engage if necessary.

The two yawls ran onto the rocky ledge of the islet and the people disembarked. Hayes counted them as best he could. He stopped, slack-jawed.

“They’ve brought women,” he said.

Two in the first boat, three in the second. One was clearly with the Merchant, unmistakable in his ostrich-plumed hat. The other… he couldn’t be certain but he’d guess by the man’s height that it was van Huyssen. So that must be the predikant’s daughter, Judyck. The two women stood together, separated from the other three. Why? Why the women? To incite carnal thoughts in his men? Some stirred behind him.

“Keep your minds on your jobs,” he said. “The Merchant is a liar, a deceiver, in league with the Devil. Don’t forget that.”

“Don’t worry, Wiebbe. We won’t,” answered a voice. Hayes glanced over his shoulder into a hard, bitter face. A man who’d escaped from the Seals’ Island.

The Defenders waited.

Six men stepped into a yawl. One of their number used an oar to pole the boat across the shallow water as close as it could get, then all six stepped out and waded the few remaining feet, even Cornelisz.

Hayes recognised Cornelisz, van Huyssen and Zevanck from the previous attacks. Wouter Loos he remembered from the ship; a good soldier as he recalled.

“Who are the two carrying the goods?” Hayes asked.

“Gijsbert van Welderen and Cornelis Pietersz,” said Jansz. “One was a cadet and I think the other one was the under trumpeter. They used to call him
dikzak
. He’s not very fat now.”

The Merchant led the way, his red coat fairly blazing in the sunlight with cording and gold lace at his wrists and around his neck and shoulders. Van Huyssen, handsome and swaggering, hand on his belt where his sword would usually hang walked a few steps behind with Zevanck, who glowered, eyes flicking left and right under heavy eyebrows. Loos the soldier glanced around him, watchful and assessing. The other two simply walked in the Merchant’s wake, arms laden with casks and bolts of material. All of them looked thin and underfed, if well dressed in breeches and coats.

Cornelisz strode forward, smiling. “You must be Wiebbe Hayes. I’ve heard many good reports about you.”

“And I have heard many reports about you,” Hayes said. Cornelisz appeared open, willing to engage, pleasant, charming. Hard to believe the stories, that this man ordered others to murder. His clothes bore no sign of blood.

“It is high time we talked,” said Cornelisz. “I’m sure we can reach an understanding of benefit to both of us.” He turned to the older man of his group, who must be Pietersz. “See? We have wine. If you have goblets? Or perhaps cups?”

Hayes gestured and a soldier brought the hand-carved vessels they used to drink. Pietersz filled them and Cornelisz himself handed them to van Huyssen, Zevanck and Hayes. “To peace,” he said, lifting the cup.

“Peace,” said Hayes. He sipped and felt the warmth as the wine slid down his throat. Delicious.

“And see here?” the Merchant said. “Bolts of material from which you can make garments or blankets. We have plenty and to spare. Shoes, too.” He stared pointedly at the wooden clogs several of Hayes’s men wore.

“Come, let’s you and I together discuss the best way forward.” The Merchant reached out an arm to Hayes but Hayes avoided the contact. Just for a split second he caught a blaze in the other man’s eyes and then it was gone. Anger? Irritation? Or maybe a brief glimpse of the demon.

Hayes followed Cornelisz, a few paces away from their men. A swift glance over his shoulder revealed van Huyssen and Zevanck mingling with his soldiers. All to the good.

“Why must we fight?” said Cornelisz. “It seems so foolish. We are all stuck here, on these islands, until a rescue ship arrives. Surely it would be wiser to combine our resources to all our benefit.”

“Your people brought the fight to us,” said Hayes.

“Pah,” said Cornelisz, dismissing the attacks with a flick of his fingers. “They acted against my direction. I would have come sooner, but for the weather. This island is so much larger than Batavia’s Graveyard. We could, all of us, live here comfortably. We can offer wine, cloth, shoes, the rest of the preserved food from the ship, as well as our boats.” He smiled. “You have water, do you not?”

“Water in plenty,” answered Hayes. “We found wells. And we have fresh meat, red meat.”

The skin tightened around Cornelisz’s eyes. He hadn’t known about the meat.

“Well, then. Wouldn’t it make sense to combine our people? Yours and mine?”

It sounded so reasonable, thought Hayes. Provided we have no illusion about who will be in charge. Or how many will survive. “I’ll need time to think on it, discuss your offer with my people.”

“As it should be,” said Cornelisz. “And when you talk to them, remind them, too, that we have treasure. Silver goblets and plates, jewels. All to be shared with those willing.”