To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (31 page)

With those willing. Hayes turned as if in thought and saw van Huyssen and Zevanck in deep conversation with a few of his men. The predikant sat on a rock, sipping water from a cup. “How many people do you have?” asked Hayes.

“Forty five,” Cornelisz said.

“That is all? And yet there must have been a hundred souls at least on Batavia’s Graveyard, even when groups went to Traitors’ and Seals’.”

“I was saddened that so many turned against their neighbours, intent on their own survival at the expense of others,” said Cornelisz. He sighed. “You would see, as a leader yourself, that a man must act for the common good.”

“For the common good,” Hayes said. Did this man believe the words he spoke?

“You would understand,” Cornelisz continued, “we had so little wine and water. Not enough for so many. We all would have perished long before. Better to lose a few miscreants, rather than have everyone die of hunger and thirst.”

So earnest he was, so open and honest. Or so it seemed. But Hayes remembered the flicker of Cornelisz’s eyes as the demon peered out for a moment. He heard again the escapees from Seals’ Island, the words of the predikant and Aris Jansz.

“You offer us silver? Like Judas? Here is your answer.” Jean Theroux’s voice rose above the thwack of fists hitting flesh.

Hayes swung around. “Seize them all,” he bellowed.

The soldiers leapt forward. In a moment Zevanck, van Huyssen and van Welderen all struggled between two men. Two others brought down the fleeing Pietersz. Two men leapt forward and grabbed Cornelisz, who struggled and squirmed and shouted obscenities. Hayes ignored him. Loos was escaping. He’d already evaded one soldier and collected a second with a hard fist to the face. He sprang over rocks, running like a mountain goat, heading for the boat.

“Take your hands off me. Release me, you scum,” raged Cornelisz.

The soldier holding him bent the Merchant’s arm behind his back and pushed up, hard. “Shut up.” Cornelisz grunted in pain.

Loos leapt over the last line of bushes and shoved the yawl out into the sea. Two Defenders followed, splashing through the water.

“No. Come back,” shouted Hayes.

The two men stopped. They had seen it, too. As Loos pulled towards the islet in his boat, Cornelisz’s disciples drew their weapons. The tips of pikes and sword blades glittered as they leapt into the second boat. The oars dug deep. Thirty armed men, only minutes away. And twelve of Hayes’s men were already busy with the prisoners. His soldiers wouldn’t stand a chance.

Shouts drifted over the water from the approaching boat. “Release them. Now. And we might let you live.” Hayes recognised the man and the voice; Jacop Pietersz, erstwhile lance-corporal of the
Batavia’s
complement of soldiers, standing in the bow of the yawl now not ten yards away.

No chance of that, thought Hayes. Men who murdered pregnant women, children? “Kill them,” he ordered. “Kill all but the Merchant. Quickly.”

Never had an order been obeyed so swiftly. Gijsbert van Welderen, Zevanck and van Huyssen died with knives in their throats. Cornelis Pietersz, former trumpeter, expired on the tip of a home-made pike. The defenders turned at bay, ready to fight as the first yawl full of yelling men neared the beach.

“Form a line,” Hayes ordered.

His soldiers moved into formation, pikes in hand. The front row knelt, their weapons resting at an angle, butts in the ground. The second row stood behind. Every length of driftwood was tipped with three sixteen-inch nails from the
Batavia’s
timbers. Not as good as the real thing, perhaps, but daunting enough. Running feet clattering over the rocks behind Hayes announced the arrival of Smit’s group.

Hayes swung around and held the point of his knife at Cornelisz’s throat, above the white lace. He pressed, just enough to draw a bead of blood. “Tell them to go or I’ll cut your throat myself.”

The merchant whimpered and swallowed. “Take the knife away.”

Hayes withdrew, just a little.

“No,” shouted Cornelisz, his voice a high-pitched shriek. “They’ll kill me if you attack.”

Pietersz’s boat slowed but yet it came on. The oars dug again.

“Go back,” shouted Cornelisz. “They’ll kill me.”

The oars lifted, dripping water. For a moment Hayes thought they would still attack. He didn’t want to kill Cornelisz, but if he had to… He tightened his grip on his knife and pushed it against the Merchant’s throat. Cornelisz’s eyes widened and the tendons in his neck stood out. A strangled gurgle escaped his lips.

Pietersz leant forward across the bow of his boat, not ten yards away. “Harm him and you’re all dead,” he bellowed. He sat back. The oars swept down, but only one side pulled.

Hayes lowered his knife and let out a gust of breath as the yawl beat around and headed back to the islet.

Cornelisz sagged like an empty sack.

Hayes’s soldiers cheered.

31

“They’ve killed them,” Judyck said.

Lucretia stared at the girl. Her eyes glittered with hatred, lips pulled back in a most unbecoming snarl. In her own breast, hope battled with apprehension. She glanced back at the sea, where the boat turned and started back towards the mud bank on which the women stood. “You can’t be sure.”

“Yes. They’ve left them on the ground. And the Merchant is a prisoner.” Judyck smiled, a smile of pure joy as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders. “It’s over, Creesje. It’s finally over.”

Judyck stretched her arms to hug her but Lucretia raised a restraining hand.

“It is a battle, Judyck,” she said softly. “They have lost their leaders, but they are not defeated.” She did not add the thought that sprang unbidden to her own mind; that now, she and Judyck were no longer protected.

She had no need to speak. Judyck stepped back, her face clouding and clutched a hand to her breast. “Father is with them.” Her whole body seemed to collapse as triumphant elation disintegrated into fear. “And Coenraat is dead.”

She sidled closer to Lucretia.

The yawl approached the islet. Silent men vaulted over the sides, knee deep into water. Some waded ashore, while others drew the boat up.

They all stared at Pietersz. He licked his lips. “The captain-general will be back. I’m sure of it.”

Lucretia hid her contempt behind a lady’s façade. They might call him lieutenant-general but the Stonecutter was a lance-corporal. All he had was size. No charisma, no talent with words, not even the smallest hint of leadership qualities. And now, here, without Cornelisz he had shrunk to the incompetent thug he really was.

“What do we do now, Stonecutter?” some one asked.

The second boat ground into the shallows and the men disembarked to join the others, crowded around their new leader.

Pietersz stared from face to face, searching for answers, for words.

“We should go back to our island.” Wouter Loos stepped forward, stern and authoritative. “The captain-general is captured. The other members of the Council are dead. We must regroup and rethink.”

“We could attack. We have muskets.”

Men rattled weapons. Bellicose mutters of agreement rustled around the group.

“We have attacked twice before,” said Loos. “They are well-led and they have made weapons. They killed the trumpeter with a home-made pike tipped with nails from the ship’s hull. Did you see their defensive formation?” He paused, waiting for comment. When none came, he added, “And if we attack now, they will surely kill our leader. We return to our island, take stock and plan.”

Lucretia was impressed. This man really was a leader. Although not particularly tall or handsome, he had a presence that Pietersz lacked. The men exchanged glances, nodded. He’d told them they weren’t defeated, that they could return. This was a man they could follow.

“Well then,” said Loos. “Load the boats.” He stopped and looked at Pietersz. “With the Lieutenant-General’s permission, of course.”

“Er, yes. Yes, of course,” said Pietersz. Relief shone in his eyes. “Come on, lads, get moving.”

Loos came to Lucretia and Judyck himself. “Ladies, if you will come this way?” He lifted them, one at a time, into the centre of the boat. They sat side-by-side on the thwart as men climbed in around them. Loos himself sat on Lucretia’s left. Judyck sat to her right.

Lucretia felt the tremor where Judyck’s arm pressed against hers.

The boats pulled away, following the line of the two larger islands for three miles or so before turning across the deep water towards Batavia’s Graveyard. The boat ran with a raised sail, hurrying before a freshening sou’-wester.

Lucretia stared around at islands that appeared to be little more than white lines where the sea met the shore. Even in daylight the islands were almost a part of the ocean, a glimmering mirage, half-hidden in a perpetual shimmer of sea-mist thrown up by the surf on the surrounding reef. As they passed the tip of the Seals’ Island, a couple of seals waddled down the beach into the water, as fast they could. She could hardly blame them; they had been slaughtered, too, just as the people who had been brought there.

Her thoughts turned to her own situation. What would happen to her now? Would she and Judyck be forced to join the other women, available for any man’s use? The men crowded around her. Most sat quietly, but some spoke together, too softly for her to hear. Loos said nothing. She pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. The breeze blew chill off the water and besides, Cornelisz had insisted she wear some of the more revealing salon dresses all the time, as if she were a treasure to display. Now, she felt even more vulnerable to covetous eyes. More than one of the men had glanced at her. A few had stared.

At last the journey was ended. Men leapt into the sea near the little beach where the predikant had been wont to sit with his Bible, and held the bow while the occupants waded to shore, swords in hand, pikes tilted on shoulders. Loos set Lucretia on the ground and another man carried Judyck. Lucretia stood, uncertain, as the people in the second boat spilled out onto the strand. Her eye caught that of Zussie Fredericx. The woman’s smile was wicked, gloating. Lucretia held her stare until she looked away.

Her sister, Tryntgie, spoke to Judyck. “You’re no different to us now, are you?”

Lucretia took Judyck’s arm. This was not the time for unseemly rows. Whatever else the sisters may have intended was ended when Loos stepped in. A glare and a flick of his head was all it needed for them to retreat.

“Return to your tent, Lady,” Loos said to Lucretia.

He turned back to the men who milled on the shore around the lieutenant-general.

Lucretia took Judyck’s arm and the two hurried back to the big tent Lucretia had shared with Cornelisz. With a shaking hand, Lucretia poured a small measure of wine for them both. The liquor warmed her.

“What will become of us?” asked Judyck. She subsided onto a chair and hugged the goblet with her hands. “Did you hear what Tryntgie said? Father says they’re jealous of me because I get… used to get better rations and treats because I was with Coenraat.” She gulped in a sob as tears glistened in her eyes. “Do you think they’ll… they’ll use us like the others?”

“It’s what I fear, too,” said Lucretia, putting a steadying hand on the girl’s shoulder. “But Wouter Loos does not seem to want that or he would not have intervened as he did with Zussie and Tryntgie.”

“Oh, they won’t do that to you. I saw the way Pietersz was looking at you.”

A wave of disgust coursed through Lucretia’s body. Oh, God. To submit to that gross, unkempt man. He was unshaven, his bushy beard untrimmed and his red coat with its decorations did little to hide the grubby, shabby clothes that he had not bothered to replace. Her fingers tightened on the cup she held.

Footsteps approached, crunching on the coral grit. Lucretia stood up straight, her gaze on the tent flap. She would face her future with dignity as befitted a lady.

Loos stepped inside.

He pulled off his hat.

“My lady. Mistress Judyck. I have been elected captain until Jeronimus returns.”

“My congratulations, Captain,” said Lucretia, inclining her head a little. One small mercy, at least.

“We will rescue our leader, never fear, Lady. In the meantime, you will be safe here.”

Lucretia fought to remain upright, legs turned to water. “I thank you, sir. I would ask that you allow the predikant’s daughter to share with me. She is now, you will understand, in mourning.”

Loos glanced at Judyck. For a moment Lucretia thought he would refuse but Judyck gulped down a sob and gazed at him with tearful eyes.

“This is now my tent,” said Loos. “And you will stay here with me. But the predikant’s daughter will be safe in her own tent. You have my word.”

“Then you will excuse me, Captain,” said Judyck. She sketched a curtsy and swept out.

Lucretia managed to send a small, encouraging smile to her. And then she turned her mind to her own situation.

“You have no need to fear me,” Loos said. He sagged down into a chair. “Master Cornelisz still lives and while he is alive you are his. We will rescue him.”

“I can return to the tent I once had.”

He shook his head. “I prefer to keep you safe.”

The short burst of fine, calm weather ended in the night. The wind rose, shrieking among the tents and sending them flapping like huge, misshapen birds tethered to the ground. Lucretia and Judyck ventured out together late in the day, Judyck in sombre black widow’s weeds and Lucretia in a more demure blue gown. As evening approached they stood, heads bowed, beside the barren patch where Judyck’s mother and brothers and sisters were buried, and prayed for their souls. Surely God in his mercy would take them to His bosom. Perhaps now they would intercede with the angels to preserve those few people who were not murderers.

A particularly severe gust tugged at Lucretia’s skirts. “Come, Judyck, best to be inside.”

They turned back towards the little settlement, where life went on. Men still caught birds or fished; nets were mended; food was prepared and eaten. Wouter Loos was the captain, not the oafish Pietersz. And without Cornelisz and his councillors, the blood lust was gone. Not that there were many left to kill, thought Lucretia as she slipped between the tents. Seven women and about ten others, amid thirty one murderers. But the atmosphere was different; brooding, thoughtful, rather than fearful. No one swaggered through the settlement uttering threats; not even Jan Pelgrom. A group of men was gathered around Pietersz’s tent, but they talked in subdued voices. Lucretia noticed a bottle being passed from hand to hand. She and Judyck hurried past, careful to avert their eyes.