To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (32 page)

Inside the tent she had shared with van Huyssen, Judyck filled the lamp with seal oil and lit it with a coal from the fire. The flame burst into life, sending black smoke and weird shadows dancing around the canvas walls. Lucretia was reminded of a scene from hell, where loathsome creatures danced around the damned. Perhaps this was a portent of what would happen to Cornelisz. Oh, pray that he did not bewitch his captors and turn them to evil as he had so many of the men here. She wondered how many would have committed the acts they had, if Cornelisz had not placed a sword or a knife in their hands and spoken poisonous words with his honeyed tongue. Like the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

“Do you think Wouter will remain the gentleman?” asked Judyck.

“Wouter? I can but hope. He did not even try to seduce me.” He had brought his own mattress and laid it beyond the curtain so that she had that sheltered area to herself. “I shall try to keep a distance from him but without raising his ire. And you?”

Judyck frowned, eyes downcast. “A few have looked at me. You know, the way men do. And Lenert van Os has tried to talk with me. I just tell them I am in mourning and bring tears to my eyes.” A brief, sad smile jerked her lips. “I find it easy to cry if I wish.”

The tent flap burst open.

Swaying slightly, the Stonecutter turned bloodshot eyes on Judyck. “Come on, girl, all the rest are busy.”

Judyck stepped behind the table, a flare of alarm in her dark eyes. Pietersz lurched forward. Lucretia stepped between them.

“Stop,” she said. “How dare you? How dare you enter a lady’s tent at night without permission or invitation?”

Pietersz stopped and peered at her. “I’m not here for you, m’lady. I know you’re out of my class. But she—”

“And what is more, you are befuddled with drink,” snapped Lucretia. Her heart beat a strident tattoo yet she still could manage to treat this common wretch in the manner he deserved.

Pietersz brushed his arm over his bearded mouth and grinned. “Told you, ‘m not here for you. Stand aside.”

As he brushed Lucretia aside with his arm, Judyck shoved a chair in his path. Cursing, he tripped and crashed to the ground. Lucretia scooped up a pewter plate and crashed it down on Pietersz’s head.

Raw elation surged through her body as she stood over the erstwhile lieutenant-general. She should have hit him harder. The pewter plate weighed heavy in her hands. She raised it again, warring with the urge to hit and hit and hit. The man lay groaning, muttering oaths. If he recovered, what might he do?

Judyck scampered around the table, her eyes gleaming with a new respect.

“What’s happening here?” Wouter Loos held the tent flap open with one hand, his sword in the other.

Lucretia straightened her back and summoned all the patrician bearing she could muster. “This… drunken lout has forced his way into Mistress Judyck’s tent.”

Loos glanced at Pietersz, who had rolled over onto his back, and sheathed his sword. “My apologies, Mistress Judyck,” he said. “It will not happen again. I shall see to it.”

He hauled Pietersz up by his collar and shoved him outside.

Judyck let out a breath and collapsed onto a chair. “Please, God, let this end,” she murmured, hand clenched to her breast.

Lucretia put the plate back onto the table and sat down. Her hands shook and she felt cold. She had been so close to committing the violence she deplored. Perhaps some evil spirit still walked the island, testing each of them?

32

“Search the bodies, take anything of value, then get rid of them,” said Hayes. They could use the clothes, especially the shoes—and any weapons they might be carrying. “Otto, send some men to make sure the scum go back to their island and don’t circle around to attack from somewhere else.”

“There’s been some mistake,” said Cornelisz, managing a smile “We should be talking peace, you and I.”

Hayes stared at him, considering. The Merchant stood there, elegant if rumpled, in his breeches and buckled shoes, his red coat of office over his formal frockcoat.

“Can I have his coat, Wiebbe?”

The soldier holding Cornelisz’s right arm rubbed the fine red cloth between his fingers.

“No,” snapped Hayes. “We can use the material, but no one wears the coat. I’m surprised you’d even think about dressing like one of them.”

“Sorry, Wiebbe. I didn’t think.”

Wiebbe stepped forward, knife in hand, pleased as fear blazed in Cornelisz’s eyes. He walked around to Cornelisz’s back and sliced the red coat in one movement from collar to hem. The two soldiers each pulled a severed half away.

Wiebbe stood back and raised his voice. “That’s for all of you. I don’t want to see anybody wearing one of these accursed red coats. They are the symbol of the Devil. Use the material for blankets or inside your shoes or as binding for your weapons. But not on your bodies.” He swivelled his head, checking each face to ensure they understood.

“Take off your coat,” he said to Cornelisz. The Merchant took off the coat and handed it to the man on his right.

“Now your shoes,” said Wiebbe.

Cornelisz blinked but a blow to his back persuaded him.

“Stockings.”

The watching soldiers grinned and chuckled as Cornelisz stood, barefoot and in his shirt-sleeves.

“Make sure these go to those who most need them,” said Hayes, handing the clothing to Smit. He glanced at Cornelisz. “Bring him.”

He led the way over the rocks. They’d won a victory, of that there was no doubt. He’d captured their leader and by all reports killed three of the main lieutenants. But they must still have thirty men, some of them good soldiers. He remembered Loos from the ship and from that short stay on Batavia’s Graveyard. They hadn’t been friends but he seemed to be one of the better men among them. He wondered if the second-in-command was still the Stonecutter and if he would take charge. Luck to them if he did; he’d had even less respect for the lance-corporal than he’d had for the corporal.

“What will we do with him, Wiebbe?” asked Cornelis, lips pulled back in a snarl. “Slice him into small pieces and feed him to the fishes? Cut off his balls and make him eat them? Tie him to a stake and burn him—”

“That’s enough.” Hayes stared Cornelis down. He understood the man’s feelings. He’d lost friends on Seals’ Island, fled for his life and all at the Merchant’s order. Or so they said. “Gather round, men.” He waited as they came in, a few carrying the goods salvaged from the bodies, the bolts of cloth and the wine. “We’ve won a battle. But we haven’t won the war. There are still at least thirty armed men on Batavia’s Graveyard, armed and dangerous. They’re murdering devils whom we’ve seen will stop at nothing. We must be vigilant and ready. For be assured they will attack again.”

“Then do we kill him?”

“No, we don’t kill him. We keep him alive, just like the other lad. As a bargaining chip.”

They weren’t all happy. Many of those who had escaped from Cornelisz’s thugs scowled or folded their arms. But Hayes’s core band of followers, and Smit and Jansz, were content.

“You all have duties,” said Hayes. “Get to it.”

Urged on by Smit and Jansz, the men returned to their appointed tasks. Hayes pulled across a stool and sat facing Cornelisz, who remained standing between his guards. “You wanted to talk. What about?”

“This is all a terrible misunderstanding,” said the Merchant. “I came here to talk peace with you, hoping to join my folk with yours, to share our resources for all our benefits.”

He looked hurt, his eyes pleading. Hayes could almost believe him, but for the stories of those who had escaped.

“Peace, hmmm? But your councillors offered my men silver. Six thousand guilders to turn on their colleagues.”

Cornelisz’s jaw dropped. “Can that be true? If it is, I assure you it is not of my making. They did that without consulting me, rest assured.”

“It was the agreed signal,” Hayes said. “We expected treachery. I told my men that at the first sign of any attempt to set one man against another, your followers were to be taken as prisoners. And that, as you have seen, they did.”

The Merchant sighed and wagged his head in sorrow. “Do you think I would have brought everyone—even the women—if I had intended to fight?”

“Not your fault, eh?”

“No, indeed. I wanted to work with you. I have admired your leadership skills, your survival skills. Together, we could be a magnificent team.”

“A team to do what?” asked Hayes. “You tried to destroy us twice.”

“No, no, no. Coenraat and Zevanck were such hotheads, always wanting to fight. I told them—nay, beseeched them—to offer discussions, speech.” He shook his head. “But they said your folk attacked them.”

Hayes bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. “Ah. So it was all our fault.” He leaned forward elbow on his knee, chin on his fist. “Tell me, Jeronimus, what do you intend to do with the rescue ship when it comes?”

Just for a moment Cornelisz’s eyes flickered. Sly, calculating, evil. Hayes remembered what the predikant had said. A disciple of Lucifer, come to earth. And then he was once again forthright, open, misunderstood.

“I admit it. We expect that Captain Jacobsz will be given the job of rescuing us. He and I agreed while still on the
Batavia
to steal the ship and live as soldiers of fortune. You could join us. Imagine. Wealth beyond your wildest dreams. Dusky maidens waiting on you hand and foot. Jewels, gold… everything your heart desires could be yours.”

“All I have to do is believe you.”

Cornelisz raised both his eyebrows. “Is that so difficult?”

“To believe a man who has a boy murdered for sport? The predikant told us all about it. A lad mending nets. You had his eyes bound and one of your murdering thugs cut off his head.” Hayes stopped. He’d half-stood, nostrils flared in fury as he spoke. Cornelisz took a step backwards in alarm. “And you laughed,” he added softly. “You laughed as this poor boy died to amuse you and your band of pirates.” He stood. “Bring him. He can help Daniel pluck birds.”

They shoved him, limping, over the rocks to where Daniel Cornellisen sat under guard. The cadet’s eyes widened as the Merchant joined him but he said nothing.

“You’ll work for your living like everyone else,” said Hayes. He picked up a bird carcass and tossed it to Cornelisz. “You pluck them and gut them. They’ll be slit for you. If you don’t do it properly, you’ll miss your dinner.”

*

Cornelisz slumped on the rocks. The bird lay beside him, headless, innards oozing out of the split in its stomach. At least he was still alive. He’d been sure they would kill him. When Hayes railed at him about the net maker—well, he’d been certain he was going to end up like the bird; headless and gutted. He should have had faith. God did not intend him to die here on this forsaken shore. He would prevail; he always had. His loyal comrades would even now be planning a rescue. Even with four dead, their group still numbered thirty-three, all with weapons, including the muskets.

He picked up the bird, dug his fingers into the entrails, still warm to the touch and pulled them out. What a horrible, demeaning task. Some of the organs ruptured as he withdrew them and slimy viscera splattered on his shirt. When this was over, this was what he would do to Hayes. Smiling he dug again and again until the bird’s cavity was empty. But for now, he still had his wits and he may still be able to convince Hayes. Or maybe even his two guards, standing nearby with their home-made pikes.

Gripping the dead bird in his left hand, Cornelisz started to pluck the feathers. “How long have you been here?” he asked one of the soldiers.

“Since you sent us to seek the water. And left us to die,” the fellow replied, the words heavily accented.

“Not at all,” said Cornelisz. More good fortune. This man was one of the Frenchmen. He, Cornelisz, could assuredly achieve what young Daniel could not. “I sent water. Did it not arrive? Someone must have stolen it.”

“Don’t listen to him, Jean,” said the other soldier. Bitter hatred burned in his eyes. “See that?” He pointed at a pink scar on his shoulder. “This is where your folk tried to kill me, that night when the predikant’s family was slaughtered.”

“I?” said Cornelisz, his plucking paused. “I harmed no one. I dined with Coenraat van Huyssen that night. I was as horrified as you. But what could I do? Had I objected, my own life would be forfeit.”

“You gave the orders. Always. You, with your fancy clothes and your pretty sword at your hip. You wouldn’t know what to do with it, not against a
real
fighting man.” The guard’s voice dripped contempt, his face twisted in loathing.

“You waste your time,” growled Jean. “You have birds to pluck.”

*

Pelsaert stood beside Captain Jacopsz next to the mizzen mast of the
Sardam
. “See?” said Jacopsz, pointing over the rail into the water. “Seaweed. A lot of it. Land cannot be too far away.”

“Then set course eastward, Captain.”

Jacopsz shouted the orders back to the steersman.

Pelsaert stared up the mast as men scrambled up the ratlines to the spars. Not a task he would relish, even on a small ship like this one. He had never been one for heights. A strong westerly wind filled the sails. High waves, translucent as green glass, hurried the ship along from crest to trough. It creaked and groaned in protest like a reluctant beast, spewing sea foam around its bows.

They were too far south for the wreck site, but not by much. Once in sight of the south land they could head northwest. Pelsaert shivered in his coat. In Batavia he had been too warm. Here, he felt cold. Would that this was over and he could recover his health. Further down the deck the dusky Gujarati men huddled together, talking in their sing-song language. They felt the cold even more than he did but they ventured forth in the middle of the day to at least feel the sun and the air on their faces.

The
commandeur
stared over the stern to the norwest. Out there, somewhere, were the islands he had left behind three months ago. Would any of those poor people still be alive? It had rained, true, more than once as he sailed north in the longboat. But enough for so many? He wondered how the women had fared. Lucretia, without even a maid and such a lovely lady amidst all those rough folk; soldiers and sailors with never an officer among them. Unless Cornelisz had finally managed to reach the shore. A competent enough fellow, from what he’d seen in the months since they sailed from Texel. Although he’d been a bit too friendly with Adriaen Jacobsz.