To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (35 page)

Pelsaert approved of this young man. Hayes had been shaved, had his hair trimmed and now, dressed in clean clothes and with a sword at his hip, he looked the determined leader he assuredly was. The Company should count itself fortunate that a man like this had been here.

“Come with me in the yawl, Wiebbe,” said Pelsaert. “Tell me what you think.”

The two men sat together on a bench while the sailors rowed. Hayes told how he and his soldiers had been abandoned and then how refugees from Cornelisz’s island had swelled his band. “But so often, sir, these men were in fear of their lives and did not see what became of the others. Although many who witnessed it told of the fate of those from Traitors’ Island. And the predikant has a tale to tell. Also the women. They were used as camp-followers; all of them.”

Pelsaert started. “All of them? Even… even the Lady Lucretia?”

Smiling a little, Hayes shook his head. “From what I heard, the Merchant took her for himself. And the predikant’s daughter was the concubine of Coenraat van Huyssen.” He shrugged. “Although, of course, I don’t know what happened after the Merchant was captured and Coenraat killed.”

Pelsaert nodded while thoughts tumbled through his head. Horror followed horror. The thought of that lovely lady left to the mercies of these murderous thugs was too much to bear. Hayes’ voice broke into his thoughts.

“At first some people told us the lady had sided with the Merchant, that she was part of his scheming. For a time I wondered. But then, the predikant came to us and told us the truth of it.” Hayes paused and wet his lips. “At least, so it would seem.”

No, thought Pelsaert, Lucretia would not have been part of Cornelisz’s schemes. Surely not. She had always been polite but aloof—as much to the under merchant as to Captain Jacobsz, and, indeed, himself. But then, if the choice was Cornelisz or common service… He brushed his ruminations aside. First he had to deal with the remaining scoundrels.

The two boats were seen long before they reached the island. Cheering voices greeted them as Hayes directed the sailors to the small beach around the point where Cornelisz and his men had landed three weeks ago. Wiebbe’s Army followed their progress along the shore, forty men and more, laughing and jubilant.

Men splashed through the shallows, lifted Pelsaert, Hayes and Captain Jacopsz and carried them to the land amid cheers and shouts of welcome. Pelsaert opened a keg of wine and everyone drank. Bearded and ragged they were, but clearly better fed than the scoundrels on the
Sardam
. The
commandeur
took note of the home-made weapons, the beautiful dry stone fortifications, the hand-carved cups.

The predikant enveloped Pelsaert in an embrace. “
Commandeur
,” sobbed Bastiaensz, “I never expected to see you again.”

“You are well?” asked Pelsaert. He hadn’t even recognised the preacher. Last time he’d seen him, on
Batavia’s
stricken deck, Bastiaensz had been a solid burgher, of rotund build. Now his clothes hung on him like a sack.

“The soldiers here have treated me so well after the horrors on that other isle, where I was in constant fear of my life.” The predikant lifted a foot. “See? They gave me wooden shoes because mine own were worn to shreds. I will treasure these, sir, for as long as I live.” He stopped and licked his lips. “My daughter. Have you seen my daughter?”

“Not yet. But I have heard from those we captured that she is of good health. I have brought weapons for the soldiers here. They will come with me to Batavia’s Graveyard to subdue the rest of the scoundrels,” said Pelsaert. He put a hand on Bastiaensz’s shoulder. “I have heard of your loss, good sir, and I feel your pain. Please—come with us and see for yourself.” He said the words and hoped in his heart that the women were safe and unscathed still.

Bastiaensz nearly burst into tears. “I will do so and gladly.”

Hayes waited by the boats with ten men armed with muskets and swords brought from
Sardam
. Pelsaert noticed some frowns and unhappiness among some of the others. “Is there a problem, Wiebbe?” he asked.

“Some were disappointed they were not selected to go to Batavia’s Graveyard. I chose men who have been here longest and do not have scores to settle.”

Pelsaert nodded. A sound decision. While Captain Jacopsz and Hayes joined the soldiers in the
Sardam’s
longboat with the soldiers, Pelsaert and the predikant took the second yawl, which had belonged to the scoundrels, sitting amongst barrels of bread and kegs of wine.

“Gijsbert, tell me of what has happened as we travel,” said Pelsaert.

Bastiaensz needed no second bidding. He told his story, describing the deaths he had seen, the murder of his own family as he sat in van Huyssen’s tent, the treatment meted out to the women, the beheading of an innocent net mender. Tears welled in his eyes as he talked.

“Ah, Pelsaert, It is a sad and sorry tale of great horror.” He shook his head. “It was if the Merchant fell under an enchantment. When first he arrived on the island, Jeronimus was elected Chief of the Council and he behaved himself very well. He organised the encampment, reduced the numbers on the island by sending groups to other islands and stopped much of the arguing and bickering. And then it seemed as if, slowly, he changed. From the time the people from Traitors’ Island were killed, it was as if the Devil himself walked amongst us. No man knew if he would survive another night.” He shivered, eyes dark with memories. “The nights were the worst. That was when they murdered. The glow of a lamp and the crunch of feet in the stillness will always bring horror to my heart. I would lie in my bed and pray to God that the light would pass my tent. And the sounds; the screams and cries of those they hunted; their own infernal laughter. For all my life I will hear those sounds.”

“Was it only Jeronimus?” asked Pelsaert.

“Jeronimus ordered but he did not do. Ah, he had others more than willing. Davidt Zevanck, Coenraat, Gijsbert van Welderen, Jan Hendricxsz, Matthijs Beer and many others who would beg to kill.”

“Davidt Zevanck?”

“Indeed. He was one of the worst, who would kill on a whim.”

Zevanck. Pelsaert remembered the brooding serious young clerk sitting at the table in
Batavia’s
Great Cabin, quill in hand as he bent over his accounts. The others the predikant had named were cadets, soldiers, common sailors. But a Company assistant? What madness was unleashed here?

Batavia’s Graveyard grew larger as they approached. Pelsaert listened to the preacher talk, but his eyes were on the island. As they sailed nearer he recalled that dreadful day four months ago when he had tried to bring water to the mass of people waiting here on this flat, barren speck. Now, a collection of perhaps fifteen or twenty tents huddled together in orderly lines on a corner. Most were quite small but three or four that were larger, were grouped together a little away from the others. People had gathered to watch the boats approach but not to offer the jubilant greeting Pelsaert had received on the soldiers’ island. And so few; so few.

A dozen or so men wearing the now-familiar red coats hurried forward, pikes and swords at the ready.

But Hayes was unperturbed. A few of his soldiers stepped into the water and started to load their muskets behind the protection of the yawl while somebody tended to a smouldering wick. Pelsaert, waiting in the second boat that hovered a little behind, approved of their discipline as Hayes deployed them, ready to meet any attack from the men on the little beach. “Drop your weapons,” Hayes shouted. “It’s over. We have Jeronimus and the Stonecutter. Your other leaders are dead.”

For a moment Pelsaert thought a few might offer resistance. He stood up in the boat. “We are not here to kill you,” he called. “Surrender now.” He looked from face to face, seeing recognition, dismay, resignation, and in some, relief. Was that not his clerk, Salomon Deschamps? And there Isbrant? How could they be part of this murderous crew? And yet they wore red coats.

A few muttered together, no doubt determined to defend themselves. But one—Pelsaert guessed from his demeanour and his richly decorated coat that this was Wouter Loos—stepped forward and laid his pike on the ground. “It’s over,” he said.

The weapons dropped.

To Pelsaert it was as though the people were suddenly released from a binding spell. Some shouted and cheered, others sagged to their knees and praised the Lord. Yet others fell weeping on each others’ necks. A few discarded their red coats and stamped on them. Several women hugged each other in a tearful embrace. A few—a very few—balled their fists and rushed at the men who had abandoned their weapons. Hayes and his soldiers, Jacopsz and his sailors intervened to prevent them from exacting vengeance on their oppressors. That done, they seized those of the red-coated men who had looked willing to fight and bound them.

Pelsaert stepped into the shallows but the predikant was faster.

“Judyck. Where is my Judyck?” he called. She flung herself into her father’s arms and sobbed on his shoulder.

And there stood Lucretia, thinner perhaps but lovely as ever in a blue gown that matched her eyes. She walked towards Pelsaert, dignified and upright.

“My Lady Lucretia,” he said as he took her hand. “I am so relieved to see you well and unharmed.”

“
Commandeur
.” She smiled, a brief smile as fragile as Chinese porcelain. “Unharmed perhaps. But not unscathed. All who have lived through this will bear the scars for all their lives.”

Pelsaert could think of nothing to say. How to ask her about her nights with Jeronimus?

“Come,” she said. “There are things here you will wish returned.”

He followed as she led him to the largest tent and recognised the chairs from the
Batavia’s
Great Cabin, set around a table made of driftwood. She pulled aside a sail curtain and pointed to a clothes rack.

“These, I think, are yours,” she said. “Jeronimus made use of them.”

“Of
my
clothes?”

“All saved from the ship. Towards the end, just before he was captured, he changed his costume every day. He wore buckles on his shoes, gold garters, silken stockings.” She spoke without heat, merely stating facts. “And these, too, you will want returned.” She pointed at a barrel.

Oh God in Heaven and all his angels. Pelsaert recognised it at once. Heart jolting, he hefted the barrel onto the table and removed the lid. One treasure after another he laid upon the wood. Necklaces, the tiara, a jewelled knife, tobacco tins. Hands shaking he eased out the plain wooden box. Opened the finely-carved pine box within. Unwrapped the velvet. And there lay the cameo, its jewelled surround winking in the soft light inside the tent. Unharmed, unscratched. Pelsaert sank into a chair, the chair that had been his on the
Batavia
, closed his eyes and offered a prayer to the Almighty.

“Wine, sir?” Lucretia’s voice intruded. She stood beside a small table, on which stood the silver service which had once graced the Great Cabin on the
Batavia
. “We have a little left from what was salvaged.”

“Yes.” Why not? Why not indeed, to share a goblet of wine as they talked. She poured and set the wine on the table before she sat opposite him.

“You will have heard I was Jeronimus’s concubine,” she said.

Pelsaert felt the heat rise in his face. “I had heard.”

“My choice was to submit, or…” She mashed her lips. “Or be used as a common whore like the other women they allowed to live.” For the first time, Pelsaert heard the bitterness.

“Did he treat you well?”

A strange expression flitted across her face, so quickly Pelsaert wasn’t sure he’d seen it. “Oh, yes. I was his lady, his personal treasure. He and his council ate better, had better rations than anyone else. And as you can see, Jeronimus treated any goods salvaged from the wreck as his own.”

“What happened after he was captured?”

“I feared that his deputy, Pietersz who had been the lance-corporal on the
Batavia
, would take his place. But he did not. They elected a new captain, Wouter Loos. And he treated me with respect. He shared this tent, but see?” she pointed at a palliasse on the ground, “he slept here and I in the curtained section.”

Lucretia sipped at her wine. When she sat the goblet down she sighed. “You will hear more from others how truly awful the time has been. I must be honest and tell you that I was protected from much that happened here, even as a spectator. You will hear, too, that I was favoured. As was Judyck. But believe me when I tell you, it was not my choice, or hers.”

She ran a finger around the rim of her goblet, stared into the depths of her wine. “I think, you know, if I had refused Jeronimus, he would not have kept me for common service. He would have seen my rejection as a personal affront and I would have been killed. For a long time I played a game with Jeronimus. He started to believe I could not refuse him if he pressed his suit and so he did, without touching me, for many days. He never forced himself upon me. At last, Zevanck gave me my choice. Submit or die.”

“There is no shame in that, my lady,” said Pelsaert.

She lifted her head and gazed into Pelsaert’s eyes. “All I want now is to sail for Batavia and to be reunited with my husband.” Sadness and longing clouded her eyes.

Pelsaert set down his goblet. Now seemed such a bad time. And yet, when would be a good time? She might as well know now. He took a deep breath. “My lady, I have news for you.”

She stared at him with those lovely violet-blue eyes and he felt she already knew.

“When first I reached Batavia I met with the Lord Governor, Jan Pieterszoon Coen. He told me that your husband contracted the fever and died many months ago, before even we set sail from Amsterdam. I am sorry.”

Lucretia’s hands grew rigid on the table top. She closed her eyes and bent her head back. Tears glistened under her eyelashes and slipped down her cheeks.

“I am so sorry,” repeated Pelsaert. He made to walk around the table to her, to offer her comfort.

Her eyes opened. “Take from here what you will, sir, and leave me, if you please, to mourn a few moments.”