To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (36 page)

*

Lucretia sat at her table, her silver treasure box in her hands. A folded paper, a tiny bracelet, a pink ribbon and a carved wooden soldier. And now the box itself, Boudewijn’s last gift to her. Perhaps she should cry but the tears would not come, not even at this final blow. Her whole journey, her whole reason for being on the
Batavia
, had been a mirage; a pointless exercise in futility. And what now for her? She was utterly alone, with only a box-full of memories.

She took the folded paper from the box. She’d stored it there, knowing Jeronimus would expect her to treasure the words. The sonnet. She unfolded the document, smoothing it against the wood with gentle fingers.

Flee not from me nor from me turn away
For ardently I do for you so long;
You fill my very soul with thoughts that play
As viols on my mind a Circe-song.

He’d written the words with his own hand, flowing and confident. A poem of enchantment, almost as if he thought himself bewitched. But not by her. Heat rose to her face as she remembered his caresses and her shameful response. Whimpering, she rested her head in her hands. No, this would not do. She wanted no memory of this man. With furious fingers she tore the paper apart, smaller and smaller. That done, she cupped the fragments in her hands, carried them to the shore and flung them into the sea.

36

The sun had sunk well down in the western sky when at last Pelsaert had the sailors row the longboat down the channel past the Seals’ Island and out into the open ocean. Yes, he was here to rescue the survivors, but Coen’s order was clear in his mind. Salvage the Company’s goods. He had been distracted from that task for too long. He had to see the wreck.

Surf surged onto the long line of the reef to port, exposing white rock as the water sucked back. But it seemed almost gentle, compared with Pelsaert’s memories of his flight from the ship. The longboat rolled with the motion of the waves. Pelsaert, well experienced with travel in a small vessel, swayed with it, searching the sea for signs of his flagship.

“There ‘tis, m’lord,” said one of the sailors. “Yer c’n see a piece of the bulwark there on the reef’s edge.”

A section of the rail was all that remained above the water. The men nosed the boat alongside and Pelsaert stared down into the green depths. He could see the keel and there, a little further up on the reef, a section of the prow. He recognised two pieces of cannon and in the deeper water, a section of the poop, broken off at about the steering platform, lay on its side. Fish played hide-and-seek among the broken timbers.

“Amazing,” said Pelsaert. “Little more than three months ago the ship was brand new. Now, not even a mast or a spar to see.”

“There is no power on this earth greater than the sea,” said Captain Jacopsz at his side. “She cares naught for man and his works. She sings her siren-song and men follow at their peril.”

“It seems we will be hard-pressed to salvage anything.”

“Oh, you may be surprised,
Commandeur
. The water here is not deep and the silver will not have shifted far. The Gujarati divers have worked in far worse than this.”

“You give me hope, Captain.”

Pelsaert had them row him back. He’d sent the worst of the scoundrels, under Hayes’s watchful eye, to the Seals’ Island where they could cause no fuss. This evening, at least, he could hope to talk to other innocents and get a better understanding of what had transpired here.

Long streamers of cloud in the western sky glowed orange, reflecting the sun’s last rays onto the calm waters of the reef flats at low tide, as the longboat slid to a halt on the little beach where the predikant had sat to read his Bible.

The
commandeur
and Jacopsz walked towards the largest tent, where a fire burned, throwing its glow onto the canvas. They passed a group around a bonfire, laughing and talking, sharing beer and food, the five women from the lower decks among them. Jacopsz’s sailors joined them.

Lucretia had recovered, smiling graciously at Jacopsz as she was introduced. Reyndert Hendricxsz, who had been a steward on
Batavia,
brought wine for all. The table had been set and the smells of cooking drifted in from a fire outside.

“I have been to the wreck,” said Pelsaert. “There is little to see. I wonder what we can salvage. But Captain Jacopsz has more faith than I.”

“It’s wonderful to see you back here, sir,” murmured Hendricxsz as he filled Pelsaert’s goblet. “We were in peril of our lives. And if I may say, I hit a money chest with a pike when I was by the wreck, fishing, not more than a week ago.”

“Excellent news,” said Pelsaert. Perhaps he could yet recover the goods and with it, some small shred of his standing with the Company. But first Jeronimus. And his apparent pact with the captain and the high boatswain of the
Batavia
.

*

Pelsaert woke little refreshed. The bed in what had been Pietersz’s tent was comfortable enough but sleep was hard to find. Again and over, the stories went through his mind. How could these things happen? How could a man like Cornelisz—an educated urbane merchant—turn to such a life of murder and crime? And take with him cadets and Company assistants as well as the riff-raff sailors and soldiers?

In the morning he sent Jacopsz and Hayes to fetch Jeronimus and the rest of the scoundrels from the ship, while he went to talk further with Lucretia. She greeted him graciously and led him to the table.

“Jeronimus left some documents here that you will wish to see,” she said, placing four papers in front of him.

Pelsaert skimmed through the contents. The first two were agreements between Cornelisz and his followers, dated twelfth July and sixteenth July, appended with a list of names. The third, dated twentieth August, named Cornelisz captain-general and all those who signed pledged allegiance to him. In the final paper, the men affirmed their allegiance to Wouter Loos.

“Jeronimus cannot deny that he was the leader in this,” said Pelsaert.

“Does he deny it?” asked Lucretia.

“He blames the others. Coenraat, Davidt, Jacop Pietersz.”

“I never saw him kill anyone,” said Lucretia. “But often I saw him hand a knife or sword to another. And his treatment of Mayken Cardoes’ baby…” Tears sprang to her eyes.

“A baby?” Pelsaert forced himself to speak, dreading the answer.

“She cried at night. He made a potion for her, designed, I think, to kill her. But she didn’t die, just became comatose. I went to see Mayken, to see for myself how the child fared. She told me men came and strangled…” Lucretia paused and mashed her lips. “And a few days later, they killed Mayken, too.”

“I have sent for Jeronimus and the others,” said Pelsaert.

Lucretia stood and smoothed down her skirt with her hands. “Then you will excuse me.”

*

A pretty girl, the predikant’s daughter, thought Hayes. Not beautiful like the Lady Lucretia; more accessible, like his sister or his mother. Her dark hair hung down her back underneath the neat bonnet. A little bit thin, true, but so were all those who had lived on this island.

The Lady Lucretia walked away. His chance had come.

“Your pardon, Mistress Judyck,” he said, drawing level with her and dragging his hat from his head.

Startled brown eyes like a doe’s looked up at him.

“Please, do not be afraid. I wanted to talk. I am Wiebbe, Wiebbe Hayes.”

She smiled. “I had not forgotten. After all, we were introduced just yesterday.”

Hayes felt the heat rise in his neck. “I have heard of what happened to your family,” he said. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I feel.”

She averted her gaze, head tilted to the ground. “We all have suffered, Master Hayes.”

“Wiebbe. Call me Wiebbe.”

She lifted her head, suddenly stern. “Have you heard, too, that Creesje—Lucretia and I were privileged. Did
they
tell you that?”

This time he did blush. Yes, he’d spent a night with one of the women. He was a man, after all, and she wanted to show her gratitude.

“I will not lie. I have heard it said,” he answered. “But I did not believe it,” he added quickly. “I have heard many things from many people, men who escaped from here and came to my island. I don’t believe life was easy for anyone.”

“You killed Coenraat, didn’t you?”

Hayes hesitated. Where would this take him? “Yes.”

“I’m glad.”

*

Pelsaert sat at the table in the tent that had been Cornelisz’s with Jacopsz and Gerritsz at his side.

“Bring in the prisoner.”

Two soldiers brought Cornelisz, arms bound behind his back, and had him sit in a chair facing his accusers.

“How can you have been brought so low, Jeronimus, that you have denuded yourself of all humanity? You have acted like a tiger, spilling so much innocent blood.”

“Ah, no,
Commandeur
, it was not I,” said Cornelisz. He opened his eyes wide, a picture of sincerity. “As I have said before, the others forced my hand. In fact, I did my best to lessen their evil. When I arrived on this island, Coenraat van Huyssen and others—about twelve in all—wanted to surprise the people in their tents and kill all but about forty of them. They said we had not enough food or water for so many. But I persuaded them to let me send people to other islands.”

“Where they were to starve instead?”

“No, no. We would provide food and water.”

Pelsaert listened while Cornelisz told his tale. True, people had died but not on his order. Zevanck led the murderers on Seals’ Island. Van Huyssen and Zevanck insisted on the attacks on Wiebbe Hayes’s soldiers. And all the while, Pelsaert marvelled at the man’s wit, at his persuasive language. Almost, he thought, Cornelisz might have convinced Gerritsz and Jacopsz.

“Enough lies,” said Pelsaert. “Put the collar on his neck.”

A soldier approached with a canvas collar, brought from the
Sardam
. It sat tight around Cornelisz’s neck, a funnel all the way around his head to above the level of his nose. That done, they strapped him to a frame built for the purpose so he could not move or tilt his head

“Pour the water.”

The soldier lifted a bottle and poured from it into the collar. A few beads escaped at the neck and then the join held.

“There is no need for this,
Commandeur
,” said Cornelisz. Fear blazed in his hazel eyes. “I swear to you I have told the truth.”

“More water.”

The level rose, to Cornelisz’s chin, and then to his mouth. He swallowed.

“Please… please no. I will tell all. Please.”

“All?”

“Yes, please, I promise on my life.”

Pelsaert leaned over the table, towards the eyes staring over the top of the canvas funnel. “Why did you advise Captain Adriaen Jacobsz to seize the ship
Batavia
?”

“No. No, I did not do that.”

Lies, more lies. Pelsaert turned his head to order more water.

“No. Let me explain. It was him. Jacobsz. Not me.”

Pelsaert lifted a hand.

“It started after we left Sierra Lionas. When Adriaen tried to seduce the Lady Lucretia. Without success, as you know. Although he even tried to buy her with gold. And then he turned his attention to the maid, Zwaantie. When I asked him why, Adriaen said he had heard from the cook that Lucretia was a whore and that besides, he had more pleasure talking with Zwaantie than her mistress.” Cornelisz sniggered. “When we reached the Cape on a time when you had gone ashore I opened the privy door in the gallery and there were Adriaen and Zwaantie, caught in the act. I closed the door and went away. They didn’t even notice.”

Captain Jacopsz stirred in his seat next to Pelsaert. “But I don’t understand. If the
commandeur
was off the ship, why would they bother with the privy?”

“I believe it,” said Pelsaert. “It’s just the sort of thing Adriaen was capable of. Fancy offering a woman like Lucretia gold to submit to his will.” He jerked his head at Cornelisz. “Go on.”

“Two days later, Adriaen took Zwaantie and me on a visit to the
Buren
and the
Assendelft
. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” said Pelsaert. How could he not?

“Well, after you gave him a public dressing-down, Adriaen came to me and said that if the other ships were not here, he would have given you such a beating that you would not come out of your bunk for fourteen days. And he swore that as soon as could be he would separate from the other ships and then he would be his own master.”

“And what did you say to that?” asked Pelsaert, murder in his heart. Jacobsz. Sneaking, conniving, arrogant oaf.

“I asked him how he would manage that.”

Jacopsz sucked in a breath. Pelsaert glanced at Gerritsz’s raised eyebrow. “What did he say?” he asked Cornelisz.

“That he would manage in his own watch.”

“The captain did not stand the watch alone. Every watch must also have a steersman,” said Gerritsz, voice laced with distrust. “It may have been me. Or Hollert.”

“Yes, yes, he said that,” said Cornelisz. “That he would have to persuade one of them to his plan. But I don’t know which one.”

“Not me,” grunted Gerritsz. “He didn’t like me much.”

“That’s what he said,” agreed Cornelisz. “He didn’t like the Upper Steersman.”

“And when were you planning to seize the ship?”

“I do not know,
Commandeur
. I do not know.”

“I do not believe you,” said Pelsaert. “More water.”

The soldier lifted the bottle.

“I heard from others that had the wreck not happened, the move would have been made soon,” gabbled Cornelisz, his eyes on the bottle.

Pelsaert gestured. The bottle shifted to upright but the man still stood beside Cornelisz.

“They had hoped to force a situation when men laid hands on Lucretia. When you put those miscreants in irons, the captain would have made his move, thrown you overboard and killed all but one hundred and twenty persons. Then they would have sailed for Madagascar or Saint Helena. I have heard this, too, from Coenraat van Huyssen. He said he would have been among the first to leap with a sword into your cabin to throw you overboard.”