To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (29 page)

“Best to leave it to me,” said Beer. “With your permission, of course, sir.”

Now they argued with each other for the right to kill, thought Cornelisz, like children over a toy. How long had it been since they had indulged in blood-letting? A week? Ten days?

“I promised Jan,” Cornelisz said.

“Ah, but I’ll bet he can’t do what I can do. Cut off his head with one blow,” Beer said.

“I’ll bet you can’t,” Hendricxsz said. “Not with an ordinary sword.”

“Well, then. What do you say, Master Cornelisz?”

“Oh, why not?” Cornelisz said. Better to indulge his two main killers than the cabin boy.

Beer reached for the sword. Pelgrom snatched it away, out of Beer’s reach. But only for a moment. Beer, taller, heavier and stronger, grabbed the weapon and tore it from Pelgrom’s hand.

“It’s blunt,” he said, running a thumb along the edge. “I’ll get it sharpened.” He hurried off to fetch a stone.

The net makers sat by the water’s edge, nets and rope piled beside them, heads bent over their work.

“Fetch Cornelis here,” Cornelisz said to Hendricxsz. “Bring his stool.”

The boy approached, face pinched, eyes wary. The soldier walked beside him, a slight smile on his bearded lips, the stool in his hand.

“Sit here on your stool, Cornelis,” said Cornelisz.

The lad did as he was told, running a nervous tongue between his lips.

“Jan, you bind his eyes.”

Eyes wide with fear, Cornelis leant away, flicking a glance at Cornelisz.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a prank,” said Cornelisz as Hendricxsz passed his own neckcloth around Cornelis’s head.

The older net maker had followed his companion and now stood watching proceedings, hands kneading his hat. The predikant approached, looking even more like a ragged bird. And here came Judyck and Lucretia, skirts billowing around their legs.

“Ready?”

Cornelisz tore his eyes away from Lucretia at the sound of Beer’s voice.

“I want to do it,” muttered Pelgrom, lower lip trembling.

Cornelisz ignored him. “Go ahead,” he said to Beer.

Beer swung.

The blade struck the boy below his ear, splitting his neck. Blood spurted, spattering Beer and Pelgrom, as the body, jerking spasmodically, fell to the ground, the head tilted at an impossible angle. Zevanck and Hendricxsz applauded, laughing. The older net-maker stood frozen, his face a white mask, his hat hanging from rigid hands. Judyck and Lucretia clung together.

“Not bad,” Hendricxsz chortled, “but you lose.”

For once, Cornelisz was grateful that the wind blew so hard. He had avoided the contamination, while Beer and Pelgrom wiped blood from their faces. They could do little about the stains to their clothes, but at least the coats were red.

Beer grunted. “I would have done it with one blow if I’d had a two-handled blade.” He stepped to the body and sliced through the remaining flesh.

The head rolled a little, hair and cheeks smeared with dust and blood.

Cornelisz gazed down at the corpse. He wondered if it hurt, at what point the boy knew he was dead, whether the head remained aware for any time? He’d seen headless chickens still jerking about. Maybe this was the same? He became aware of a stifled sob and turned to find the source. Pelgrom frowned, eyes glistening.

“You’ll have your chance, Jan,” said Cornelisz, laying a kindly hand on the young man’s shoulder. “This really would have been beyond you.”

Although, he admitted to himself as, hand on hat, he made his way back to his tent, it was hard to see who young Pelgrom would be able to kill. Unless he could take his chance with one of the people on Wiebbe’s island. And he rather doubted that.

*

“Breathe, Judyck, breathe,” said Lucretia, arms around the younger woman’s waist.

“Oh, God in Heaven, how much longer must we endure this?” Judyck’s voice was little more than a strangled whisper above the bluster of the wind and the far-off boom of the surf.

Not even tears any more, thought Lucretia. Horror after horror had made her immune. She’d seen Jeronimus give Pelgrom the sword, wondered at the brief battle of ownership with Beer. And then, oh, that hideous ritual as Hendricxsz bound the boy’s eyes. A tremor of disgust wormed down her spine.

“I sometimes think a demon resides in his soul,” she said. “He can be so charming, so attentive, so witty and entertaining. And then, it is as if a darkness rises and an evil beast looks out through his eyes.”

“I don’t know how much more of this I can stand, Creesje. Coenraat hardly even lets me talk to Father. A snatched few moments here and there. That’s all.”

“At least he still lives,” said Lucretia. But how long for? They were running out of people to kill. She prayed the predikant, at least, would have some value to Jeronimus. She’d given up trying to predict his ways. All she knew was that he and his people wanted to go to the High Islands. No doubt to murder.

*

“We, the undersigned, will promise with this written unbreakable agreement, making to each other the greatest oath that anyone can take...”

Cornelisz tossed the document aside and rested his chin in his hand. They’d signed it, all his followers, on the sixteenth of July. But it read as if those people had some say in matters. They never had, of course. His word was law, even though he still had his councillors. And this division between the soldiers and the sailors, maybe someone else could take advantage of it, as he had himself. Coenraat van Huyssen, maybe; if he managed to get his head out of bed for long enough to think. Or even the predikant, sad sack that he was. Zevanck he could trust as long as he could provide him with opportunities to kill and Pietersz was too stupid to be a threat. Jan Hendricxsz and Matthijs Beer would keep him safe from anybody else.

The canvas above his head snapped and flapped.

Surely a ship would be here soon.

He wondered if Captain Jacobsz could be persuaded to turn the ship to another purpose? He hoped so; they would need the sailors to sail the ship. And certainly back there at the Cape, after Pelsaert had berated him for drinking, Jacobsz would cheerfully have murdered the
commandeur
on the spot. But if Jacobsz didn’t want to cooperate—well, they would simply take over the vessel.

Time perhaps for a new agreement, that all would sign. He took a paper and prepared quill and ink.

“We undersigned persons, councillors, soldiers, sailors as well as our predikant, accept as our chief, Jeronimus Cornelisz. With one accord, and each separately we swear before God to be faithful and obedient in all that he shall order us and in so far as we do other, we shall be the Devil’s own.

To which we have bound ourselves destroying and casting away all previous promises, public and particular, and oaths which have been taken before this under which are included the secret comradeships, tent-ships and others. The ship’s folk amongst us will not be called sailors anymore but will be reckoned on the same footing as soldiers, under one company.

Thus done on the island Batavia’s Graveyard, 20 August Anno 1629”

Cornelisz blew on the ink to dry it and admired his work. That should cover everything. No need to mention the women. They were well and truly under control. But if no one was a sailor or a soldier any more, or a merchant, what should he call himself? After all, he wasn’t an under merchant any longer and he had no desire to be an upper merchant. He sat back in his chair. Chief? Prince? King? No. Not until he had a kingdom. And that might happen.

Captain? A captain of a ship was an important role. But he had soldiers under his command as well as sailors, and soldiers had generals.

Ah. Captain-General. Yes, that had a ring about it. Something both groups could rally to.

Corporal Pietersz, Davidt Zevanck and Coenraat van Huyssen appeared promptly in response to Cornelisz’s summons, delivered by Jan Pelgrom.

“I want everyone to sign this,” said Cornelisz.

He watched their faces as they read.

“You’ve abolished the council?” asked van Huyssen. Twin lines were etched between his eyebrows.

“Not abolished, no. When we have a ship, we must have one leader to whom all are responsible, just as a ship must have a captain. I shall still take advice from you gentlemen, of course. I shall be captain-general and you, Stonecutter, shall be lieutenant-general. How does that sound?”

“I’ll sign,” said Pietersz, reaching for the quill. He frowned in concentration, forming the letters of his name with laborious care.

“Excellent,” said Cornelisz. “I’ll have some more gold braid added to your coat. Yours, too, of course,” he added, smiling at Zevanck and van Huyssen.

The two men exchanged glances.

Zevanck shrugged. “I suppose it’s simply a statement of fact,” he said. He took the quill to sign and van Huyssen followed suit.

“I want this signed by all,” said Cornelisz. “We must be a unified group if we are to defeat the traitors on Wiebbe’s island and win the ship.”

“Master Cornelisz—” van Huyssen began.

“Captain-General,” interrupted Cornelisz.

“Captain-General,” said van Huyssen. “What if Captain Jacobsz does not wish to join us?”

“Then he dies,” said Cornelisz.

“And we take the ship?” said Zevanck.

“Yes. I have thought on this. The ship will have minimal crew so that the rescued people can be brought on board, as well as the salvaged goods. Less than thirty. We will more than match them and we have muskets, pikes, swords. We lure the officers to the island and give them the choice.” And if he could convince Wiebbe Hayes to join his group, thought Cornelisz, so much the better. Hayes would make a better Lieutenant-General than Pietersz—provided he could be controlled.

“Wine, Jan,” said Cornelisz, waving a languid hand at Pelgrom. “We can toast our new arrangement, gentlemen, and then you will summon the folk to sign their names. Including the predikant.”

30

Hayes and twenty men stood behind the barricade on the beach as the yawl approached their island, tacking into a light breeze. Only one yawl. He’d expected an all-out assault at the earliest opportunity, as soon as the weather allowed the trip. And that was now. White clouds drifted high in the sky, towards the east. The ocean sparkled, not calm but at least the swell had lessened. The sailors in the vessel swung the sail and the yawl changed course, with the High Island to starboard.

No doubt now where they were headed. A mile or so out they would drop the sail and come in over the shallows with oars.

The soldiers stirred behind Hayes, checking weapons as the sail was reefed and the oars were deployed.

But instead of heading for the shore where Hayes waited with his men, the yawl travelled on, past the headland and the end of the causeway. Hayes and his people followed across the island until the boat beached on an islet no more than four hundred yards away, just beyond the arms of the bay. The first man vaulted out of the boat, splashing in the shallows. Hayes counted. Eight men, then one, wearing a wide-brimmed, plumed hat, was carried ashore.

“Looks like he’s come himself,” muttered one of the soldiers.

“So it seems,” said Hayes. “But he did that last time, too.” Except the last time, he’d stayed on the High Island. A little closer this time. “Get ready, lads. They’ll be coming soon.”

The breeze, with its tang of salt, whispered over the coral from the south. A gull screamed. The soldiers waited, silent.

But only one of the new arrivals braved the crossing, setting out across the mud flats while the rest sat on the shore. Hayes squinted his eyes against the sea-sparkle. This man wasn’t wearing a red coat and his clothes looked black.

“It’s the predikant,” said a soldier.

And so it was. Hayes barely recognised the man, his clothes hanging on his shrunken frame as he waded through the water. A few last splashing steps and the predikant stood on the island. Hayes laid down his pike and went forward to meet him. “Welcome to you, Predikant.”

“Well met, well met,” said Bastiaensz. Tears glistened in eyes that had seen too much, sunken into a haggard face.

“Come, drink some water. We can bring you food.” Hayes gestured and a man ran off. “Sit, sit. I can see you are here as a go-between.” He led the man to rocks and helped him to find a seat. Dear God. Bastiaensz’s shoulders shook. “Here, drink,” urged Hayes, pushing a wooden cup into the preacher’s hand.

Like so many others before him, the predikant sipped, then gulped eagerly. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve before he spoke. “They have sent me to offer parley. The Merchant is there.” He jerked his head at the island. “Here, I have a letter.” He dug a paper out of his pocket and handed it to Hayes.

Another letter. Of course. He should have expected it, thought Hayes. More treachery, no doubt. He read through the contents as the predikant ate, making appreciative noises as he tore at the cold meat.

“Well?” asked Otto Smit. He hovered next to Hayes, almost quivering with curiosity. Hayes handed him the letter. For everyone else, he said, “The Merchant wants to come and talk peace.”

“Huh. Pretty words and a false heart,” said Smit.

A mutter of agreement rustled among the soldiers. “He must think we’re stupid,” said one.

“That’s what I think.” Hayes turned to Bastiaensz. “We have nothing to say to him. Why don’t you stay here, with us?”

The predikant’s face fell. “Would that I could. But I cannot stay,” he said. “They have my daughter Judyck at their mercy. If I do not return they may take their vengeance on her. She is all I have left.”

The words ended in a sob.

Hayes crouched down beside Bastiaensz and draped a hand on his shoulder. “Tell me.”

And so it poured out, the terrible night when the predikant’s family was massacred, that day when Coenraat van Huyssen pressed his suit and took Judyck for his own, the poor man’s own degradation as nothing more than a labourer, helping to launch and retrieve the yawls.

“They would not let me preach, even,” said Bastiaensz. “And even in the beginning, when I had a small flock who would hear God’s word, when I beseeched the Lord to take those on the islands under his wing, they mocked me, waving the flippers cut from seals over their heads, saying we were all already under God’s wing.”