by Judy Nunn
Wouter nodded. Yes, he agreed, the couple loved each other very much. The faintest suggestion of a smile twitched the corners of Wouter Eikelboom’s mouth. He wondered how long it would be before they realised it themselves.
In my chapters pertaining to the Batavia, the locket and the character of Dirck Liebensz are fictional, and I have taken dramatic licence in my use of dialogue and interaction between the principal players. With these exceptions, all other events are historically accurate. The characters about whom I wrote existed, and the attempted mutiny, the slaughter and torture inflicted upon the survivors by Cornelisz and his henchmen, and the miraculous and timely return of Pelsaert are historical fact.
A postscript on several of the principal characters, for those who may be interested in their fate:
Lucretia van den Mylen finally reached Batavia aboard the rescue vessel the Zaandam only to discover that her husband, Boudewijn, had died shortly before her arrival. She married again, and lived for a number of years in the colonies before returning to Holland towards the end of 1635, where she and her husband settled in Leiden. They remained childless.
The success of Commandeur Francisco Pelsaert’s rescue operation and the scrupulousness of the trials he conducted on the Abrolhos were sufficient to stifle the criticism of cowardice directed at him from some quarters. However, he became a physically and emotionally broken man through the illness he had contracted during the voyage and the accusations he suffered consequently. He died in 1630.
The mutineers, under torture on the Abrolhos, accused their skipper, Adriaen Jacobsz, of being a principal instigator in the alleged plot to seize the Batavia. Jacobsz successfully defended his innocence to the charge of mutiny. He did not, however, escape the serious, and ironically incorrect, accusation levelled at him by his harshest critics. He was accused of ‘abandoning his ship and her occupants, thereby provoking the disasters which occurred’. Despite his repeated requests for freedom, he was left to languish, and doubtless to die, in the dungeons of the citadel of Batavia. There is no record of his release, nor is there record of his death.
After fulfilling her dream of performing on the London stage, Australian actress Samantha Lindsay is thrilled when she scores her first Hollywood movie role. She’s to play Sarah Blackston, a character loosely based on World War II heroine Mamma Tack, an English nurse who was invaluable to the US forces and native population of the New Hebrides during the conflict in the Pacific. It’s the role of a lifetime.
On location in Vanuatu, uncanny parallels between history and fiction emerge and Sam begins a quest for the truth. Just who was the real Mamma Tack? And what was the tragic secret that threatens to destroy people in the present day? The answers reveal not only secrets of the past but Sam’s own destiny.
The elements were peaceful. A cloudless sky, a gentle breeze, an unruffled sea. It should have been a perfect summer morning. And the beach should have been inviting. Terrace houses, some five storeys high, fronted onto the broad expanse of sand, a pretty setting, echoing past holiday-makers’ delight. But it was no holiday haven today.
Today black smoke dimmed the sun, and the sea and sky merged to a murky grey as layer upon layer of German aircraft swooped from high to unleash their 1,000-pound bombs on the English destroyers. The elements were peaceful, but mankind was bent on death and destruction.
Martin Thackeray lay on the deck, clinging to the gunwales of the small wooden fishing boat as the Stukas roared overhead. The boat had pulled out to sea and was in the midst of the havoc being wreaked upon the British warships. He looked back at the shore barely a mile away, at the beach and the houses. He thought of Margate where his family used to holiday annually when he was a child and he tried to blot out the smoke and the exploding shells and the bodies bobbing about in the oil-blackened sea. He concentrated on the beach and the houses. It could have been Margate, he thought. And the long V-formation of soldiers marching down to the shore could have been holiday-makers. He clung to the thought as rigidly as he clung to the gunwales, fearful of losing consciousness, for the loss of consciousness meant the loss of his life. Why did death frighten him so? he wondered. He’d seen many men die. Now it was his time. He must accept it. But somehow he couldn’t. Guilt mingled with his pain. Had he lost his faith? Why was he so fearful of meeting his Maker? He chastised himself, urged himself to make his peace with God, accept his fate, but even as he did so he couldn’t resist the need to fight back. The pain once again engulfed him and, desperately, he thought of Margate and his childhood. Stay alive, his mind urged, stay alive.
Despite the chaos which reigned, there was little panic amongst the troops. Thousands waited patiently on the beach for their turn to march crocodile-style into the sea. Like well-behaved schoolchildren they waded, some up to their necks, rifles held high above their heads, to the flotilla of craft waiting to take them home. In the skies overhead dogfights raged as RAF fighters engaged the Luftwaffe, but still the soldiers kept their orderly files until, one by one, two by two, they were hauled aboard vessels where they collapsed, exhausted, on the deck.
Martin had been unable to wade beyond waist-deep. He would not have been able to make it that far had it not been for the man who had saved him.
The humiliation of the British Expeditionary Force had been total, and the troops had retreated as far as they could when orders had been received to assemble on the beach. Few believed the rumours of a rescue mission. They’d be stranded if they went to the beach, they thought. Slaughtered or taken prisoner. But orders were orders and thousands upon thousands of soldiers scrambled through the bombed-out villages to head for the open and vulnerable shoreline.
Martin Thackeray and twenty others of his unit had been trapped in a ruined church as the enemy advance troops entered the deserted village. They’d left it too late to make their escape. They opened fire. The enemy took cover and skirmishing had continued throughout the entire day and into the night as the Germans tried to ascertain the Allied numbers remaining in the village. Fresh enemy troops arrived and dug in for the morning when they’d storm the church and surrounding buildings.
It was just before dawn when the men had made their escape bid, but they were lambs to the slaughter, mercilessly mown down by the surrounding forces which awaited them. Only Martin and young Tom Putney had emerged unscathed, eventually making it to the coastline a full day later.
‘Christ almighty!’ Tom had muttered in his thick Cockney accent as they’d ducked through a narrow street which led to the sea. ‘Jus’ look at that!’
‘Don’t blaspheme.’ Martin’s reply had been automatic. Tom’s blaspheming and his own remonstration had been a running joke between them for months, but he too had stood dumbfounded at the sight of the myriad vessels churning through the water. There must be hundreds, he’d thought. Too many to count, and of every description. There were troopships and mine sweepers, cruisers and yachts, pleasure craft and fishing boats, and others, little more than dinghies. And on the beach sat thousands of men, patiently waiting their turn for deliverance. Some had been waiting for days.
‘I wasn’t blasphemin’, Marty,’ Tom had said, ‘I was givin’ thanks.’ Even in the direst of circumstances Tom was always good for a joke, but this time he wasn’t joking at all. ‘It’s a bleedin’ miracle, it is. A bleedin’ –’
He’d stopped mid-sentence as the building beside them erupted. A shell had found its mark. But they were out of the battle zone, Martin had thought vaguely as the force of the blast lifted him bodily into the air.
When he had come to his senses, seconds or hours later, he couldn’t tell, he had realised that the shell had not been fired from the battle zone. The Stukas overhead were determined to halt the escape mission.
Yet more troops were pouring down the narrow street making for the shore, climbing over the rubble of the building, tripping over the body of Tom buried waist-deep in debris.
‘Tom!’ Martin had dragged himself over to his friend, a searing pain in his left
leg and chest. There was a ringing in his ears and his vision was blurred, but he knew Tom was dead. Tom Putney had been barely twenty, ten years younger than Martin. Too young to die.
‘Our Father,’ Martin had begun as he crossed Tom’s hands over his chest, ‘who art …’ Then suddenly he was grabbed by the wrist and hauled to his knees, the pain screaming through his body.
‘Don’t waste your breath, boyo.’
‘Our Father who art in heaven …’ Martin had protested, as much for himself as for Tom.
‘Come on!’ Emlyn Gruffudd had urged. Jesus Christ! He was as religious as the next man, but what was the point in saying prayers for a bloke who had half his head blown off! And at a time like this! ‘Come on,’ he’d repeated, hoisting Martin to his feet. ‘You can make it.’
Martin had found himself half carried, half dragged to the beach. He had no idea who the man was but, as his sight cleared, he knew that he was not from his unit. He had tried to thank the man but waves of pain had engulfed him and the words wouldn’t come out.
‘Don’t you worry, boyo,’ Emlyn had muttered, ‘you’ll make it.’
The ringing in Martin’s ears blocked out any sound. Once again he’d tried to voice his thanks and his lips formed the words, but nothing came out, not even a whisper.
The wounded were the first to be shepherded into the queue making its way to the water and Emlyn Gruffudd thanked his lucky stars that he’d rescued the Englishman. He might have been waiting his turn with the others for days if he hadn’t. It had not been his intention to jump the queue, but when the opportunity had offered itself he didn’t say no. He hoisted Martin higher up on to his hip, ignoring the groans of agony. Perhaps the poor lad was already dying, he’d thought, as he started to wade.
Only minutes later they were picked up by one of the lighter craft which had negotiated its way into shallower water.
‘Ten’s the limit, room for two more,’ the skipper of the small fishing boat had said and he and his young crewman, a lad barely out of his teens, had helped them aboard. There was no disorderliness from the other troops in the water. The men simply waded out further or waited their turn in the shallows, aiding the wounded.
‘That’s it, Billy-boy,’ the skipper had said to the lad, ‘we’ve got our load of pongos, we’re off.’
So Martin clung to the gunwales and, whilst the boat chugged out into the channel, he watched the beach of Dunkirk and thought of Margate as he fought to retain his consciousness. But once they were out in the boisterous sea, the motion of the boat sent such pain through his shattered leg and his chest that unconsciousness seemed a blessing. If this was death, he thought, so be it. The pain had become unendurable and he prayed to God as he slipped into the merciful blackness.
‘Portsmouth’s chaos. So’s Southampton. The big boats are all makin’ for the docks there.’ The voice was authoritative, an older man with a thick Hampshire accent. ‘We’re headin’ for Fareham.’
The ringing in his ears had lessened and, as he came to, Martin heard the words clearly. So he was still alive. He didn’t know whether he was thankful or not. He steeled himself to the pain which once again galloped through him like an angry stallion, every part of his body now screaming in agony.
‘Where’s Fareham?’ he heard a Welsh voice query. ‘Never heard of it.’
‘Roughly ’alfway ’tween Portsmouth and Southampton,’ the skipper said. ‘About four mile upriver. Home eh, Billy-boy?’ The skipper smiled through his grey beard at his young crewman. ‘We’re headin’ home.’
‘Aye, Skip,’ the lad grinned back.
Martin once again felt the blackness slide over him. But this time he didn’t think of God and he didn’t think of death. He no longer cared, he simply wished to escape the pain.
He awoke once again to the sound of voices. Many of them this time. Voices of command. ‘Easy does it. Gently now.’ Others scrambled from the boat, willing hands helping the wounded, and he heard the Welshman say, ‘You can make it, boyo,’ as he felt himself lifted onto the jetty. He gritted his teeth to prevent himself crying out. They laid him on a canvas stretcher and carried him to a waiting vehicle, one of many in the quayside dockyard. Army ambulances, private cars, even several horses and drays: the place was a hive of activity.
Martin was delirious, his brain in turmoil. Where was he? The voices were English, all of them. He wanted to ask, ‘Am I home?’ but he didn’t dare try to speak. Then a hand was holding his. A soft hand, but its grip was firm and reassuring.
‘Don’t worry, you’re home now.’ A woman’s voice. She had read his mind, and she looked like an angel. He fought against the blackness as he felt himself drift away. He didn’t want to lose sight of the vision. An angel, with hair so fair it formed a halo around her face. ‘You’re home,’ she said again, ‘you’re safe. We’re taking you to the Royal Victoria Hospital at Netley.’ Her voice was gentle and came from very far away. And then she smiled. He held on to the voice and the vision as they lifted him into the ambulance. His fear and uncertainty had left him now. He was saved, the angel had told him so. ‘You’re safe,’ she’d said, and he believed her.
‘Nora – can I never be anything more than a stranger to you?’
‘Ah, Torvald, the most wonderful thing of all would have to happen.’
‘Tell me what that would be!’
‘Both you and I would have to be so changed that … Oh, Torvald, I don’t believe any longer in wonderful things happening.’
‘But I will believe in it. Tell me! So changed that …?’
‘That our life together would be a real wedlock. Goodbye.’
She left, and he sat, burying his head in his hands.
‘Nora! Nora!’ He looked around. ‘Empty. She is gone.’ Hope flashed through his mind. ‘The most wonderful thing of all …?’ Then he heard the sound of the door below as it closed.
The final performance of Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, received a standing ovation. The award-winning production had played for over a year to capacity houses for each of its 431 performances, and its success was in most part due to the young actress who had taken London’s West End by storm. 2003 was certainly Samantha Lindsay’s year.
In the centre of the lineup, hands clasped with her fellow cast members, Samantha walked downstage to take the final of the curtain calls. There’d been twelve in all. She’d accepted the bouquet from the theatre manager, taken several solo calls and now, as the cast bowed, she glanced to the wings and gave a barely perceptible nod to the stage manager. He acknowledged her message, the lights dimmed, the cast left the stage and the audience was still loudly applauding as the house lights came up.
Backstage, cast and crew hugged each other affectionately, some with tears in their eyes, and Deidre, who played the maid, openly cried. It had been a long run and a very happy company; they would miss each other. A celebratory supper had been arranged for the entire cast, but for now they continued to mingle in the wings, savouring the moment. Alexander embraced Samantha.
‘My darling doll-wife,’ he said, ‘you’ve been a glorious Nora, it’s been wonderful.’ Then, when he’d kissed her on both cheeks, he couldn’t help adding, ‘But why on earth did you call a halt? We could have taken at least another half dozen calls.’
Sam recognised it for the genuine complaint it was. ‘Always leave them wanting more,’ she replied innocently, ‘isn’t that what they say?’
He appeared not to hear her. ‘We took fifteen on the last night of Lady Windemere, and that only ran for a hundred performances, we could probably have stretched it to twenty tonight and created a record.’ Alexander had never approved of the fact that the cast had been directed to take their curtain calls from Samantha. The girl gave a stellar performance in the role of Nora, he agreed, but she was far too inexperienced in theatre etiquette. In West End theatre etiquette, in any event.
‘Oh well, too late now,’ Sam shrugged. Alexander’s litany of complaints had be
come water off a duck’s back to her. He was a fine actor and they’d worked well together, although she’d had to overcome his open antipathy in the early days. Alexander Wright had been unaccustomed to working opposite a virtual unknown. However, the reaction of the preview audiences and the opening night reviews had altered his opinion and, like everyone else, he’d eventually succumbed, albeit begrudgingly, to Samantha’s natural charm and lack of pretension.
‘She’s a dear,’ he’d say to those who asked what Samantha Lindsay was really like – and, to his secret chagrin, there were many who did. ‘Quite the little innocent really.’ He always managed to make it sound simultaneously affectionate and patronising.
Sam was not innocent. She was unaffected certainly, but she had realised that it made things easier for everyone if she simply pandered to the actor’s ego.
‘I’m quite sure you’re right,’ she now added as she noticed the familiar scowl, ‘and yes it’s been wonderful.’ She hugged him genuinely. ‘I’ve loved working with you, Alexander, you’ve taught me a lot.’ She meant it. She’d learned a great deal from him and she was grateful. Besides, Alexander couldn’t help being Alexander. What was the saying? A pride of lions, a gaggle of geese and a whinge of actors. After thirty dedicated years in the theatre, Alexander Wright was a product of his profession.
Recognising her sincerity, he replied with the dignity befitting such a compliment. ‘Thank you, my dear. I feel it’s one’s responsibility to encourage young actors.’
He was touched by her remark, she could tell, and was about to embark upon one of his many, and interminable, stories of past productions, so she pecked him on the cheek. ‘You have, and I’m very grateful.’ She smiled. ‘And now I have to get the slap off.’ She grabbed the bouquet of flowers which the assistant stage manager was patiently holding for her and headed for her dressing room. ‘See you at supper,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘I’m bloody starving!’