To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck

by Greta van Der Rol

  “Kill them.”

  The rasp of swords on scabbards rang as all the men from the yawl drew their blades. Time seemed to stand still, the world to stop, except for this horrible spectacle played out in the shallow water. To Lucretia’s disbelieving eyes events proceeded in slow motion. A sword blade struck the provost’s neck, biting deep. Blood sprayed for a moment and he fell, sprawled back on the raft. Another blade thrust through the child, right through his body like a spitted bird. A few men jumped off the rafts and floundered in the water. Four of them struggled away from the killers, splashing through the shallows to sprawl at Cornelisz’s feet. “Help us. Stop them”

  No one moved. No one spoke. No one tried to help.

  Lucretia held her breath. He would stop this. He must.

  Cornelisz’s words were clear in the silence. “Spare no one.”

  She lurched forward, crossing the space between them, arm outstretched. “You can’t do this. What have they done?”

  He turned his head. The hat cast shadows on to his face, hiding his eyes. “They are mutineers. They have defied the express orders of the Council. Mutiny is punishable by death.”

  As if on command, one of Cornelisz’s men drove a pike down through the throat of one of the supplicants. His scream became gurgles, then nothing. Lucretia closed her eyes. Dear Lord, how can this happen? How can you allow this to happen? The dull thud of bodies, splashing, the sickening sound of swords slicing and spitting. Shouts of fear—no—absolute terror changed to howls of anguish and finally all that was left was the distant roar of the surf and the wind whispering through the coral.

  Lucretia opened her eyes again. Her heart hammered in her chest while all around her people stood motionless, white-faced, as if struck dumb. Bodies drifted in the water, lay like broken dolls on the shore. Blood stained the coral sand.

  Only the women remained, fists in their mouths, terrified, dumb-struck. They were spared, but their husbands, their children, were dead. She wondered where they’d take them. Seals’ Island? It was certainly the closest spot.

  “Do you want them?” asked Cornelisz.

  His voice echoed in her head, as if coming from a distance. Want them for what?

  An exchange of glances between Cornelisz’s men. A curled lip, a shake of the head, a shrug.

  Zevanck, van Huyssen and Gijsbert van Welderen herded the whimpering women into the yawl at sword-point. One hesitated and van Huyssen urged her along with the flat of the blade. Van Huyssen and Gijsbert each took an oar while Zevanck stood over the captives, sword in hand. In mid-channel Zevanck sheathed his sword, the ring of the metal clear across the water. The other two stopped rowing. They rose, feet apart in the rocking boat. Each grabbed a woman and shoved her, screaming, into the sea. They flailed, threshed, churning the water. Lucretia wanted to look away, wanted to close her ears to the shouts, ever more desperate, as the men rowed away. Arms reached out, mouths filled with water. God, dear God. This can’t be happening. Even if they could swim, in their heavy dresses they couldn’t survive. One by one they disappeared.

  The current swept on.

  Lucretia swayed, legs trembling, gradually aware of pain in her arm. Judyck clung to her, fingers bruising.

  “Oh, God,” Judyck whispered. The girl’s face was parchment white. Abruptly she turned and vomited and vomited again until she had nothing left but could only retch, hands clutching her stomach.

  Lucretia sank down beside the trembling girl and draped an arm around her shoulders, as glad of the contact as Judyck. The tears flowed, punctuated with sobs and Lucretia became aware of great fat drops sliding down her own cheeks. How could this happen? How could this be allowed to happen? Cornelisz was gone, no doubt back to his tent. The killers brought the yawl back and beached it, then walked off grinning, their weapons in their hands, past a crowd of onlookers. And Judyck’s father, the predikant, the man of God, stood there as if rooted to the spot, his wife clutching his arm. Anger surged. What a useless, pathetic excuse for a man. He hadn’t even tried to stop this.

  “You fellows, take these bodies away,” said Pietersz, his rough voice carrying easily. “And you, wash the blood away. Come on, let’s get a move on. The rest of you, it’s all over. Get on with your work. If you haven’t got any, I’ll find you some.”

  “Come on, Judyck,” said Lucretia. She urged the girl to her feet. “Do you want to go to your mother and father?”

  “No.” her voice was a whisper, eyes full of tears. “No. Coenraat. He… he murdered people.”

  Lucretia thought she was going to retch again. “Then come with me. I still have some water in my tent.”

  They crossed the short distance, arms around each other until they passed into the dubious sanctuary under the canvas. With trembling fingers Lucretia handed Judyck a mug of water. The girl gulped the liquid down and then sat clutching the mug in both hands, rocking backwards and forwards. “Awful, awful,” she moaned. “And after last night, too.”

  “I heard the fuss. But Cornelisz said it was just a domestic disturbance between the Hardens.” Her blood chilled. What if it had been more?

  “No.” Judyck whispered, her words barely audible. “Hilletgie disappeared in the night.”

  Lucretia choked. The Harden’s six-year-old daughter who had played with Judyck’s little brother Roelant. She recalled their high-pitched laughter as they chased each other between the tents. “Disappeared? Where? How?”

  “No one knows.” Judyck sobbed again. “Everyone was talking about it this morning.”

  But not to her, thought Lucretia. No one spoke to her about these things. “What did people think?’

  “Perhaps a monster came out of the water in the night and took her. But there were no signs. No blood. Perhaps God has taken her away, to somewhere better.” Judyck’s voice trailed away.

  “Surely no one would…” Lucretia stopped. Kill a child? Yes, she’d just seen two men slaughter children. She felt cold, chilled with dread.

  “Some of the men are very frightening. Matthijs Beer. Jan Hendricxsz who…” Judyck’s voice failed and she swallowed. “Jacop Stonecutter.”

  Lucretia bit at her lip. Everyone had some ideas about who might murder a child. Especially after this morning. No wonder no one had tried to intervene.

  In the distance above the dark blur that was the High Island, three columns of smoke still rose, until, caught by the wind, they merged into the cloud band and disappeared.

  *

  The murders haunted Lucretia, as they haunted everyone. She refused to dine with Cornelisz that night, preferring her own company. He hadn’t been happy but she insisted. She was unwell, she told him, a woman’s complaint. He backed away quickly enough. The excuse usually worked.

  Jan Pelgrom brought her a plate of stewed meat and beans but the very smell revolted her. She pushed the food aside and stood at the entrance to her tent. Night had fallen swiftly, as it always did. No long twilight here. The wind blew sharp from the south-west, carrying the usual tang of salt and seaweed. The last cries of roosting birds had died away leaving only the ever-present boom of the surf on the reef.

  A baby’s thin wails rose above the silence. Poor Mayken. Her baby had been born on the ship. She’d been diligent, even in the terrible first few days of thirst but whatever she did, the baby remained irritable. Even Cornelisz had noticed.

  A chorus of male laughter rose. Cornelisz and his cronies, in his tent. Lucretia watched their silhouettes raise goblets and wondered if they felt any remorse for what they had done. The rest of the tent village lay silent. Probably as dumb-struck as she was herself.

  Lucretia prepared for the night and lay down on her bed—a mattress, at least, rescued from the poop deck—and prayed for sleep. But when she closed her eyes she found herself drifting helpless on a dark sea, caught in a fast-running current. Something undulated towards her, a swirling mass with strange tentacles and pale fins. As it approached she recognised the dead body of a woman, swept along with her hair float
ing around her face and her skirts billowing. Dead eyes, accusing, grim, stared at her and the mouth hung open in a soundless scream. Lucretia flailed, trying to keep the thing off but the skirts enveloped her, pushed her under…

  Gulping air she sat up, a hand pressed to her chest. A nightmare. Nothing more than a nightmare.

  19

  The day dawned wet and cold with the sort of misty rain that chilled and irritated but did little else. In need of company, Lucretia went to find Judyck and joined everyone else in prayer. Cornelisz’s men carried their weapons openly now, strutting amongst the survivors with knives and swords tucked into belts.

  Judyck looked terrible, dark circles under her eyes. “I’ve had nightmares,” she said.

  “So have I.” Lucretia didn’t elaborate. In those darkest hours of the night, between midnight and dawn, the children had invaded her sleep. One perhaps ten, the other maybe six, spitted like so much meat, eyes wide with… fear, astonishment, pain? The faces of her own children rose unbidden. What if they had been here with her? She shuddered.

  “Coenraat says they’ve done nothing wrong. It was the will of the council.”

  The will of the council. To murder women and children? She’d have to dine with Cornelisz this evening. Perhaps she could find out more.

  “He says he wants to marry me,” said Judyck. She fidgeted, picking at the stitching on the sleeve of her dress.

  “And do you want to marry him?”

  Judyck sighed and shook her head. “After what’s happened… I don’t know what to think.” Her voice shook.

  Lucretia felt for her. Van Huyssen had seemed such a good match. “Have you said anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That might be wise. You never know. He might repent.”

  But he wouldn’t, thought Lucretia as she trudged back to her tent. He’d shown no hesitation, no remorse. A man—one of the carpenters, she thought—doffed his cap as she passed. They all did that now, respectful and polite. A far cry from the lascivious stares and lewd remarks she’d received in the first weeks before Cornelisz took over. She’d been impressed. But could he control van Huyssen and Zevanck? And those other fellows who wielded pikes and swords so willingly? She hoped so, for everyone’s sake.

  She tackled him over dinner that night. “You say they mutinied, and I must accept that, but what about the children?”

  He swallowed and put the bone down on the plate. “What would the children do without parents?” he asked. “We are in no position to look after orphans.”

  “They wouldn’t be orphans if Davidt and Coenraat hadn’t killed their mothers.”

  His eyes glittered in the lamplight. “They were all guilty. The women, too.” He frowned and banged down his fork. “Why do you care? What does it matter? You didn’t know those people. They meant nothing to you.”

  Lucretia sipped at her wine. He was angry. He’d never been angry with her before. Her courage faltered. What if she had been on Traitors’ Island? Would she now be drifting down the channel, caught in the current?

  For a moment he glared at her, then he sighed. “Lucretia… Creesje, this is politics. We are in an awful, survival situation. Sometimes I have to make decisions that may seem harsh, but believe me, I am doing God’s will. Everything I do, every direction I give is for the benefit of the people here, who look to me as their leader.”

  He leant over and took her hand in his. “Believe me, Creesje. I do what I must. God is with me. If God had wanted those people to live, they would not have died.”

  His hand was warm and gentle. She let the contact continue for a few moments before she withdrew her fingers. He seemed so sincere, so sure. And yet. A pike through a man’s throat, the brief spurt of blood; a vicious sword slicing a body; the provost hacked as he tried to protect his wife and child.

  “Let us hear no more of this. It’s men’s business and should not concern you.”

  “As you wish,” she answered. “Do you still believe we will be rescued?”

  He leant back in his chair, goblet in hand. “Oh, yes, I’m sure.” He smiled. “They may already be on their way.”

  “Let us pray so,” she said, standing.

  “So early?” he asked.

  “Forgive me. I’m still not quite recovered.”

  “Of course.”

  He escorted her back to her tent and she let him brush her fingers with his lips.

  Tired as she was, still she couldn’t sleep. She lay in the darkness and listened to the silence of the night. It was summer in Amsterdam. The markets would be full of flowers. The shops would have fresh bread, soft, ripe cheese, the first of the berries. She sighed. And here she was, on an island hardly larger than the city square. Why did you do this? Why did you leave your house on the Heren Gracht? Stupid thoughts. She waved them away. She knew why she’d come. And soon, very soon, she would be reunited with Boudewijn. She smiled to herself, picturing his face; handsome, solid, dependable.

  A muffled scrunch intruded from outside.

  She sat up, straining to listen above the pounding of her heart. Footsteps passed, going to Cornelisz’s tent. Well, why not, she berated herself? It was not late yet. Muffled voices, words unclear and then men passed again. A voice—Cornelisz’s—“…sure it’s done…” Someone chuckled.

  Done? Do what? She crept to the entrance of her tent and peered through the crack. Where had they gone? There. Four figures—no, five—barely visible in the light of a lantern, going towards the hospital tent. Her skin prickled. Logic said that one of them was sick or injured. That must be the reason. Mustn’t it?

  She stuck her head through the gap. No one was about. Nerves jangling, she slipped outside just enough so that she could see what was happening.

  The five men walked around the side of the tent to the entrance. A moment later, the canvas glowed from the inside with soft lantern light. A chill wind stirred her hair. A figure, silhouetted against the light, bent over, straightened, moved on, bent over, straightened. What could be happening? Someone offering drugs? Cornelisz was an apothecary but why would the others be there?

  The wind blew harder, causing the canvas to snap against the ropes, and a sharp shower of rain rattled the ground. Lucretia, dressed only in her undershirt, withdrew to the shelter of her tent, her mind reviewing what she’d seen. Nothing really, she conceded. Just a few men, going to the hospital tent in the night. She yawned. Nothing at all.

  *

  The morning dawned dry. The wind still blew sharp and cold, but the clouds chased each other across the sky. Lucretia pulled a shawl around her shoulders and went for her daily walk around the tent town. The mood seemed strange. She fought to put a name to what she felt. The men glanced up sharply as she approached and then relaxed a little, dragging off their woollen caps and murmuring good morning. In sharp contrast a number of Cornelisz’s men strutted about. One came out of the sisters’ tent, smirking. She lifted her chin as his eyes flicked over her, no doubt making a mental comparison. Even so, the fellow took off his hat and greeted her with respect.

  Lucretia looked for Judyck but she wasn’t about so she walked on, along the island’s longest axis to the point. A figure sat there, limp and sad. As she approached, she recognised Andries de Vries, one of the Company assistants. She’d spoken with him on the Batavia, more than once, a nice, well-spoken lad with soft brown curls. But now he looked drawn, hollow-eyed. His hands shook as he shredded a plant stalk.

  “What’s happened, Andries? You look terrible.”

  His body jerked like a puppet and he stared at her. The look in his eyes was frightening, a pit into horror. Lucretia shivered.

  He looked down and picked up the plant stem he’d dropped. “I… Nothing.”

  “Tell me. Please tell me. Everyone seems strange, today. Is it just… just what happened yesterday?”

  Silence.

  De Vries slipped a fingernail into the plant stem, split it and pulled the two halves apart.

  “Is there illnes
s?”

  His hands stopped their movements. Haunted eyes looked up into hers.

  “What happened last night?” She asked. Fingers of dread slid down her spine. “I saw people go to the hospital tent.”

  He flung the plant down and buried his face in his hands. “They made me kill them,” he mumbled.

  Blood roared in her ears. Kill them. Was that what he said? “Kill them?”

  He dropped his hands and let tears trickle down his face. “Kill them.” He passed his tongue over his lips. “They were going to kill me. Davidt and the others. Three of us were meant to go to the High Islands to join the people there. They took us on a raft but out in the deep water they jumped us. We weren’t expecting it. They tied us up, hand and foot. Then they just… threw the other three over the side, one at a time. They didn’t stand a chance, struggled on the top for a moment and then they disappeared. Gone.” He rubbed his face, pushed back his hair. “I pleaded for my life. Said I’d do anything. Anything they wanted. Only let me live.”

  Lucretia sank down onto her haunches so she could see his face. He trembled, fat tears dropping unheeded from his chin to the sand. “And then?”

  “They called me in the night. Gijsbert van Welderen took me to Master Cornelisz’s tent. Master Cornelisz said it was time to prove my loyalty. He gave me a knife, said I was to kill the sick.” His face contorted in pain. “They came with me. Master Cornelisz, Coenraat, Davidt and Gijsbert, to make sure the job was done.”

  Lucretia laid a hand on his shoulder. The poor boy. The poor, poor boy. He gazed up at her, pleading for forgiveness.

  “I had no choice, lady. I slit their throats. All of them, except Gijsbert’s brother.” He sobbed. “I had no choice. I had no choice.”

  Lucretia put a hand on his shoulder as he cried. Forgive him? What choice did he have? Kill or die. What would she have done in his position?

  “I’m sorry, lady,” said de Vries. “I should not have burdened you with that.” He stood, awkward as a boy, and rubbed his sleeve over his face. “Forgive me.”