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

by Greta van Der Rol

  “Only God can forgive you, Andries,” she said, voice low.

  “Andries.”

  Cornelisz. Lucretia’s nerves jolted. She hadn’t heard him coming. His glance flicked between them, suspicious, angry.

  “Andries told me what you had him do,” said Lucretia.

  “This has nothing to do with you,” said Cornelisz. “Nothing whatever. Go back to your tent. Now. Go there and stay there until I summon you.”

  She hesitated, chin high. But Cornelisz’s eyes blazed and his lips were a tight, hard line. “As you wish.” But still she turned to de Vries, scarlet to his ears and clearly frightened. “I wish you well.”

  As she turned to leave she heard Cornelisz’s last, furious instructions to de Vries. “You will not speak to her again. Understand? Ever. If you do, you will die.”

  Lucretia went back towards the tent town, stumbling a little over a coral outcrop or a tussock of tough grass. How could Cornelisz justify this? To send a lad, a Company assistant to slit the throats of the sick in their beds? Tears filled her eyes. Would this never end? Where was Captain Jacobsz with a rescue ship?

  “Lady?” Matthijs Beer appeared beside her, a sword at his hip, his hat in his hand.

  She stared up at him.

  “I am to escort you to your tent, my lady.” He gestured with one hand.

  She nodded, defeated. Where else was there to go?

  She dropped the tent flap behind her, aware that Beer stood guard outside. At least she had her embroidery, salvaged from the wreck. She pushed the needle through the material, concentrating on the fine stitches to keep her mind off other things. A commotion outside interrupted, scuffles and muffled shouts. She set down her sewing and went to the entrance.

  “You are to stay here,” said Beer.

  “What’s happening?”

  His face split into a grin. Lucretia was reminded of the devils she’d seen in engravings, evil and malicious.

  “We’ve found stolen goods in a tent. The thieves have been punished.”

  Her head throbbed. How much more? “You mean killed, don’t you?”

  “That’s the punishment for theft.”

  She turned away, back into the tent and picked up her sewing again. But her fingers shook too much to hold the needle. She cast the work down and pressed her palms to her temples. She felt empty, numb. Helpless. The people on the island were like a room full of mice with a dozen hungry cats.

  Cornelisz came himself to escort her to his tent for dinner. He seemed pleased with himself, elegant in silk stockings, buckled shoes, breeches and a beautifully patterned orange coat.

  “Wear the evening gown,” he told her. “I’ll wait outside for you.”

  She thought about the coat he wore as she changed. A moment’s reflection and she realised with a pang that it had been Pelsaert’s. She wondered where the commandeur was now, what he might be doing; if he was still alive.

  “Beautiful, as ever,” said Cornelisz when she appeared. He walked beside her as if they paraded across the city square in Amsterdam, and his tent was a fine house on a canal.

  Cornelisz’s servant parted the tent flap for them to enter, and brought wine. She sipped and cradled the goblet between her hands. Her pulse raced. Jeronimus wouldn’t like this, but she had to know.

  “You made Andries murder the sick.”

  “Murder? No, not murder.” He smiled. “They were sick. Most had the scurvy, the others fever. We have nothing to help them here, nothing to give them. They would have died anyway. It is a more merciful end.”

  “And Andries?”

  His eyes went hard, like coal. “All must share the pain.”

  She stared into her wine.

  “I am not heartless, Creesje. You must believe me. I do what I must for the greater good of all. Surely you understand?”

  He lifted her chin with his fingers so she was forced to look into his face. It was as though two people inhabited his body; one heartless and callous, the other seductive and smooth. She wanted to rant at him, denounce him and yet a part of her urged caution. If she handled this properly, she could survive. If she did not…

  “You have enchanted me, do you know that?” he murmured. “I worship at your feet.”

  He turned away and disappeared behind the curtain to his private area for a moment to emerge with a paper in his hands. “See,” he said, offering it to her. “This is what I have written, all alone here when you retire to your tent and I am left with my dreams.”

  Lucretia put down her goblet and took the paper from his hands.

  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.

  With magic stronger than the salt seas’ roar,

  Each look, each glance, each waking hour I see

  Before me, these, which render me more yours

  Than mine, yet still you turn with enmity

  From me; till I, all broken on the shoals

  Of love, do plead, now take me wholly, all,

  Or let me, as Odysseus on that knoll,

  Lament, enslavéd still by Circe"s call.

  For waking, sleeping, I do you but see;

  Flee not from me, but loving, set me free.

  Dear God, he’d written her a sonnet, as would an aspiring lover.

  The legend flowed through her mind. Odysseus tied to the mast of his ship, while the sailors stopped their ears with wax so he could hear the siren’s song that drew mariners to their deaths, while they did not. He likened her to Circe, beautiful and evil; she had enchanted him. Surely it had not been she who had released a demon in his breast?

  She gazed up at him, aware of his waiting, anxious presence. She smiled and folding the paper, said, “It’s beautiful. I shall cherish it.”

  He beamed, relief and joy written on his features, handsome as Adonis. “Then you will accept my suit?”

  “I am a married woman, sir.”

  “Are you so sure, my lady?” he asked, approaching to stand close before her. “Who knows, in these times? Years it has been, has it not, since last you saw your husband?”

  Years it had been, indeed, since Boudewijn had sailed away. Neither of them had ever doubted they would be together again. At a salon in Amsterdam she would have given Cornelisz short shrift. But this was not a salon in Amsterdam and she teetered on the edge of a chasm where the Devil walked in darkness.

  “Give me time to consider, Master Cornelisz.”

  20

  Lucretia walked past the armoury out of the cluster of tents reserved for Cornelisz and his officers—and her—into the wider community.

  Life seemed normal enough. Smoke rose from a fire where some of the men rendered seal blubber, making oil for the lamps, others fished or made nets. But the people huddled together, talking in furtive groups.

  Her feet followed the familiar path to find Judyck. She sat outside her parents’ tent, showing Willemientje how to repair a tear in her skirt, while the three younger children fossicked on the shore.

  Judyck smiled at Lucretia and turned back to her sister. “We’ll do some more later, Mien. You go and play with the others. Quietly, mind. No yelling and screaming.”

  Willemientje shot a glance at Lucretia, nodded and went off. No sparkle, no joy in her step. She almost seemed to carry a lead weight on her shoulders.

  “Everyone’s frightened,” said Judyck, as if she’d heard Lucretia’s thoughts. “Even the little ones. And Mien’s not little. She’s fourteen.”

  The children gathered around something in the water, poking with a stick, talking in low voices. It wasn’t natural. Children should be running, laughing, not jumping at shadows.

  Judyck looked tired, with deep shadows under her eyes, so different from the sparkling girl of only a few weeks ago.

  “How is it with you?” asked Lucretia.

  Tears welled and were instantly dashed away. “We
ll enough.”

  “Coenraat?”

  “As attentive as ever. He’s talking about marriage. But we couldn’t be engaged without his family’s approval, anyway.” She fiddled with a fold in her skirt.

  “Do you want to marry him?”

  “After what’s happened here? What do you think?” She sighed. “Things have changed so much, Creesje. At first people went away and everyone was pleased. With fewer mouths to feed there was more to go around. But now… I wonder what really happened to some of those people who went away to other islands.” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “Everyone is afraid. You never know who will be next. You hear sounds in the night, lanterns passing. People disappear. Next day you walk around to see who is missing.”

  “I know,” said Lucretia. Her mind went back to last night, as she and Cornelisz ate together. Zevanck had come. Cornelisz had not been pleased at the interruption, scowling as he went outside. Their voices had been loud enough for her to hear.

  “Jacop Drayer,” Zevanck had said. “He’s a good carpenter, we should keep him.”

  And Cornelisz"s impatient reply. “He’s a turner, not a carpenter. Besides, he’s lame. Get rid of him.”

  And he’d come back inside, smiling, apologising for the intrusion.

  “How are you getting on with Jeronimus?” asked Judyck. Her eyes were bright, intense as she searched Lucretia’s face.

  “He’s… made no demands. He’s always a gentleman and treats me well.” She wondered where the question had come from. “And you? Has Coenraat made demands?”

  Judyck’s eyes dropped. “He’s made it clear what he wants.” She hugged herself, arms wound around her body as if to protect herself from harm. “I don’t like him to touch me.”

  Lucretia understood, all too well. She stood as the predikant approached, his wife on his arm. She’d still not forgiven the man’s weakness. A quick greeting, a few polite words about the weather and she retreated back towards her tent.

  When Andries de Vries suddenly appeared in front of her Lucretia thought her heart would stop. The lad looked terrible, pale, dishevelled with dark brown stains on his wrists and sleeves. And his eyes—his eyes must have gazed upon the very pits of hell itself.

  “Andries?”

  “They did it again. Made me come here.” He gestured behind him, into a tent. “I killed them. Cut their throats. The blood flowed down. You can still see it, there on the ground.”

  His head swivelled in alarm at a shout of his name.

  Two men charged towards them from Cornelisz’s tent, swords in hand. Fear clutching at her throat, Lucretia remembered Cornelisz’s order. You must not talk to her. Ever again. Cornelisz himself stood, legs apart, hand on hips as Lenert van Os and Rutger Fredricxsz came on, death in their eyes, remorseless as the hounds of the Wild Hunt.

  De Vries fled.

  Hand to her breast, Lucretia urged him on. Run, Andries, run. Even as she said the words in her head, she knew it was useless. As well to tell the chicken to run with a fox in the coop. Run to where?

  He ran for the ocean, spraying arcs of water as he leapt through the shallows past the predikant’s children, his pursuers at his heels. They lunged after him, swords raised.

  De Vries had no chance. He went down with little more than a cry, a sword thrust in his back. They hacked once, twice, three times. Van Os thrust the body into deeper water with the point of his sword. A dissipating swirl of blood followed.

  Lucretia remembered to breathe. Behind her closed eyes the pursuit played again and this time she saw the wide-eyed children, mouths agape, as the murderers sprang past them and death came to Andries de Vries.

  “I told him not to talk you.” Cornelisz’s voice echoed from a great distance. He stood beside her, frowning. “There will be no more of this. Jan will move your belongings to my tent.”

  “Your tent?” She gaped, she knew, like a fish. What did he intend? Or perhaps that was obvious.

  “Yes. From now on, you stay with me.”

  Thoughts crowded in her mind. Could she refuse? Should she refuse? Her own words to Judyck resounded. They kill anyone of no value to them. “As you wish.”

  Jan Pelgrom met her at the entrance to her tent. “Should I take everything, my lady?”

  He spoke respectfully but his eyes gleamed. Almost triumphant, as though she’d capitulated. Well, that might happen in time but she would resist. For as long as she could. And she would certainly not display any fear or confusion to a cabin boy.

  She caught Pelgrom’s eye and held his stare until he looked down. “I have some personal items. You may take the dresses. And my mattress if you please.”

  He blinked. “Your mattress?”

  She sailed into the tent, Pelgrom trailing in her wake. “My mattress.”

  Her treasures were in the corner, in a silver box that Boudewijn had given her for her birthday. She lifted it carefully and opened the lid while Pelgrom collected her dresses and carried them away. A tiny bracelet, a pink ribbon and a carved wooden soldier. All she had left of her three children, resting on a cushion of blue silk. She swallowed her pain and, closing the lid, went to join Cornelisz.

  Pelgrom held her mattress. “Where should I put this?” he asked Cornelisz.

  Lucretia lifted her chin and met Cornelisz’s eyes. Her heart battered in her chest. It would be so easy for him to have it tossed outside. The silence lengthened.

  “Behind the curtain,” said Cornelisz, waving a hand. “Next to mine.”

  Lucretia inclined her head in elegant acknowledgement while her knees threatened collapse. Time. He’d given her time.

  21

  A bare expanse of rock, worn and weathered by the sea and the wind. Barren as a desert in the centre of the island. Who would have thought? The soldier lifted the flat plane of rock aside and threw the barrel with its rope handle into the fissure below. The splash came back almost immediately and Hayes smiled. He still couldn’t believe their good fortune. If Matts hadn’t slipped on that rock and fallen flat on his face they would never have known about the cistern. Matts had sworn a lot, clutched at his knee and looked into the hole the slab had covered. They’d celebrated that night.

  The man pulled up the bucket and took it, sloshing slightly, over to the camp site in the lee of some larger bushes, Hayes walking behind. The sea glittered, a vast, empty expanse. A few small islands—little more than sand dunes—lay to the east and beyond them, maybe four miles away over reef flats, the long island hid Batavia’s Graveyard.

  Still no sign of anybody. They’d lit the three fires, as agreed. That must have been a week ago. He would have expected people to be here… oh, immediately. He wondered again what might have happened. Something must have. Maybe they were all dead of some disease or some monster had crept from the sea in the night and devoured them all. Here, six miles or so away, they’d have no way of knowing.

  His men gathered around the bucket, drinking their fill. He’d not bothered rationing. They had plenty—though they still collected any rain that fell. He dipped his cup into the barrel and scooped out his share. The lads had done well with what driftwood they’d found, whittling cups and bowls; even wooden shoes for those whose leather shoes had given out on the coarse coral and rock.

  He took a piece of cold meat from a platter. As good as any meat he’d ever tasted and that included venison. It was nicer hot from the fire but at least now the juice didn’t dribble into his beard.

  “Wiebbe! Wiebbe look. Rafts!”

  They all stared. Yes, two small rafts, advancing over the reef flats. Hayes frowned. No one had ever come that way before. They’d always come around the Seals’ Island and to the High Island and then across the causeway.

  “They must be coming from the Seals’ Island,” said someone.

  Hayes strolled to the shore, still chewing on his piece of meat as the newcomers poled the rafts across the shallows. They jumped off, eight men, four on each raft, all scrawny and drawn, splashing through the shal
low water to the shore.

  “Well met and welcome,” said Hayes. “We were beginning to think no one was left alive.”

  “We’re lucky to be alive ourselves,” said one man. “I’m Cornelis. Which one of you is Wiebbe?”

  “I am,” said Hayes.

  Cornelis shook as with a fever. Shock. Hayes had seen it in the field before, in men who braved an attack and went to pieces. Cornelis wasn’t the only one. A couple of the others had collapsed on the beach. One was sobbing like a girl.

  Without being told, men fetched food and water for the new arrivals. Of them all, Cornelis seemed to be in the best state. Hayes led the man a little way aside and urged him to sit and drink the water brought to him. Cornelis sipped, then gulped, throat muscles working as he drained the whole cup.

  “Thank the Lord, that was so good. You really have water?”

  “Yes. Plenty. And food. What’s happened, Cornelis?”

  Cornelis sat with his arms clasped around bent knees. “Murder. Murder, Wiebbe.” Tears sprang to his eyes and he wiped them away. “A boatload of men came to our Seals’ Island from Batavia’s Graveyard. Seven of them, in a yawl they’d built. They jumped out onto the shore, carrying knives, swords and… and weapons I’d never seen before. A round thing on the end of a stick, bristling with points.”

  “Morning stars,” murmured Hayes. “Go on.”

  “They raced into our camp, amongst our tents and just… just attacked anyone in their way. Stabbing and slashing. I saw them kill the corporal. One stabbed him with a sword and when he fell, another one slashed his throat with a knife. They just left him and carried on.”

  “Did you try to stop them?”

  Cornelis was rocking backwards and forwards now. “Some did.” He moistened his lips. “The corporal tried to protect his wife. She was screaming, yelling at them to stop.”

  “Did they kill her?”

  A shake of the head. “Not when I started to run. One came towards me, swinging the morning star thing. I bolted. As fast as my legs could carry me and ran for the rafts.”