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

by Greta van Der Rol

  She raised her head and looked across at Cornelisz, who slept, untroubled, peaceful, on his own mattress beside hers. At least Mayken’s child no longer wailed. She’d been worried about that, concerned the infant would go the way of anyone who fell ill, but he’d used his apothecary skills to brew a potion for the infant. Settling down again, she promised herself to check on Mayken in the morning to see if the medicine had worked.

  A shawl pulled around her shoulders, Lucretia left Cornelisz with his group in their shared tent and hurried through the settlement to find Mayken’s small shelter.

  “Mayken?”

  No answer.

  “Mayken?”

  Still no reply. Stomach a knot, Lucretia opened the tent-flap a little, afraid of what she might see. The girl lay face-down on a piece of canvas, head on her arms. A cot, built from driftwood, stood in the corner. Apart from that the space around the central pole was bare.

  “Mayken?” said Lucretia.

  A gasp, a sudden tension and then a gusting sigh. She rolled over and sat up. “My lady.” Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks wet.

  Lucretia took a step closer. “I… I wondered about your child.”

  Tears welled and flowed. Her shoulders jerked but Mayken made no sound.

  Lucretia glanced at the cot. It was empty. “Is she… has she passed on? Has God taken her?”

  “God? No, not God. The Devil and his servants.” The girl swallowed a gulp of air as Lucretia knelt beside her. “They came in the night. The Stonecutter, with Davidt, Jan, Cornelis and Salomon. The Stonecutter plucked my baby from my arms and… and gave her to Salomon.”

  “And then?”

  But Mayken dashed back her tears. “What do you care? You are safe, with him. The Merchant. You eat well, while we exist on meagre rations. You can sleep at night. The footsteps in the dark won’t lead to your tent.” The words hissed, sharp and bitter as knives, cutting into Lucretia’s soul.

  “They killed her. She’s dead. They wouldn’t even let me bury her.” New tears bubbled over. “He poisoned her. I expect you knew that. Said it was medicine.” She spat the word. “To stop her from crying. Well, it did that. She just lay there, barely breathing. And then last night they forced Salomon to finish the job. Gave him a… a little noose. To strangle her.”

  Mayken struggled with renewed sobs, trying in vain to keep her anguish silent. “Get out.” She flung the words at Lucretia, her lips bared. “Get out.”

  Cold and trembling, Lucretia withdrew. She’d not known, never really realised how it was for those not in Cornelisz’s favour. And the child, the poor child. Her heart ached for the bereaved mother. She knew how that felt, none better. She wondered if the murderers had buried the baby. She knew some of the dead had been interred in shallow graves. But most had been flung into the sea, to feed the sharks.

  Laughter echoed from Cornelisz’s tent. Blinking away tears, she went to find Judyck.

  “No. I don’t believe it,” said Judyck when Lucretia told her the news. “A helpless baby.”

  “I fear the baby was not the only one who was helpless,” murmured Lucretia, intent on sewing gold lace onto the sleeve of a red coat. “Salomon is a clerk. Nothing more. He has done this thing to save his own life. Some seem to kill for pleasure. Those who do not, he drives. Not just Salomon Deschamps. Andries de Vries, Frans Jansz. No doubt others.”

  Judyck bit her lip and pushed her needle through the material. “Not Coenraat,” she muttered. “He has no need to drive Coenraat.”

  “No. Or Jan Hendricxsz, or Matthijs Beer, or Davidt Zevanck.”

  “I feel so selfish,” said Judyck.

  “And I. I had not truly realised the shroud of dread that lies over those who have not signed the oath until I spoke with Mayken.”

  “There are so few left who do not wear these dreadful red coats. My family, the under barber, a handful of others.”

  “Let us pray they realise there is no need to kill anyone else,” Lucretia said.

  When she returned to their tent late in the afternoon, Cornelisz greeted her, pleased with himself and smiling. “Coenraat has invited us for dinner this evening, Creesje. With Judyck and her father. We’ll join them about sundown, for drinks.”

  “Just Gijsbert? Why not Maria, too?”

  “Oh, Maria is such a bore,” he replied, pouring himself a goblet of wine.

  True, thought Lucretia. But then the predikant was a bore, too. It seemed strange to invite one without the other. But best not to argue. At least in someone else’s tent Cornelisz would be forced to curb his continuous wooing. “Well, I shall look forward to this evening.”

  Van Huyssen, resplendent in his red coat, greeted them. Judyck looked pretty in her dark blue gown, and although she smiled, Lucretia saw the strain around her eyes. Her father, too, did his best to appear jovial. His grubby black coat and breeches hung on his much-reduced frame. Van Huyssen’s servant brought wine as they all stood together outside the tent to watch the glory of the sunset.

  “It is God’s work, is it not?” said Bastiaensz.

  Towers of white cloud rose into the sky like a cathedral, the arches and vaults blushed with red and gold. Gradually, as the sun dipped the cloud darkened and the colours deepened to fiery orange and the crimson of metal in a forge. The sea echoed the splendour of the sky until the wavering orb slipped at last below the horizon.

  Lucretia sipped her wine and shivered. The temperature outside dropped quickly when the sun had gone. Cooking smells drifted in the air; fish frying here, roasting seal meat there. Served always with beans or rice. What she would give for a plate of vegetables, or at least some variety.

  Cornelisz put a hand on her elbow. “We should go inside.”

  Lucretia, who had never been in van Huyssen’s tent, gazed around with interest. The layout was much the same as Cornelisz’s, but not so large, and the chairs were built from driftwood.

  She sat on Cornelisz’s left, opposite Judyck, with van Huyssen between Judyck and her father. The lamp burned steadily above the linen-clad table, the light winking in the polished surface of the silver tableware. So different from Mayken’s poor tent.

  The first course was fish poached in wine. Bastiaensz, Lucretia noticed, ate quickly, hungrily as if half-starved. Perhaps he was. She listened with half an ear to Cornelisz and van Huyssen discussing the strange life of the Indies. Pelsaert’s name was mentioned several times. She wondered if the small boat had ever reached Batavia. And if it had, was a rescue vessel even now sailing towards them? She whispered a prayer to God that it be so.

  Main course was what the island had come to call ‘sea chicken’—the bird that nested in tunnels underground. Lucretia preferred the slightly fishy flesh to seal meat or the very salty meat remaining from the ship’s stores. She ate slowly, as a lady should. Judyck followed her example.

  “I was watching a sea eagle fishing today,” said van Huyssen as he cut into the food. “They’re wonderful to watch, aren’t they?”

  “A beautiful bird, said Cornelisz. “So elegant with that white breast.”

  “And such an efficient hunter. Whoosh,” van Huyssen said, illustrating his words with a sweep of his hand, “they sweep down over the sea and beat up, a great fish in their talons. Reminds me of hawking at home.”

  “You had hawks?” asked Judyck.

  “Oh, yes. At least, my uncle did. We’d go and stay weekends with him. What days they were. We would start early in the morning. The dogs are always eager, ready to go. The horses, too.” Van Huyssen laughed and settled back in his chair. “I think they enjoyed the chase as much as we did.”

  “What did you chase?” asked Cornelisz.

  “Oh, pigeons, quail. Whatever the hounds would start. Ah, it’s grand to have the bird on your wrist and send it off. When they make a catch in mid-air… Pow! And feathers drift down. Magnificent.”

  Hunting, thought Lucretia. The animals they chased with hawks were almost as defenceless as the poor people on this island. S
he sipped her wine. Noises, muffled voices in the night. The cold of dread froze her hand. A woman’s cry, abruptly ended. Then a high-pitched scream that curdled the blood, as quickly silenced.

  Judyck jerked to her feet, lips parted, eyes staring. “Roelant.”

  Van Huyssen pulled her down. “It’s nothing, dearest. Not your concern.”

  “That was Roelant,” Judyck said. “I’d know his voice anywhere.” She pulled away from van Huyssen, but he held her fast.

  “Not your concern,” he said again, the words sharp, commanding.

  Lucretia caught the girl’s eye. Hopeless terror. Not fear for herself, but for the child. She wondered if Bastiaensz would say anything but he sat rigid, watery eyes fixed on Cornelisz. Cornelisz ignored him, ignored Judyck and continued the previous conversation as if nothing had happened.

  “Did you catch hares, rabbits?” asked Cornelisz.

  Chuckles from outside, voices muttered. Lucretia was sure she’d heard Mayken’s name. The knot in her stomach twisted, tightened. Silent, appalled, she signalled to Judyck with the barest shake of her head. Say nothing, stay still.

  “With snares,” said van Huyssen, his hand tight on Judyck’s arm. “Although sometimes we let the dogs loose and let them run. Often, there isn’t much left when they bring the prey back, all battered and bloody.”

  Somewhere in the settlement, a scream swiftly ended in a gurgle. More laughter.

  Lucretia stared at Cornelisz. Should she intervene, speak? She’d just warned Judyck off. But he couldn’t let this happen. Surely not. “What—”

  “It is no concern of yours, my lady,” he butted in. A dangerous spark smouldered in his eyes.

  “I should go,” said the predikant, rising slowly to his feet.

  “Sit,” Cornelisz ordered.

  Bastiaensz wavered, mouth flapping open and closed, his face pasty behind the beard. A long moment and he subsided back into his chair. Lucretia’s gaze slid to Judyck. She sat head bowed, rigid. Helpless.

  “The falcons occasionally caught a rabbit,” said van Huyssen. “But only small ones.”

  More voices in the night. Lucretia concentrated, willing the people in the tent into background, deciphering the words outside. Someone calling Aris. Yes, Aris, the under-barber, she was sure of it. Running feet, scraping on the coral grit and then splashing, splashing through water. She prayed. Prayed for his deliverance, begged God for respite.

  “More wine, my lady?” Cornelisz said.

  The servant stood at her side, the bottle in his hand. Lucretia glanced up at the young man. The lamplight cast strange shadows on his face. She was reminded of a satyr, lewd, cruel and evil.

  “Yes,” she said.

  The wine, dark red as old blood, splashed into the goblet.

  “A pity there are no rabbits here,” said van Huyssen. “I confess I become a little tired of the same fare.”

  “Ah, well,” Cornelisz said. “What is it now? July twenty-first. Captain Jacobsz should be on his way back soon. Perhaps he is already.”

  Lucretia sipped and listened to the noises beyond the canvas. Still she heard splashing, people wading in the shallows and voices calling to each other, the sound carrying clearly across the water.

  “Hij heves al wel,” somebody said. He’s had it.

  The splashing ended, replaced with laughter and the sounds of revelry, men celebrating a job well done.

  At last the dinner fiasco was over. Cornelisz stood and thanked his host as formally as a Lord of the Manor. Judyck was as pale as her father.

  “Thank you for a pleasant evening, Coenraat,” said Cornelisz. A hand on her arm, he guided Lucretia the short distance back to their tent. A lamp glowed somewhere beyond the settlement and she caught a glimpse of figures.

  “What have you done?” she asked.

  “I? I have done nothing, Creesje.” Smiling, he put out an arm as if to embrace her.

  She stepped back, out of his reach. “Murder. Murder happened out there. Mayken? I heard her name. And Aris. And who else? The predikant’s maid?”

  A howl split the night, anguished, painful as a tortured hound.

  “That was the predikant,” Lucretia said. Oh God. Oh, God in heaven, what evil has been done this night? She swayed, her heart squeezed in a gauntlet of fear and loathing. Surely not Maria?

  Evading Cornelisz’s clutching hand, Lucretia darted to one side. The Stonecutter’s tent glowed with light, illuminating the shadow figures of men drinking and laughing. A cheerful fire burned. Someone played a merry tune on a flute. Voices joined in, then a fiddle. The predikant’s tent stood dark. Sobs, racking sobs, emanated from it.

  Cornelisz appeared beside her. “Come, Creesje. There’s nothing to see.”

  She whirled. “They’re all dead, aren’t they?”

  “Then they are with God,” he answered, leading her inside.

  She drew away from him, dragging her arm from his fingers. “How many more? How many more, Jeronimus?”

  He stared down at her, his eyes hooded. “They like to kill. How can I stop them? These were no orders from me. I merely ensure that the people here obey our laws.”

  “And Maria? Willemientje? Roelant? What have they stolen? How have they disobeyed your law?”

  He sighed. “You must understand. I do God’s will. God acts through me and I have no choice. Therefore, God must have wanted to take them to him.”

  “You are not God, Jeronimus.”

  She’d gone too far. A spark of anger glowed.

  “Go to your bed,” he snapped. “But be warned, madam. I grow tired of this.”

  25

  Cornelisz lay on his back, jaw loose, whiffling through his moustache. He’d gone off to roister with the others and returned, stumbling and weaving, late in the night. Lucretia had feared he’d forget himself in his drunken state and force himself upon her but he’d fallen onto his mattress and was asleep in moments. With luck, his band of followers would be in the same state. As she laced her bodice Lucretia thought about the first man to die. Some soldier—she’d forgotten his name—executed for stealing wine. It seemed so long ago. And so trivial to what happened last night. Pray God her fears were groundless. But in her heart she knew that was not to be.

  She made her way through the silent settlement, hurrying past the stonecutter’s tent. Snores emanated from within and the remains of a fire still burned outside, sending a wavering column of smoke into a sky as blue and clear as a summer’s day in Holland. For once, even the breeze was still.

  The rest of the settlement was silent. No one moved. No one was about. An icy trickle ran down her spine. Maybe it was even worse than she thought.

  Two bodies lay on the ground outside the predikant’s tent.

  Lucretia’s heart froze in her chest. She crept forward, dreading yet compelled. Judyck and her father, lying beside a spent fire. She knelt beside the girl and put out a tentative hand. No sign of injury, no slash across the throat, nor a strangling cord.

  Judyck eyes snapped open.

  Lucretia stumbled backwards as the girl sat up.

  “Lucretia,” whispered Judyck.

  “Are you… are you all right?”

  Tears trickled from eyes red with too many tears already. “They’re all gone. All of them. Mother, Roelant, Agnete… they killed the maid, too. When we got back, they were dragging mother away. Dragging her by the arms like some dead beast.”

  “Where?”

  Judyck wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. “They dug a pit. In the middle of the island. I went with father and watched them cover it over. Father fell on his knees, crying and sobbing. They… they laughed. Said he shouldn’t, that they were gone to God and wasn’t that a good thing?”

  Bastiaensz rolled over in his sleep, moaning. “No,” he muttered, “no, no.”

  Judyck laid a hand on his arm and shook. “Father?”

  He jerked awake, glassy-eyed. He looked empty, drained of al
l life, all happiness. “Hell,” he said. “The Devil has unleashed his demons upon this land. Nothing can save us but God and his angels.”

  “We couldn’t sleep inside,” said Judyck. “The tent is full of blood. On the walls, the ground. See there?” She pointed.

  Brown stains had soaked into the coral, spattered the ground and a double groove marked the path of a body being taken away, heels dragging through the dirt.

  “I close my eyes and I see Roelant and Agnete, Mien, Mother…” Judyck sobbed again.

  Lucretia put an arm around the girl. Bastiaensz sat lost in his own thoughts, staring into a space that no one else shared. She didn’t think Judyck would find much consolation from her father.

  A red-coated soldier wandered past, scratching his belly. He grinned as he approached, clearly about to say something. Lucretia stood and caught his eye. He faltered and dragged his cap off. “Lady.”

  She nodded, aloof and regal. And knew that without Jeronimus, she was as much a target as anyone else.

  *

  “A boat, Wiebbe. The lookouts have seen a boat on its way,” said Allert Jansz. “I thought I’d better tell you. It could be some sort of trick.”

  Hayes stood. No one had ever crossed over in a boat before. It had always been rafts or driftwood. “Where is it headed?”

  “The High Island. It looks like just one person but it’s hard to tell in the dark.”

  “Come with me,” Hayes said, a hand on Jansz’s arm. “We’ll meet it there.”

  They pushed out one of the rafts they kept at the shore to make the crossing between the islands. Hayes, still uncomfortable despite the shallow water, crouched in the middle while Jansz poled the vessel across the reef flats to the High Island. From there they hurried, running with practised ease along familiar tracks to where the lookouts lay on top of the hill.

  Eyes straining in the darkness before the dawn, Hayes watched the little yawl’s erratic approach. At last it drifted into the shallows. A man staggered out and waded towards the shore, hand on the boat’s gunwale.