“He doesn’t look too well,” Jansz said.
“No,” said Hayes. “Come on. He looks like he may need some help.”
The new arrival stumbled forward as they came down the hill, and fell to his knees on the ground, tears in his eyes. “Thank the good Lord.”
Hayes helped the man to his feet. Cold and damp though he was, the shivers that racked him were more than physical. His shoulder sported an oozing sword cut, shallow and bruised, as if made with a blunt weapon. “They tried to kill you?”
The fellow nodded, throat muscles working. “I’m Aris, Aris Jansz. The madness has taken them. The Devil walks on that island. God was with me. I hid in the shallow water and they couldn’t find me in the dark.”
“Here, sit. You’re safe now.”
Jansz handed Aris a jug of water. He gulped a few mouthfuls then stopped. “You have enough?” He gestured with the half-empty pot.
“Plenty. Drink. Then tell us.”
They sat while Aris drank the rest of the water.
“Murder,” he said at last, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “Murder in the night. We all live in fear. They come with their weapons and their lanterns and people vanish. Any night they might come. Last night I heard sounds. So many sounds. Screams, shouts from the predikant’s tent. They called Mayken Cardoes out and… and. And then Allert Janssen came to me and said the Merchant wanted us to catch birds. It was dark. I knew it couldn’t be. But I had to go with him. He swung a sword at me.” He pointed at his shoulder. “And then another man came out and swung at me. I ran and hid in the water until they went away, off to join the party. They laughed and drank for what seemed like hours as if the Devil and his demons had possessed them all.” He licked his lips. “I took a chance and stole one of their boats,” he gestured at the yawl, now drifting at anchor, “and made off as fast as I could.”
“Come, Aris, we’ll help you to our camp on the other island. You look like you could use some food, too. Would you like some roast meat?” Hayes slipped an arm around the man’s bony body and helped him up.
“Meat?” Aris said, eyes round.
“Meat.”
Hayes and Jansz each took an oar and rowed the boat back to their island. Aris was left to the care of one of Jansz’s team.
“I think they must all be mad,” said Jansz. “Pregnant women, little children. It’s all one to them.”
“So it seems. They kill as foxes do. For sport,” said Hayes. “But did you see? The sword they used was blunt. They are over-confident.”
“Yes. And now we have a boat,” said Jansz.
“They won’t like that,” Hayes said. “It will be our turn before too long.”
26
He was gone. Lucretia heard Cornelisz’s footsteps receding, out of the tent and away amid a murmur of voices. She’d pretended to be asleep and he’d left her alone. Now she rose and put on her dress. Not that he’d ever tried to force himself upon her.
The breeze had picked up and white clouds hurried across the sky to the north-east. A few rafts drifted on the reef flats, their occupants fishing. The predikant sat hunched on the beach, his back to her, black hat as ever on his head. The poor man. She despised his weakness, yet how he must suffer. His whole family—except Judyck—slaughtered like so many sheep. But at least Judyck was safe with van Huyssen to protect her. If she continued to please him.
She also had little to fear for herself. Cornelisz kept her well enough but still he strove to seduce her. The words of the sonnet he’d written drifted through her mind. Flee not from me nor from me turn away For ardently I do for you so long; She marvelled that even now, in spite of everything, he thought she would come to him willingly. And congratulated herself on being able to continue the pretence, whatever revulsion she might feel. Her safety, after all, depended on him believing that in time, she would succumb to his blandishments.
Yet fear stalked the tiny island. Cornelisz’s followers in their absurd red coats strutted around, hands on sword hilts, parading like young blades in the streets of Amsterdam. Absurd they might look, with their ragged breeches and dirty shirts draped with fine red laken but the merest look, the merest hint was enough to provoke violence or death. That they enjoyed killing was obvious. Surely none could argue any longer that more had to die so that the few could survive. They murdered for fun.
A voice rose, high-pitched, jubilant, cheerful. “Who wants to be stabbed to death? I can do that very beautifully.”
Jan Pelgrom, former cabin boy on the Batavia, now servant to Cornelisz. His coat flicking around his hips, he brandished his sword as he swaggered between the tents. Such a stupid boy. And yet with power enough to point out a person for death. She gazed north. Far away lay Batavia. Would the longboat have reached the city? Was a ship, even now, on the way back? She had to hope so. Hope was all that was left.
Red on the shoreline drew her eye. Cornelisz, distinctive in his ostrich feathered hat, and flanked, as always, by his armed guard, stood with Davidt Zevanck. They gazed north, too. But not, she thought, to Batavia. A column of smoke rose from the High Island. Perhaps hope lay there, as well.
*
“It must have been Aris. We saw blood stains next to the drag marks where the boat was pulled into the water. Janssen and Cornelis admitted they hadn’t killed him.” Zevanck’s voice dripped disapproval.
“So now they have a boat, as well as rafts,” said Cornelisz. Which meant he could no longer ignore them. He wondered how many men were over there, now. With the escapees from Seals’ there must be at least thirty.
“We should attack,” said Zevanck, staring across the water. “Let me take some men in both boats. It’ll be like Seals’ Island all over again.”
“No, not like Seals’. They are soldiers,” said Cornelisz.
“But we have the muskets and the swords. They have no weapons—thanks to you.”
Always violence with Zevanck. He certainly had an appetite for it. Which was useful, provided it was controlled. “Not yet. First we try to reduce the odds. As we did when we took control of the council. We try persuasion.”
“Persuasion? You can’t be serious.”
“We play on the divisions. There are more than just soldiers on the island now and we know the soldiers hate the sailors. The French soldiers, in particular, will feel no obligation to the Company. I have written a letter, in French, explaining that the sailors plan to betray them, take the boat and sail for the South Land.”
“How are you going to get a letter to them?” asked Zevanck.
They had no imagination, these men, thought Cornelisz. “They’re accepting new people who escape from us. We send them a new escapee. I thought Daniel would be suitable.”
He waited while Zevanck processed the plan. “So he wins their confidence and takes the letter to the Frenchies?”
“That’s right. They start a fight on the island, Daniel sends us a smoke signal and we go over to help.”
Zevanck shrugged. “I suppose it’s worth trying.” He chewed at his lip. “Will they believe it, though? The Frenchies?”
“Why would they not, Davidt? They are mercenaries. They fight for money,” said Cornelisz. He had written the letter himself, using all his powers of persuasion. How could they not agree? “Come, I’ll give you the letter.”
He turned and caught sight of Lucretia, standing at the entrance to the tent. Had she really thought he didn’t realise she was awake? He’d tried gallantry, tried to woo her. Perhaps another type of persuasion might be of use. “I have been able to persuade all but my lovely lady.”
“Lucretia? Persuade what?” Zevanck walked beside him, eyes on Cornelisz’s face.
“Still she refuses me. I’ve tried kindness, persuasion, anger.” He sighed a deep, heartfelt sigh. “Yet still I sleep alone.”
Zevanck’s jaw dropped. “And you don’t know how to manage that? I’ll soon make her do it.”
She’d gone back inside, no doubt to find her sewing. She stiffened when Zevanck
stormed in, eyes wide. Cornelisz watched from the entrance. As long as he didn’t hurt her, the results may be interesting.
“I hear complaints about you,” Zevanck said, lips curled in a snarl.
Lucretia’s gaze flicked to Cornelisz for a moment. “On what account?” she asked.
“Because you do not comply with the captain’s wishes,” he said. “You’ll have to make up your mind. Either you go the same way as Wijbrecht Claasen or else you do that for which we kept the women.”
Lucretia took a step backwards and stared at Cornelisz.
“Enough, Davidt,” he said. Had he noticed a hint of fear in her eyes? “Here is the letter. See to it, hmm?”
With one last glare at Lucretia, Zevanck strode away. The tent flap fluttered closed behind him.
“He loves violence,” said Cornelisz. He stepped towards her, gauging her reaction. “You’re safe with me. You know that.” Another step. Her face was pale, eyes bright. “I just want to make love to you, Creesje.”
He lifted his hands and laid them on both her cheeks. “I have no wish to hurt you.” She didn’t move and he bent his head and brushed her lips with his. “Come, Creesje. Let me love you.”
This time her lips parted beneath his.
Yes. At last.
Exultant, triumphant, he slipped his hands down around her back and pulled her to him. Diffident fingers slid around his neck. He dragged himself away. Her face was flushed and lovely.
“Take off your dress,” he murmured.
Her tongue passed across her lips. She unlaced the bodice, released the fastenings at the back and let the gown slip down enough for her to step out of it and lay it over the clothes rail. She stood in just the chemise, her nipples dark blurs behind the material.
Heat surging through his blood, Cornelisz dragged off his coat and threw it aside, then his shirt. “And the chemise.” He kicked off his shoes, pulled off stockings and unfastened his breeches, his eyes devouring her as she lifted her garment over her head. Dear God she was beautiful. Creamy skin, pointed nipples, the dark smudge of hair between her thighs. He kissed her first, easing his tongue between her lips while his hands moved down her back to her buttocks. Ah. Smooth, silken skin, warm, pliant. Her breasts pressed against his chest. He longed to enter her, thrust himself to orgasm. No. He had waited too long. Slowly he eased his breeches over his raging erection, aware that she watched his every move.
*
What choice did she have? As the days progressed, he and his people had become worse and worse. And then, dear God, that horrible night when they’d murdered the predikant’s family and the others. The screams and shouts haunted her dreams. She’d walked that thin line for as long as she could and now it was her turn. She had no wish to die. Would he be gentle? Or would he want some strange behaviour? She’d heard whispers, hints behind hands, of depravity she couldn’t begin to imagine. And now he stood before her stark naked, his manhood stiff. She’d never seen Boudewijn like that. They had coupled in the dark and she had worn her nightdress.
At least he wasn’t physically unpleasant. His skin was smooth, except for the little bit of hair on his chest and his hands were not hard and calloused. She could endure. Maybe it would be over in a few minutes, then she could dress herself again.
He stepped towards her and cupped her face in his hands. This time the kiss was demanding, intimate, but he didn’t pull her to him, just let her nipples brush against his chest.
He ran his hands over her body, cupped her breasts, teased first one nipple then the other with his fingertips. They tightened to points and she trembled. It must be the cool air. He laughed, bent over her and sucked a nipple into his mouth while he caressed the other with his hand. A shiver of lust snaked down through Lucretia’s body and before she could stop herself she gasped. He smiled at her, eyes glittering between half-closed lids. His hand slid down her belly, down to cup the mound between her thighs. His fingers rested there for a moment, flexing in the hair. What now? Her flesh quivered. She wanted him to do more. No. No, that was wrong. She just wanted it over with. Finished.
As if in answer to her thoughts, his fingers slid down into the folds between her thighs. “Part your legs,” he murmured.
She did as she was told, leaning against one arm while his fingers probed the warm wetness of her. She flushed, she knew she did, ashamed of her response. And then a searching finger found that little nub of pleasure. Gently he rubbed, while his tongue flicked her nipple.
She sucked in a breath. No. This was wrong. How could she enjoy this? Yes, she would have to give him what he wanted, but she was married, a wife, a mother. In vain she tried to imagine Boudewijn, but his face kept slipping from her mind as her body trembled and ached with desire.
At last he released her. Was it over? Was that all? No, she wasn’t disappointed. She was relieved.
But he sat in his chair and drew her towards him. “Don’t be alarmed. Come here. Sit on me.” Cupping his hands around her buttocks, he pulled her closer. His tongue flicked her breast again. Sit on him. Take his member into her body. She moved over him and eased herself down. And sighed. “Put your arms around my neck,” he commanded, “and move with me.”
Slow it was, slow and delicious. His body was hot, his hands possessive. Her nipples trailed against his chest, so hot and hard they hurt. His lips nuzzled her neck, his hair brushed her face. Think of Boudewijn. Think of the children. Oh dear God, this felt good. It was wrong.
He pushed her away. Thank God. She disengaged, panting. But now he led her to his mattress, behind the curtain. “Lie down.”
She lay down. This time he would finish it. She could stare at the stains on the canvas and make them into animals—a rabbit, a dragon, a distorted horse. She jerked as he put his face between her legs. He paused and looked at her, a smile lurking around his lips. “Relax, Creesje. Don’t worry.”
She stiffened. He used his tongue. Down there. She’d heard of it, but… Tickling, insistent. Delicious. Tension built within her, spreading from her loins and she was aware of nothing but her body. She arched her back, moaning and a moment later he entered her, smooth as honey. “Lift your knees,” he murmured, “put your legs around my back.”
She obeyed, wrapping herself around him, legs and arms, too, his skin warm and damp and tasting of musk. Deeper he thrust, even deeper. This is wrong, the voice whispered, but the words were drowned in a surging torrent, wild as an ocean storm, that carried her with it on its crest. “Oh,” she gasped. “Oh oh oh.” She’d never felt like this with Boudewijn. Never. This heat; this sudden flood of a pleasure she didn’t realise existed. She moaned, her fingers gripping his shoulders as her body convulsed.
The wave released her and swept on and her muscles relaxed, while on top of her, Cornelisz thrust again and again, hard, urgent until, rigid with tension, he grunted his release.
Cornelisz smiled and brushed her hair off her face with gentle fingers. “Did you like that?” His voice was smug.
What could she say? “I did.” It was true. Shame settled on her like a shroud. This time, if she looked hard at the stains on the canvas she could see Maria and Wijbrecht. Agnete, Willemientje and Roelant. She felt dirty, like a whore, a slut. God, not even Zwaantie would have done what she had just done. And in the middle of the day.
Cornelisz stretched like a cat and stood. “I’d best go and see what’s happening,” he said.
Lucretia pulled on her own clothes as he dressed. He looked relaxed, smirking. Hat in hand, he lifted her chin and brushed her lips. “I’ll be back later.”
He left, pushing through the curtain. He’d tell Zevanck. Of course he would. And he’d tell van Huyssen and then Judyck would know. Heat rose to her face. Shame.
27
“He came in on a raft, Wiebbe,” said Smit, jerking his head at the newcomer standing a few feet away. “We brought him straight here.”
“Do you know him?” Hayes asked, keeping his voice low. Smit was doubtful, betrayed by the neutral to
ne of his voice and the look in his eye.
“He’s a cadet. Daniel Cornelissen.”
“You don’t trust him.”
“No. Not really. He’s different. Not like the others who’ve come here.”
Hayes nodded. He’d learned to trust Smit’s judgement. He walked over to the fellow, looking him up and down. This young man wasn’t desperate, terrified, injured. Nor did he look undernourished, as all the others had. “Your name?” he asked.
“Daniel Cornelissen.”
“And why should you wish to join us?” asked Hayes.
“They’ll kill me if I stayed. I know they would.” Daniel’s eyes flicked towards the ocean, to Batavia’s Graveyard and then he rubbed his hand across his mouth.
Hayes doubted that. He might say he was in fear of his very life, but he didn’t look it.
“You’ll have to be searched,” said Hayes. He gestured to a soldier.
“I have no weapons—nothing. See?” Cornelissen opened his shirt, his jacket, turned out his pockets.
“Search him anyway.”
Smit stepped forward. “I’ll do it. Take off your jacket.”
Cornelissen handed the coat over and watched as Smit checked the seams, felt through the lining. Nothing.
“Hold your arms out,” said Smit.
He patted down over Cornelissen’s shirt, breeches, even his stockings.
“You see? No weapons,” said Cornelissen.
No, no weapons, thought Hayes. But the Merchant isn’t a soldier. What would he be trying to do? If he sent Cornelissen here, to what end? As a spy? Perhaps. Well, in that case, should he just let the fellow stay? Wait until he made a mistake?
“What about inside his breeches?” said Smit. “Take them off, let me see.”
“What?” A glint of alarm, quickly stifled.
“We’re all men here,” said Hayes. “No need to be shy.”
While Cornelissen stood clutching his genitals, Smit felt through the breeches. His fingers stiffened, feeling around an outline. “There’s something here.” He slipped out his knife and cut around the seam holding the object. It tumbled out, flat and slim. A folded paper, sewn into the inside leg.
To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck Page 20