“Show me.” Hayes held out a hand. A letter. A merchant’s weapon. He broke the seal and unfolded the note. “It’s in French.” A whole letter written in French was beyond him. “Get Jean Reynoux.”
The Frenchman jogged over, sparing a glance for Cornelissen’s bare rump.
“What does this say?” As Hayes gave Theroux the document he could have sworn he caught a hint of a smile, instantly extinguished, on Cornelissen’s face.
Theroux, forehead wrinkled with concentration, mouthed the words as he read. It took some time but at last he looked up, lip twisted. “What rubbish is this?” he asked, shaking the letter under Cornelissen’s nose. “You seek to divide us.”
He turned to Hayes. “This merchant, Cornelisz, he says there have been no murders, but rightful executions of wrong-doers. The people fleeing from Seals’ Island are mutiné, running from the justice. Huh.” The Frenchman’s voice oozed contempt. “He talks of mutiné—women and children slaughtered like chickens. And says those people who have come to us will betray us. We are to tell you secretly.” He spat on the ground at Cornelissen’s feet.
Hayes grinned. Yes, a merchant’s weapon. Divide and conquer, as he had already done with the survivors of the Batavia. And then sow dissension, play on the grudge between the soldiers and the sailors. It might have succeeded, once.
“You’ll be staying. But not as a guest. Bind him.”
“The Merchant will come for me,” snarled Cornelissen. “You can’t win. You have no weapons. You’ll all die.”
A sharp slap across the face shut him up.
Hayes picked up Cornelissen’s breeches. “You and I are going to have a little chat. Maybe you’d like to help, Jean? And you, Thomas?”
Thomas tied Cornelissen’s hands behind his back, dragged him over to the campfire in the lee of some rocks and shoved him to the ground. The soldiers gathered to watch the spectacle. The cadet was frightened but his chin was firm, his eyes defiant despite his bare backside. He’d lifted his knees to protect his manhood from the cold.
“What’s this all about?” asked Hayes.
“It’s in the letter. The Merchant has nothing against you soldiers. He wants you to join him. But these others, these mutineers, they were sentenced by the ship’s council, of which Master Cornelisz is the head and they should be punished.”
“Don’t give me that rubbish. Why did you kill the people on Traitors’ Island and Seals’ Island?”
“They were traitors. Mutineers.”
Theroux sharpened his knife with a stone. Zzzzt…zzzzt. The fire crackled.
“Women? Children?”
“Yes. Master Cornelisz is Head of the Council. They disobeyed his directive.”
Cornelissen’s chin still jutted, despite the catcalls and murmurs from the ring of men. It seemed he really didn’t believe Cornelisz and his council had done anything wrong.
“What about Frans?” asked Hayes. “What did he have to say about this?”
“Frans Jansz? He has no say. He’s not a councillor.”
“Who is?”
“Pietersz the Stonecutter, Davidt Zevanck and Coenraat van Huyssen.”
The lance-corporal, somebody Hayes had never heard of and a cadet.
“Who’s this Davidt fellow?”
“He was an assistant,” said one of the men watching. “He led the attack on Seals’.”
“He’ll find we’re a little harder to beat than women and children,” Hayes said mildly. “But look, what I’d really like to know is why? What is there on these bleak little islands that a man would kill for? Birds, seals, fish a plenty. Water, perhaps. But Traitors’ and Seals’ have no water. What else?”
Ah. Cornelissen’s eyes flickered.
“Not the islands?”
Theroux brought a smouldering branch closer, waved it in front of Cornelissen’s face. He leaned away, as far as his bonds allowed.
“Come along, Daniel. If not the islands, then what?”
And in an instant he knew the only possible answer himself. “The rescue ship. You’re going to steal the rescue ship. Is that it?” He was right, Hayes knew. He had to make the little bastard talk. “Stretch him out, lads.”
Thomas grabbed Cornelissen’s legs and pulled them straight out. Grinning, Theroux advanced with the glowing branch and waved it deliberately an inch above the prisoner’s genitals. Eyes round, Cornelissen sucked in a breath.
“Well? Answer me.”
The branch descended, just a little lower. The audience chuckled. Burnt sausage, someone suggested. The stench of singed hair was enough.
“Yes. Yes!”
Hayes lifted a hand and Theroux rocked back. “Tell me all about it, Daniel. Or I can leave you with Jean and Thomas, you can tell them, then they’ll tell me.” He rose to his feet, dusting sand from his breeches. “I hope your French is reasonable.”
“No. I’ll tell you.” All of a sudden the tension drained from Cornelissen’s body like an empty bladder. “Why not? It won’t matter, anyway.”
Hayes sat down again. “Let him up.”
His legs released, Cornelissen sat up again, inspecting his groin as if to make sure nothing had been burnt away. A quick glance at the ring of men surrounding him and he spoke. “The captain will come with a rescue ship. He and Master Cornelisz were going to steal the Batavia before it was wrecked. We’re going to go pirating. Make a fortune and live in Spain.”
“The captain. Who? The captain of the Batavia?”
“Yes. Adriaen Jacobsz. They’ll send him back here to get us.”
“They were going to steal the Batavia? What rubbish is this? Why would a captain steal his own ship?”
Theroux brandished his branch again but Hayes waved him back when Cornelissen squealed, “It’s not his ship. It’s the Company’s ship.”
Hayes exchanged glances with the ring of soldiers. “Why wait until so late?” grunted Jansz. A few others nodded.
Why indeed, thought Hayes. Plenty of time to take the Batavia before it hit the reef. Never mind that. The point was they expected a ship to come. That was good. So if he and his army could survive, they would be rescued. But he still didn’t understand why this bunch of cutthroats was murdering everyone in sight. After all, they could take the ship and sail off, leaving everybody here to their fate.
“Why did you kill the people on Traitors’?”
“I told you,” said Cornelissen, one eye on Theroux. “They were mutineers.”
“What about the Seals’ Island? Why kill people there?”
Theroux waved the branch and the blackened wood glowed red.
“The Merchant said he wanted to reduce the numbers. He said he wanted no more than about forty of us.”
“Forty?” Hayes did the sums in his head. There must have been over one hundred people on Batavia’s Graveyard. He’d heard of some murders from Aris, just a few days ago. “How many have been killed on Batavia’s Graveyard?” He leaned over the man, fury in his gut. “Answer me.”
“I… I’m not sure.”
“Ten? Twenty?”
But Cornelissen didn’t have a number. A lot, Hayes knew. Aris had mentioned Andries de Vries, the carpenters, the absence of sick people. Just like the men who were supposed to have joined him here, who never arrived. Huh. Only the strong survive. Well, the Merchant would learn who the strongest were.
“Put your pants on,” said Hayes, throwing Cornelissen his breeches. “Tie him up and keep him secure, lads.”
He left them to it, quite pleased at the thrill of fear on Cornelissen’s face as he walked away. Hayes took Jansz and Smit to one side and shared his thoughts with them.
Jansz shook his head. “Hard to believe. We shared table with Master Cornelisz on the Batavia sometimes. He seemed a reasonable type.”
“Well, he isn’t now. And he’s gone so far with murdering that he can’t afford any competition,” said Hayes.
“He’ll attack us,” said Smit.
“Yes,” said Hayes. “As soon as
he realises this deception with Cornelissen hasn’t worked. Let’s do some more practicing, hmm?”
*
“It hasn’t worked, Jeronimus,” said van Huyssen. The two men stood on the shore staring across choppy grey water to the dark bulk of the High Islands. “We would have seen a signal by now. They’ll have killed him.”
“I expect so.”
“Look, we can defeat them. We have weapons and plenty of men. More than enough. I can command an expedition.”
Yes, thought Cornelisz, I’ll bet you can. He’d have to be careful of this lad with his social pretensions. Just as well van Huyssen had Judyck to keep him amused. And he had Creesje. The beautiful, delicious Creesje. His loins stirred at the thought of her.
“I can take Davidt and the lads in the boats. What real resistance can they put up? Yes, they have water but they’d have to be living off fish and birds and maybe seal meat. They must be half starved.”
“All right,” said Cornelisz. “Make up a plan with Davidt and you can attack tomorrow.”
*
Cornelissen had been a guest on Hayes’s island for three days when one of the lookouts posted on the high point of the eastern island came running back.
“They’re on their way,” he panted. “Two boats, both crammed with men.”
“Sound general alert,” said Hayes.
The drum-beats rattled across the island, a brisk tattoo on a drum of driftwood and stretched sealskin, and the soldiers responded, weapons in hand, eager for battle.
“Our friends are on the way,” said Hayes.
He surveyed his troops, men with ragged clothes and bearded faces, some determined, some a little bit frightened, some—especially those from Seals’ Island—itching for the fray. “They might have muskets, pikes and swords but we have the high ground and we have God on our side. Are we ready?”
“Yes,” they chorused.
Hands tightened on makeshift weapons. Pikes fashioned from driftwood with knives or nails lashed securely to the shaft. Some had clubs or morning stars—a wicked array of nails through a piece of wood which hung off a rope—stuffed into belts. Others wore slings across their chests, loaded with stones.
The boats approached under sail, across a crinkled sea, both loaded with men. The tips of pikes glinted in a brief glare of sunlight through the ragged cloud. Fifteen men stood behind Hayes, restless, ready.
“Huh,” snorted one man. “At least we’ll know which are our men and which theirs.”
“They must have found the red material on the wreck.”
“Quiet,” snapped Hayes.
The yawls were in the shallows of the High Island now, at low tide. No tactician had arranged this attack. The boats could come no further. Men clambered out, pikes and swords in hand. Clad in red coats, they approached across the mud flats that almost joined the two islands. A mile and a half of slippery, treacherous, slimy rocks and mud.
They slipped. They slid. One fell, splashing hands down into the shallow water, another staggered. Hayes’s men tittered.
“Don’t get over-confident,” Hayes said. Although privately he rejoiced. By the time the attackers reached here, they would be a wet, tired rabble.
He waited until the Merchant’s men were ten yards from the shore, calf deep in water. “Now,” Hayes said.
His troops advanced to the water’s edge.
A shower of rocks fell among the attackers. A few slipped and dropped their swords, flailing to regain their footing on the treacherous surface of the reef. A second volley of rocks hit more targets. A cheer as an assailant fell backwards into the water, head bleeding.
“Get back to your trap, rats,” shouted Hayes’s men. “Before you all drown.”
“Send us Daniel in the boat you stole and we’ll let you live,” shouted a man. Three rows of gold lace adorned the wrists and neck of his coat.
“That’s Coenraat van Huyssen,” said a voice venomous with hate from behind Hayes. “He murdered those on the Seals’ Island. Don’t trust him.”
“We’ve nothing to say to you,” Hayes shouted back. “You want to parlay, send the organ grinder, not the monkeys.”
“Save your insults, Wiebbe.” Van Huyssen raised his sword, stepped forward.
“One more volley,” said Hayes quietly. “One, two, NOW.”
The rocks pelted out. Two hit van Huyssen’s chest and thigh. He staggered back, clutching his leg, and sprawled into the water amongst his followers who helped him, dripping, to his feet.
“We’ll be back and make you eat your tongue. A piece at a time,” van Huyssen shouted.
The defenders cheered them on as the Merchant’s men limped away across the mud flats. Whoops and hollers erupted, backs were slapped, shoulders hugged.
Hayes let them celebrate for a few minutes. “We’ve won a skirmish, men,” he said. “They still have the weapons. We must be cautious and vigilant.” He paused for a moment. “But very well done. I’m proud of every man.”
28
Another day. Lucretia hated herself, hated Cornelisz. The battle went on in her head whenever he touched her. She could refuse him, tell him she loathed him but if she did, what then? Would he kill her or give her to his men? To Pietersz and Hendricxsz and Zevanck, to do with as they wished? She shuddered at the very thought. Submit she must, to save her life, but how to control the carnal urges he roused in her, that sensual, sinful pleasure she had never had with Boudewijn?
She wondered what motivated Cornelisz, why he ordered more killings. She knew he did; every day, another one disappeared. No one, really, was safe. He strode around the island like a Lord of the Manor, sovereign over all he surveyed. He changed clothes daily now, wearing silk stockings with gold garters, beautiful coats, broad, feathered hats. Pelsaert’s clothes and extras he’d found on the ship, trade goods.
She stood at the entrance to the tent and looked around. Cornelisz and his entourage were gathered on the shore, gazing north toward the High Islands. Scheming, no doubt.
Lucretia went in search of Judyck, as she always did. Finding no sign of her, she sought out the predikant. He sat forlorn on the little beach where the boats were kept, eyes fixed on his Bible, as he did every day. He’d shrunk since his family was massacred. Once or twice, she’d seen him on his knees next to the bare patch in the middle of the island where they’d been buried. All of them; Maria, the children and the maid, all cast into one hole and covered over on that same terrible night. Weak, he was, weak and colourless but she felt for him, this sad man who had lost everything but Judyck. She wondered why Cornelisz kept him alive.
“Good morning to you, Predikant,” Lucretia said.
He looked up, startled, and she noticed his hands shook, the slightest of tremors. “Lucretia. Are you well?”
“Yes. I came in search of Judyck.”
The man’s face crumpled. “She is with van Huyssen.” He looked down at the ground and swallowed. “In his tent.” The last words were barely audible.
“In his tent?”
“Yes.” He looked up at her and licked his lips. “It’s… it’s for the best.” She was sure his eyes glistened.
“Thank you.” Lucretia turned back the way she’d come. There was a story here, but she wouldn’t hear it from the predikant. As luck would have it, van Huyssen himself appeared at the entrance of his tent, a smile on his handsome face.
“Lady Lucretia,” he said. “A good morning to you. Judyck is within.” He walked on, whistling, to join Jeronimus.
“Judyck?” Lucretia approached the tent and paused. “Are you there?”
“Come in.” Her voice sounded strangled.
Judyck sat on a chair, face white and strained. Tears welled and she dashed them away. “Have you heard?”
Lucretia sank onto another chair. “I can guess.”
“Coenraat came to our tent last night. He told Father he wanted to marry me, legally and before the world, but that I had to stay with him, in his tent, until we could be married.” She sighed.
“Father wanted to say no but we knew what happened with you and… and I didn’t want to end up like the other women,” whispered Judyck. “So Father told him I’d move to his tent in the morning. But the others were there. Davidt, Matthijs, Jan Hendricxsz and some other men, waiting outside our—Father’s—tent. They said I had to go now, or they would kill Father.”
Tears trickled down her cheeks. “So I went. And here I am.”
Lucretia put her arms around the girl. “And he has had his way?”
Sobs wracked the girl’s body.
“Was he gentle?”
Judyck’s head bobbed on Lucretia’s shoulder. “I remembered what you said. They kill whatever is of no use to them. So I pretended to enjoy it. It was awful. The first time, it hurt.”
“Yes, that’s so,” said Lucretia, recalling her own initiation with Boudewijn, nine years ago. “But it won’t hurt again.”
“No. It didn’t. But I just hate him to touch me,” she mumbled. “I keep thinking of him killing those people from Traitors’ Island, drowning the women. And that terrible night when my mother…” Her voice trailed into another sob.
Lucretia rubbed the girl’s back. “I feel the same as you.” She put her hands on Judyck’s shoulders and pushed her back so she could see the girl’s face. “Judyck, go on pretending. You must. Your very life depends on it. This can’t go on for ever. They are sure, so very sure a ship will come. We must trust in God for deliverance but we must do our best to survive.”
The girl stared at her, eyes brimming, and nodded.
*
“We should try again, Jeronimus,” said Zevanck. “We know what we’re up against, now. We’ll take more men, better armed. We must win.”
“I agree,” rumbled Pietersz. “Why should they have water, while we must drink this stuff in the barrels?”
“True, true. But don’t forget, we have wine and women.” Cornelisz grinned at van Huyssen.
“Huh. Easy for you to say,” said Pietersz. “I had Anneke Hardens last night. I could get more pleasure from my own right hand.” He held up a massive fist to general laughter.
To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck Page 21