“You’ll have your chance, Jan,” said Cornelisz, laying a kindly hand on the young man’s shoulder. “This really would have been beyond you.”
Although, he admitted to himself as, hand on hat, he made his way back to his tent, it was hard to see who young Pelgrom would be able to kill. Unless he could take his chance with one of the people on Wiebbe’s island. And he rather doubted that.
*
“Breathe, Judyck, breathe,” said Lucretia, arms around the younger woman’s waist.
“Oh, God in Heaven, how much longer must we endure this?” Judyck’s voice was little more than a strangled whisper above the bluster of the wind and the far-off boom of the surf.
Not even tears any more, thought Lucretia. Horror after horror had made her immune. She’d seen Jeronimus give Pelgrom the sword, wondered at the brief battle of ownership with Beer. And then, oh, that hideous ritual as Hendricxsz bound the boy’s eyes. A tremor of disgust wormed down her spine.
“I sometimes think a demon resides in his soul,” she said. “He can be so charming, so attentive, so witty and entertaining. And then, it is as if a darkness rises and an evil beast looks out through his eyes.”
“I don’t know how much more of this I can stand, Creesje. Coenraat hardly even lets me talk to Father. A snatched few moments here and there. That’s all.”
“At least he still lives,” said Lucretia. But how long for? They were running out of people to kill. She prayed the predikant, at least, would have some value to Jeronimus. She’d given up trying to predict his ways. All she knew was that he and his people wanted to go to the High Islands. No doubt to murder.
*
“We, the undersigned, will promise with this written unbreakable agreement, making to each other the greatest oath that anyone can take...”
Cornelisz tossed the document aside and rested his chin in his hand. They’d signed it, all his followers, on the sixteenth of July. But it read as if those people had some say in matters. They never had, of course. His word was law, even though he still had his councillors. And this division between the soldiers and the sailors, maybe someone else could take advantage of it, as he had himself. Coenraat van Huyssen, maybe; if he managed to get his head out of bed for long enough to think. Or even the predikant, sad sack that he was. Zevanck he could trust as long as he could provide him with opportunities to kill and Pietersz was too stupid to be a threat. Jan Hendricxsz and Matthijs Beer would keep him safe from anybody else.
The canvas above his head snapped and flapped.
Surely a ship would be here soon.
He wondered if Captain Jacobsz could be persuaded to turn the ship to another purpose? He hoped so; they would need the sailors to sail the ship. And certainly back there at the Cape, after Pelsaert had berated him for drinking, Jacobsz would cheerfully have murdered the commandeur on the spot. But if Jacobsz didn’t want to cooperate—well, they would simply take over the vessel.
Time perhaps for a new agreement, that all would sign. He took a paper and prepared quill and ink.
“We undersigned persons, councillors, soldiers, sailors as well as our predikant, accept as our chief, Jeronimus Cornelisz. With one accord, and each separately we swear before God to be faithful and obedient in all that he shall order us and in so far as we do other, we shall be the Devil’s own.
To which we have bound ourselves destroying and casting away all previous promises, public and particular, and oaths which have been taken before this under which are included the secret comradeships, tent-ships and others. The ship’s folk amongst us will not be called sailors anymore but will be reckoned on the same footing as soldiers, under one company.
Thus done on the island Batavia’s Graveyard, 20 August Anno 1629”
Cornelisz blew on the ink to dry it and admired his work. That should cover everything. No need to mention the women. They were well and truly under control. But if no one was a sailor or a soldier any more, or a merchant, what should he call himself? After all, he wasn’t an under merchant any longer and he had no desire to be an upper merchant. He sat back in his chair. Chief? Prince? King? No. Not until he had a kingdom. And that might happen.
Captain? A captain of a ship was an important role. But he had soldiers under his command as well as sailors, and soldiers had generals.
Ah. Captain-General. Yes, that had a ring about it. Something both groups could rally to.
Corporal Pietersz, Davidt Zevanck and Coenraat van Huyssen appeared promptly in response to Cornelisz’s summons, delivered by Jan Pelgrom.
“I want everyone to sign this,” said Cornelisz.
He watched their faces as they read.
“You’ve abolished the council?” asked van Huyssen. Twin lines were etched between his eyebrows.
“Not abolished, no. When we have a ship, we must have one leader to whom all are responsible, just as a ship must have a captain. I shall still take advice from you gentlemen, of course. I shall be captain-general and you, Stonecutter, shall be lieutenant-general. How does that sound?”
“I’ll sign,” said Pietersz, reaching for the quill. He frowned in concentration, forming the letters of his name with laborious care.
“Excellent,” said Cornelisz. “I’ll have some more gold braid added to your coat. Yours, too, of course,” he added, smiling at Zevanck and van Huyssen.
The two men exchanged glances.
Zevanck shrugged. “I suppose it’s simply a statement of fact,” he said. He took the quill to sign and van Huyssen followed suit.
“I want this signed by all,” said Cornelisz. “We must be a unified group if we are to defeat the traitors on Wiebbe’s island and win the ship.”
“Master Cornelisz—” van Huyssen began.
“Captain-General,” interrupted Cornelisz.
“Captain-General,” said van Huyssen. “What if Captain Jacobsz does not wish to join us?”
“Then he dies,” said Cornelisz.
“And we take the ship?” said Zevanck.
“Yes. I have thought on this. The ship will have minimal crew so that the rescued people can be brought on board, as well as the salvaged goods. Less than thirty. We will more than match them and we have muskets, pikes, swords. We lure the officers to the island and give them the choice.” And if he could convince Wiebbe Hayes to join his group, thought Cornelisz, so much the better. Hayes would make a better Lieutenant-General than Pietersz—provided he could be controlled.
“Wine, Jan,” said Cornelisz, waving a languid hand at Pelgrom. “We can toast our new arrangement, gentlemen, and then you will summon the folk to sign their names. Including the predikant.”
30
Hayes and twenty men stood behind the barricade on the beach as the yawl approached their island, tacking into a light breeze. Only one yawl. He’d expected an all-out assault at the earliest opportunity, as soon as the weather allowed the trip. And that was now. White clouds drifted high in the sky, towards the east. The ocean sparkled, not calm but at least the swell had lessened. The sailors in the vessel swung the sail and the yawl changed course, with the High Island to starboard.
No doubt now where they were headed. A mile or so out they would drop the sail and come in over the shallows with oars.
The soldiers stirred behind Hayes, checking weapons as the sail was reefed and the oars were deployed.
But instead of heading for the shore where Hayes waited with his men, the yawl travelled on, past the headland and the end of the causeway. Hayes and his people followed across the island until the boat beached on an islet no more than four hundred yards away, just beyond the arms of the bay. The first man vaulted out of the boat, splashing in the shallows. Hayes counted. Eight men, then one, wearing a wide-brimmed, plumed hat, was carried ashore.
“Looks like he’s come himself,” muttered one of the soldiers.
“So it seems,” said Hayes. “But he did that last time, too.” Except the last time, he’d stayed on the High Island. A little closer this time. “Get rea
dy, lads. They’ll be coming soon.”
The breeze, with its tang of salt, whispered over the coral from the south. A gull screamed. The soldiers waited, silent.
But only one of the new arrivals braved the crossing, setting out across the mud flats while the rest sat on the shore. Hayes squinted his eyes against the sea-sparkle. This man wasn’t wearing a red coat and his clothes looked black.
“It’s the predikant,” said a soldier.
And so it was. Hayes barely recognised the man, his clothes hanging on his shrunken frame as he waded through the water. A few last splashing steps and the predikant stood on the island. Hayes laid down his pike and went forward to meet him. “Welcome to you, Predikant.”
“Well met, well met,” said Bastiaensz. Tears glistened in eyes that had seen too much, sunken into a haggard face.
“Come, drink some water. We can bring you food.” Hayes gestured and a man ran off. “Sit, sit. I can see you are here as a go-between.” He led the man to rocks and helped him to find a seat. Dear God. Bastiaensz’s shoulders shook. “Here, drink,” urged Hayes, pushing a wooden cup into the preacher’s hand.
Like so many others before him, the predikant sipped, then gulped eagerly. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve before he spoke. “They have sent me to offer parley. The Merchant is there.” He jerked his head at the island. “Here, I have a letter.” He dug a paper out of his pocket and handed it to Hayes.
Another letter. Of course. He should have expected it, thought Hayes. More treachery, no doubt. He read through the contents as the predikant ate, making appreciative noises as he tore at the cold meat.
“Well?” asked Otto Smit. He hovered next to Hayes, almost quivering with curiosity. Hayes handed him the letter. For everyone else, he said, “The Merchant wants to come and talk peace.”
“Huh. Pretty words and a false heart,” said Smit.
A mutter of agreement rustled among the soldiers. “He must think we’re stupid,” said one.
“That’s what I think.” Hayes turned to Bastiaensz. “We have nothing to say to him. Why don’t you stay here, with us?”
The predikant’s face fell. “Would that I could. But I cannot stay,” he said. “They have my daughter Judyck at their mercy. If I do not return they may take their vengeance on her. She is all I have left.”
The words ended in a sob.
Hayes crouched down beside Bastiaensz and draped a hand on his shoulder. “Tell me.”
And so it poured out, the terrible night when the predikant’s family was massacred, that day when Coenraat van Huyssen pressed his suit and took Judyck for his own, the poor man’s own degradation as nothing more than a labourer, helping to launch and retrieve the yawls.
“They would not let me preach, even,” said Bastiaensz. “And even in the beginning, when I had a small flock who would hear God’s word, when I beseeched the Lord to take those on the islands under his wing, they mocked me, waving the flippers cut from seals over their heads, saying we were all already under God’s wing.”
Hayes listened. The predikant was a weak man, confronted with horror, in fear of his own life and that of his daughter. But he survived, with his Bible and, it seemed, his faith intact. Preserved by the Merchant for his own purpose. Ah well. Who was he, Hayes, to judge?
“Go back and tell the Merchant we do not trust him. We have nothing more to say.”
Bastiaensz glanced at the Merchant’s party on the other island and licked his lips. For a moment, Hayes thought he would say something more but he nodded and set off.
As the predikant walked into the water, Smit caught Hayes’s arm. “Look. They have muskets.”
Two men had waded into ankle-deep water, fifty yards or so off shore. As they watched, one of them dropped the long piece of rope, one end smouldering, from his left hand. His frantic, fruitless attempt to catch the wick only resulted in splashes.
Hayes snorted. “Idiots. Look at that. He’s dropped his match into the water and managed to douse the other one.”
Smit chuckled. “God is on our side. Lucky they didn’t bring soldiers with them.” Another thought struck him and he frowned, staring for a moment at the ground. “Wiebbe, maybe if they come here, the Merchant and his lieutenants, we can capture them.”
“Would he be so foolish?” Hayes flicked a hand at the musketeers, already retreating, defeated. “He’s shown he’s quite willing to try any ploy. Does he think we’ll swallow any foolishness?”
“Well… perhaps. After all, why has he come here himself?”
The preacher reached the islet and met with Cornelisz for no more than a few minutes. Then he set off again, back towards the watchers.
Why indeed, thought Hayes. Some devious merchant’s trick, with which he sought to bedevil stupid soldiers. Or so he might believe.
The preacher approached, plodding through the water, one slow stride at a time. At last, he dragged his weary limbs onto the shore.
“He says he will bring red wine and cloth to prove his good intentions,” said Bastiaensz, “if you will agree to talk.”
Smit met Hayes’s eyes. Wine would be welcome, clothing even more so. The time on the island had taken its toll on every man’s breeches and shirts and many now wore home-made clogs.
“Maybe you’re right, Otto,” Hayes said.
“He will try to deceive you,” the predikant said.
“But if we know that, we can prepare,” said Hayes.
“You will meet with him?” Hope rose in the predikant's face. “Only do not trust him.”
Hayes rose to his feet. “Trust him I do not. But I will meet with him, if only to see this man with my own eyes. He must come here, to our island.”
“I… I think he expected that you would cross to him,” the predikant said.
“No. He must come here.” Hayes pointed at his own feet. “Tell him.”
“Please… can you insist that I return to you?” pleaded Bastiaensz. “Every day my life is in danger. They mock me, taunt me with all manner of bestiality. Drowning, poisoning or even to cut off my head.” His voice faltered. “As they did, not more than ten days ago, to a boy who mended nets.”
“What?” Hayes stiffened. “Cut off his head?”
Bastiaensz’s whole body moved up and down as he nodded. “For sport. Nothing more than sport. They bound his eyes and Matthijs Beer cut off his head with one stroke.” He swept his arm around. “And they laughed. They laughed.” He stared at Hayes, suddenly intense. “Do not trust him, Wiebbe. Trust nothing that the Merchant says. He told the boy it was a joke, as another bound his eyes. I swear the Devil has taken the Merchant as his own. He looks like a man but a demon lurks behind his eyes.”
“And yet I must believe that he will bleed, like any other man,” said Hayes, “for I don’t know how to fight a demon.” He laid a hand on the preacher’s shoulder. “Tell the Merchant he must come tomorrow at ebb tide, unarmed, with his wine and cloth, he and his councillors. We will talk. They must send you back here, now, to tell me they agree.”
Bastiaensz flung his arms around Hayes. “Thank you. Oh, Lord be praised, thank you,” he sobbed.
Hayes peeled the man off, aware of the grins and titters of his soldiers. “We’ll await your return.”
The predikant waded into the sea, leaving a rippling wake with every step.
*
Bastiaensz stumbled the last few steps onto the shore of the islet, soaked up to his thighs. He looked exhausted, his breathing laboured.
“Well?” demanded Cornelisz.
“He… Wiebbe has agreed,” said Bastiaensz, puffing between words. “He says to come tomorrow at ebb tide, with wine and cloth and without weapons. You and your councillors must go to him. I must return to him to tell him you agree.”
“Go to him?” van Huyssen asked. “Over there, to his island, unarmed?”
“Peace, Coenraat,” Cornelisz said, putting a hand on the other man’s arm. He turned to Bastiaensz. “Go back to Hayes and tell him we will come back to
morrow.”
Bastiaensz bowed his head and turned away, back into the sea.
“Is this wise, Captain-General?” van Huyssen hissed. “To go to them?”
“Look at it logically. Even from here you can see how ragged they look. And yes, they have water—but that is all. No bread, no wine. Hayes will negotiate, because he must. Then, once we transfer all our folk to this island we will convince them to join us… or… Davidt, you will have some more sport.”
“Daniel did not succeed,” van Huyssen muttered.
“Yes, but this time, they will have me to contend with. You will see, my friends. Tomorrow, we prevail,” Cornelisz said. He always knew he would succeed, as God had intended but not even he had imagined it would be so easy. But then, he understood his fellow man—much more so than van Huyssen and Zevanck. Greed. Basic greed was usually enough.
“Come, let us return to our island,” said Cornelisz. He swallowed, dreading already the long crossing back to Batavia’s Graveyard. The trip across the reef-flats he could abide. But when the boat turned towards Seals’ Island, across the deep channel, his heart became a frozen lump in his chest. And now, in the afternoon, the wind whipped the froth from the tops of the waves.
A sailor carried him to the yawl and he took his seat as far from the sides as he could. He had no wish to make this crossing; none at all. But if it must be done, then he would make sure tomorrow would be the last time.
“Do you think Hayes will agree, Captain-General?” asked Zevanck.
“I am certain I can persuade him,” said Cornelisz, pleased to be distracted from the motion of the boat and the slap of the waves. “But I think we will try once again to interest some of his followers. While I talk to Hayes, you and Coenraat should explain to the soldiers what we intend—to take the rescue ship and earn a fortune through pirating. Offer them silver—six thousand guilders each—if they will help us against those on the island.”
“But Daniel tried that,” said van Huyssen.
“Yes. But we don’t know why he failed,” Cornelisz said. “If you were there on that island and someone made you such an offer, would you refuse?”
To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck Page 23