“Here? You will execute your justice here?” said Cornelisz. No, impossible. He must be taken to Batavia.
“As I said.”
“But…” Calm; he had to remain calm. And think. “When? When will you do this?”
“As soon as may be.”
“One indulgence I ask.”
Pelsaert sucked in air and his brows lowered. “What?”
“I have never been baptised, sir. I most humbly request that you grant me at least that right before sentence, so that I may make peace with God and contemplate my many sins.”
“Baptism you shall have. And then you will go to God’s judgement.”
Cornelisz let himself be led away. Baptism would buy him some time, at least. There must still be a way out; there must be. He hardly listened as his comrades were sentenced. Seven others were to hang, four of them after having a hand cut off. Nine other men were to be dealt with in Batavia or before. The crowd cheered with every sentence imposed.
The sentencing was over. He was led away again, to the weed-strewn beach and into a boat for the journey back over the channel.
“I will come to perform your baptism later in the day,” called a voice.
Cornelisz slowed his steps to talk to the predikant, but the soldier hurried him on. Later today? Was that all? Think. He had to think.
The sun was past noon when the predikant arrived. “I am pleased that you have turned to God and asked to be baptised, Jeronimus,” he said.
Cornelisz noticed the stiffness in the man’s demeanour. Well, he’d lost all his brood but his eldest daughter. “I am happy to make my peace with God.”
A soldier untied him but kept close to his side as the predikant led him to the water’s edge. He answered the questions of the liturgy mechanically but with as much enthusiasm as he could invent. It was all meaningless, anyway. Panic surged, bands of iron around his chest, as he was forced backwards beneath the water and saw the wavering sun as if through a veil. A Harlem canal; mocking laughter.
And then he tasted air and salt water in his mouth and heard the predikant’s final words; “…in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
“Amen,” he murmured. And he waded, shivering, to the beach where the soldier stood, smirking. “Should have kept him down a little longer, Dominij.” He sniggered. “But then, better fun to see him dance with the Devil. Won’t be long now, Captain-General.” The last words were a sneer, an insult.
“Has Pelsaert told you how long I still have?” asked Cornelisz.
“I do not know,” said Bastiaensz. “As God is my witness. But at least it will not be today.”
“But surely not tomorrow? One night? What time is that to atone for my sins?”
Bastiaensz spread his hands. “The commandeur did not confide in me.”
“Will you do one thing for me, for my comfort?”
Mistrust blossomed instantly in the predikant’s eyes.
“You wrong me, Gijsbert,” said Cornelisz, shaking his head. “My stomach roils and I fear I have a colic. In the tent that was mine you will find a small jar of medicine. The medicine will ease my pain. Will you not grant me this last small kindness?”
The preacher’s eyes cleared. “I’ll have it sent.”
The dawn brought no comfort. Gulls screeched their morning insults to the night, oblivious to the snores of condemned men. Cornelisz wondered how they could sleep at all, as if resigned to their fate. All except Pelgrom, who could be heard sobbing and crying half the night, even from the other tent. He himself had spent the night writing to relatives and friends at home, telling them the truth of the matter so that at least his name would be cleared.
Would it be today? He rose and went to the entrance of the tent. The guard turned towards the movement, hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Will it be today?” asked Jeronimus.
“I don’t know, Master Cornelisz.”
Cornelisz frowned, peering at the man in the half-light. He’d sounded respectful, almost apologetic. “Gillis, isn’t it?”
“‘S right.”
“If I give you a letter, can you take it to Batavia with you? Get it to Amsterdam?”
“I can try.”
“I thank you, Gillis, from the bottom of my heart.”
He folded the letters and handed them to Gillis to slip into his shirt. “And please, tell your officer I must see the commandeur. It is urgent.”
How long? How long would he have? Cornelisz paced the tent, backwards and forwards.
“Sit down,” said Jansz. He lay on his back on the ground. “Nothing will save you now.”
“You don’t see, do you? If we can keep alive to be on the Sardam, there are enough of us…”
Hendricxsz spat. “More lies. More deception. Tell the Devil your plan, Merchant, maybe he’ll help you.” He rolled over, face to the canvas.
Jansz sat with his head between his knees; van Os lay on his back, feigning sleep. They’d given up, prepared to die, thought Cornelisz. Well, he hadn’t.
The tent flap opened, admitting a slice of bright light. “You,” said the guard. “Come on. The commandeur wants you.”
Cornelisz straightened himself, tucked his filthy shirt into his breeches and wished he had shoes. Deporting himself with as much dignity as he could muster, he left the tent with his escort.
Pelsaert waited, sour-faced. But he was a Christian; best to play on his moral instincts.
“Well?” asked Pelsaert.
“Please, Commandeur, I know I’ve done wrong and I can expect no succour from you, but I must know; how long will you give me to cleanse my soul for the hereafter?”
“Monday. I have set your time for Monday.”
Cornelisz swallowed to keep his jaw closed. Two days. His heart hammered. “Two days? Only two days. I had hoped—prayed—for eight, twelve.”
“Too late for that now. And you will also tell your friends.” Pelsaert pulled some papers from his coat.
With a jolt Cornelisz recognised the letters he had given to Gillis Phillipsen.
“Gillis gave them to Jacob Hollert, who gave them to me,” said Pelsaert, “and I shared the content with the Council. More lies, more stupid attempts to exonerate yourself. It will not work, Jeronimus. You will die. On Monday.” He tore the letters in half, then in half again.
Rage boiled up from Cornelisz’s stomach. He could see it now. Pelsaert was a murderer, sanctimoniously taking a life under the pretence of justice. “I can see you want my blood and my life. But God will not suffer that I die a shameful death. I know for certain that God will perform a miracle tonight, so I shall not be hanged.”
Pelsaert’s eyes blazed contempt. “You are Godless and evil-minded. Take him away. Guard him well.”
Soldiers on both sides of him gripped Cornelisz’s arms and hustled him back to the tent.
He seethed. If the commandeur thought he’d spoken an idle threat he could think again. The jar of medicine had been delivered, pushed secretly into his hand when the guards changed duty. He hesitated, jar poised. But then, the potion hadn’t killed the brat. It should just make him ill; too ill to hang. They would have to take him on the ship and he would recover in a few days. He closed his eyes, tipped the liquid into his throat and swallowed.
Pain, a pain as he had never before experienced, woke Cornelisz. Fire burned in his belly, cramped his muscles. Groaning he clutched his stomach, pressed his knees to his ribs. Spasms coursed through him and he thrashed.
“What’s wrong?”
The other prisoners sat up around him but he paid them no heed. A candle flame flared, voices muttered. The muscles in his abdomen contracted. Molten lead, it seemed, gurgled through his body. “Please,” he moaned, “I must shit.”
Morning light glowed red against Cornelisz’s closed lids. His head still pounded and he felt empty, as scoured as a saucepan and exhausted. He’d slept not at all since the pain started and how many times had he needed to go and squat? He’d lost count.
“Come along, all of you. The predikant’s ready to preach your last sermon.”
Cornelisz heard the others stand, dust off their breeches and shuffle outside.
“Move yourself,” said the same voice. This time, the words were accompanied by a kick to the ribs. “Come on. You’re not that sick. I’ve seen you walk a dozen times.”
“I’m not going,” Cornelisz muttered. “I want none of Gijsbert’s prayers.”
39
The captain of the Sardam lifted Lucretia into the longboat himself. Across the channel the Seals’ Island seemed to move in the sunlight, a long white line of glittering sand.
“There is a high swell, lady, but at least the wind has abated. It shouldn’t be too rough,” said Jacopsz.
Lucretia turned to him. She’d hardly noticed him sit down beside her. A nice man, blond haired, blue eyed as she was herself. Concern flickered in those same blue eyes. “I trust in your sailors,” she said, smiling.
A flush crept up his neck.
Judgment day. At last Cornelisz and his murdering band would pay the price and face Hell’s demons.
The boat pushed off, the oars rattled out. The sailors bent their backs in the familiar rhythm, across the pale green water of the shallows and out over the indigo depths. The boat rolled with the swell.
Here it was that van Huyssen and Zevanck had brought the three women from Traitors’ Island and thrown them into the water to drown. Almost she could see their spirits riding the swell, hear their voices in the mewing of the black-winged birds. She saw again the men from the rafts scramble up the beach to throw themselves on Cornelisz’s mercy, saw the point of a pike pierce a man’s throat, a sword end the life of a defenceless child.
“Look, an eagle.” She opened her eyes and followed the line of Jacopsz’s arm. An eagle, great wings extended, floated on the air currents, white breast bright in the sunlight. Not far away its mate wheeled and turned. A whistling cry pierced the still air. “Magnificent, aren’t they?” he said.
Magnificent, yes. She watched the bird soar and relived the terror of the night in Coenraat van Huyssen’s tent as he and Cornelisz talked of hunting while the sounds of murder drifted through the darkness. Seven men, she had learned. Seven men for seven victims, slaughtered and dumped into a pre-dug pit like animals. She still found it hard to believe that any men could behave in such evil, Godless ways.
Pelsaert waited on the shore with the rest of the people who would witness the execution. The predikant, Judyck, the few remaining people from Batavia’s Graveyard who had not sworn allegiance to Cornelisz as well as some who had played little part in his reign of terror.
Again, Captain Jacopsz carried her the few steps to the shore.
She thanked him with a smile.
Pelsaert stepped towards her. “The scaffolds are finally ready. I could almost swear the Devil himself played havoc with the weather to delay us.”
Deep lines were etched into a face not much older than hers and his eyes had that unhealthy gleam of fever. But he seemed determined, resolute.
“We will all be pleased to see this ended,” she said.
He nodded, just a quick jerk of his head but she sensed his tension, his longing for release. As she did herself. She followed him, holding the hem of her skirt above the ground, to the scaffolds. They loomed, stark and alien, dark against a brilliant sky. Built of beams from the Batavia’s skeleton, they stood maybe eight feet off the ground, two simple frameworks. Four nooses hung from one cross-beam, three from the other. A simple set of steps stood ready and a table close by held a mallet and a carpenter’s wide chisel.
Wiebbe Hayes, shaved and properly dressed in clothing befitting an officer, waited, hand on his sword hilt. He acknowledged her with a brief smile and a bow from the neck. The predikant stood beside him. Lucretia studied the preacher’s face, wondering how he felt. His eyes looked blank, as if he was not aware of this world. Perhaps his mind wandered along other pathways, no doubt seeing his wife and children. Perhaps their spirits gathered around him. And here he must offer succour to those very men who had murdered his loved ones.
“Fetch the prisoners,” said Pelsaert. As Hayes went off, he turned to Lucretia. “He has done you terrible wrong. Come, stand a little aside. You will at least have your chance to tell him of your feelings.”
“I thank you, Commandeur.”
They came in a line, seven ragged men, bearded and filthy, arms bound behind them, a soldier on each side of each man. Some walked with their heads held high, defiant. A couple frowned, heads bowed as if in dread. Jan Pelgrom stumbled, his face white and strained. And last came Cornelisz, looking tired and ill. Hayes, walking behind, stopped Cornelisz when he was level with Lucretia while the rest continued on.
“Creesje,” he said. “How lovely to look upon you one last time.” His eyes flicked over her body and he smiled.
Drawn and tired he was, his hair matted, face bearded and filthy and yet those strange hazel eyes could still stir her. Shame coursed through her, heating her cheeks.
“You wronged me. What I did with you was against my will,” she snapped.
“True. So true. For twelve days you resisted me.” His lips curved up for a moment. “Such a pity.”
“You are evil, Jeronimus,” she said. “Godless and evil. You turned men into monsters, the Devil’s spawn. But Satan is a liar and you will burn in Hell.”
“There is no Hell. God will judge me, Creesje.” He heaved a sigh. “I care nothing for them.” He jerked his head at his erstwhile followers. “They have their just desserts. I do not ask your forgiveness for I know you cannot give it. But I wish you well, lovely lady.”
She straightened her back. “I want none of your wishes.” She turned to Hayes. “Take him away.”
The condemned men stood together in the shadow of the scaffold, all eyes on Cornelisz.
“Him first,” spat Jan Hendricxsz. “I want to see him die first.”
“This is all your doing,” said Beer. “You brought us to this, you with your honeyed words, your promises of riches.”
“Did I force you?” demanded Cornelisz. “Whose hands held the swords? Were you not stained with blood? I killed no one.”
“You ordered and we carried out your orders,” said van Os.
“You were quick enough to condemn us,” said Jonas. “Quick enough to tell the examiners what you thought they wanted to hear to save your own hide.”
“And are you, all of you, not responsible for your own actions? Did you not drink and celebrate after you disposed of the predikant’s family? Was that my doing?”
“May you rot in hell, Jeronimus,” said Fredricx.
“There is no Hell,” said Cornelisz.
“Enough,” roared Pelsaert. “The predikant is here to give you one final chance to go to God, your sins confessed,” he said to Cornelisz.
Cornelisz sneered. “God will judge me, not you. God’s hand has moved me. I have acted according to his will. And you and your councillors and all of you here who seek to condemn me; I’ll see you all at God’s Judgment Seat, where I will be given the justice denied me here.”
Two soldiers led him then to the low table, where they forced Cornelisz to kneel. His hands were untied. A soldier stood behind him and held him fast while another pulled his right arm out and over the table, fingers up. The man slid a rope over his wrist and held it tight. The carpenter placed the point of the chisel on the pale flesh just above the rope. The mallet swung down.
Cornelisz screamed as blood spurted from the severed artery, spraying over the man holding his arm. The carpenter moved the chisel and struck again. Cornelisz flung his head back and screamed again; and a third time until the severed hand dangled at the end of the rope. Cornelisz sagged, moaning. The soldier shook the rope and the hand dropped, limp and gore-covered, onto the sand, the fingers curled. It seemed to Lucretia almost like a strange, five limbed beast, more like a dead spider than part of a human body.
The
soldiers grasped Cornelisz’s left arm, preparing to repeat the process but Pelsaert said, “Stop. I don’t want him to die until we get the noose on his neck.”
They dragged him to his feet and led him, cradling his right arm, to the first noose. Hisses and hoots accompanied each step. Cornelisz held his head high as they bound his arms and then he climbed. One step, two.
“I’ll have my revenge,” he shouted to all. “On judgment day. You’ll see.”
The executioner settled the noose around his neck.
“It’s our revenge,” they shouted back. Revenge. The word echoed as the executioner pulled the steps away.
Cornelisz jerked as the rope tightened. Blood still pumped from the stump of his arm and stained the white sand beneath his body. His face darkened, eyes staring and still his body writhed as the jeers and shouts continued. Five minutes or more his spirit still remained in its earthly guise.
A shadow passed across the island. Lucretia started, heart jolting. A cloud, that was all. A fast-moving outrider of a bank gathering in the west.
The watchers sighed, as though a shroud had lifted with Cornelisz’s last breath.
“Next,” said Pelsaert. “Hendricxsz.”
The soldier licked his lips, his face hard. He accepted the preacher’s ministrations and knelt quietly until his hand was hacked off. Even then he grunted and bit his lips, no doubt determined to die like a warrior. The audience cheered and shouted as the noose was pulled around his neck.
Lucretia stood silent. She supposed she ought to feel some sort of satisfaction or jubilation but she did not. Only sadness for those who died here at these men’s hands. Pregnant women, children, Mayken Cardoes and her baby. So few had even had a decent burial. Most were simply cast into the sea like so much offal. Even on the ship they had done better. The bodies of those who had died during the Batavia’s voyage at least were wrapped in sail cloth and blessed before they were consigned to the deep.
As soon as the steps were pulled out from under Hendricxsz’s feet, Matthijs Beer was brought to the blood-soaked table to have his hand removed. Lucretia listened, scarcely believing, as Beer confessed before the predikant to four more murders. He hadn’t even known his victim’s names.
To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck Page 30