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

by Greta van Der Rol

  “Well,” said Jeronimus, “if she does not give satisfaction then you should do something about it. I’ll leave that to you. Actually,” he added, “perhaps this is something Jan Pelgrom could attend to for you.”

  Zevanck laughed. “Jan? He’s anxious to kill somebody. But does he have the strength?”

  “Oh, let him try,” said Cornelisz. “Send someone with him in case he needs help to finish the job.”

  “And the attack, Jeronimus?” said Zevanck.

  “Wait a few days,” said Jeronimus. He stared over the water to the High Islands. “Maybe he’ll still send Daniel back, see the error of his ways.”

  He turned and made his elegant way through the settlement, Beer and Hendricxsz at his shoulder. It would keep Zevanck quiet for a little while, anticipating a new adventure. Van Huyssen wouldn’t be a threat for some time, as he amused himself with Judyck and Pietersz was too stupid to be a rival. He went through the list of names in his head. The predikant? Should he be rid of him altogether? No. The man was weak and ineffectual. So long as he wasn’t allowed to preach. He might even be useful as a messenger.

  Men pulled their hats off their heads as he approached and waited for him to pass before moving on. Cornelisz waved a hand in acknowledgement. Frans Jansz emerged from a tent and bared his head.

  “Huh,” Zevanck said as they passed the barber.

  “Cornelisz’s eyebrows arched. “What’s the matter?”

  “Frans Jansz,” Zevanck said, jerking his head back at the man. “I’ve heard a few things.”

  “Oh? What?”

  “He’s still popular with a lot of people. He’s made some remarks about how the sick have been helped on their way.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t trust him if I were you.”

  True, thought Cornelisz. He’d supplanted the man as head of the council. Even then, Jansz had been reluctant to dispense proper justice. He recalled the business with the stolen liquor. The barber had declined to sign the Oath of Allegiance, too. Yes, he couldn’t trust Jansz. He’d be just the sort to go running off to Wiebbe Hayes. He’d have to give the matter some thought.

  “How did it go last night, Jan?” Cornelisz asked the following morning.

  Pelgrom scowled behind his scrappy beard. “Anneke? She’s dead. We strangled her.”

  “Come now, Jan. Did you strangle her yourself? I want to know. How did it feel?”

  “She struggled,” he mumbled. The back of his neck reddened.

  Jan Hendricxsz, on duty outside the tent, laughed. “Tell the truth, Jan.”

  Cornelisz grinned. “Come inside. Tell me what happened.”

  Hendricxsz stepped inside, eyes sparkling, one hand on his sword hilt. “He couldn’t do it. Not strong enough. Gijsbert and I strangled her with her hair ribbon while Jan and Andries held her legs.”

  Jan Pelgrom blushed scarlet. “I could’ve done it. I just needed a bit more time.”

  So it needed four men to kill one small woman, thought Cornelisz. Maybe none of these people were quite of the quality he required. Well, Zevanck and van Huyssen could have one more try to subdue the soldiers. If that didn’t work, he’d have to take a hand himself. What was the date? The end of July. Nearly two months since the ship was wrecked. A rescue vessel must be on its way.

  *

  “Can we do no better than this?” asked Pelsaert. “It’s the end of July and still we have only reached twenty degrees latitude.”

  Captain Jacob Jacopsz stood before him in the Great Cabin, hat in hand. “We do our best, Commandeur, against the winds and the current. The wind is variable and I keep having to tack.”

  Pelsaert sighed. It wasn’t the captain’s fault, he knew. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, a group of tiny islands in a vast, uncharted sea. “I know. I’m sorry. I feel concerned for those we left behind. They must be running out of provisions.”

  “Be assured we’re doing the best we can. Look at it from the other point of view—we have covered fourteen degrees in as many days and we have a little over eight degrees to go.”

  “Yes.” Pelsaert waved a hand in dismissal. “You may go.”

  Jacopsz closed the door behind him.

  Would anyone still be alive there? wondered Pelsaert. Adriaen Jacobsz had seemed to think they could survive. His prayers were with them. The ship, yes. The ship would be there. Maybe some of it would still be above the waves. He’d brought two divers from Gujarat, men skilled in recovering things from the sea, so the silver could be salvaged. He prayed to God his barrel of jewels still stood on the small island. If it did not… He rubbed a hand over his face as a shiver ran through his body. The illness was always there, lurking in corners, ready to bring him down. Would that he’d been able to rest longer.

  *

  Cornelisz shook his head and heaved a sigh. All this way across the water in a yawl just to see his men beaten again. Even from here on the High Island he heard the voices drifting over the water, the cat-calls and jeers from the defenders as van Huyssen and Zevanck and their men stumbled back across the mud-flats, wet and bedraggled. “Not a magnificent victory,” he said, one eyebrow cocked.

  “They were waiting for us,” van Huyssen said.

  “What did you expect?” said Cornelisz. “But you have weapons. It should hardly have mattered, you told me.”

  The frown on van Huyssen’s face deepened. “Their home-made weapons work well enough. Pikes, morning stars, rocks. They must have some food source, too. They all seem fit and strong, not half-starved bags of bones.”

  “We couldn’t even get to the land,” said Zevanck. “But we’ll get them next time. You can count on it.”

  “You want to try a third time? Come, now. How many men did you take with you? Twenty-two? They outnumber us, don’t they?”

  A sullen nod.

  The men trudged towards the boats, moored in the shallows. Cornelisz flicked his fingers and two of his followers carried him to the nearest yawl. It wouldn’t do to get his shoes or silk stockings wet.

  “What of Frans Jansz?” asked Cornelisz as he settled on a bench.

  “Matthijs and three other trusted men dealt with him,” said Zevanck. “He won’t be telling any tales.”

  “Good.” Cornelisz pulled a face. “Except that someone else will have to take over the duties of the barber.”

  *

  Hayes, flanked by Jansz and Smit, watched the assailants sail away; two boat-loads of them, all in their absurd red coats.

  “That showed ‘em,” said one soldier, brandishing his home-made pike.

  “Should’ve let ‘em land,” said another. “We could’ve sent a few home to meet the Devil.”

  “I can’t believe they were stupid enough to try the exact same tactics,” said Smit, leaning on his pike.

  “You do have to wonder,” said Hayes. “At least if they attacked at the high tide, they could sail their boats closer.”

  “All the best for us,” said Jansz. “I should tell you, Wiebbe, one of our lookouts says he saw something over on the other island. Five men separated from the others.”

  Hayes’s head jerked up and he stared at Jansz.

  “Sorry,” said the younger man. “I only just now remembered.”

  “Of course. We were busy. I’ll go and check.”

  Hayes took four men with him. The Merchant had been there himself, obvious in his wide-brimmed hat with the ostrich plume, even though he hadn’t taken part in the attack itself. You never knew what subterfuge he might have been up to. Hayes had expected something devious from him. He stared at the island as the men poled the raft across, looking for movement, anything new that didn’t belong there. Maybe they’d left another letter for someone to find.

  “Take care,” he said, stepping ashore. “Tell me of anything abnormal. You two, go up the hill. Hans and Willem, come with me.”

  They edged through the undergrowth, heads swivelling. As always, the breeze rustled the bushes, stirred th
e high stems of grass. Pebbles clattered as they walked. A pair of cats, alarmed, bounded away over the rocks.

  “There,” said Hans, pointing.

  Hayes followed his arm. A body, lying on its back in blood-spattered scrub.

  “Oh, God in Heaven, that’s awful,” said Willem, Adam’s Apple bobbing in his throat.

  “It’s Jansz, I think,” whispered Willem. “Frans Jansz the barber.”

  Hayes thought so, too, but it was hard to be certain. The skull had been cleft with a sword stroke. The eyes stared up into the sky, the mouth twisted in a final grimace. He knelt beside the body, sending a swarm of flies buzzing into the air. Two pike wounds, if he wasn’t mistaken. Gently, he turned the stiffening corpse over. The back of the skull had been crushed and both pike wounds had pierced from front to back. Any one of those four blows would have been enough to finish the man.

  “Somebody sure didn’t like him,” said Hans.

  “No,” said Wiebbe. “At least we can give him a proper Christian burial. Willem, go back to our camp and fetch some others to help us dig a grave. Hans, go up the hill and tell Jean and Gerrit what we have found.”

  The two men ran off while Hayes stood guard over Jansz’s remains. At least he’d seen it for himself, seen how they treated even their own. He’d found it hard to believe all the stories but here lay proof. One thing for certain, he would not trust these murderous devils. Not for a moment.

  29

  At last the weather had calmed. Just a little. The wind still blew fierce and even on the reef flats, the sea tossed and surged, uncomfortable within its constraints. The ocean vented its fury on the outer reef, as it had for many days, sending towering sprays of salt-tinged foam leaping skyward. Even the birds rarely braved the gales, sitting huddled amongst the rocks at the far end of the island.

  Boring. That was what it was. Cornelisz gazed north, his hand clamping his hat to his head. For over a week now, he hadn’t been able to put his plans into action. The canvas of his tent billowed and snapped, as if reliving its past as part of the Batavia’s main gallant. But the ropes held, even if the timber supports creaked.

  “It’s still too rough, isn’t it?” said Davidt Zevanck.

  “Far too rough.” The very thought of venturing onto the water turned Cornelisz’s knees to quivering jelly.

  “Oh, it’s certainly better,” said Pietersz. “But I wouldn’t wish to cross all those miles to the High Island in a crowded, open boat. Crossing from the ship to this island was bad enough.”

  “Yes, when we go, we must be sure we can follow through,” said Cornelisz.

  He turned and strolled through his domain, sword on his hip, his fellow councillors at his side and Matthijs Beer and Jan Hendricxsz in close attendance.

  Nearly everyone now wore the red coat. The few who did not were artisans. And the women, of course. People stopped and stepped to one side, head bared and bowed, as he passed. As, indeed, they should. He inclined his head in acknowledgement of proper respect.

  Lucretia and Judyck stood together towards the middle of the island, next to the bare patch where the men had buried the predikant’s family. Foolishness, but harmless he supposed.

  Bastiaensz himself sat hunched on his little beach, like one of those birds that dried their outstretched wings in the sun. He had shrivelled. His skin sagged and his clothes hung on his body. A few bored soldiers hovered next to him.

  “What should we do with him?” one asked the other. “Spit him?”

  “Perhaps we should drown him,” said the other, chuckling.

  Bastiaensz flinched.

  “Good morning, Predikant,” said Cornelisz.

  The two men stepped back, grinning, while Bastiaensz turned his head to stare at Cornelisz with poached egg eyes.

  “I trust you are well?” said Cornelisz. He rested his hand on the ornate scrolled metal guard of the sword he wore.

  “Well enough,” mumbled the predikant.

  Cornelisz walked a little further, taking care not to scuff his buckled shoes on the coral outcrops. No one was out fishing, but that was understandable. The remaining carpenters stopped their work to show respect. Two fellows, one an older man, the other a lad of ten or twelve, sat mending nets. They stood and dragged off their caps as he approached.

  “Who wants to be stabbed to death? You? You?” The high-pitched voice drifted on the wind. Cornelisz smiled. Jan Pelgrom appeared, his coat flying in the breeze, brandishing his sword as he ran between the tents.

  Matthijs Beer sniggered, loudly enough for Pelgrom to hear. Ears reddening, the cabin boy slowed to a halt and put his sword back into its scabbard.

  A gust of wind tugged at Cornelisz’s wide-brimmed hat, strong enough to almost tear it from his grasp. His red coat, encrusted now with gold braid, whipped around his body. This weather was decidedly uncomfortable.

  Cornelisz returned to his tent. Lord of all he surveyed he was. But it should be—would be—so much more as soon as that ship arrived. He retrieved the cameo from the barrel and unwrapped it, marvelling once again at the magnificent surrounds, the meticulous craftsmanship of the carving, the inner glow of the agate. He would keep the precious thing, he decided. And the jewels could adorn Lucretia’s lovely neck and throat. He could see it now, the sapphires and emeralds against her skin…

  “I’d like to speak with you, Master Cornelisz, please.”

  Pelgrom stood at the entrance to the tent, silhouetted against the light.

  Cornelisz sat at the table, one hand resting on the cameo. “What is it?”

  Pelgrom stepped forward, his gaze on the jewel-encrusted treasure.

  “Well?” prompted Cornelisz.

  Moistening his lips, Pelgrom dragged his eyes away from the cameo. “Please, Master Cornelisz. It isn’t fair. I could have killed Anneken by myself. Jan didn’t need to interrupt. Let me kill somebody. I’ll show you.”

  He was a stripling, thin and spindly even for one so young. Just eighteen, though his soft blond curls, spotty skin and scrappy beard made him look even younger. But he was so insistent, always pestering. Why not give him his chance? Cornelisz cast around in his mind. So few now were not his followers and those who remained were needed.

  Ah.

  “Come with me, Jan,” said Cornelisz. He went outside and handed Pelgrom his own sword. “Try it out on the lad down there, young Cornelis who is mending nets.”

  Pelgrom’s grin nearly split his face until he heard Zevanck, standing next to Beer beside the tent, chuckle.

  “Ah, Master Cornelisz, he’s too light for that work,” said Zevanck.

  “You’ll see,” said Pelgrom, scowling. He turned but Beer took hold of his arm.

  “Best to leave it to me,” said Beer. “With your permission, of course, sir.”

  Now they argued with each other for the right to kill, thought Cornelisz, like children over a toy. How long had it been since they had indulged in blood-letting? A week? Ten days?

  “I promised Jan,” Cornelisz said.

  “Ah, but I’ll bet he can’t do what I can do. Cut off his head with one blow,” Beer said.

  “I’ll bet you can’t,” Hendricxsz said. “Not with an ordinary sword.”

  “Well, then. What do you say, Master Cornelisz?”

  “Oh, why not?” Cornelisz said. Better to indulge his two main killers than the cabin boy.

  Beer reached for the sword. Pelgrom snatched it away, out of Beer’s reach. But only for a moment. Beer, taller, heavier and stronger, grabbed the weapon and tore it from Pelgrom’s hand.

  “It’s blunt,” he said, running a thumb along the edge. “I’ll get it sharpened.” He hurried off to fetch a stone.

  The net makers sat by the water’s edge, nets and rope piled beside them, heads bent over their work.

  “Fetch Cornelis here,” Cornelisz said to Hendricxsz. “Bring his stool.”

  The boy approached, face pinched, eyes wary. The soldier walked beside him, a slight smile on his bearded lips, the stool in h
is hand.

  “Sit here on your stool, Cornelis,” said Cornelisz.

  The lad did as he was told, running a nervous tongue between his lips.

  “Jan, you bind his eyes.”

  Eyes wide with fear, Cornelis leant away, flicking a glance at Cornelisz.

  “Don’t worry, it’s just a prank,” said Cornelisz as Hendricxsz passed his own neckcloth around Cornelis’s head.

  The older net maker had followed his companion and now stood watching proceedings, hands kneading his hat. The predikant approached, looking even more like a ragged bird. And here came Judyck and Lucretia, skirts billowing around their legs.

  “Ready?”

  Cornelisz tore his eyes away from Lucretia at the sound of Beer’s voice.

  “I want to do it,” muttered Pelgrom, lower lip trembling.

  Cornelisz ignored him. “Go ahead,” he said to Beer.

  Beer swung.

  The blade struck the boy below his ear, splitting his neck. Blood spurted, spattering Beer and Pelgrom, as the body, jerking spasmodically, fell to the ground, the head tilted at an impossible angle. Zevanck and Hendricxsz applauded, laughing. The older net-maker stood frozen, his face a white mask, his hat hanging from rigid hands. Judyck and Lucretia clung together.

  “Not bad,” Hendricxsz chortled, “but you lose.”

  For once, Cornelisz was grateful that the wind blew so hard. He had avoided the contamination, while Beer and Pelgrom wiped blood from their faces. They could do little about the stains to their clothes, but at least the coats were red.

  Beer grunted. “I would have done it with one blow if I’d had a two-handled blade.” He stepped to the body and sliced through the remaining flesh.

  The head rolled a little, hair and cheeks smeared with dust and blood.

  Cornelisz gazed down at the corpse. He wondered if it hurt, at what point the boy knew he was dead, whether the head remained aware for any time? He’d seen headless chickens still jerking about. Maybe this was the same? He became aware of a stifled sob and turned to find the source. Pelgrom frowned, eyes glistening.