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

by Greta van Der Rol

  Zevanck and van Huyssen exchanged a look. “No.”

  “Well then.”

  The boat lurched as the sailors ran up the sail. It blossomed and filled and Cornelisz concentrated on the horizon, his stomach and his destination while the foam-flecked ocean churned and surged around him.

  *

  Lucretia looked up from her sewing when Cornelisz entered their tent.

  “Success,” he declared, a broad grin splitting his face as he flipped his hat onto the table.

  She stood as he approached her and let him kiss her lips as he swung her around in his arms.

  “What have you done, Jeronimus?” she asked, hands on his shoulders.

  “Tomorrow I talk to the captain of the soldiers—Wiebbe Hayes. Their island is much larger than this speck. It has fresh water. Fresh water, Creesje. Imagine that.”

  He kissed her again, pressed her against him.

  “That’s wonderful. Will you trade with them?”

  “Trade?” He laughed. “I will prevail, my lady. We will move, all of us, to that island. Wiebbe and his people will join with us. And if they do not…” his fingers slid to the ribbons that laced her bodice, “they will die.”

  His hand slid under the material and cupped her breast, smooth as cream. “Come.” He took her hand and drew her behind the curtain.

  He made love to her as he always did, expertly, sensuously, exciting her naked body with his caresses. She hated herself almost as much as she hated him. She was his toy, his plaything and she had no choice but to respond to him. She must submit or die or—even worse—be given to his followers like a common whore. But oh, how she wished her enjoyment was pretence. In that private place of worship in her mind she prayed to God for forgiveness.

  *

  Hayes and his men were ready and waiting as usual, forewarned long in advance by the watchers on the hill of the High Island. The sun danced with the clouds, long horses’ tails high in the sky but down here the usual breeze sighed through the bushes and ruffled the reef-flats.

  This time they came with two boats, riding low in the water, both crammed with people.

  “No sign of weapons,” said Allert Jansz, peering narrow-eyed across the sea.

  “They’ll be down under their feet,” said Hayes.

  Twenty men ranged behind him, while back at their dry-wall fort, Otto Smit and his group kept watch, ready to engage if necessary.

  The two yawls ran onto the rocky ledge of the islet and the people disembarked. Hayes counted them as best he could. He stopped, slack-jawed.

  “They’ve brought women,” he said.

  Two in the first boat, three in the second. One was clearly with the Merchant, unmistakable in his ostrich-plumed hat. The other… he couldn’t be certain but he’d guess by the man’s height that it was van Huyssen. So that must be the predikant’s daughter, Judyck. The two women stood together, separated from the other three. Why? Why the women? To incite carnal thoughts in his men? Some stirred behind him.

  “Keep your minds on your jobs,” he said. “The Merchant is a liar, a deceiver, in league with the Devil. Don’t forget that.”

  “Don’t worry, Wiebbe. We won’t,” answered a voice. Hayes glanced over his shoulder into a hard, bitter face. A man who’d escaped from the Seals’ Island.

  The Defenders waited.

  Six men stepped into a yawl. One of their number used an oar to pole the boat across the shallow water as close as it could get, then all six stepped out and waded the few remaining feet, even Cornelisz.

  Hayes recognised Cornelisz, van Huyssen and Zevanck from the previous attacks. Wouter Loos he remembered from the ship; a good soldier as he recalled.

  “Who are the two carrying the goods?” Hayes asked.

  “Gijsbert van Welderen and Cornelis Pietersz,” said Jansz. “One was a cadet and I think the other one was the under trumpeter. They used to call him dikzak. He’s not very fat now.”

  The Merchant led the way, his red coat fairly blazing in the sunlight with cording and gold lace at his wrists and around his neck and shoulders. Van Huyssen, handsome and swaggering, hand on his belt where his sword would usually hang walked a few steps behind with Zevanck, who glowered, eyes flicking left and right under heavy eyebrows. Loos the soldier glanced around him, watchful and assessing. The other two simply walked in the Merchant’s wake, arms laden with casks and bolts of material. All of them looked thin and underfed, if well dressed in breeches and coats.

  Cornelisz strode forward, smiling. “You must be Wiebbe Hayes. I’ve heard many good reports about you.”

  “And I have heard many reports about you,” Hayes said. Cornelisz appeared open, willing to engage, pleasant, charming. Hard to believe the stories, that this man ordered others to murder. His clothes bore no sign of blood.

  “It is high time we talked,” said Cornelisz. “I’m sure we can reach an understanding of benefit to both of us.” He turned to the older man of his group, who must be Pietersz. “See? We have wine. If you have goblets? Or perhaps cups?”

  Hayes gestured and a soldier brought the hand-carved vessels they used to drink. Pietersz filled them and Cornelisz himself handed them to van Huyssen, Zevanck and Hayes. “To peace,” he said, lifting the cup.

  “Peace,” said Hayes. He sipped and felt the warmth as the wine slid down his throat. Delicious.

  “And see here?” the Merchant said. “Bolts of material from which you can make garments or blankets. We have plenty and to spare. Shoes, too.” He stared pointedly at the wooden clogs several of Hayes’s men wore.

  “Come, let’s you and I together discuss the best way forward.” The Merchant reached out an arm to Hayes but Hayes avoided the contact. Just for a split second he caught a blaze in the other man’s eyes and then it was gone. Anger? Irritation? Or maybe a brief glimpse of the demon.

  Hayes followed Cornelisz, a few paces away from their men. A swift glance over his shoulder revealed van Huyssen and Zevanck mingling with his soldiers. All to the good.

  “Why must we fight?” said Cornelisz. “It seems so foolish. We are all stuck here, on these islands, until a rescue ship arrives. Surely it would be wiser to combine our resources to all our benefit.”

  “Your people brought the fight to us,” said Hayes.

  “Pah,” said Cornelisz, dismissing the attacks with a flick of his fingers. “They acted against my direction. I would have come sooner, but for the weather. This island is so much larger than Batavia’s Graveyard. We could, all of us, live here comfortably. We can offer wine, cloth, shoes, the rest of the preserved food from the ship, as well as our boats.” He smiled. “You have water, do you not?”

  “Water in plenty,” answered Hayes. “We found wells. And we have fresh meat, red meat.”

  The skin tightened around Cornelisz’s eyes. He hadn’t known about the meat.

  “Well, then. Wouldn’t it make sense to combine our people? Yours and mine?”

  It sounded so reasonable, thought Hayes. Provided we have no illusion about who will be in charge. Or how many will survive. “I’ll need time to think on it, discuss your offer with my people.”

  “As it should be,” said Cornelisz. “And when you talk to them, remind them, too, that we have treasure. Silver goblets and plates, jewels. All to be shared with those willing.”

  With those willing. Hayes turned as if in thought and saw van Huyssen and Zevanck in deep conversation with a few of his men. The predikant sat on a rock, sipping water from a cup. “How many people do you have?” asked Hayes.

  “Forty five,” Cornelisz said.

  “That is all? And yet there must have been a hundred souls at least on Batavia’s Graveyard, even when groups went to Traitors’ and Seals’.”

  “I was saddened that so many turned against their neighbours, intent on their own survival at the expense of others,” said Cornelisz. He sighed. “You would see, as a leader yourself, that a man must act for the common good.”

  “For the common good,” Hayes sai
d. Did this man believe the words he spoke?

  “You would understand,” Cornelisz continued, “we had so little wine and water. Not enough for so many. We all would have perished long before. Better to lose a few miscreants, rather than have everyone die of hunger and thirst.”

  So earnest he was, so open and honest. Or so it seemed. But Hayes remembered the flicker of Cornelisz’s eyes as the demon peered out for a moment. He heard again the escapees from Seals’ Island, the words of the predikant and Aris Jansz.

  “You offer us silver? Like Judas? Here is your answer.” Jean Theroux’s voice rose above the thwack of fists hitting flesh.

  Hayes swung around. “Seize them all,” he bellowed.

  The soldiers leapt forward. In a moment Zevanck, van Huyssen and van Welderen all struggled between two men. Two others brought down the fleeing Pietersz. Two men leapt forward and grabbed Cornelisz, who struggled and squirmed and shouted obscenities. Hayes ignored him. Loos was escaping. He’d already evaded one soldier and collected a second with a hard fist to the face. He sprang over rocks, running like a mountain goat, heading for the boat.

  “Take your hands off me. Release me, you scum,” raged Cornelisz.

  The soldier holding him bent the Merchant’s arm behind his back and pushed up, hard. “Shut up.” Cornelisz grunted in pain.

  Loos leapt over the last line of bushes and shoved the yawl out into the sea. Two Defenders followed, splashing through the water.

  “No. Come back,” shouted Hayes.

  The two men stopped. They had seen it, too. As Loos pulled towards the islet in his boat, Cornelisz’s disciples drew their weapons. The tips of pikes and sword blades glittered as they leapt into the second boat. The oars dug deep. Thirty armed men, only minutes away. And twelve of Hayes’s men were already busy with the prisoners. His soldiers wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Shouts drifted over the water from the approaching boat. “Release them. Now. And we might let you live.” Hayes recognised the man and the voice; Jacop Pietersz, erstwhile lance-corporal of the Batavia’s complement of soldiers, standing in the bow of the yawl now not ten yards away.

  No chance of that, thought Hayes. Men who murdered pregnant women, children? “Kill them,” he ordered. “Kill all but the Merchant. Quickly.”

  Never had an order been obeyed so swiftly. Gijsbert van Welderen, Zevanck and van Huyssen died with knives in their throats. Cornelis Pietersz, former trumpeter, expired on the tip of a home-made pike. The defenders turned at bay, ready to fight as the first yawl full of yelling men neared the beach.

  “Form a line,” Hayes ordered.

  His soldiers moved into formation, pikes in hand. The front row knelt, their weapons resting at an angle, butts in the ground. The second row stood behind. Every length of driftwood was tipped with three sixteen-inch nails from the Batavia’s timbers. Not as good as the real thing, perhaps, but daunting enough. Running feet clattering over the rocks behind Hayes announced the arrival of Smit’s group.

  Hayes swung around and held the point of his knife at Cornelisz’s throat, above the white lace. He pressed, just enough to draw a bead of blood. “Tell them to go or I’ll cut your throat myself.”

  The merchant whimpered and swallowed. “Take the knife away.”

  Hayes withdrew, just a little.

  “No,” shouted Cornelisz, his voice a high-pitched shriek. “They’ll kill me if you attack.”

  Pietersz’s boat slowed but yet it came on. The oars dug again.

  “Go back,” shouted Cornelisz. “They’ll kill me.”

  The oars lifted, dripping water. For a moment Hayes thought they would still attack. He didn’t want to kill Cornelisz, but if he had to… He tightened his grip on his knife and pushed it against the Merchant’s throat. Cornelisz’s eyes widened and the tendons in his neck stood out. A strangled gurgle escaped his lips.

  Pietersz leant forward across the bow of his boat, not ten yards away. “Harm him and you’re all dead,” he bellowed. He sat back. The oars swept down, but only one side pulled.

  Hayes lowered his knife and let out a gust of breath as the yawl beat around and headed back to the islet.

  Cornelisz sagged like an empty sack.

  Hayes’s soldiers cheered.

  31

  “They’ve killed them,” Judyck said.

  Lucretia stared at the girl. Her eyes glittered with hatred, lips pulled back in a most unbecoming snarl. In her own breast, hope battled with apprehension. She glanced back at the sea, where the boat turned and started back towards the mud bank on which the women stood. “You can’t be sure.”

  “Yes. They’ve left them on the ground. And the Merchant is a prisoner.” Judyck smiled, a smile of pure joy as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders. “It’s over, Creesje. It’s finally over.”

  Judyck stretched her arms to hug her but Lucretia raised a restraining hand.

  “It is a battle, Judyck,” she said softly. “They have lost their leaders, but they are not defeated.” She did not add the thought that sprang unbidden to her own mind; that now, she and Judyck were no longer protected.

  She had no need to speak. Judyck stepped back, her face clouding and clutched a hand to her breast. “Father is with them.” Her whole body seemed to collapse as triumphant elation disintegrated into fear. “And Coenraat is dead.”

  She sidled closer to Lucretia.

  The yawl approached the islet. Silent men vaulted over the sides, knee deep into water. Some waded ashore, while others drew the boat up.

  They all stared at Pietersz. He licked his lips. “The captain-general will be back. I’m sure of it.”

  Lucretia hid her contempt behind a lady’s façade. They might call him lieutenant-general but the Stonecutter was a lance-corporal. All he had was size. No charisma, no talent with words, not even the smallest hint of leadership qualities. And now, here, without Cornelisz he had shrunk to the incompetent thug he really was.

  “What do we do now, Stonecutter?” some one asked.

  The second boat ground into the shallows and the men disembarked to join the others, crowded around their new leader.

  Pietersz stared from face to face, searching for answers, for words.

  “We should go back to our island.” Wouter Loos stepped forward, stern and authoritative. “The captain-general is captured. The other members of the Council are dead. We must regroup and rethink.”

  “We could attack. We have muskets.”

  Men rattled weapons. Bellicose mutters of agreement rustled around the group.

  “We have attacked twice before,” said Loos. “They are well-led and they have made weapons. They killed the trumpeter with a home-made pike tipped with nails from the ship’s hull. Did you see their defensive formation?” He paused, waiting for comment. When none came, he added, “And if we attack now, they will surely kill our leader. We return to our island, take stock and plan.”

  Lucretia was impressed. This man really was a leader. Although not particularly tall or handsome, he had a presence that Pietersz lacked. The men exchanged glances, nodded. He’d told them they weren’t defeated, that they could return. This was a man they could follow.

  “Well then,” said Loos. “Load the boats.” He stopped and looked at Pietersz. “With the Lieutenant-General’s permission, of course.”

  “Er, yes. Yes, of course,” said Pietersz. Relief shone in his eyes. “Come on, lads, get moving.”

  Loos came to Lucretia and Judyck himself. “Ladies, if you will come this way?” He lifted them, one at a time, into the centre of the boat. They sat side-by-side on the thwart as men climbed in around them. Loos himself sat on Lucretia’s left. Judyck sat to her right.

  Lucretia felt the tremor where Judyck’s arm pressed against hers.

  The boats pulled away, following the line of the two larger islands for three miles or so before turning across the deep water towards Batavia’s Graveyard. The boat ran with a raised sail, hurrying before a freshening sou’-wester.


  Lucretia stared around at islands that appeared to be little more than white lines where the sea met the shore. Even in daylight the islands were almost a part of the ocean, a glimmering mirage, half-hidden in a perpetual shimmer of sea-mist thrown up by the surf on the surrounding reef. As they passed the tip of the Seals’ Island, a couple of seals waddled down the beach into the water, as fast they could. She could hardly blame them; they had been slaughtered, too, just as the people who had been brought there.

  Her thoughts turned to her own situation. What would happen to her now? Would she and Judyck be forced to join the other women, available for any man’s use? The men crowded around her. Most sat quietly, but some spoke together, too softly for her to hear. Loos said nothing. She pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. The breeze blew chill off the water and besides, Cornelisz had insisted she wear some of the more revealing salon dresses all the time, as if she were a treasure to display. Now, she felt even more vulnerable to covetous eyes. More than one of the men had glanced at her. A few had stared.

  At last the journey was ended. Men leapt into the sea near the little beach where the predikant had been wont to sit with his Bible, and held the bow while the occupants waded to shore, swords in hand, pikes tilted on shoulders. Loos set Lucretia on the ground and another man carried Judyck. Lucretia stood, uncertain, as the people in the second boat spilled out onto the strand. Her eye caught that of Zussie Fredericx. The woman’s smile was wicked, gloating. Lucretia held her stare until she looked away.

  Her sister, Tryntgie, spoke to Judyck. “You’re no different to us now, are you?”

  Lucretia took Judyck’s arm. This was not the time for unseemly rows. Whatever else the sisters may have intended was ended when Loos stepped in. A glare and a flick of his head was all it needed for them to retreat.

  “Return to your tent, Lady,” Loos said to Lucretia.

  He turned back to the men who milled on the shore around the lieutenant-general.

  Lucretia took Judyck’s arm and the two hurried back to the big tent Lucretia had shared with Cornelisz. With a shaking hand, Lucretia poured a small measure of wine for them both. The liquor warmed her.