Batavia (38 page)

After a nod from Zevanck, Jan Hendricxsz hands over the lanterns and takes up his dagger – specially selected for this bit of work at close quarters. Again, the two terrified men and the lad lying prone before him deny for their lives that they have any stolen property. Yet, seeing that their situation is hopeless, Passchier begs that he might be permitted to say his prayers. Jan Hendricxsz looks to Zevanck for guidance.

Without a shred of pity, Zevanck shakes his head.
Passchier begins to weep
and curls up like a baby, trying to make himself as small a target as possible.

It is to no avail. As Passchier is offering no resistance, it is but a simple matter for Jan Hendricxsz to fall upon him, turn him over, lift his head and then simply slit his throat, the blood instantly gushing down over his hand. The gunner is not even able to scream. Instead, he emits something between a cough and a strangled gurgle, before his whole body goes into a violent spasm.

Interested in such a reaction, Jan Hendricxsz pauses for a second and then slashes the man’s throat one more time for good measure. In an instant, Passchier is totally still, his head all but severed from his body. The only sounds are those of the sobbing boy and the weeping Jacob Hendricxsz, who is lying there and repeating over and over, ‘
Genade, genade, genade
, have mercy, have mercy, have mercy.’

And, strangely enough, the usually merciless David Zevanck decides exactly that. Prior to the shipwreck, he had a nodding acquaintance with Jacob Hendricxsz, and it is always more difficult to kill someone when you’ve had even a modicum of polite contact with them first.

So, instructing Hendricxsz to remain in the tent under the guard of the other three Mutineers, Zevanck goes to see Jeronimus, to plead for the carpenter’s life. He finds the
Kapitein-Generaal
lazing in his tent, sipping merrily on some choice Madeira wine while gazing fondly upon Lucretia, who responds with a stare so icy that it makes even Zevanck uncomfortable. Not at all put out, and not yet deigning to acknowledge Zevanck’s presence, the
Kapitein-Generaal
offers his concubine some of his malmsey, the sweetest variety of all Portuguese fortifieds, suggesting it will match her comely countenance. But to business . . .

‘Jacob Hendricxsz is a good carpenter,’ Zevanck tells Jeronimus frankly. ‘I think we must let him live.’

Barely looking up, Jeronimus answers, ‘Not at all, he is only a turner. Furthermore, he is half lame. He also must go.
He might become a babbler
now or later.’

And there it is. Of the many imperatives to kill, and to kill often, not least of them is to remove all those who might one day bear witness against the perpetrators. If the island is filled with only murderers, then, should they ever have to answer to the authorities for what has happened in these parts, they could come up with any story they pleased. But let just one innocent man, woman or child survive, to tell of what has happened, and the guilty would meet a fate worse than those they have killed – torture and then death.

So, Jacob Hendricxsz must die. As, ultimately, must most of those who have not joined them thus far. Zevanck nods curtly, exits, returns to the tent and makes a grim slashing movement across his throat to the other Mutineers, still there on guard. First, Lenart van Os sits on Jacob’s body, then the merciless Jan Hendricxsz goes on a stabbing frenzy, planting two knives into his victim’s chest, yet he doesn’t manage to kill him. Finally, using just the blade of one of these now broken knives, he slits Jacob’s throat. A short time later, the dead carpenter is lying in the same shallow grave as his friend Passchier van den Ende, while those who have killed them break open their sea chests and share the contents among themselves. Oh, and there is just one more quick thing to do. They nearly forgot. The murder of the remaining sick boy is now a mere formality, his throat cut with the minimum of fuss and even less ceremony. No one in any of the nearby tents utters a peep.

13 July 1629, Batavia

The speed of it all is stunning. One minute, Skipper Jacobsz, with Zwaantje on one side and Jan Evertsz on the other, is getting rolling drunk in one of the last surviving Batavia taverns, within a musket-shot of the walls of the citadel, and the next minute their entire world caves in.

They hear them before they see them, for the sound of drunken merry-making in the tavern instantly goes from deafening to non-existent.
The doorway has suddenly filled
with the vision of four men dressed in black, soldiers all, and there is not a man in the tavern who does not fear that they have come for him. No one is left in doubt for long, for the four men head straight for Jacobsz and Evertsz, and, entirely ignoring Zwaantje, come straight to the point.

‘Skipper Jacobsz,’ the shortest and most officious of the soldiers begins, ‘by order of His Excellency, Governor-General Coen, you are hereby arrested, charged with gross negligence in the loss of the
Batavia
. Bosun Evertsz, you are under arrest, charged with leading an assault on the night of 14 May, on the person of Lucretia Jans.’

At this pronouncement, some 70 men and nigh as many women shudder with relief that they are
not
the ones the soldiers have come for, though they look with some sympathy as Jacobsz and Evertsz are dragged away. Within two minutes of the arrest, everything is back as it was in the tavern, with the exception of the weeping Zwaantje, sitting slumped in the corner, though she is not left alone by the other men in the tavern for long.

In the meantime, both Jacobsz and Evertsz, manacled, soon find themselves in a stinking dungeon, deep within the bowels of the Batavia citadel.

Whatever Coen’s level of understanding in relation to retaining Pelsaert in the service of the VOC – due in part to the fact that the
Commandeur
is still needed to guide the rescue – that understanding does not extend, and was never going to extend, to a skipper who was not only in charge of a ship that ended up on a marked reef but was also
on watch at the time it happened
. As to a high bosun accused of launching an assault on a Dutch lady on a VOC vessel, that is
strictly
against regulations.

13 July 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

Andries de Vries has not slept and can now barely speak. For three days and nights since he murdered the 11 people in the sick tent, he has wandered aimlessly around the island, reliving the horror of what he has done, hoping it was just a nightmare from which he would soon awake, but finding no relief. The horror would hit him anew. He did that. He personally killed 11 good people, made the blood gush from their necks like butchered pigs and spray all over him. But he was forced to, wasn’t he? It was the one shred of consolation he had in the horror. He had no choice if he still wanted to live, and he
did
want to live, wanted to survive to get to Batavia and then back to the Dutch Republic to see his family once more. It is all he can think of as he walks around the island, dumb and dazed.

And now another four people have fallen sick in the three days since the first mass murder. Andries, weeping once more, his spirit broken, is led back to the same tent, where he is asked to reprise the very horror that plagues him, asked to do it all over again. Cursing himself that he has neither the moral strength to stab the knife into his own heart to end his agony and save what little might be left of his soul, nor the physical strength to take the proffered knife and turn it on the Mutineers, stabbing
them
, Andries shakily takes it and goes into the tent . . . emerging a few minutes later.

Crushed, exhausted, stunned that he has done it again, he leaves the tent with the dripping knife and in the moonlight meekly hands it back to Zevanck.

‘Well done, Andries,’ Zevanck says to him. ‘The
Kapitein-Generaal
will be pleased.’

Head spinning, Andries returns to aimlessly circling the island, through the night and into the morning.

14 July 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

As the sun comes up, Andries finally hears the screams he always knew he would hear, coming from the sick tent, as the bloodstains of those he has murdered are discovered in the now empty tent. (Their bodies were buried in the night.) The young man falls to the ground and does not move, barely able to comprehend what he has done. Finally, around noon, he rises and all but involuntarily breaks into a brisk trot, quickly heading off he knows not where, but avoiding eye contact, shunning conversation. The Survivors watch the sad figure as he runs past, horrified, for the word has long-since spread that it was
him.

In the end, for Andries, the compulsion to talk to someone about what he has done, someone he can trust, is overwhelming, and he knows who that someone must be: Lucretia. Whereas it was her beauty that stood out on the
Batavia
, in the time since the shipwreck it has been her kindness. And she and Andries have really struck up a friendship on the island, talking to each other and occasionally confiding to each other their deep unhappiness and common hatred of Jeronimus. At least, they did until such time as Lucretia was forced to move into the
Kapitein-Generaal’s
tent. But now, Andries needs to speak to her, needs to confess what he has done and try to make her understand that he had no choice but to do it.

Of course, it is dangerous, as since seizing total control Jeronimus has been very clear in his instructions that no one is to approach Lucretia, ever – and he has specifically made Andries promise not to talk to her, on pain of death – but
Andries is at a point well beyond mere desperation.

When he spies Lucretia going for a short, sad walk down by the beach, he dares to approach her, calling out her name softly. She turns, looks into his eyes, realises that her friend is deeply troubled and asks, ‘
Scheelt er iets aan?
Is something wrong?’ (Because of the edict of Jeronimus that no one is to approach her, she remains ignorant of what has happened in the sick tent.)

Of course, Andries dare not be seen conversing with her. All he can do is stand a short way off, with his head turned in a slightly different direction, so that the casual observer might think they are merely in a rough proximity to each other by happenstance, without talking.

An exceedingly strained conversation takes place, as it all suddenly comes tumbling forth in shards of shattered sentences. The drowning. The fact that he begged for his life and promised he would do anything, the offer put to him by Jeronimus, the fact that he . . . he . . . he actually went into the tent and murdered all those people on two separate occasions.

‘
Nee
, Andries!’ she cries out. ‘
Nee, nee, nee, nee!
I cannot believe that you have done this!’

Lucretia has also done what she considers to be a terrible thing in order to stay alive – for moving into the tent of Jeronimus is bad enough, though she still draws the line at sleeping with him – but murder 15 people? She knows she would rather die than do that and makes this view clear to Andries, despite his obvious total devastation and his need for her to understand, to
understand
, Lucretia, that he had no choice, don’t you see?

No, she doesn’t see at all. She turns away, leaving Andries alone, truly, desperately alone, with no one to whom he can now turn for solace. But there is worse still to come . . .

From a distance of some 50 yards, David Zevanck spots Lucretia and Andries within a short distance of each other, and he hurries to Jeronimus’s tent to tell him.

‘
Kapitein-Generaal, Kapitein-Generaal!
’ he calls when he sees him, parading his new red vestments in the bright sunshine near his tent. ‘A word, if I may,
Kapitein-Generaal
?’

Excitedly, once Jeronimus has ushered him into his tent, Zevanck starts pouring forth his account. But Jeronimus cuts him short with an upraised hand and coldly thanks him. The
Kapitein-Generaal
hesitates but a moment.
‘Send me,’ he says, ‘Rutger Fredericxsz,
Jan Hendricxsz and Lenart van Os.’

On an island as small as Batavia’s Graveyard, one is always in sight of Jeronimus’s tent, and, as it happens, both Andries de Vries and Lucretia, from different parts, see the three men emerge from it. Andries, sensing danger, begins to walk away, and then run. Spotting him, Lenart van Os laughs lightly and calls out after him, ‘Andries! Oh . . . Andries! Why do you run so? We want no more than a little chat.
Kom
, Andries,
kom
, come on back to us.’ And then, entirely unhurriedly, the three men follow him to the end of the island, as the entire population, all of them now alerted as to what is about to happen, watch in either horror or wry amusement as the scene plays out.

When Andries reaches the end of the island and there is nowhere further to go, and he can’t dive into the waters because he can’t swim, he turns to face them and again begins to plead for his life, but this time he can see it is hopeless. Murder is in the eyes of all three men, so Andries does the only thing left – he turns and begins to run through the shallows. And now the three Mutineers swiftly spring into action.

Raising their swords high, they charge after him, fanning out and rounding him up, giving him no means of escape. It is Lenart van Os who gets to him first, bringing his sword down with a searing flash on Andries’s right shoulder and instantly dropping him into the water. And then the others come in to finish the job, piercing his prone body with their swords again and again until the blood flows freely and Andries is no more than a floating corpse bobbing up and down in the waves, upon whom schools of tiny little fish are now taking a sudden interest.

Though most of the Survivors are spared the first-hand horror of seeing the murder up close, they do see the swords flashing up and down in the bright sunshine – for it is a particularly beautiful day, with a for-once gentle sea breeze blowing. The three jolly murderers walk back to the camp, wiping off Andries’s blood on the lower portion of their trousers. Lucretia, shuddering, turns away.