To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (7 page)

She unlaced the front of her gown for him and he slid the material away so he could suck her nipple into his mouth.

“Oh,” she complained softly, “your bristles are all hard.”

“That’s not all that’s hard,” he said, reaching a hand down to hoik up the long skirt.

“Let me.” She brushed his hand away and rolled the material up to her waist.

His fingers slid into her before she’d even finished arranging herself. Mmm. Warm and wet. He unbuttoned his breeches, eased out his rampant cock and thrust it into her. Ah. She sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck as he moved his hips on her.

*

Pelsaert wished he could use his jacket as a pillow. But the night was cold; colder than he would have expected. Over in the bushes someone moaned. Dreaming, no doubt. And who could blame them? He was certain he’d be plagued with nightmares. In his mind he replayed the final leap from the bucking ship into the careering longboat. And then the row ashore. Beside the boat cataracts of water poured off the reef as a wave sucked back. And the body; the dead man with the shattered head, eyes staring into the sky. He shivered. In the silence, he heard a grunt and then a groan of pleasure, a woman’s sigh. Frowning, he rolled over on his side. The man had no shame. Coupling with that woman here, out in the open, in front of all his men.

6

Wiebbe Hayes stood behind the hecklers and watched the longboat pass down the channel in the early morning. Traitors, they called them, those men in the sloop. Leaving all of us here to our fate. But what point was there in shouting, throwing stones? Better to trust in God that they would return and make the best of what they had. Although, he conceded, that wasn’t much. A tiny, barren island on a wind-swept reef. As if in answer to his thoughts, the bushes rustled dry stems in the breeze and a sea bird mewed its lonely cry.

“At least it isn’t raining anymore.”

Hayes turned to Corporal Gabriel Jacobsz, standing beside him. “We might regret that, too,” he said. “The water barrels are empty.”

Gabriel stared at him. “We’d better hope they come back with water. But meanwhile, we’d better set up a camp. Come help me organise the fellows. You speak a little French, don’t you?”

“Yes, a little.”

The corporal was already striding away. “Come on, fellows, form up. Let’s get some working parties together, build a camp. Over here. Come on, move it.”

The Frenchmen stood in a group and Hayes joined them, thanking the Lord his family—in better times—had seen to it he learned French. His skill, limited as it was, had proved useful more than once on the
Batavia
, with its motley group of mercenaries.

“
Qu’a-t-il dit
?” said one.

Hayes grinned and explained what Gabriel had said. They followed him readily enough to where the corporal was ordering his troops. “You lot—search the island for any water. Dig wells, look under rocks. You—collect wood, sails, anything you can find in the water that we can use to build shelter. You others—food detail. There’s birds here. Look for birds, see what you can catch. Everybody clear?” He stood with his hands on his hips, staring around at the men, waiting while a few translated for colleagues.

Hayes stayed with the Frenchmen, who’d been given food duty. He gestured to his French mates and they went off along the island, while Gabriel shouted a few more orders. At least they could feel they were doing something. Fights had already broken out between the sailors and the soldiers and most of the civilians milled around or lay about, despondent. Corporal Gabriel had never impressed him much and he knew many of his colleagues agreed with him. As for the officers on the ship—what officers? A few wet-behind-the-ears pups whose parents had bought them commissions.

They walked past a group gathered around the predikant, heads bent in prayer.

One of the Frenchmen snorted. “They pray. Do they think God will help them? God has dumped us here.” He flung out a hand, encompassing the horizon. Sea on every side.

“It gives them hope,” Hayes said. The other raised the edge of his lip and Hayes added, “And in the meantime, maybe we can help God to help us. Find some food—birds, as the corporal said.”

“Catch birds?” said Theroux. “Do you think we’ll be able to get close enough?”

De Villiers laughed. “I used to bring down birds with stones in a slingshot back home.”

“Well, let’s try that, then.”

Three birds, they killed. Three, between ten of them. Hayes carried them, legs down, dead wings flopping.

The island was too small for so many people. How many, Hayes wondered? Most of the soldiers, he thought. They kept bumping into them, everywhere they went. So fifty, sixty soldiers, as many sailors. And so many women. He hadn’t realised. He’d known a few soldiers had wives with them but he’d counted fifteen, twenty women. One of them was beautiful. He’d noticed her with the predikant’s prayer group. Everyone knew who she was: Lucretia van der Mijlen. The soldiers had heard what had happened to her, too, in that attack, but this was the first time any of them had actually set eyes on her. They’d talked about it for days, speculated about what the assailants had done to her. The stories became wilder by the hour. If Hayes believed everything he heard, every man on duty that night had had a turn with her. Huh. In their dreams.

A child’s cry rose, a querulous, petulant whine. He hadn’t expected to see so many children, either. A few were babes in arms that must have been born on the ship. Poor little souls.

Shouts interrupted his thought. Shouts and the sound of fists hitting flesh. “Who are you ordering about, you
klootzak
?”

“
Klootzak
? Why, you…” The sailor snarled and thrust forward, swinging a right hook into the face of the soldier.

Dazed, the man staggered backwards. The sailor advanced and drove his left fist into the man’s stomach. Another sailor cheered. It was enough. Hayes watched the melee grow as one, then another darted forward to join in.

“Lads! Lads!” Pieter Jansz the provost waded in and grabbed a sailor’s shoulder. “Stop it. Stop it.” He took out a cudgel and began to rain blows.

Gabriel came in from the other side. “Soldiers! Back off! Enough! Jacop,” he shouted for the lance corporal. True to his nickname, the Stone-cutter joined the fray, pulling men out by their collars.

Two men were on the ground now, one astride the other, landing savage punches while the rest traded blows. Hayes put out a hand to stop de Villiers from joining in. “Save your energy.”

The fight ended when the barber, Frans Jansz, arrived at a run. Hayes liked the man; so did everybody else. “Peace, lads,” he shouted, arms held high. “We’re in this together.”

Some of the men held others back but at least they listened.

“Well, I’m not taking no orders from no
bloedpoepende maaghond
sailor,” snarled the soldier who’d originally begun the brawl. Blood seeped out of his nose.

“Come, friend. We’re all in this together,” answered the barber, his hand on the sailor’s chest. “We must work together if we’re to survive. Don’t you agree?”

The man scowled.

“On the ship we had a council,” said Jansz. “Maybe we should do that again.” He turned to the provost and the corporal. “What do you think? You for the soldiers and the sailors—”

“He doesn’t represent me,” a sailor shouted.

“Well, then,” said Frans. “Who would you have? The predikant?”

Hayes stood silent as the onlookers shifted and exchanged glances. No, they didn’t want the predikant. He couldn’t blame them for that, either. He might be a Man of God but he seemed a bit colourless for a situation like this.

“Gerrit,” someone shouted. “Gerrit can represent us.”

Hayes craned his neck to see as a sailor stepped forward, an older man, leathery and wizened.

“Fair enough. I’m probably the most senior sailor here, now,” Gerrit Haas said.

“Good,” said Jansz, amid murmurs of agreement. “Well, then. Let’s work together to build shelter. Maybe the sailors can catch fish.”

Hayes approved. The most sensible thing they’d done all day. Not that he thought the co-operative spirit would last. The barber was a nice man, respected by all but he didn’t have that flare that set a real leader apart.

He passed his tongue over dry lips. What he’d give for a drink of water. He glanced up at the clouds, scudding rapidly to the east, leaving a clear sky in their wake.

*

Lucretia clutched a hand to her chest, holding her blouse closed tight. If she’d been frightened before, it was nothing to what she felt now. The only people she knew on this wind-swept spot in the ocean were the predikant and his wife and children. No maid, even. Zwaantie was gone. Not that she’d been much use since she’d taken up with the captain.

She shifted, easing her position on the ground. At least she was in the shade, under a canvas lean-to the men had constructed for the predikant and his family from pieces of sail and driftwood. Many others didn’t even have that luxury. Judyck, the predikant’s eldest daughter, sat with the two youngest children. The boy, eight-year-old Roelant, lay on his side shuffling rocks into patterns.

“Is there something to drink?” asked the little girl.

“No, sweetheart. Not yet.”

“Well, when, then? I’m thirsty.”

Judyck sighed and stroked the child’s hair. “So am I, Agnete.”

What do you say to an eleven-year-old, thought Lucretia? How could you make children understand?

A couple of soldiers ambling by stared at Lucretia and smacked their lips. She looked away, their ribald chuckles ringing in her ears. A shiver of revulsion mixed with terror slid down her back. She thought she’d dealt with the attack, put it out of her head, into the past where it belonged. Although on the ship, with so little fresh water, it had been nigh on impossible to wash away the stink of the filth they’d smeared on her. And they’d touched her. Touched her bare skin, her thighs. She shuddered. In the privacy of her thoughts she blushed. Remarkable to think that was only three weeks ago. She’d thought at the time things couldn’t get worse. Now, with so few women here and no authority, the prospect of another attack was real, frightening. And this time she didn’t think she’d just be smeared with filth. Some of the men had ogled her with ill-concealed lust. Some had even made licentious remarks.

Two women sitting together under another makeshift shelter, smirked and giggled behind their hands as they shot surreptitious glances at her. She could imagine what they were talking about; they’d heard the stories, too. Of course they had. Zwaantie was quite happy to gossip and on the ship gossip spread like wildfire.

Why had she ever come on this benighted voyage? Oh, Boudewijn; how she longed to see him, longed for her husband’s strength and support. Would he know she was on her way? Would her letter reach him in Batavia before she did? It hardly mattered now. If a rescue ship didn’t come, they would all die here, on this barren speck, far from Amsterdam. A vision of her home on the Heren Gracht swept into her mind. The tall house with its elegant gables, tiled floors, rich wall hangings, discreet servants bringing wine in fine Venetian glass goblets… They’d had to sell a lot of the furniture and the paintings but she could live with that, a dutiful wife, awaiting her husband’s return from the East. But after Lijsbet died, nothing mattered any more. The house echoed with ghosts. Hans, Lijsbet and Stefani. Every haunted room tugged at her. A small face here, a fading shadow there.

A group of sailors walked past the shelter, almost close enough to touch her skirt, and Lucretia jumped. One of them looked back over his shoulder to leer at her and run a thick tongue across his lips. Fear surged again, a hollow in the pit of her stomach.

What would Boudewijn say if he knew his wife had been treated like this? What would he think of her? Pray God she’d get a chance to explain. She huddled beside Judyck and tried to swallow.

“Mama, I’m so thirsty.”

Lucretia looked over to where young Roelant buried his head in his mother’s skirts and reproached herself for selfishness. Maria had three young children and four older ones. How must she feel, with nothing to give them? Perhaps they should all pray for rain.

7

Jacobsz smelled cooking, the rich aroma of meat simmering. He eased himself to a sitting position. Morning, a few hours after dawn. Zwaantie wasn’t next to him. He stood, stretching sore muscles. Scratching absently at a scab on the back of his hand, he followed his nose in search of the smell.

Zwaantie sat next to a cooking fire on the beach, keeping an eye on a simmering pot.

“Good morning.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling. “You slept well.”

He grinned and ruffled her hair. “I did. What’s this?”

“A broth. Saartje and I collected up the bones from last night. We thought a broth would be good. We used seawater.”

“Anyone else about?”

“No. We thought you all needed some rest.”

Yes, they probably did, thought Jacobsz. For today, at least, before they started on the next part of their journey. Sunlight sparkled on the water. A few gulls bathed in the shallows, grooming their feathers with orange beaks. A gentle breeze stirred the bushes. Right now, he needed a piss. He stood on a rock and went in the ocean, flat in the early-morning. Here, anyway, within the protection of the reef. Out there the sea seemed relatively calm. No white-caps, at least, but he knew the swell would still be strong. He wondered how the castaways were coping and frowned, annoyed with himself. It didn’t do to dwell on these things. All he could do to try to put things right was bring back help.

People were beginning to stir. Pelsaert came and crouched down at the water’s edge to splash his face. When he straightened, he scratched at his bristles. Itchy, thought Jacobsz. So was he. Shaving was a luxury they’d all have to do without for a while.

Breakfast was better than he would have thought—a bowl of broth with a piece of the dry bread they’d salvaged from the wreck. Jacobsz knocked his piece on a rock, shaking out a reasonable complement of weevils before he dunked the bread in the soup. Any still left would drown. The liquid tasted wonderful in his mouth and the softened bread filled his stomach. Still sucking on a bone, he took the bowl back to Zwaantie to serve the next man, waiting impatiently for his share.