Batavia (45 page)

It is Lucretia. In his bed. Despite all of his charm, all of his most earnest supplications, she has completely resisted him. Nothing will sway her to his view that her proper place is not just in his tent but right by his side, or beneath him and holding him close. Nothing!

Finally, on this bright, shining day, while he and David Zevanck are walking, preening themselves in their fine red coats as they roam around their domain – it takes 20 minutes to promenade around the whole island and they do it regularly – he confides his angst and his supreme frustration to the younger man.

Zevanck, bemused that Jeronimus could agonise over a problem that can be solved so very, very easily, replies, ‘And don’t you know how to manage that?
I’ll soon make her do it.’

That very afternoon, thus, Zevanck walks to Jeronimus’s tent and, without preamble, pushes his way in to confront Lucretia. ‘I hear complaints about you,’ he says, lightly.

‘On what account?’ she replies.

‘Because you do not comply with the
Kapitein-Generaal’s
wishes in kindness. Now, however, you will have to make up your mind. Either you will go the same way as Wybrecht Claas or you will do
that for which we have kept the women
.’

With the words ‘the same way as Wybrecht Claas’, Zevanck slyly pulls back his cassock to reveal the well-seasoned haft of his dagger, so his meaning is unmistakable. As to ‘that for which we have kept the women’, it is already more than obvious what that means.

And so it is that that very night, Lucretia finally succumbs to Jeronimus’s appalling attentions, albeit only in the manner of a cold and sick seal. Her body is present, but her mind and spirit are entirely absent.

26 July 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

It is a typically overcast and windswept dawn . . . struggling to turn into anything other than a smudge of light on the distant horizon, let alone full sunshine. For the Mutineers, however, this is not just another day. Rather, this is a day when Jeronimus is extremely angry, and homicidally intent on expressing that anger.

No more Mr Nice Guy.

He gathers 20 of his best Mutineers outside his tent to deliver a speech that simply pours without pause out of him. As they know, their emissary, Daniel Cornelisz, has been taken by Hayes and his 40 traitors. No doubt because of Cornelisz’s incompetence, the previous plan to sow the seeds of treachery among the French ranks of the Defenders has failed, and there is therefore no recourse but to launch an all-out attack. And he knows what he wants with that attack: ‘
Maak ze allemaal dood!
Kill them all!’

Having concluded, he solemnly nods towards his second in command to take care of the practical matters.

With this, Zevanck reiterates the
Kapitein-Generaal’s
exhortations and prepares to equip these most loyal men with all the weaponry they have available, including limited musketry. Laying out the battle strategy, he orders the men with
musquetten
to be in the vanguard of the attack, followed by those brothers armed with their trusty swords and daggers. Gravely, he calls the names of the chosen ones, and each man, with head bowed, approaches the front of the line.

Watching from a silently disgusted distance, the
Predikant
reflects that it is almost as though they are partaking of communion, but instead of getting bread and wine, representing the body and blood of Christ, they step away holding instruments designed to draw real blood from the real bodies of real men.

Those Mutineers holding the standard-issue VOC muskets are privileged but burdened, for they are extremely heavy. No matter, each musket is supported by a vertical fork, and by planting the bottom end of the fork on the ground they will easily be able to fire from the shoulder. Perhaps the most amazing thing is that with these modern VOC muskets, they can be ready to fire again in as little as two minutes!

So it is that, in the late morning, these 20 Mutineers, led by Zevanck and van Huyssen, set off from Batavia’s Graveyard and begin poling and paddling their way to the north. Most look with interest as the islands loom larger before them, as to this point most of them have yet to set foot on either island. They steer broadly towards the direction that they have seen smoke coming from.

26 July 1629, Hayes’s Island

Early that afternoon, Wiebbe Hayes is up by the wells when Otto Smit nudges him and points to the two small vessels that can be seen about four miles away, just off the northern end of Seals’ Island and heading their way.

‘
Daar komen ze
, they’re coming,’ Otto Smit says simply. There is no panic in his voice, no rush, just a simple recognition that the event they have all been expecting and busily preparing for is now on the point of occurring. ‘
Op jullie plaatsen
, take up your positions,’ he tells his men.

They do so, though there is no particular hurry as they have plenty of time before the Mutineers arrive. Also, there is no doubt from which direction the attack will come.

Getting nearer now . . .

All of the Mutineers are surprised by how forbidding the High Islands look from up close. True, from the far perspective of Batavia’s Graveyard, the islands have always looked rather brooding, distantly disapproving of what is happening around Jeronimus. But, up close, they suddenly have real
menace
about them, an effect exacerbated by the fact that the Mutineers have no idea just where the Defenders are situated on the island.

Somehow, they imagined that once the enemy was on the run they would be able to see exactly where he was, and so be able to frame an attack on that spot. In fact, however, there is no sign of any life at all – no smoke, no tents, no construction of any sort visible atop the cliffs. Thus, the Mutineers simply navigate towards the most obvious spot, which is the closest point of land. The excited chatter on the journey now dies away as they come ever closer to the shore, looking for the tiniest sign of Wiebbe Hayes and his men. Where
are
they?

Lying flat on his belly at the top of those cliffs and peering carefully through the branches, Wiebbe Hayes watches the approach with some satisfaction. Though the Mutineers are not yet close enough for him to determine who exactly is in the boats – he is hoping to see Jeronimus in all his finery, as has been described to him – he can already roughly determine their number and affirm that they will indeed be landing on the shores exactly where he wants them to. To the left and right of him he has a total of 30 of his men, equally prone, and as ingeniously armed as possible. Behind him, another 20 of his men are keeping low and out of sight, armed with their own missiles and weaponry and ready to come forward at his signal. He keeps watching carefully, estimating that within 50 yards the attackers will . . .

Hit the bottom.

The rough plan of attack formulated by Zevanck and van Huyssen to this point is no more detailed than their typical modus operandi – landing and then hunting down and killing all the unarmed men with their muskets and swords. As it turns out, however, even before they arrive, things become difficult. A good mile from the island, the boats indeed hit the shallows, and there proves to be no way forward or around. Reluctantly, they come to the conclusion that they will have to wade the rest of the way . . . and there, too, is a problem. The sandy bottom sucks at their feet, making their clogs sink deep with every step, and it is exhausting to suck them out again to take the next step, let alone advance with any speed. And then the sea floor be comes rocky and treacherous. Sometimes, when they step on a rock, it gives way, and they are lucky if they do not fall into the sea,
rendering their muskets useless
.

Still they continue, grimly determined to do the job that Jeronimus has set for them. With the always aggressive Zevanck in the lead, they approach to within the shadow of the westernmost island.

Strangely, however, there still appears to be not the slightest sign of life, as all the smoke has gone and . . .

And, literally out of a clear blue sky, there is a sudden strange sound, an odd
whoooooshing
. (And for once,
for once
, this is a legitimate case of ‘let he who is without sin cast the first stone’.) The Mutineers all look up, just as the first of many stones nearly takes Coenraat’s head off, whizzing past his right ear so closely that he can hear its whistle.

Behind Coenraat, a split second later, Stonecutter takes that same stone on his right shoulder, and then another coral missile hits Lenart van Os, so that his musket is knocked out of his hands and is now lying completely useless in the water. On inspection, his right hand now sports a deep gash, from which pours forth gouts of blood. Using teeth and his good hand, he tears a length of material from his tattered cassock and quickly binds tight the wound.

And now,
dozens
of stones are raining down upon them. They are under attack! While the first wave is composed of larger rocks being hurled by the now whirring slings, the next wave is made up of much smaller rocks, and they seem to be coming from a spot unknown. At this point, the Mutineers have not actually seen a single person on the island – only the hail of stones coming from it. Worse, like fat cows stuck in the mud, it is difficult for them to dodge out of the way of even the stones they can see coming, and it is all they can do to twist their bodies at the last instant – resulting in more of the extremely heavy muskets being accidentally dropped and some abandoned.

Stunned and frequently stung, they stumble forward the best they can, eager to get to grips with their unseen assailants. But the rain of stones continues without end, sometimes hitting and dropping them, other times landing in the water near them and splashing their muskets.

Just ten yards behind where Wiebbe Hayes and his sling-men remain secreted, the 20 men under the command of Otto Smit
continue to hurl smaller rocks
from over the head of Hayes et al. and onto the Mutineers. Taking their cue from Otto, who is discreetly positioned so he can monitor exactly where the fist-sized stones are landing, they make small adjustments – a little to the right, a little to the left – to ensure their projectiles stay on target. The air is satisfyingly filled with the sounds of the Mutineers’ cries and groans.

Still, they note, Wiebbe Hayes has not given them the next signal they are expecting, so they simply keep showering the rocks upon the invaders. Few do so with more enthusiasm and passion than Cornelis the slightly fatter trumpeter. Over the last week, much of his strength, both moral and physical, has returned, and he is now engaged in what he has long dreamed of – fighting back, in the company of good men.

Take
that
, you curs, you snakes, you dogs.

And right beside him, throwing all the while, is the former assistant surgeon Aris Jansz. Although he is still substantially wounded on his right shoulder, he is eager to give the Mutineers something back for their trouble and continues to throw with his left arm with all his might.

‘Voorwaarts!’
Zevanck cries, despite now bleeding from a glancing blow he has been struck by a flying stone just above his right ear. And forwards go those who still can, though the less brave have dropped back to look after those who have taken forceful hits on their heads and bodies, who simply cannot go on. Worse still, it now seems that these infernal Defenders are not simply content to throw rocks from afar but are coming down from their cliff tops into the shallows and charging towards them. To their amazement, they are brandishing what appear to be swords and long, vicious pikes! Even from a distance, it is obvious that, as poorly clothed as Wiebbe Hayes and his men are, they are
strong, healthy and advancing rapidly
.

Shocked by the turn of events – this is not at all like the fun they had on Seals’ Island – the Mutineers soon realise that their position is hopeless, and they beat a bloodied retreat, as hasty as it is humiliating, the cheers and jeers of the pursuing Defenders ringing in their ears.

Next time . . . send in the MEN!

27 July 1629, aboard the
Sardam
, Indian Ocean

Pelsaert sits forlornly staring at the horizon, again contemplating how it is that his once stellar reputation is now lying like the magnificent carved figurehead Lion of Holland that adorned the bow of the
Batavia
, sunk in the waters of the Abrolhos and in total ruins. Coen’s parting words play over and over in his mind, and he wears them like a hair shirt: ‘The
Sardam
shall therefore set sail as soon as possible in the name of God, and thou shalt hasten thy journey with all possible diligence in order to arrive most speedily at
the place where thou hast lost the ship
and left the people.’

Thou hast lost the ship and left the people . . .