To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck by Greta van Der Rol Page B

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