Territory (30 page)

‘Why not? They're my sons.'

‘And they're
different
!' Henrietta felt frustrated beyond belief. ‘Can't you see that, Terence? They're individuals. They're as different from each other as they could possibly be …'

‘And do you know why they're different, Henrietta?' Terence rose from his desk, irritated. Her overreaction to the shooting of the steer, which he'd taken as a typically female response, was really annoying him now. ‘They're different because Kit is your favourite.'

Henrietta stopped in her tracks. Shocked. That wasn't true. Was it?

‘You mollycoddle that boy,' Terence said, gratified that his comment had obviously received the reaction he'd desired. ‘He's not a Galloway, you've turned him into something else. Some Pommie hybrid who plays with stones and reads books and doesn't want to shoot birds.'

Terence was surprised at the impact of his accusation.
She appeared to actually believe him, he could see it in her face. Henrietta was a fine mother to both boys and yet he'd struck a chord. Good, he thought, it was easier to blame her for the fact that he didn't particularly like Kit. ‘You want to watch it, Henrietta, you'll ruin that boy, he won't fit in. I'm going to get a drink.'

Terence left the room, pleased that he'd turned the conversation to his own advantage and proud of himself for not having lost his temper.

Henrietta stood for a moment, still shocked, trying to come to grips with his accusation. Was he right? Did she favour Kit? It had never once crossed her mind. Surely it wasn't true. She'd agonised over Malcolm and the pain the boy went through to earn his father's approval. In fact she'd worried far more about Malcolm than Kit, who seemed to have an inner strength which Malcolm lacked. But then she remembered those lonely years when Kit was a constant reminder of Paul. When she'd dreamed of Paul at night and woken to see him there in the face of his son. Had she unwittingly favoured Kit all this time? Henrietta was riddled with guilt.

Jeronimus Cornelisz had now embarked upon an orgy of torture. There was no longer any reason to his killing. It was mid-July and he had culled the numbers on Batavia's Graveyard to such a degree that provisions were ample and none of the remaining men posed a threat to his reign. Several younger males had been spared and recruited, under pain of death, to join his band of cutthroats. Many of them VOC clerks unaccustomed to any form of violence, the young men were forced to perform murders themselves to prove their loyalty.

No threat was anticipated from any other quarter, Weibbe Hayes and his men were presumably dead as planned, no smoke signal having been sighted from the High Islands, and Cornelisz had sent a party to Seals' Island to dispatch the survivors there, most of whom had been already near death. He'd sent a further party to Traitor's Island to execute those who had attempted to escape the carnage, and now there was no-one left to kill. No-one whose death was necessary.

But the killing continued, and more important to Cornelisz than the killing itself was the torture which preceded the death of his victims. Jeronimus Cornelisz had decided
that, if he was to languish in this desolate place until his own bones were bleached white by the merciless sun, then he would practise the teachings of Torrentius. This, his last period on earth, would be one of unprecedented sensual pleasure. During the daylight hours he would indulge his bloodlust in a way no normal society would permit, witnessing with profound interest the ultimate in human suffering. And at night he would relive these experiences whilst sating his sexual lust with his personal concubine.

As he caressed the silken skin of Lucretia van den Mylen, Cornelisz savoured the images of his men at play that same afternoon. How they'd blindfolded a boy, convincing the lad it was a game, then decapitated him and kicked his head about like a toy. The memory afforded Cornelisz an exquisite pleasure as he felt the womanliness of Lucretia's body beneath him.

Lucretia now lived with Cornelisz in his grand tent, and was required to service him whenever he wished. She was his personal property and no man was to communicate with her. Should any man attempt to do so, he would be signing his own death warrant, and ever since the savage murder of young Andries de Vries, who had been seen in conversation with Lucretia, most men averted their eyes in her presence.

Lucretia had given up praying for death. Perhaps God intended her to live for some purpose, but she no longer cared why. For weeks after the brutal killing of Andries de Vries, she had felt guilt over his death, adding further pain to her nightly defilement. She could not have prevented the boy's murder, just a boy he'd been, barely nineteen years old, but she could have shown some compassion. She could have helped relieve him a little in his torment. Instead she had been repulsed.

‘They made me kill, Vrouwe van den Mylen,' he'd sobbed. ‘Eleven sick people in the infirmary tent, they made me slit their throats with a knife.'

She and Andries had been friends in the early days aboard the
Batavia
and, risking the wrath of Cornelisz, the youth had from time to time visited her in secret. Despite the fact that Lucretia was his elder by only nine years, he seemed to regard her as a mother figure and sought the comfort of her company. But that last day perhaps he sought her as a kind of confessor to absolve him of his sins.

‘And last night they made me go back,' he sobbed, ‘to finish off the remaining sick.' The boy could not rid himself of the dreadful eyes staring at him, reproachful in death, women and children and men weak from their illness. ‘They said they would kill me if I did not do their bidding.'

But Lucretia had been unable to absolve him, just as she'd been unable to disguise her revulsion. ‘Andries,' she'd said, ‘I cannot believe it of you.' And when Andries had left, doubly tormented, a spy had reported his visit to Cornelisz and the boy was then set upon by three men with swords and hacked to death.

Lucretia now knew that far more vile acts were being perpetrated. Perhaps Andries' speedy execution of those ill people, no doubt destined for a lingering death, had been merciful. Perhaps he had been doing God's will somehow, albeit upon the instructions of Cornelisz. She wished she could have told him so.

These days Lucretia no longer tortured herself with guilt, what was the purpose, there was nothing she could do. She led a solitary existence, passing gaunt-faced and sunken-eyed amongst the others, speaking to no-one. Each afternoon, by way of exercise, she would wander through the tents to the far end of the island and there she would pace along the shore looking out to sea, ignoring the misery behind her, seeing nothing but the vastness of the ocean, her mind a blank; she'd trained herself to keep it that way. She no longer thought of Boudewijn, and she no
longer caressed the locket hidden in the lining of her skirts. She often felt for its outline to make sure it was safe, but she no longer gazed upon it, nor did she trace with her fingers the contours of its engraving. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on the past, and there was no point in contemplating the future.

Finally, she would return to the tent and prepare herself for Cornelisz's demands, closing her ears to the stories of horror she occasionally overheard along the way. She could not afford to know what was being relived in Cornelisz's mind, for she knew that he revelled in his atrocities as he drove himself into her body. She could tell by the brutality of their intercourse, and by the madness of his ecstasy. She avoided looking at the demon's eyes, tightly closing her own to keep out the sight of his face. It was the one merciful aspect to their coupling. Now that he had ceased to ‘court' her, and since embarking upon his orgy of torture, Cornelisz no longer required her to look at him, he was lost in a world of depravity which was all his own.

One afternoon, as she passed amongst the tents, her eyes downcast as they always were, she was aware that someone had fallen into step beside her. A young man, judging by the firm young calves beneath his leggings. She glanced up briefly, recognising him. Dirck Liebensz, a clerk twenty years of age, he'd been a friend to Andries de Vries. He signalled her with his eyes. Was he about to speak to her? She looked away and moved on, increasing her pace. He walked with her. Was the young man mad?

She reached the far end of the island and he stood several paces behind her. ‘I wish to speak to you, Vrouwe van den Mylen,' he said softly.

She stared out at the expanse of coral reef and the ocean beyond. ‘You're insane, boy, they will kill you.'

‘That would be preferable to what they ask of me. Please Vrouwe van den Mylen, I need to talk, there is no-one else.'

She recognised the agony in his tone. Dear God, was this to be another Andries, what did he want of her? ‘Do not look at me as you speak,' she said.

He walked to the edge of the small coral beach, to where she could see him if she wished, but she did not turn to look. From the corner of her eye she could distinguish his form. Stocky, well built, a strong young man. She turned away and looked towards the settlement, no-one appeared to be taking particular note of them, and ten feet apart, their backs to each other, she listened to him as he spoke.

‘Cornelisz killed a child today,' Dirck said, his voice a monotone as he forced himself to speak calmly of the horror. ‘He made us watch, Salomon Deschamps and me.'

Lucretia knew young Deschamps. She'd met him often with the Commandeur, he had been Pelsaert's favourite clerk. He too had been a friend of Andries de Vries. She wished Dirck would be silent, she did not wish to hear of the atrocity, but she said nothing.

‘He gouged out the infant's eyes,' Dirck paused, swallowing hard as he fought for control, ‘and then, whilst the child still lived, he cut off its head.'

He inhaled deeply, then exhaled, a long slow sigh, and as he did, he felt the tightness in his chest relax just a little. He had said it. He had spoken out loud of the vile act. He didn't know why, but somehow it had helped.

Lucretia felt sickened. She swayed slightly and her fingers curled into fists. Why had he told her this? She of all people did not need to know. She
must
not know. For it would be these images which Cornelisz would bring to their bed tonight. As he sought pleasure in her body, she would know what was in the mind of the Devil himself and she would see those same images, she would be at one with Satan.

‘Why do you tell me this?' she cried out in anger.

‘Andries said that he often spoke to you in secret, he said that you were a comfort to him.' Dirck had not
wished to cause the woman fresh anguish. He had thought that as Cornelisz's mistress she would know directly from the fiend himself of such atrocities.

Lucretia started to weep softly. The young man had broken through her defence which she had thought impregnable. The image of the mutilated child would haunt her forever, just as the reminder that she had been of no comfort to Andries in his hour of need would haunt her.

‘Forgive me,' Dirck whispered at the sound of her weeping and he turned to her.

‘Do not look upon me,' she hissed. ‘Turn away. Turn away.' He did as she bade him, and Lucretia stopped weeping. Her display of weakness was no help to the boy. ‘What do you wish of me, Dirck?' she asked when she had regained her composure.

‘I do not know, Vrouwe van den Mylen,' the young man said. ‘Your blessing perhaps, there is no-one else to whom I can divulge my plans.' His voice was strong now, calm, it was good to talk freely, albeit from a distance. He sensed Vrouwe van den Mylen wished him well. ‘I intend to escape from this island before I am put to the test.'

‘What test is that?' she asked, shuddering at the prospect of whatever new horror Cornelisz had in mind.

‘Tomorrow Salomon and I are to strangle a child for the sport of the men. We will be killed if we refuse. Salomon has told me he will do it in order to survive, I have pretended to agree.'

‘How do you propose to escape? Others have tried.' Lucretia focussed upon the distant tents, people gathering whatever sparse kindling they could find for tonight's fires, women washing clothes and tending children. Was there a spy amongst them?

‘Whilst the men are drinking tonight I will steal one of the smaller rafts.'

Satisfied that no-one was paying them any heed,
Lucretia said, ‘Go to the far end of the beach, sit amongst the bushes there where you cannot be seen. I will join you shortly.'

After five minutes or so, Lucretia walked to the far end of the cove. She did not hide with him amongst the bushes, her daily constitutionals had been too regularly observed, but she strolled about beside the sparse clumps of vegetation as she so often did. If she were seen, it would be presumed she was alone. And they talked.

‘A guard stands watch over the rafts,' she said. She felt strong now, she had a purpose. Perhaps even the purpose for which God had intended her. She would do whatever she could to aid Dirck Liebensz in his escape.

‘I have a knife,' he replied, ‘which can serve a better purpose than that of slitting the throats of women and children.'

‘They will find you and kill you. They have killed all those who have escaped to Traitor's Island and Seals' Island.'

‘They'll not find me there.' He looked up at her from amongst the bushes as she stood gazing at the horizon. She was magnificent. And a woman wise in the ways of the world. Andries had said that she was. Dirck was glad that he had shared his confidences with Vrouwe van den Mylen. The sight of her and the knowledge of her support were giving him strength. ‘I will try for the mainland.'

She was startled. No attempt had been made to reach the mainland, which was no more than a vast shadow in the distance. Through rough, shark-infested seas, the journey was considered too hazardous. And should such a feat be accomplished, who knew what savages roamed the shores of the Great South Land.

‘You will die in the attempt,' she said.

‘It will be a better death than I will find here.'

There was such resolve in the young man's voice that Lucretia felt the faintest glimmer of hope. Not only for
Dirck Liebensz but for herself. This was surely why God had kept her alive. She fumbled amongst the linings of her skirt and withdrew the locket.

‘I have something for you,' she said and she gazed for the last time upon the symbol of her love. Gently, she kissed the diamond sun, ‘Farewell, Boudewijn,' she whispered.

Lucretia knew in her heart that she would never see her husband again, and she had no misgivings in parting with the locket if it would save the young man's life. There was no God on this island but perhaps a symbol of His mercy remained in the locket, which she was convinced had preserved her up until now. She prayed that its power would preserve the boy.

‘Give me your hand, Dirck,' she said and, for the first time she looked at him. The young man held out his hand and she pressed the locket into his palm. ‘If you survive, you will need to buy your way back to Holland. This may be of assistance.'

Dirck stared at the locket, the diamonds glinting brightly in the sun, never had he seen a thing of such beauty. ‘Vrouwe van den Mylen …' he said, overwhelmed and he lifted his head to gaze up at her.

Lucretia smiled. She had thought she would never smile again. ‘The locket will see you safe, Dirck,' she said, ‘I know that it will. Take care and Godspeed.' She pressed his hand once more. ‘Wait here for ten minutes after I am gone.'