Anatomy of a heretic, p.27
Anatomy of a Heretic, page 27
‘Just eat the bloody thing,’ says Nicolaes, his stomach howling. ‘Take it. You need it more than me.’
‘There’s still kindling, Wiebbe. You said yourself, we have to remember who we are – not become savages.’
‘You’re savage already,’ shouts an amiable cadet who threw in his lot with Hayes and his men when Coenraat van Huyssen began to preach heresies in their shelter. He outranks the man he knows as Wiebbe Hayes but has made no attempt to assert any authority. He is seventeen and has never soldiered before. He is second only to Otto when it comes to making the men laugh.
Hayes gives his friend an appraising glance. Makes a great show of accepting the truth in Allert’s words and enjoys the little ripple of laughter from the slavering men.
‘It’s not a kindness, Otto,’ he explains as if to a child. ‘If it’s poisonous, we’d rather know before we all have a bite.’
Otto bows, graciously. Leans forward. Slurps the glistening chunk into his mouth, his lips and chin smeared red. He savours the morsel as if devouring fresh pork. Closes his eyes in ecstasy. ‘My compliments to the butcher,’ he says, grinning – his teeth smudged crimson. He turns his gaze on the assembled soldiers, each awaiting their mouthful of raw flesh. Smacks his lips, pleased to have an audience. ‘A little salt might be nice.’ He gets the laugh he craves, and carries on. ‘Keep it away from the Frenchies though – it’s not rare enough.’
There are cheers from the men. Nicolaes smiles with relief. Picks up the dripping carcass and hands it to the man to his left: a French mercenary with long dark hair and a moustache that reaches past his lower lip. He’s a good soldier who has seen a lot of battle. He has proven himself a good leader of men, leading daily drills upon the sands and dividing their number into twos – each man responsible for the fate of the other. He has helped Nicolaes and Otto turn their straggle of strangers into a company where each cares for his brother in arms. His face contorts with indecision as he is handed the dead creature. ‘Please Wiebbe,’ he says. ‘You eat next, mon ami.’
Nicolaes shakes his head. Tries to pretend he does not hunger and turns his nose up at the steaming mess of meat. ‘Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai qui tu es,’ he says, smiling, as the soldier’s hunger overrides his sense of gratitude and he tears off a hunk of flesh with his teeth, laughing delightedly to hear his native language spoken so perfectly by a Hollander.
Nicolaes puts his hand upon the white rocks and hauls himself upwards, keeping a watchful eye upon the circle of men as they pass the dead beast among themselves, each gnawing off a morsel until there is nothing but bones and fur. They have found food in abundance upon High Island but they are being severe with the rationing. They are preserving the fish they catch and refusing to feast upon the colourful native birds for fear they will fly away before the other survivors respond to their signal fires and come to join them. The water they have found is dirty but fresh. They can survive here. The whole damn party could survive here. Nicolaes cannot understand why the signal fires remain unacknowledged. Is fighting down the rising fear that in his absence, those who look upon the under-merchant with wonder have begun to abuse their power.
Nicolaes glances at the men. Feels a sense of pride as he watches a small, shaven-headed man take the remains of the animal under his tattered uniform and declare his intention to make soup with the bones. A German recruit, his cheekbone sunk into his skull and his jawbone improperly aligned, declares that he will scrape some oysters from the huge rock in the bay and that all should find something for the pot. An Amsterdammer, refusing to be outdone, stands up as if sitting on an anthill, telling the others he is going to gather a handful of the sweet grasses that the men have taken to sucking to stave off the worst of the hunger pangs. Volunteers step forward, each committed to being the most dutiful and diligent of soldiers. All glance at Hayes for his approval and are rewarded with a warm, indulgent smile.
The men disperse, half of their number drifting off towards the waterline and the remaining men making for the little encampment, spread out around a small stone fortification that provides some degree of shelter from the howling wind. Their provisions are kept within – timbers and caulks and spars that have washed in upon the tide.
Nicolaes turns to see Otto staring at him, a curious little half-smile upon his face. Nicolaes feels a sudden surge of fondness for the man, a delight in seeing him rejuvenated. ‘Perhaps they shall name these creatures after you,’ he says, covering the sound of his own growling stomach. ‘Ottus rattus felis has a nice ring.’
Otto wipes his lips with the back of his hand. Looks up to where the brightly coloured birds wheel and caw, turning in outlandishly garish semi-circles around the squabbling gulls. He looks upon Nicolaes with a half-hearted glare. His words, when they come, are seamed with accusation. ‘It would be you who deserved the credit, my friend. But how could they name it after you, eh? None of us even know your name.’
Nicolaes takes great care not to let his expression change. Only when he has thought of every possible response does he allow himself to screw up his features and feign confusion. ‘You think I would choose Wiebbe if something else were on offer to me?’
Otto rolls his eyes. Settles himself down upon the moss-slimed rocks and clasps his hands across his stomach. ‘What did you just say to the Frenchman?’
Nicolaes laughs, as if the question were unimportant. ‘I told him that we are what we eat. It’s a French saying. I heard it in a tavern, I think…’
‘It doesn’t matter to me,’ says Otto, closing his eyes. ‘I’m grateful that you’re here. We all are. We’d have beaten each other to death and sucked the flesh from one another’s bones, if not for you guiding us. But you’re mad if you think anybody believes you to be a common soldier from Friesland. You don’t have to tell me, but if ever there was a time to drop your pretence and unburden yourself to a friend, this is it. You must be bursting at the seams keeping your secrets in.’
Nicolaes feels as though a pistol ball has taken him in the chest. All the breath leaves him in a rush as the effort of holding himself together suddenly becomes too much. He sags, eyes clouding, and it is only when Otto hauls himself up and takes him by the arm that he stops fighting the urge to fall and feels his legs lose the last of their strength. Otto lowers him to the ground, his red lips moving soundlessly. Nicolaes cannot turn the haze of muddled features into a face. Just sees eyes, nose, red-barred teeth, all circling around and into one another. He can make out no sound save some high, unpleasant whine nearby, gradually giving way to the hush and roar of the ocean.
He closes his eyes, watching circles of brightly coloured lights move upon his eyelids, slowing, slowing, until he comes back to himself, sick and dizzy. He feels something at his mouth and then muddy, lukewarm water is dribbling over his tongue. He opens his eyes to find Otto holding his head up, wringing out a square of cloth into his open mouth.
‘Save it,’ splutters Nicolaes, instinctively. ‘The men must share…’
‘The men would give up every last drop of their rations if it kept you on your feet,’ growls Otto, looking down upon him. His features are a grey mask of absolute dread. He gasps, relief pouring out of him, as he sees the life returning to Nicolaes’s eyes. He sits back, laughing nervously. Shakes his head, trying to make a joke out of it. ‘And if you don’t want to tell me the truth, that’s fine. There’s no need to swoon like a maiden at her first sight of a prick.’
Nicolaes finds himself laughing. Slithers up to a seated position, Otto dragging him close. He leans against his friend, his head upon his shoulder. He smells saltwater and spoiled pork. Smells of sweat and onion skins, of mildew and fish scales, that rank reek of shellfish chiselled bloodily away from stone.
‘Nicolaes,’ he says, closing his eyes and offering up the name like an amen. ‘Nicolaes de Pelgrom.’
Otto shifts position. Eases Nicolaes back against a low white rock. Studies him for a moment, his lips moving with unasked questions. At length, he gives a nod of gratitude. ‘The pilgrim,’ he repeats, quietly. ‘You are not a man of Friesland?’
Nicolaes looks down at his boots. Chuckles to himself, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think I’m from anywhere, my friend.’
‘But you are a man of the Provinces, yes? You are a Hollander? The way you speak. The words you shared when you were sick. The ease with which you slip between talking to people, giving them what they need… and the way you wield a weapon. For all I know, you could be an English spy, set upon some bloody course upon arrival in the Indies.’
Nicolaes nods, weakly. Decides that there is nothing to lose with the truth. ‘I am a man of Leiden,’ he says, spitting out grit and leaning his head back against the rock. ‘My grandfather was a tavern-keeper. My mother was little more than a child when two fine young gentlemen of England offered a handsome purse of coin and jewels to be allowed to take her maidenhead. She fell pregnant – the shame of it compounding my grandfather’s guilt at having agreed to such a vile transaction. The humiliation of it put him in his grave. It drove my mother mad. None would believe her to be the victim of an outrage. She was reviled as a common slut.
‘I was placed in the care of the good burghers of Leiden and sent to the orphanage with nothing of my own save a letter written by my grandfather, and the locket given to my mother by the gentler of the two men. When I received some schooling and was able to read, I became familiar with the circumstances of that night. My grandfather wrote that he remembered the names of the men. I, an enquiring child, asked the masters of the school if they were familiar with the name. Eventually I learned that “Villiers” had risen to favour in the court of King James. He and his brother were now men of influence. And Providence, that accursed vixen, took it upon Herself to intervene.
‘I had proven myself an adept scholar – hard-working and quick to learn. There was talk of my continuing my education at the university after I had finished at the Latin school. But another opportunity arose. A former student of the school had for some time been a member of the royal court in London. A favourite of the king, he was a man of science and had proven himself an invaluable creator of inventions that pleased the king beyond measure. He sought an apprentice and wished to offer an opportunity to one who had not been given the most auspicious of starts. I was selected. And in England, I was at last able to let out the rage that had bubbled within me for as long as I had known the circumstances of my making.
‘I sought out the man I knew to by my father – the older brother of the Duke of Buckingham. I presented at their fine house, clasping the locket they had given my mother as a token after bedding her. He would not admit me. Returned to my master in shame and despair, it half stopped my heart when I was sought out by the duke himself. I was brought to his luxurious apartments in London and he listened to every word that spilled from my lips. He did not attempt to dissuade me of my belief that his brother was my father. He merely asked whether I wished him to intercede on my behalf. To help me be all I could be.’
Nicolaes pauses, his throat suddenly dry. He looks at Otto, who is staring at him in fascination. Nicolaes, suddenly self-conscious, offers a smile. ‘The words flow like a river, do they not? Allow me to say that I became his man. His agent. I was taught all that a gentleman may need.’
‘To spy?’ asks Otto, quietly. ‘Upon your own nation?’
‘Upon everyone,’ says Nicolaes, without apology. ‘Taught to steal, and fight, and kill. Taught to seduce. Taught to disguise myself as many and none. What is a nation, Otto? It is only a man’s master. And who would not leave a master for the offer of better terms?’
‘And your purpose upon the Batavia?’
‘Murder,’ says Nicolaes, and the word itself causes him to chuckle, breathlessly. Everything suddenly seems so damn ridiculous that it does not trouble him to speak it aloud. Such business surely belongs to another life now. ‘I was commissioned to end the lives of those men who so mistreated the English merchants at Amboyna. The turncoats, the false witnesses; the torturers and the men who mounted heads upon spikes upon the orders of the governor-general and his lackey. I am commissioned to end their days.’
Otto sucks his lower lip, thoughtfully. ‘Aboard the Assendelft? You slipped away…’
‘Dead already, I swear it,’ says Nicolaes, holding up his hand to God. ‘You have no reason to believe me and I confess I would have attempted to take credit for the deed had we arrived at the fortress but the murder was not mine. I fancy that my employer has commissioned numerous other assassins upon the same mission.’
‘You sought to continue on to Batavia?’ says Otto, quietly, his mind running ahead. ‘You returned to the vessel. Stayed alongside me these past weeks when a man of such skill could surely have made good an escape.’ He licks his lips as he realises the final purpose of Nicolaes’s kill list. ‘Governor-General Coen?’
Nicolaes nods. ‘It was ever a fool’s errand,’ he says, tiredly. ‘My uncle is dead. He was murdered before you or I ever set foot aboard the accursed vessel. I have no more murders in me, Otto. I have little left but the will to redeem myself, and perhaps to help those of whom I have come to think fondly.’
‘The Lady Lucretia?’ says Otto, solemnly, and flinches in surprise as Nicolaes puts his palm upon his cheek and smiles, gently, into his eyes.
‘Nothing about our friendship is an affectation, Otto,’ says Nicolaes. ‘I mean to see you safely off this island. I mean to do all I can to help you all stay alive until the rescue ship comes. And come it will, Otto. The Gentlemen will demand every effort be made to recover the treasures. It would be comforting to think that they were similarly interested in the men and women of the ship, would it not? But Pelsaert shall return. I want to know I have done all that I can to ensure that the ship leaves with as many of our number as is possible.’
‘And you?’ asks Otto, shuffling around on the white sand. ‘You will sail on to Batavia? To do what? To serve at the garrison? At my side?’
Nicolaes feels a surge of warmth and friendship towards the young soldier. ‘I do not think I have ever been anything but the instrument of another man,’ he says, gently. ‘If Providence grants me more life, I should like to know what I can make of myself when not employed in the schemes of another.’
‘You will desert?’
‘I think we are getting ahead of ourselves.’ Nicolaes smiles. ‘Look where we are. Look what we face. We have found water and lit the fires but nobody comes. The seas around Traitors Island froth pink and the sharks feed well. We weaken by the day. To talk of a future desertion…’
‘I shall not tell,’ says Otto, solemnly. ‘You are simply telling a story, my friend. You are Wiebbe Hayes. You are a fine soldier from Friesland. You are the leader of those soldiers who believe they have a duty to protect the survivors and who remain loyal to the VOC. All else is fantasy, is it not?’
Nicolaes holds his friend’s gaze. Nods, slowly. Shifts position, as if wriggling back into the neatly fitting suit of the character he has played for a year. ‘Of course, Otto. I merely seek to distract you from your belly.’
Otto’s grin does not reach his eyes. ‘I care not for Coen,’ he says, quietly. ‘Keep us alive and I give you my word – were he to wake with his throat slit, I would not shed a tear.’
Nicolaes is about to reply when he is distracted by a sudden commotion from the waterline. He hears the raucous cries of raised voices – men shrieking his name. He pulls himself upright and reaches down for the length of sun-bleached timber that serves as both staff and poleaxe. Takes Otto’s arm and hurries them both down to where the men are waiting: bare, sunburned backs obscuring his view of the sea.
Slowly, like stage curtains, the men part.
Bobbing in the shallows, clinging to their disintegrating raft, are three of the men from Traitors Island. Two are dead, their bodies bleached like the underbelly of a whale; ragged wounds to their backs and haphazard smiles gouged into their throats.
The third man is sobbing, rocking back and forth, sitting in a haze of pinkish water that leaks from some hidden wound. He looks up as Nicolaes moves towards him, staring through him with eyes that seem robbed of all light.
Otto crashes forward into the water, reaching out to the man. He flinches away from his touch.
‘What has happened, my friend? Where are the others? These wounds upon your fellows – who has done such wickedness?’
He moves his lips but no sound emerges. Only when Otto takes him by the arms and forces him to look at him does the poor survivor find his voice.
‘He’s killing them,’ he whispers. ‘Cornelisz and his Blood Council. Killing them…’
‘Killing who?’ demands Otto. He shakes him, angry now. ‘Listen man – killing who?’
He stares past Otto. Addresses his words to Nicolaes. Manages to utter three words before he succumbs to another fit of sobs.
‘All of them.’
33
Cornelisz sleeps little. To sleep is to invite visions. To slumber without recourse to his sleeping draughts is to visit Hell. He does not think of the things that he sees as nightmares. They are more real than that which he experiences in wakefulness. For a man blessed with such exceptional memory and power of perfect recall, he cannot find the words to describe what he experiences when he gives in to exhaustion. Even Torrentius, eager to coax a useful truth from the mouth of his prophet, could not bring forth a description that made any sense.
‘Teeth,’ he had muttered, as his master sat before him, impatient to sketch this glimpse of the beyond. ‘Teeth and flame and bones. People inside out – naked muscle and sinew and tendons tearing meat from their bones to devour themselves, over and over. And the pain, Torrentius. I felt it as one hears song – something so piercing and perfect as to be absolute. And yet there is no fear. It is a sensation of reunion, of being swallowed up into the embrace of the familiar. If it is Hell, it is home.’
