Territory (62 page)

But Jaerk would allow them no more than a few minutes to wander the rooms. ‘What we seek is on the second floor,' he said. ‘Follow me,' and once again he trudged up the stairs, Wouter standing aside for Kit and Jessica to follow first.

The second floor proved to be a workroom. Light flooded through the tall narrow windows which looked out over the canal, and two heavy benches displayed the tools of the diamond cutter's and craftsman's trade.

The adjoining room was a showcase of the results. Magnificent pieces gleamed, perfectly lit, in display cases about the walls. Rings and pendants, necklaces, bracelets and brooches, all hand-crafted works of art. An ancient
wooden desk stood in one corner and behind it was another large showcase housing books, dominant amongst which was a giant leather-bound ledger.

Jaerk put the locket on the desk, opened the display case and took out the ledger and a smaller volume which appeared to be a diary of some sort. He placed them both on the desk beside the locket.

‘These books are nearly 350 years old,' he said, ‘and in them is a record of Gerrit Grij's work.'

He put on his reading glasses and opened the smaller book. ‘His journal,' he said. ‘Gerrit considered the van den Mylen locket his finest piece.' Jaerk turned directly to the page; he knew the exact spot.

Kit and Jessica peered over his shoulder as he traced the handwriting, still clear and unfaded by age, with his forefinger.

‘I shall translate for you,' he said.

‘“Vrouwe van den Mylen has entrusted the design of the locket to me,”' he read the words slowly, but unfalteringly, ‘“her wishes being the depiction of the earth and the sun to symbolise the love she shares with her husband Boudewijn. I have suggested a mountain peak embraced by a diamond sun, to which she has agreed, the initials of her and her husband to be engraved in the locket's interior.”'

Jaerk did not look at Kit and Jessica, but turned several pages of the journal to a further entry.

‘“Vrouwe van den Mylen appears satisfied with the locket,”' he read, once again tracing the words with his finger, ‘“a fact which pleases me as I consider it my finest work. The creation of a piece intended as a symbol of love, I believe added to my inspiration. I admire Vrouwe van den Mylen. For a woman in her position to undertake such a perilous journey is a measure of her love. May the
Batavia
carry her safely, and may the locket see her united with her husband.”'

Jaerk closed the journal. ‘It is a very unusual entry for Gerrit,' he said. ‘In writing of his work, it is the only time he made a personal comment about one of his clients.'

He peered at them over the top of his reading glasses. ‘There is no further mention made of Lucretia van den Mylen in his journal. It is obvious he never heard from her again. No doubt he believed she had perished as so many did following the wreck of the
Batavia.'

Jaerk turned back to the desk and opened the large leather-bound ledger. ‘Here is the official verification you are seeking,' he said, and once again he translated for them as they peered over his shoulder.

The hand was different to that of Gerrit, the writing small, neat and painstakingly correct. ‘“Quantity—one. Silver pendant with diamonds inset …”' Jaerk read. The payment was entered and in the receipt column was the signature ‘Pieter Grij'.

‘Gerrit's son,' Jaerk explained. ‘He was clerk to his father during his apprenticeship and became a well-respected craftsman himself in later years.'

He closed the ledger. ‘I will photocopy these documents for you,' he said.

Jaerk took off his glasses and peered at them. He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and, as he started to methodically clean the lenses, he said, in a tone which was meant to convey indifference but didn't, ‘I don't suppose you would contemplate selling the locket? I would offer you an excellent price.'

Kit turned to Jessica standing beside him. He reached for her hand and clasped it. She was surprised by the gesture.

‘I think the locket should stay here, don't you, Jess?'

‘Yes,' she replied, clasping his hand in return. ‘It belongs in the House of Grij. Besides,' she added briskly, ‘I have all the material I need for authentication purposes.' She tried to keep her voice business-like, but Jessica was moved. The locket had finally come home. She looked at Kit, their
fingers entwined, and they shared the moment.

Jaerk's astonishment and delight were plainly evident, he grinned broadly at Wouter and even Wouter could not conceal the glimmer of excitement in his eyes.

Twenty minutes later, when the material had been photocopied and the young couple were preparing to leave his office, Jaerk was further astounded. Kit refused to discuss any form of payment.

‘The locket is not mine to sell,' Kit said. ‘I believe I've simply been its keeper for a short time.' It was true, he thought. He would feel wrong if he profited from the locket, as if he was accepting payment for stolen goods. Besides, he didn't need the money, he'd inherited the Galloway empire, he was hardly short of cash.

‘May I hold it?' Jessica surprised herself as she asked the question, and she felt a little self-conscious when three sets of eyes turned to her. ‘Just a last look, that's all.'

Jaerk was only too happy to oblige. It showed great taste on the girl's part that she should wish to pay tribute to a masterpiece. Not many young people today showed such an appreciation for works of art, he thought as he took the locket from its case and handed it to Jessica.

It was so heavy for such a small thing, Jessica marvelled, and she remembered how surprised she'd been by its weight when Kit had first placed it in her hand two months ago. She angled it towards the lamp on Jaerk's desk, the light from the diamonds dazzling her eyes. So powerful. So brilliant. And again she wondered. What would the black man have felt when he balanced the weight of this perfect object in the palm of his hand? What would he have felt when the rays of its miniature sun dazzled his eyes? Little wonder he had been compelled to record the image of such a wondrous thing in his paintings 350 years ago.

Kit watched Jessica as she studied the locket. He knew exactly what she was thinking. He remembered her passion when she'd told him her story.

‘The locket came ashore with a shipwreck survivor, Kit,' she'd said. ‘And he was accepted by the Aborigines—he became one of them. A member of the family.' Kit recalled her excitement as she'd added, ‘Do you know, there were recorded sightings over a hundred years ago of pale-skinned Aborigines with ginger or fair hair and blue or green eyes?'

Aware Kit was looking at her now, Jessica turned to him. Their eyes met, and she too remembered. ‘Did you ever think, Jess,' he'd said, ‘that when you were tracing the history of the locket, you might be tracing your own ancestors?'

‘Yes,' she'd answered. She'd never admitted it to anyone before, but she'd admitted it then to Kit Galloway. ‘Yes,' she'd said, ‘it had crossed my mind.'

She and Kit exchanged a smile as she returned the locket to Jaerk. What a small part they had played in the history of the locket, Jessica thought, and conversely, what a huge part it had played in their lives.

‘Thank you,' Jaerk said, returning the locket to its case, gratified that two young people should pay such homage to the work of his ancestor.

‘The locket will be exhibited in pride of place,' Jaerk announced as he and Wouter stepped outside to farewell Kit and Jessica, ‘I will have a special cabinet made for the lost masterpiece of Gerrit Grij.'

They shook hands all round, Jaerk pumping Kit's hand vigorously, and as he and Wouter watched the young couple walk down the street, a thought occurred to Jaerk.
Het hangertje,
the symbol of love, had not only returned to its home, it had fulfilled its purpose.

‘Dit stel houdt erg veel van elkaar,'
he murmured to Wouter.

Wouter nodded. Yes, he agreed, the couple loved each other very much. The faintest suggestion of a smile twitched the corners of Wouter Eikelboom's mouth. He wondered how long it would be before they realised it themselves.

In my chapters pertaining to the
Batavia
, the locket and the character of Dirck Liebensz are fictional, and I have taken dramatic licence in my use of dialogue and interaction between the principal players. With these exceptions, all other events are historically accurate. The characters about whom I wrote existed, and the attempted mutiny, the slaughter and torture inflicted upon the survivors by Cornelisz and his henchmen, and the miraculous and timely return of Pelsaert are historical fact.

A postscript on several of the principal characters, for those who may be interested in their fate:

Lucretia van den Mylen finally reached Batavia aboard the rescue vessel the
Zaandam
only to discover that her husband, Boudewijn, had died shortly before her arrival. She married again, and lived for a number of years in the colonies before returning to Holland towards the end of 1635, where she and her husband settled in Leiden. They remained childless.

The success of Commandeur Francisco Pelsaert's rescue operation and the scrupulousness of the trials he conducted on the Abrolhos were sufficient to stifle the criticism of
cowardice directed at him from some quarters. However, he became a physically and emotionally broken man through the illness he had contracted during the voyage and the accusations he suffered consequently. He died in 1630.

The mutineers, under torture on the Abrolhos, accused their skipper, Adriaen Jacobsz, of being a principal instigator in the alleged plot to seize the
Batavia
. Jacobsz successfully defended his innocence to the charge of mutiny. He did not, however, escape the serious, and ironically incorrect, accusation levelled at him by his harshest critics. He was accused of ‘abandoning his ship and her occupants, thereby provoking the disasters which occurred'. Despite his repeated requests for freedom, he was left to languish, and doubtless to die, in the dungeons of the citadel of Batavia. There is no record of his release, nor is there record of his death.

The elements were peaceful. A cloudless sky, a gentle breeze, an unruffled sea. It should have been a perfect summer morning. And the beach should have been inviting. Terrace houses, some five storeys high, fronted onto the broad expanse of sand, a pretty setting, echoing past holiday-makers' delight. But it was no holiday haven today.

Today black smoke dimmed the sun, and the sea and sky merged to a murky grey as layer upon layer of German aircraft swooped from high to unleash their 1,000-pound bombs on the English destroyers. The elements were peaceful, but mankind was bent on death and destruction.

Martin Thackeray lay on the deck, clinging to the gunwales of the small wooden fishing boat as the Stukas roared overhead. The boat had pulled out to sea and was in the midst of the havoc being wreaked upon the British warships. He looked back at the shore barely a mile away, at the beach and the houses. He thought of Margate where his family used to holiday annually when he was a child and he tried to blot out the smoke and the exploding shells and the bodies bobbing about in the oil-blackened sea. He concentrated on the beach and the houses. It could have
been Margate, he thought. And the long V-formation of soldiers marching down to the shore could have been holiday-makers. He clung to the thought as rigidly as he clung to the gunwales, fearful of losing consciousness, for the loss of consciousness meant the loss of his life. Why did death frighten him so? he wondered. He'd seen many men die. Now it was his time. He must accept it. But somehow he couldn't. Guilt mingled with his pain. Had he lost his faith? Why was he so fearful of meeting his Maker? He chastised himself, urged himself to make his peace with God, accept his fate, but even as he did so he couldn't resist the need to fight back. The pain once again engulfed him and, desperately, he thought of Margate and his childhood. Stay alive, his mind urged, stay alive.

Despite the chaos which reigned, there was little panic amongst the troops. Thousands waited patiently on the beach for their turn to march crocodile-style into the sea. Like well-behaved schoolchildren they waded, some up to their necks, rifles held high above their heads, to the flotilla of craft waiting to take them home. In the skies overhead dogfights raged as RAF fighters engaged the Luftwaffe, but still the soldiers kept their orderly files until, one by one, two by two, they were hauled aboard vessels where they collapsed, exhausted, on the deck.

Martin had been unable to wade beyond waist-deep. He would not have been able to make it that far had it not been for the man who had saved him.

The humiliation of the British Expeditionary Force had been total, and the troops had retreated as far as they could when orders had been received to assemble on the beach. Few believed the rumours of a rescue mission. They'd be stranded if they went to the beach, they thought. Slaughtered or taken prisoner. But orders were orders and thousands upon thousands of soldiers scrambled through the bombed-out villages to head for the open and vulnerable shoreline.

Martin Thackeray and twenty others of his unit had been trapped in a ruined church as the enemy advance troops entered the deserted village. They'd left it too late to make their escape. They opened fire. The enemy took cover and skirmishing had continued throughout the entire day and into the night as the Germans tried to ascertain the Allied numbers remaining in the village. Fresh enemy troops arrived and dug in for the morning when they'd storm the church and surrounding buildings.

It was just before dawn when the men had made their escape bid, but they were lambs to the slaughter, mercilessly mown down by the surrounding forces which awaited them. Only Martin and young Tom Putney had emerged unscathed, eventually making it to the coastline a full day later.

‘Christ almighty!' Tom had muttered in his thick Cockney accent as they'd ducked through a narrow street which led to the sea. ‘Jus' look at that!'

‘Don't blaspheme.' Martin's reply had been automatic. Tom's blaspheming and his own remonstration had been a running joke between them for months, but he too had stood dumbfounded at the sight of the myriad vessels churning through the water. There must be hundreds, he'd thought. Too many to count, and of every description. There were troopships and mine sweepers, cruisers and yachts, pleasure craft and fishing boats, and others, little more than dinghies. And on the beach sat thousands of men, patiently waiting their turn for deliverance. Some had been waiting for days.

‘I wasn't blasphemin', Marty,' Tom had said, ‘I was givin' thanks.' Even in the direst of circumstances Tom was always good for a joke, but this time he wasn't joking at all. ‘It's a bleedin' miracle, it is. A bleedin' –'

He'd stopped mid-sentence as the building beside them erupted. A shell had found its mark. But they were out of the battle zone, Martin had thought vaguely as the force of the blast lifted him bodily into the air.

When he had come to his senses, seconds or hours later, he couldn't tell, he had realised that the shell had not been fired from the battle zone. The Stukas overhead were determined to halt the escape mission.

Yet more troops were pouring down the narrow street making for the shore, climbing over the rubble of the building, tripping over the body of Tom buried waist-deep in debris.

‘Tom!' Martin had dragged himself over to his friend, a searing pain in his left leg and chest. There was a ringing in his ears and his vision was blurred, but he knew Tom was dead. Tom Putney had been barely twenty, ten years younger than Martin. Too young to die.

‘Our Father,' Martin had begun as he crossed Tom's hands over his chest, ‘who art …' Then suddenly he was grabbed by the wrist and hauled to his knees, the pain screaming through his body.

‘Don't waste your breath, boyo.'

‘Our Father who art in heaven …' Martin had protested, as much for himself as for Tom.

‘Come on!' Emlyn Gruffudd had urged. Jesus Christ! He was as religious as the next man, but what was the point in saying prayers for a bloke who had half his head blown off! And at a time like this! ‘Come on,' he'd repeated, hoisting Martin to his feet. ‘You can make it.'

Martin had found himself half carried, half dragged to the beach. He had no idea who the man was but, as his sight cleared, he knew that he was not from his unit. He had tried to thank the man but waves of pain had engulfed him and the words wouldn't come out.

‘Don't you worry, boyo,' Emlyn had muttered, ‘you'll make it.'

The ringing in Martin's ears blocked out any sound. Once again he'd tried to voice his thanks and his lips formed the words, but nothing came out, not even a whisper.

The wounded were the first to be shepherded into the queue making its way to the water and Emlyn Gruffudd thanked his lucky stars that he'd rescued the Englishman. He might have been waiting his turn with the others for days if he hadn't. It had not been his intention to jump the queue, but when the opportunity had offered itself he didn't say no. He hoisted Martin higher up on to his hip, ignoring the groans of agony. Perhaps the poor lad was already dying, he'd thought, as he started to wade.

Only minutes later they were picked up by one of the lighter craft which had negotiated its way into shallower water.

‘Ten's the limit, room for two more,' the skipper of the small fishing boat had said and he and his young crewman, a lad barely out of his teens, had helped them aboard. There was no disorderliness from the other troops in the water. The men simply waded out further or waited their turn in the shallows, aiding the wounded.

‘That's it, Billy-boy,' the skipper had said to the lad, ‘we've got our load of pongos, we're off.'

So Martin clung to the gunwales and, whilst the boat chugged out into the channel, he watched the beach of Dunkirk and thought of Margate as he fought to retain his consciousness. But once they were out in the boisterous sea, the motion of the boat sent such pain through his shattered leg and his chest that unconsciousness seemed a blessing. If this was death, he thought, so be it. The pain had become unendurable and he prayed to God as he slipped into the merciful blackness.

‘Portsmouth's chaos. So's Southampton. The big boats are all makin' for the docks there.' The voice was authoritative, an older man with a thick Hampshire accent. ‘We're headin' for Fareham.'

The ringing in his ears had lessened and, as he came to, Martin heard the words clearly. So he was still alive. He didn't know whether he was thankful or not. He steeled
himself to the pain which once again galloped through him like an angry stallion, every part of his body now screaming in agony.

‘Where's Fareham?' he heard a Welsh voice query. ‘Never heard of it.'

‘Roughly 'alfway 'tween Portsmouth and Southampton,' the skipper said. ‘About four mile upriver. Home eh, Billy-boy?' The skipper smiled through his grey beard at his young crewman. ‘We're headin' home.'

‘Aye, Skip,' the lad grinned back.

Martin once again felt the blackness slide over him. But this time he didn't think of God and he didn't think of death. He no longer cared, he simply wished to escape the pain.

He awoke once again to the sound of voices. Many of them this time. Voices of command. ‘Easy does it. Gently now.' Others scrambled from the boat, willing hands helping the wounded, and he heard the Welshman say, ‘You can make it, boyo,' as he felt himself lifted onto the jetty. He gritted his teeth to prevent himself crying out. They laid him on a canvas stretcher and carried him to a waiting vehicle, one of many in the quayside dockyard. Army ambulances, private cars, even several horses and drays: the place was a hive of activity.

Martin was delirious, his brain in turmoil. Where was he? The voices were English, all of them. He wanted to ask, ‘Am I home?' but he didn't dare try to speak. Then a hand was holding his. A soft hand, but its grip was firm and reassuring.

‘Don't worry, you're home now.' A woman's voice. She had read his mind, and she looked like an angel. He fought against the blackness as he felt himself drift away. He didn't want to lose sight of the vision. An angel, with hair so fair it formed a halo around her face. ‘You're home,' she said again, ‘you're safe. We're taking you to the Royal Victoria Hospital at Netley.' Her voice was gentle and
came from very far away. And then she smiled. He held on to the voice and the vision as they lifted him into the ambulance. His fear and uncertainty had left him now. He was saved, the angel had told him so. ‘You're safe,' she'd said, and he believed her.