Overview
Front Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Contents
Front Cover
Praise for To Die a Dry Death
About the Author
Copyright Page
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
An Author’s Journey
Historical Fiction Blog Excerpt
More From Fingerpress
Praise for To Die a Dry Death
“Utterly brilliant in every way. It’s hard to believe any book could come closer to conveying the essence of this astonishing series of events. If ever there was a five star read, this is it.”
- Bill Kirton, Booksquawk.com
“A college class could really get into a book like this, and explore its deeper meaning and even do a comparison with Lord of the Flies. It would make for a great movie.”
- Historical Fiction Obsession
“Greta van der Rol has done an outstanding job keeping the stories apace, and tightly reined in so as to keep the central story going ... I recommend this book to any historical fiction fan, and to all fans of books based on real life and given an extra dimension through fiction.”
- Heikki Hietala, author of Tulagi Hotel (also available from Fingerpress)
“A fascinating historical adventure that ratchets up the tension with every turn of the page ... a gripping exploration into both the endurance of the human spirit and its darker side. Steeped in authenticity, To Die a Dry Death is sure to impress even the most demanding of historical fiction readers.”
- Historical Novel Review
Find out more at: www.fingerpress.co.uk/die-a-dry-death
About the Author
Greta van der Rol was born in Amsterdam and grew up in Perth, Western Australia, where she went to university to complete a BA(Hons) in history, in between spending time on Perth's wonderful beaches. With that background, it's hardly surprising that she developed an abiding, almost obsessive, interest in the Dutch wrecks along the Western Australian coast, dating back to the seventeenth and eighteenth century. She always promised herself that, one day, she'd write a story about one of those wrecks. The result was To Die a Dry Death.
When she isn't slaving over a hot computer, Greta takes photos, cooks, and generally enjoys life near the beach in Queensland.
Catch Greta online at:
http://gretavanderrol.net/books-2/historical-fiction/
To Die a Dry Death
www.fingerpress.co.uk/die-a-dry-death
Copyright © Greta van der Rol, 2013
All rights reserved. Please respect the copyright of this work.
ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-908824-36-3
ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-908824-35-6
Published in 2013 by Fingerpress Ltd; Kindle edition published January 2014
Production Editor: Matt Stephens
Production Manager: Michelle Stephens
Copy Editor: Madeleine Horobin
Editorial Assistant: Artica Ham
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
FINGERPRESS LTD
LONDON
www.fingerpress.co.uk
Author’s Note
Many people have assisted me in the writing of this book. They know who they are—Ellie, Gemi, Anthony and others—and I’m most grateful to each of them. I particularly wish to express my thanks to M.M. Bennetts, who wrote Jeronimus’s sonnet for him and without whose encouragement this book would still be rattling around in the space between my ears; and to Malcolm Mendey for his invaluable assistance with matters nautical.
For the reader who wishes to find out more about the wreck of the Batavia, I recommend the following:
Batavia’s Graveyard by Mike Dash (Phoenix, 2002)
Voyage to Disaster by Henrietta Drake-Brockman (University of Western Australia Press, 2006)
The First and Last Voyage of the Batavia by Philippe Godard
Map (dated 1626) used with the permission of the Australian National Library.
The surviving officers’ 2000-mile journey to the nearest port.
Site of the 1629 shipwreck, and the nearby uninhabited islands.
Prologue
Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, anything. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death.
—The Tempest, William Shakespeare
Amsterdam, January 1632
The traveller brought a gust of winter in through the door with him, a howl of wind, a swirl of snow. He shrugged his shoulders and stamped his feet on the stone floor, grateful to be inside. The room was busy, thick with smoke and heavy with the scent of tobacco and beer. A fire crackled in the hearth beyond the crowded bench tables where voices buzzed in conversation. In a corner a whore flashed her wares to a couple of drunken sailors. A barmaid carrying a tray of foaming jars pushed between the drinkers.
“Welcome, sir. A room? A woman? Or just schnapps and beer?”
“A room for the night, if you please,” said the traveller, pulling off thick leather gloves. “A bitter night it is. The canals are all frozen and the cobbles might as well be ice.”
“Winter in Amsterdam can be bitter indeed,” said the landlord. He jerked his head at a hovering servant. “The maid will take you to your room upstairs. Then come down and share a beer, or eat a meal.”
His room arranged, mug of beer at his elbow, the traveller sat at the end of a bench and attacked a plate of steaming bean and onion soup. As his hunger abated, the formless noise of voices nearby coalesced into words.
“It must have been the Devil,” said a thickset fellow with a luxuriant moustache. “Hundreds foully murdered.”
“He didn’t do it by himself, though,” said the man opposite him. “He had plenty of helpers, I’ve heard.They say the captain himself would have stolen his own ship if it hadn’t been wrecked.”
“That’s just it, isn’t it? He must have enchanted them. Or maybe they disturbed some evil spirit, out there in those heathen seas.”
“I heard there was a beautiful woman on the ship,” said another. He wiped beer froth from his lips. “Mayhap she was a sorceress. Like Circe.”
An older man down the end took his pipe out of his mouth and blew a plume of smoke through pursed lips. “Shouldn’t have women on a ship. That’ll be it, mark
my words. Bad luck, that is. Well known fact.”
The thickset man drained his mug and rose to his feet. “Speaking of women, I’d best be off. She’ll be waiting and you know how that is.”
The traveller pushed his empty plate aside and grasped the man’s arm as he made to step past. “Excuse me, sir. This thing you’re talking about. What is it?”
“You’ve not heard? The doings with the Batavia? A bad business.” He shook his head. “A terrible business. I’d stay and tell you, but I dare not. I’m sure someone else will.”
But already the others were scraping back chairs, finding cloaks, slipping on gloves. One by one they ventured into the darkness, leaving an eddy of wind in the heavy air in the tavern. Only one man remained. He’d said nothing as the others talked, but the traveller had noticed the gleam in his eye as he sucked on his long pipe. Now, he sat staring at his mug.
“Do you know of this thing they were talking about? Batavia?” asked the traveller, slipping into the seat opposite him.
The man looked up. Flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows on a face past first youth, still handsome but weather-beaten. “And you do not? You’re the only man in Amsterdam who doesn’t.” His voice held a hint of amusement, or perhaps condescension. And something else. Sadness?
“I’m from Enschede,” said the traveller.
“Ah.” The man smiled. “A country lad. Well then, buy me a Genever to go with my beer, and I’ll tell you the story.”
The traveller waved a hand to summon the maid.
For a moment the man stared into the fire, dying down a little now, but deep red at its heart. “You’ve heard of Batavia? The city?” he asked at length.
“Yes. In the Indies, isn’t it? Is that where a ship was wrecked?”
The man grinned, the merest curve of his lips. “The ship was named after the city. The ship Batavia was wrecked.”
“Oh.” The traveller sipped at his mug, feeling foolish. In the corner the whore helped her customer to unsteady feet and led him to the stairs. Their footsteps clattered on the wooden steps and a door closed. A log slipped in the fire, producing an ephemeral display of bright sparks.
“Have you ever sailed? Ever been on the high seas?”
“No. We keep cows.”
The man swallowed a long draught of beer. “Well, then,” he said as he put the tankard down, “let me explain a few things first.” He wetted his finger in the beer and drew an elongated triangle on the bench top. “This is Africa. And up here…” he drew a couple of sausage shapes just above and to the right of the top of the triangle, “is the Indies. From Table Bay—that’s here—the ships sail south and use the west winds and the currents to sail east until they’ve gone far enough to head north, up along the coast of the unknown South Land, here, to the Indies.”
A pause for another gulp of beer.
“It’s fast. Much faster than the old route up past Madagascar. Better for the ships, for the crews, for the Company. The Dutch East India Company—the VOC, that is. But the waters in the south are uncharted and dangerous. There were a few close encounters with the South Land but all the ships reached harbour safely. Then in June, 1629…”
1
Adriaen Jacobsz rubbed a hand over his face. This was the worst part of being a captain, standing the midnight watch, when senses were dull and attention wavered. One more hour and he could get back to his bed. A brisk breeze filled the Batavia’s sails, pushing her northward. The deck swayed beneath his feet, matching the rhythm of waves that surged beneath the hull. Timbers creaked an accompaniment and the occasional murmurs of sailors at their stations added a soft harmony. Wan lines of light glimmered on the decking and Jacobsz looked up. In the night sky a gibbous moon floated clear of the clouds. Her appearance would be brief. Already, wispy outriders drifted towards her face.
His fingers tapping idly on the stern rail, he allowed his gaze to stray into the darkness to starboard. Out there, six hundred miles away lay Eendracht’s Land, Terra Australis Incognita, the South Land. Was the place really as bad as they said? No matter. The further over the horizon, the better. His job was to get his ship to the Indies unscathed. Not long now. Ten, fifteen days. They’d turned the corner, running broad-reached before the sou’westers out of the stormy gales in the deep southern latitudes, up into warmer climes. Not that the air was warm here. The pre-dawn wind blew chill against his neck, carrying with it that scent of rain, a sure sign of bad weather coming.
The moon appeared again, casting dim shadows of sails and rigging. Jacobsz peered along the crowded decks, past the three masts and beyond the leaping red lion on the ship’s bowsprit. He frowned. What was that? A line of sparkle? White water? Here in mid-ocean?
“Bosschieter,” he called to the look-out. “Is that white water, dead ahead?”
“Just moonlight on the white-caps.”
Jacobsz grunted. The moon was hidden again, like a woman drawing a veil across her face. By his calculations, they should be well out to sea, far from any shore.
A sudden force flung him to his knees, palms on the rough wood of the deck, ears filled with rasping, grinding horror. Timbers groaned, over-stretched rigging shrieked and twanged. Bollards rattled. Barrels, ropes, boxes bounced and clattered and banged along the deck. Shouts of alarm, screams of pain, a howl in the darkness as a man fell from the ratlines into the sea. Batavia fought and twisted against the grip on her keel. Jacobsz struggled to his feet on the deck. God verdomme. God vergloeiende, God verdomme. They’d hit something. A reef. It had to be a reef. Not a gentle sandbar, this.
The sails creaked and strained, eager to push the ship further north. Further onto the rocks. The timbers ground in protest.
“Get those sails furled,” shouted Jacobsz.
He’d hardly needed the order; men scrambled up the ratlines, tugged at the ropes.
The boatswain appeared through the companionway from the quarterdeck, still pulling on his coat. “Take charge for’ard,” Jacobsz said to him. “Stop them from panicking and get those mains down.”
The man hurried away, the shrill of his whistle cutting through the clamour. Somebody started to ring the alarm on the for’ard bells. Clang, clang, clang. Jacobsz swallowed his own fear. Stay calm, think it through. He’d run aground before, often enough. And usually, a ship could be recovered. He stifled the groan as the one man he could not ignore pushed towards him, staggering on the heaving deck. Pelsaert, pale and even more ill-looking than usual in his nightshirt.
“What has happened? What have we struck?”
Jacobsz scowled down at the man. “A bar in deep ocean. We’ve run aground.”
A sharp intake of breath. “Aground? You’ve brought us undone? Drunk at your station, I suppose—”
“This is not the time, Commandeur. I have a ship to save.” He gestured at dazed passengers emerging on the upper deck, mere shadows in the yellow glow of the stern light. “If you want something to do… sir… keep these people away so my men can work.” Jacobsz turned away.
“You will hear more of this,” hissed Pelsaert.
You will hear more of this. Jacobsz snarled the words in his head as his fingers automatically balled into fists. Did the pompous clown imagine he’d deliberately steered his ship onto a reef? Just as well the Dutch East India Company paid good money. He needed some compensation for having a blasted merchant who knew nothing about ships and sailing in nominal charge. He pushed down his rage. No time for that now.
“Steersman, fetch the lead. What depth bow and stern? Hurry now. And get the longboat launched.”
He’d have to lighten her, maybe float her off. Pray God the weather stayed calm. Shadowy shapes boiled out of the forward hatches, voices raised in alarm. Sailors he could use but the soldiers would just get in the way. Worse than the rats. He’d have to get somebody down there to sort them out. He yelled, raising his voice above the cacophony.
“Corporal, do something with the soldiers.”
*
Pelsaer
t shivered and huddled further into his coat as he pushed his way back to the quarter deck. The fever was unrelenting, even after weeks abed. And now this. His heart beat a strident tattoo in his chest, matching the clamour of the bell. A wave thudded against the side of the ship, sending salt-laced spray cascading over the deck. His foot-steps jolted as a tremor shuddered through the timbers. Panic roared up from his stomach towards his brain. To drown in this awful southern sea, far from home. Sharks, sea monsters. He’d heard about those. Images flicked through his mind, great beasts with foot-long fangs in gaping jaws. He grabbed at a rail and forced himself to breathe. No monstrous head churned the waters. At least, thank God in Heaven, they didn’t face a storm. The surf on the reef was bad enough.
He peered at figures clustered together on the quarterdeck, shadows in the dimness, their night clothes billowing in the breeze. The predikant, Gijsbert Bastiaensz, stood with his arm around his wife. He couldn’t see Lucretia van der Mijlen, although Zwaantie, her maid, was there with the butler, the steward and a few of the cadets. They pressed towards him, demanding answers he couldn’t give.
“We’ve run aground,” Pelsaert said, pretending confidence. “But remember, it happened before, not long out of Texel, and the ship was refloated. Keep calm.”
“God in Heaven, save us,” the predikant said, eyes closed. His lips moved in silent prayer.
His wife, stolid and plain, gripped his hand, leaning into him for support. Her long hair cascaded down from her cap and around her face. “Should we bring the children out?”
“Have faith,” said Pelsaert. “The skipper is a well-experienced seaman.” True enough. And a drunkard and a lecher. Pelsaert wished again he’d had some other captain. No use to worry about that now. Splashes echoed above the thump of the surf. Dim figures stood against the rails. They were probably trying to lighten the ship, throwing over things not needed. He hoped it wasn’t cargo. But no. Surely not even Jacobsz would be so reckless.
To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck Page 1
