To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck

by Greta van Der Rol

  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 the reef. Out there the sea seemed relatively calm. No white-caps, at least, but he knew the swell would still be strong. He wondered how the castaways were coping and frowned, annoyed with himself. It didn’t do to dwell on these things. All he could do to try to put things right was bring back help.

  People were beginning to stir. Pelsaert came and crouched down at the water’s edge to splash his face. When he straightened, he scratched at his bristles. Itchy, thought Jacobsz. So was he. Shaving was a luxury they’d all have to do without for a while.

  Breakfast was better than he would have thought—a bowl of broth with a piece of the dry bread they’d salvaged from the wreck. Jacobsz knocked his piece on a rock, shaking out a reasonable complement of weevils before he dunked the bread in the soup. Any still left would drown. The liquid tasted wonderful in his mouth and the softened bread filled his stomach. Still sucking on a bone, he took the bowl back to Zwaantie to serve the next man, waiting impatiently for his share.

  Pelsaert, his meal finished, joined him. “What do you intend to do?” asked the Merchant.

  “Give them today to recover. Build up the sides of the longboat for an ocean voyage.” He’d brought the timber and the tar with him. He’d always known it would come to this—even if they had found water here.

  “Then what?”

  Jacobsz shrugged. “Batavia. East to the South Land to find our bearings, then north.”

  “First we look for water.” Pelsaert’s chin jutted.

  “Of course. I’ve agreed that. We’ll need it ourselves. We have very little.” He strode over to the water casks and lifted a lid so Pelsaert could see the water level for himself. “It must be rationed and we had better pray for rain or a well.”

  Pelsaert’s sigh heaved his chest but he said nothing.

  Jacobsz turned away and clapped his hands together. “A day of rest for most of you, while the carpenters raise the sides of the boat. Sleep, do some fishing, catch some more of those cats. We’ll have a good meal tonight and leave at first light tomorrow.”

  They murmured approval.

  *

  Pelsaert sat in the meagre shade of a bush and pulled out his journal, a feather and ink. He trimmed the quill with a small knife. Three days ago this nightmare started; three days ago; that was all. It seemed hard to believe. So much had happened, so quickly. He should take notes. If they ever reached Batavia, he’d be asked to explain to the Governor. The Governor. He shuddered. Jan Pieterszoon Coen, much-feared ruler of the Company’s fortunes in Batavia. A sorry story he would have to tell. When they set out from Table Bay he’d commanded seven ships, three of them the big retour ships like the Batavia. He had no idea where the other ships were after they’d become separated, the flagship was destroyed and all the goods lost. Let alone the people. Ah, the people.

  He wetted the little block of ink and dissolved the pigment with a stick.

  Would that he’d been able to do more for them. Jacobsz. Could he trust the captain? He’d wondered that many times since he’d given Jacobsz a public dressing-down in Table Bay. The fellow’s drunken behaviour had been unforgivable. And it hadn’t been the first time. No. He’d not forgotten Jacobsz’s insults when they’d sailed in Dordrecht together last year. Why the Company had set them together yet again was a mystery.

  Pelsaert stared at the glittering horizon. It was all in the past. He’d have to deal with the present, and no, he didn’t trust Jacobsz. He said he’d search for water on the South Land but that didn’t mean he’d bring it back to the poor souls here. Perhaps he, the commandeur, should try to ensure Jacobsz and his men would do as they had promised.

  He began to write.

  *

  The women cooked the food. The sailor’s wife, Saartje, kept an eye on the roasting meat while her husband cuddled his son. They had fish, too, fresh from the sea and roasted whole in the coals and Zwaantie made more broth to soften the bread.

  Almost a feast, thought Pelsaert. The glow of the fire warmed his face as the sun sank into the west on the other side of the island. All they needed was wine. But what little they’d had was gone. He eased his back. The day’s rest had done him good, warm food had certainly helped. He was looking forward to this evening’s meal.

  “Cap’n, the boat.”

  Pelsaert jerked his head around. Jacobsz was already on his feet, gazing where the man pointed. The yawl, coming towards them, and full of people, with Gillis Fransz, the Batavia"s under steersman, at the tiller.

  “Halfwaack. What brings you here?” asked Jacobsz as the sailors splashed through the shallows to push the little boat up on the shore.

  “Water, Cap’n. We thought we might find some here.”

  Jacobsz shook his head. “We’ve already looked. We’re off to the South Land tomorrow. But tonight we have food. Come and join us.”

  They hadn’t even looked at him, seethed Pelsaert. Well, it wasn’t good enough. He marched up to the under steersman and looked him in the eye. “I thought I ordered you to stay with the ship and bring people and goods to safety if you could.”

  Fransz blinked and his eyes strayed towards Jacobsz.

  “I am commandeur,” Pelsaert said, pointing a finger at his own chest.

  “It was too rough, Commandeur. There was nothing more we could do. We thought it best to see if we could find water.”

  “Well, you can’t. So tomorrow you will return to the island.”

  The man took off his hat and stood kneading it with both hands. “With respect, we’d like to come with you… and the Cap’n.” His eyes swung to Jacobsz, who stood silent. “We’re good sailors. And you could take the yawl in tow. It might come in handy.”

  “It means the people left behind will not have a boat,” said Pelsaert. Damn Jacobsz to the Devil. Standing there with half a smirk on his face. And the rest of them stood around watching, a silent audience.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, they don’t need one right now, though, do they?” said Fransz. “There’s plenty of timber. They have carpenters. They’ll build a boat. And rafts.”

  “There are still men on the ship. How will they reach the shore?” Pelsaert put his hands on his hips. This was incredible. How could this man be so callous?

  “Well, Commandeur, you did tell them to build rafts,” said Jacobsz, speaking for the first time. “The ship won’t sink. And it’ll be a while before she breaks up. In calmer weather it’s a short trip across the reef.”

  “They have no leaders,” said Pelsaert.

  “Under Merchant Cornelisz is still on the ship. I’m sure he’s more than capable of taking over the responsibility from you,” said Jacobsz.

  Pelsaert sucked in a breath. What sort of backhanded insult was that? They’d discussed it; he couldn’t stay. He had a responsibility to the Company.

  “A small boat like this is useful,” put in Fransz. “Even here, see? You’ve had to tie the longboat out further but this little boat is much nippier, with a shallow draft. So if you have to go into an inlet or a river mouth, this boat’ll serve much better.”

  “He’s right,” said Jacobsz.

  “But there’s not enough room,” said Pelsaert.

>   “It’ll be crowded, yes. But we’ll have more oarsmen, more sailors to share the load,” said Jacobsz. “We have two thousand miles to travel.”

  “What about water?” asked Pelsaert.

  “We’ll manage,” replied Jacobsz. “We’ll find water, or we’ll collect rain.”

  Pelsaert’s eyes roved around the cluster of people, now little more than shadows in the twilight. The campfire crackled and threw up orange sparks. “If you’re certain we can manage, Captain, then I’ll agree.”

  Jacobsz’s lip twitched in a half smile. “Thank you… Commandeur.”

  Pelsaert followed them to the fire. The day would come when that arrogant oaf would regret his insolence. He sat down, a little apart, as befitting his status. He would be first to eat, as was his right.

  “Commandeur?”

  The girl Zwaantie brought the first bowl of food to him. It smelled delicious. He began with the fish, tearing off pieces of the hot fillet with his hands, sucking the juice from his fingers. Then the broth and the bread. The sailors watched him eat, slavering as he took his time, waiting for their turn. They had six bowls. The other senior officers had already finished their share and handed back their bowls and the next in line were already eating. They could wait. He was commandeur.

  *

  The sun was still below the eastern horizon when Jacobsz called them to rise. The day would dawn fine again. As on the previous morning, Zwaantie prepared a broth breakfast. When they’d all finished, Jacobsz rose to his feet, dusting sand from his hands.

  “Time to move, lads. Morning watch has the duty.”

  “Before we go.” Pelsaert caught his eye.

  Jacobsz stiffened. The Spanish mongrel had that look about him. “Commandeur?”

  “I wish you to take an oath; swear on your life.”

  “To what?”

  Pelsaert swept out a piece of paper. “All of you, listen.” He waited until he had their attention.

  Since we cannot find water on any of the islands close to our wrecked ship Batavia to keep the saved people alive, the commandeur has earnestly begged us that we should sail to the south land and pray in the name of God that we find water there, and assist the people with as many trips until we estimate that they will be able to remain alive for some considerable time; and meanwhile command someone to bring our sad events to the Honourable Lord Governor General. To which we the undersigned have consented now that the need has been placed before us of how greatly important it is to be responsible before God and Higher Authority. We have decided and resolved to do our utmost to help our companions in dire distress. In token of which we have signed with our own hand and have sworn in the presence of all people the 8th June 1629.

  Pelsaert’s eyes swept around the gathered group, head high, back straight.

  A piece of paper, thought Jacobsz. To do what? Absolve his conscience? Make him feel he was the man giving the orders? “Where do you want me to sign?”

  Pelsaert put the journal on a flat rock and signed his own name first. He handed Jacobsz the quill loaded with ink and pointed. Jacobsz signed, then Claas Gerritsz, Jacop Hollert, Jan Evertsz. For good measure Pelsaert picked three other sailors who could write and had them sign, too.

  Jacobsz gave a mental shrug. How like a merchant. Life revolves around pieces of paper. Well, if he really thought they were going to run backwards and forwards with barrels of water from the South Land, Master Pelsaert must still be suffering from fever. Still, if the gesture kept him happy, that was good enough.

  “Jan, get the boat loaded,” said Jacobsz.

  The men loaded their supplies in the boat, augmented at least with some of the cat’s flesh packed in a barrel. The precious water casks were stowed carefully in the centre. For a bit of fun Jacobsz scooped a giggling Zwaantie up in his arms and carried her to the boat, splashing through the shallow water. Hans followed with Saartje and his son and a sailor carried Pelsaert.

  The Merchant took his place on the centre thwart, beside the mast, his head swivelling like a lantern as he searched. “Captain.”

  “Yes, Commandeur?”

  “Where is the… the important cask?” asked Pelsaert, the Flemish accent thick.

  Jacobsz grinned. So he’d finally noticed. “Back on the island.”

  The knuckles of Pelsaert’s hands stood out white where he gripped the gunwale. “You placed it in here. I watched you do it. Yourself.”

  “Yes. I took it out myself, too, and put a barrel of bread in its place.” Glare all you want, he thought. Too late now.

  The men stirred, exchanging glances, sensing the conflict. The sounds of the ocean continued, unconcerned—sough of waves, a bird’s call, the gentle sigh of a breeze.

  “We need food. And water. Anything else will still be here when we come back.” Jacobsz turned his head to the waiting men. “Get a move on.”

  Jacobsz cast an eye around the boat. Forty-eight people in a boat designed for forty. Packed together like herrings in salt, between barrels and casks. She rode low in the water but the sides were higher now.

  Gillis Franz was last to come aboard, after he’d tied a painter to the yawl. They rowed out from behind the protection of the island into the swell of the open sea.

  “Ship the oars, lads, and get the sail up.”

  8

  Cornelisz sat in Pelsaert’s chair in the Great Cabin and steadied his goblet as another wave jolted the ship.

  The sailor opposite him grinned, exposing rotten teeth. “Here’s to Saint Nicholas,” he slurred, raising his mug of schnapps. “May he save us from the monsters of the deep.” He put his head back and gulped.

  Choices, choices, thought Cornelisz. If he’d had a choice… He shook his head. He hadn’t had any choice but to leave Holland, not with his mentor Torrentius under arrest. Rather this than have the Inquisitors banging on his door. At least he was alive, with a chance yet to regain his wealth, far from the clutches of the Church. Not here, though. Not with the ship disintegrating around him. And these fellows. He cast a disconsolate eye around the table. Drunken soldiers and sailors, too scared to chance the sea. He should have gone with van Os and van Huyssen when he had the opportunity. His stomach knotted, recalling the waves breaking as the longboat jumped and leapt in the boiling ocean. People jostling, fighting to get down the ladders. He’d seen one man lose his footing to be swept away by an outgoing wave. The cadets had tried to persuade him but he’d held out. He’d been so sure the sea would calm down. And it had, a little; but no boat came back for him.

  One of his colleagues, standing to fetch more wine, fell to his knees amid raucous laughter as the ship shuddered again. So much wine, so much schnapps. Eat, drink and be merry before the ship disappeared beneath them. But if that happened he would fall into the water and die. Drown. Over there, not so far away across the reef, was the island where the people sheltered. Even at this distance he’d seen tents erected. These men were useless. So was staying here. If there was a hope of rescue, then he should be with the others, making sure he was among the survivors.

  A loud crash sent a shiver of fear tingling through his nerves. Another splash. Another piece of the ship falling into the water. It was happening more frequently now. Every hour, almost. He left his chair, walked past the drunken men slouched around the pile of empty containers and out onto the quarterdeck, adjusting his gait to compensate for the vessel’s slow movement with the waves. Water sloshed and swirled across the whole main deck now, between the poop and the forecastle, where the bowsprit jutted out across the reef. The mainmast still lay across the shattered rail, bound to the vessel by its own rigging.

  The ocean was never calm here; not really. His eyes swept along the line of the reef. A wave pulled back, exposing fangs of sharp white rock, bare of weed. Ebb tide. Now would be the time. If he had the stomach for it. But then, maybe not. He remembered a floating body, twitching and jerking as if alive, its movements manipulated by dark shapes with black fins. He’d found the macabre dance fascinatin
g—so long as the body was not his.

  Clouds swept towards him, dark, tumbling shapes in the sky trailing a grey mist behind them on the water. A flash of lightning and hard on its heels a clap of thunder. Mesmerised, he watched the edge of rain approach across the darkening ocean. A wave swept towards the ship, the seventh wave of the set, a little higher than the others. A flickering line of white appeared along the top before the crest curled. He braced himself, ready for the tremor when it thudded into the wreck. The force knocked him to his knees as the left side of the deck, under the fallen mainmast, disappeared in a maelstrom. The tortured timbers groaned, their torment muffled by the water, and then whole sections of woodwork buckled and crumbled as they collapsed.

  And with the tumult came the rain.

  Panic gripped his throat. He had to get off. A vision flared in his head, a pale sun as if through dirty glass, up there above his head.

  Himself as a child, in a Harlem canal, water in his mouth, his nose, his lungs. No. Not drowning. Please, God. He wasn’t destined to drown.

  Hardly aware, his feet took him down the steps to the main deck, the right side where the water lapped knee-deep. He hesitated. Ropes, casks, pieces of sail, a shirt flapping like some strange sea creature. Timber creaked and settled. Desperate shouts drifted up from below, mingled with the rush of water. Driven by fear, Cornelisz reached out a hand along the rail and forced his legs forward. His shoes filled with water, icy as the canal. Focus. He stared at the bow, jutting out above the water, beyond the reach of the surf. Hand over hand he dragged himself along the rail, past the heaving flotsam on the deck until at last he stood, trembling and exhausted, near the prow.

  Panting, he gazed around. A few men floundered in the water, some clutching barrels or pieces of timber. Others floated face-down, rocking endlessly with the motion of the waves. Soon the black fins would appear. That would have been interesting but he tore his eyes away. Good luck to the survivors; he had to save himself. Frantic fingers clamped on wood as the ship settled a little more into the arms of the sea. Above the reef, then. All that remained was the bowsprit. He clambered out, heart in mouth, above the shallow rock-pools until he sat astride the column of wood, knees clenched.