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

by Greta van Der Rol

  Van Huyssen, Zevanck and Pietersz entered with the van Welderen brothers and Lenert van Os. Wan sunlight brightened the tent for a moment until the flap swung closed behind them.

  He waved a hand. “Sit.”

  They sat, all eyes on the treasure scattered apparently carelessly across the table top. Pietersz, the massive soldier, gaped like a fish.

  Zevanck’s face closed, the lust scarcely hidden. Van Huyssen stretched out a tentative hand.

  “This was in a barrel retrieved from Traitors’ Island,” said Cornelisz. “I’ve only just now had a chance to look.” He gazed around the faces. “Brandy?” Without waiting for an answer he pulled out a bottle of fine spirits from his private cache. “Help me, will you, Lenert,” he added, handing silver goblets from the side table.

  While Lenert set out goblets, van Huyssen picked up the necklace and turned it over in his fingers. Pietersz held the jewelled dagger in one massive hand and Gijsbert van Welderen ran a pearl necklace across his palm. No one spoke.

  Cornelisz let them stare as he splashed liquor into the goblets.

  “Who were these for?” asked Olivier van Welderen at last.

  “Who knows,” said Cornelisz. “A sultan? The Great Indian Mogul or one of his many wives?” He sipped at his brandy. “It’s ours now.”

  “Ours?”

  “Of course. Think on it. We are the most senior of the Company’s servants on this island.”

  They exchanged glances. It wasn’t strictly true. Zevanck was an assistant and the rest were military cadets. But weapons were persuasive.

  “What about the council?” asked van Os.

  Cornelisz flicked a dismissive hand. “Who is left? Frans—he’s a barber. Gerrit Haas is no officer and Gabriel and Pieter are on the other islands.” They agreed. He noted the small nods, the thoughtful reflection. Pietersz, the great oaf, swallowed the brandy as if it was beer.

  “Ah. I haven’t shown you this yet.” He set down his goblet and withdrew the velvet from the cameo. The intake of breath was like a sigh.

  “Oh, God in Heaven,” murmured van Huyssen.

  He let them admire, touch, caress, marvel while they swallowed fine brandy. Most of them were more impressed with the surrounds than the cameo itself. At length he wrapped the precious object and placed it back into the case, while they handed the bottle along the table.

  “This is just a taste, gentlemen. The East is full of such things. And it can all be ours. We’ll all be rich. Wealthy beyond our wildest dreams.” He kept his voice low, leaning towards them over the jewels. Each single gem was worth a fortune to any of these boys.

  “But we have to get off this… this speck,” said Olivier.

  “Captain Jacobsz will return. We’re all certain, aren’t we?” He studied their faces, one after another. Yes, they were—perhaps not certain but hopeful.

  “Well, then. Let me tell you something. You’d be aware that Captain Jacobsz and I were good friends?” Yes, they knew. “At the Cape, you’d recall the captain and the commandeur had a… falling out?”

  Pietersz laughed. “You both went off and got drunk. Ja, we all heard.”

  Sniggers.

  “Yes,” said Cornelisz. “The whole ship knew. Well, Captain Jacobsz was very annoyed with Pelsaert over that public dressing-down. He told me he’d decided to do away with Pelsaert and steal the ship.”

  “Steal the ship? But he was the captain.”

  “The Company’s captain. He was going to steal the ship and take her pirating.”

  Glances exchanged, nervous now. Outside, a gull screamed a challenge. Zevanck ran his finger around the rim of his goblet. “That’s mutiny,” he breathed. But his eyes were narrowed. “Who else was involved?”

  “Most of the senior officers.”

  “But then… it should have been easy,” said Olivier.

  “Not so very easy. The ship had soldiers and not everyone would support a mutiny. Captain Jacobsz needed to prepare and plan. Why else do you think he lost the rest of the fleet?”

  “But that happens quite often. Doesn’t it? That the ships get separated at sea?” said van Os.

  Did it? Cornelisz didn’t know, but neither did they and that was all that mattered. “Captain Jacobsz certainly didn’t want the other ships around—especially the warship.”

  They drank more brandy. More than one scratched at his nose. Zevanck was already convinced; Pietersz, too.

  “But… why hadn’t he done anything sooner?” asked Gijsbert.

  Cornelisz had expected that one. “Well, yes. The intention had been to spring the trap when the Lady Lucretia was attacked.”

  “How so?”

  Van Huyssen answered. “Captain Jacobsz organised the attack. He didn’t like her much after she refused him.”

  Leers and sniggers. The story had circulated, of course it had.

  “Pelsaert’s whore, they called her,” slurred Pietersz. “Too good for a sailor—even a captain.”

  “That’s right. And if Pelsaert had tried to punish the sailors, Captain Jacobsz would have supported his people and thrown the commandeur overboard.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “No, because Pelsaert didn’t try to mete out punishment. So the captain decided to wait until the ship was closer to the Indies and then make away with it.” Cornelisz sighed, all eyes on his face. “And then we hit the reef.”

  “How do you know all this?” asked Zevanck.

  “We found Pelsaert’s journal in his sea chest back on the ship” van Huyssen said. “Jeronimus read out to us what he’d written about the attack.” Van Os nodded in support. “She said she recognised Jan Evertsz’s voice.”

  “What about the soldiers?” asked Pietersz.

  “Easy enough to nail down the hatches to the Orlop deck,” said Cornelisz.

  Zevanck put his goblet on the table. “What now?”

  “Now, we make sure we survive to meet the captain when he returns. Then, whatever ship he comes with, we can go pirating with him, make ourselves a fortune and live in luxury somewhere like Macau or Spain.”

  Van Huyssen grinned. “Sounds good to me.”

  Cornelisz leaned towards them and lowered his voice. “You’ve all seen the stores we have. Tell me—realistically—how many people can survive on what we have for at least two months?”

  The canvas slapped a little in the wind, loud in the ensuing silence. A few people walked past, their voices indistinct. No one answered.

  “I would say about forty people. No more,” said Cornelisz. He watched them absorb his words.

  Olivier van Welderen rubbed a finger under his bottom lip, backwards and forwards. “Even without the people on the other islands, there must be over a hundred people here. Soldiers, sailors, as well as women and children.”

  “Of course, we’ll have no place for the sick or the old. Or the very young. Much as I feel sorry for them, we have little enough rations to spare without wasting them on people who are not strong enough to survive.”

  Nods from around the table.

  “Now then, who can you trust?” Cornelisz caught each man’s eye with his own. “Sound out your friends so we know those who will join us and those who will not. And those who are… shall we say, superfluous.”

  Pietersz grunted. “Easy enough. Ryckert, Allert, Matthijs. They’ll all be willing. I’ll sound out some others.”

  “Carefully,” said Cornelisz, pointing a finger at him. He could just imagine the big oaf being subtle.

  “I think the cadets will all be willing,” said Olivier van Welderen. “Why live for the future?”

  Cornelisz suppressed his smile. He’d won them over, all those nights on the ship, as they talked about the treasures of the East. And who owned them. Time well spent, it seemed. Torrentius would have been proud.

  “What happens to those who will not join us?” asked Zevanck. He lifted the corners of his mouth in a nasty half-smile. He’d picked up the dagger, running his thumb along its edge.

>   Cornelisz dropped his hand, palm down, onto the table, as if in judgement. “Those who are not with us are against us.”

  *

  “They won’t be coming now,” said Otto Smit. He gazed out to the east, where rain from a single cloud darkened the surface of the sea, heading away from their island towards Batavia’s Graveyard. “Not so late in the afternoon.”

  “They won’t be coming at all, will they, Wiebbe?” said Allert Jansz.

  No, they wouldn’t be, thought Hayes. Ten days now, three days past when his group was supposed to have received a new supply of rations. He didn’t need to guess why.

  “Better talk to the men,” he said, leading the way back to the camp, making up his speech in his mind. The two cadets would support him, he knew. They’d come on well, taking the time to get to know the men in their teams. Jansz was even trying to learn a few words of French.

  “Are either of you concerned about the men in your groups?” he asked. “Will any of them cause trouble?”

  Smit and Jansz exchanged a glance. “Some are resentful,” said Jansz. “They say we’ve been left to die.”

  Probably true enough, thought Hayes, if they hadn’t found food. And if it hadn’t rained. Still, if they were to survive they would have to work together. It had seemed clear to him, back on Batavia’s Graveyard, that many expected the captain to return to save them. It was a hope to cling to.

  He delayed his speech until the men had all returned from collecting water out of the hollows in the rocks. They used pewter cups to scoop the precious liquid and pour it into casks. The soldiers gathered around the campfire, some standing, arms folded, others sitting hunched, chins on their knees. Most looked interested, expectant. But not all.

  “I’m not telling you anything you don’t know,” said Hayes. “It’s been three days. We have to assume we’ve been abandoned.”

  A low murmur ran around the group. Hayes could make out an occasional French oath. “Left us to die,” said one man.

  “Well, we’re doing pretty well for dead men, aren’t we?” said Hayes. Tonight they’d eat roast bird, the succulent sea birds that nested underground. The smell from the cooking fire wafted through the camp.

  “That’s not the point. If we hadn’t found water—” said Thomas.

  “But we did. So God doesn’t want us to die.”

  “Ah. They are cochons. Saving the food for themselves.” The soldier spat on the ground.

  “You’d rather dried bread?” asked Hayes. He stood with his hands on his hips, legs apart, challenging them. “Here we eat bird, meat as good as venison, fish, berries. As much as we want. And we have water. Not much, but enough.”

  Men shifted, moving their weight.

  “And if it doesn’t rain again?”

  “Why shouldn’t it?” said Smit, stepping forward. “It’s rained twice since we came here. I think Wiebbe’s right. We’re better off here than over there.”

  “We can’t go anywhere else,” muttered another man. He sat, sullen-faced, on the ground. “We’ll rot here.”

  “The people on the island think the captain will return,” said Jansz.

  “Huh. Return. All that way in a longboat, then back here?” A rustle went around the group.

  “Yes,” insisted Jansz. “They say if anyone can do it, he can.”

  “And when he comes back, we’ll be waiting,” said Hayes.

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  That was always the question, wasn’t it? But hope was better than despair. “Do any of you… honestly… believe we’d do better there, on the other island?” asked Hayes. “Remember how it was? Crowded, fighting with the sailors all the time—”

  “We won,” muttered somebody and the mood lifted.

  They glanced at each other. A few shrugs, licked lips.

  “They have wine,” said one man. But he was smiling.

  “Tomorrow we move to the other island,” said Hayes. “Maybe we’ll find wine there.”

  14

  Cornelisz stood in Lucretia’s tent with his hands behind his back, elegant in breeches and a buttoned coat with a cream lace collar. “See what the men have rescued?” He waved a hand and a sailor entered, carrying a chest.

  “My chest,” she said, pressing a hand to her breast.

  “And see?” Cornelisz opened it with a flourish.

  “My dresses. Oh, how wonderful.” How long had she worn this same, salt-stained dress? Three weeks? No, closer to four since the ship foundered. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  She lifted the top garment out, a silken gown that glowed in the soft light under the canvas, the colours dancing as the fabric moved, like light on water. The lace at neckline and wrist was fine and delicate. A gown for evenings in a salon.

  “A beautiful dress for a beautiful lady,” Cornelisz said. A smile lurked around his lips and his eyes—those disturbing hazel eyes—held that gleam. Unlike many of the other men, he’d continued to be shaved and dressed properly.

  “You’ve been most kind,” she said.

  He bowed, smiling. “It is my pleasure and privilege. Will you join me for dinner tonight?”

  “That would be pleasant. Will the predikant be there too, with Judyck?”

  His eyes flickered. Not what he’d intended, she was sure, but he took it well. “An excellent notion. I’m sure Coenraat would be happy to join us.”

  Lucretia wore the silken dress for dinner. The soft light of the lanterns hanging on the crossbeam between the two tent poles lent a glow to the satin sheen of the fabric.

  “Creesje, it’s magnificent. You look beautiful,” said Judyck, clapping her hands in delight.

  Cornelisz grinned, looking her up and down. She wished she’d covered her breasts a little more, but the gown was designed to reveal, exposing her bare shoulders and some cleavage.

  “Only you could do this garment justice,” he purred. He took her hand in his and bent over it.

  The heat rose in her cheeks, not least because of the way the predikant and his wife pursed their lips. Van Huyssen, standing next to Judyck, was frankly admiring.

  “Wine, Lady?” Jan Pelgrom, erstwhile cabin servant on the Batavia and now Cornelisz’s servant, offered wine in silver goblets.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. The whole situation seemed so incongruous, almost a parody of society as they stood in a tent on a wind-swept island with silverware and linen and fine clothes. At least for her and Cornelisz. In comparison, everyone else looked shabby.

  Cornelisz proposed a toast. “To Lucretia,” he said. “May her beauty light the way for us all.”

  Lucretia turned the goblet in her fingers, hot with embarrassment. “You’ve certainly made a difference to us all, Master Cornelisz. The island is so much less crowded and so much safer.”

  Cornelisz led her to the table. It seemed extravagant and yet they would eat no more than their daily ration. Predikant Bastiaensz and his wife had both visibly lost weight. But then, she had, too.

  “How goes it with the groups on the other islands?” asked the predikant as he settled into his chair.

  “Very well. Very well indeed,” said Cornelisz. “The Seals’ Island group has found sufficient water and food for them all and the group on the High Islands is surviving well. In fact, I’m thinking of sending more people there, to help.”

  “Excellent news, Master Cornelisz,” said Gijsbert. “And what of Traitors’ Island?”

  “We supply Pieter’s group once a week,” said van Huyssen. “Although, of course, they collected some of the rain that fell the other day. It all helps.”

  “Indeed, it would,” said Bastiaensz. “God has been merciful.”

  “Ah, well, sir, I think God helps those who help themselves, would you not say?” said Cornelisz.

  Lucretia noticed van Huyssen’s smile. His lips curved but his eyes… they didn’t match. Then he looked at Judyck and his pleasure was genuine.

  “I must agree with Lucretia that your presence has made a differenc
e to us all,” said the preacher. “I confess I feared for the safety of my wife and children with so many rough folk around us.”

  Maria nodded. “We have a little more room and some hope. For that we are grateful.” She sat back a little to let Pelgrom put a plate of stewed seal meat with pulses in front of her.

  “Amen,” said her husband. “And now, before we commence to eat, I should thank the Lord for his beneficence.”

  Lucretia bowed her head. Easy for him to say. He had seven children, all of them with him now. Her heart cried out to Hans, Lijsbet and Stefani, all taken from her. Sometimes her faith was sorely tried.

  Olivier van Welderen coughed and gripped his jacket around his chest. Cornelisz didn’t blame him. The point at the end of the island wasn’t the most pleasant place in this weather. A blustery wind laden with salt spray whistled through the coral spikes and dark clouds that threatened showers passed towards the east. But here, it was safe to talk. He perched on his usual rock, his core group around him.

  “How is progress, gentlemen?”

  “We’ve sounded out the cadets,” said van Huyssen. He shared a glance with Gijsbert van Welderen. “Most are willing to join us. A few we know, won’t. Hans, Andries, a few others.”

  “The soldiers are realists,” said Pietersz. “They’ll go with the winning side.”

  “So. Name names,” said Cornelisz. “The ones you’re sure you can rely on.” He counted as they listed them. Nineteen.

  “Not enough,” said van Huyssen. “Even if you leave out women and children, there must be three times that many able-bodied men here.”

  “Then we have to reduce the odds,” said Cornelisz.

  “How will you do that?” asked Zevanck. He rubbed his finger along the edge of his knife, a gesture that had become a habit.

  “We will enforce the law,” said Cornelisz. A chance would come, soon enough. He just had to be patient. He led the way towards the little tent-town, today less active than usual. With rain threatening, the men had stretched out as much canvas as could be spared to catch the water. A couple of children, oblivious to weather, played a hopping game; a few men chatted together, others brought in fish, some sat outside tents. Too many people.