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

by Greta van Der Rol

“Could be. Could be English, too.”

  Yes, he agreed, it could be English. Best to take care. They were so close to their own people, now. He turned his head to speak but Jacobsz forestalled him.

  “Shelter under the shore, Claas, and drop the anchor. We’ll take a close look tomorrow,” said the captain.

  “Very good, Captain,” said Pelsaert. “Just what I would have ordered.” He met Jacobsz’s stare. Somewhere in the boat, over the creak and splash of the oars, he was sure he heard a snigger.

  *

  Jacobsz stared east at the fading darkness. Dawn wasn’t far away. “Raise the anchor, lads, and run up the sail.”

  People stirred at the rattle of the ropes, the slap of waves as the longboat got underway. The baby complained and Saartje gave him her breast.

  “Adriaen?” said Zwaantie.

  “Let’s pray it’s a VOC ship.”

  “If it isn’t?”

  Good question. An English privateer, perhaps? Run, try to make it to Batavia? The men were exhausted; they’d had to row for days.

  “If it isn’t, we avoid the ship. We owe it to the Company to reach Batavia,” said Pelsaert.

  Jacobsz couldn’t make out the look on the Upper Merchant’s face, but he recognised the tone. Besides, on this occasion he agreed with Pelsaert. Being held for ransom by the English wasn’t a fate he relished.

  The sun rose behind them, a huge misshapen blob on the horizon sending long shadows onto reddened waves. Before them, the tips of the tall masts of the ship they approached sparkled in the sunlight.

  “There’s three ships, I’m sure of it,” called the sailor in the bow. “Yes, three.” A moment of hesitation. “Well, I’ll be keel-hauled. That’s the Sardam.”

  An undercurrent of emotion spread around the longboat, hopeful but cautious. Sardam, one of the smaller ships in the fleet that sailed in company with Batavia from Table Bay.

  Pelsaert sat up straight. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  The sailor peered, his body hunched over the bow. “Yes, I’m sure. Huzzah. We’re saved!” He turned and slapped a hand against the gunwale as men hugged each other, thumped backs, whooped with joy. Jacobsz swept Zwaantie up and kissed her hard on the mouth as she clung to him.

  The longboat rocked dangerously.

  Pelsaert leaned forward, willing the longboat on before a slight breeze. At last; a ship from home, a chance to eat, to change his clothes. All around the mood was brighter, the women laughing. Sardam rode at anchor, sails furled, her bow towards them as they came. They’d been spotted; a number of people had gathered on the poop, fingers pointing. The clang of the bell rang across the water, a call to arms as the gunners manned the cannon. Pelsaert couldn’t blame them; it was a sensible precaution in these troubled times.

  Closer they came and yet closer. Close enough to shout, for sailors on the longboat to identify mates on the Sardam. Pelsaert peered at the stern decks, looking for Merchant van Dommelen. There he stood, next to his ship’s captain. Pelsaert thought of shouting but decided it was unseemly. Besides, everyone else was noisy enough. The longboat drew alongside and was made fast. Willing hands helped Pelsaert up the ladder and onto the deck.

  As the sailors helped the others, Pelsaert turned to van Dommelen, who stood round-eyed, jaw dropped.

  “Commandeur. What happened?”

  Pelsaert noticed the merchant’s nose twitch. Hardly surprising. It had been a long time since he last bathed or changed his clothes. He probably smelled worse than a common sailor.

  “We were wrecked. I’ll gladly tell you all, but my people need food and water.”

  “And—with respect, sir—a wash and clean clothes.” Van Dommelen made to reach out a hand and thought better of it. “Come with me. Food first and then I’ll see what I can find.”

  Van Dommelen had water, wine and some ship’s bread brought to take the edge from Pelsaert’s hunger before he washed and changed into borrowed breeches and shirt. The ship’s barber was interrupted in his ministrations to the other survivors to cut his hair and shave his beard and then van Dommelen brought Pelsaert into the ship’s Great Cabin to eat at a table, with plates and pewter goblets. Jacobsz and his officers had elected to eat on deck with the others.

  At other times, thought Pelsaert as he finished his meal, pulses and cured meat so far into a voyage would have been unappetising. But now it was a feast fit for a king. He talked as he ate, giving van Dommelen a brief outline of events. “And so, when we left, close on one hundred and eighty people remained there on that island. Pray the Good Lord kept them safe.” He pushed his plate away and sipped at his wine. “Who is the most senior official with this sailing group?”

  “His Excellency the Heer Raembruch is on board the Frederick Hendrick,” van Dommelen said. “She lies at anchor to starboard.”

  Raembruch, eh? That was a stroke of good fortune. He was a Councillor of India, a man with at least some influence with Governor Coen. “Well, then, I think it best that I should go over to his ship and advise him of events,” Pelsaert said.

  “I’ll have the captain launch our longboat,” van Dommelen said. “Will you wish to take any of the other people with you? The captain, perhaps?”

  Pelsaert swallowed to smother his retort. “No. No, I’m sure he’d want to stay here, with his officers and men. It’s only a few more days from here to Batavia, after all.”

  16

  “To the new council, gentlemen,” said Cornelisz, raising a goblet.

  “The new council,” the three men murmured, and tossed back the contents.

  They stood in Cornelisz’s tent, beaming and pleased with themselves.

  As was he, thought Cornelisz. It had been so easy. The people on the island had accepted his actions with barely a murmur, but then, he was the legitimate authority here, was he not? Senior representative of the Company? Certainly his new councillors would be an effective team. Coenraat van Huyssen smiled in satisfaction at his new position, Davidt Zevanck was pleased but Jacop Pietersz, the erstwhile lance corporal, positively glowed. Not the brightest star in the sky, Pietersz, but he had a commanding presence because of his sheer size—and he would do as he was told.

  “Now then, down to business,” said Cornelisz, leading the way to the council table. He sat in his usual chair with Pietersz on his right and Van Huyssen and Zevanck on his left. He waited while they organised the chairs on the uneven ground.

  “Things are proceeding well,” said Cornelisz when the four men were seated “We’ve reduced the numbers to about one hundred and ten here on Batavia’s Graveyard and we have perhaps twenty we can be sure of.”

  “There are still too many men who will oppose us,” said van Huyssen. “A few soldiers, some of the sailors.”

  “I agree,” said Cornelisz. “I think we should send some reinforcements to help Wiebbe Hayes and his people on the High Island, don’t you?”

  Pietersz frowned in concentration. “But why would we want to do that? Don’t we want them to…” he whispered the last word, “die?”

  Van Huyssen grinned. “What do you have in mind, Jeronimus?”

  “I said we’d send them—even take them over there. But I didn’t say they had to arrive.” That was the difference, wasn’t it? Van Huyssen was quick—maybe too quick. And Pietersz wasn’t quick at all.

  “An accident on a raft?” asked Zevanck. He started to clean his fingernails with his knife.

  “Could that happen?” asked Cornelisz. “Or should I ask, how could that happen?”

  “Pick a group of reinforcements and a couple of people to sail the raft. But make sure that most of the group are our supporters. Out in the deep water—oops, what a shame, fell into the sea and drowned.”

  “Who drowned?” said Pietersz, brow furrowed. “I don’t follow.”

  Zevanck chuckled, eyes hooded and put an arm on Pietersz shoulder. “It’s simple. Five of us take three of them on a raft. They’ll think we’re taking them to the soldiers. Out in the deep water, we take
them unawares, tie them up and throw them over the side. They drown.”

  “Yes,” van Huyssen said, grinning, “and no one need know.”

  “That’s clever. Very, very clever,” said Pietersz, lost in admiration.

  “Well, then, Davidt, I’ll leave it to you,” said Cornelisz. Zevanck, it seemed, was a willing murderer. “Coenraat, perhaps you would help me to inform the reinforcements. You should have a list of names.”

  Zevanck wiped his knife on his breeches. “I’ll want Matthijs Beer and a few of your cadets, Coenraat.”

  “Now then, gentlemen, to other business,” said Cornelisz. “Put away that knife, Davidt. It has been reported to me that two of the carpenters were intending to steal a yawl they had built and use it to join the party on the Seals’ Island. I’ve had them arrested. Corporal Pietersz, have the prisoners brought in.”

  Pietersz lumbered off to fetch the latest victims.

  Two men, arms bound behind their backs, were shoved into the tent and Pietersz resumed his seat. Cornelisz glanced between them, both youngish men with ragged beards and frightened eyes. Although the taller one looked defiant.

  “We’ve done nothing wrong,” said the taller man. “What’s this about?”

  “Your name?” asked Cornelisz.

  “Egbert. Egbert Roeloffsz.”

  “And you?”

  “Warnar Dircx.”

  Cornelisz looked down at the paper on the desk as if to check his information then back up to the two men. “You are both carpenters?”

  They exchanged a glance and nodded.

  “You’re accused of plotting to steal one of our boats.”

  Warnar gaped like a landed fish but Egbert spluttered, “You can’t be serious. To take it where?”

  “I’m told to the Seals’ Island—but that’s not the issue,” said Cornelisz, voice stern. “The mere fact that you wish to steal from us is sin enough.”

  The members of the council nodded.

  “Who told you that? It’s stupid, malicious lies,” said Egbert. Warnar nodded, desperate, his eyes imploring.

  “In our straitened circumstances, no theft can be tolerated. Any action against the common good is punishable by death.”

  The shouts of protest were replaced with grunts of pain as the soldiers behind each man used their own ways of silencing the prisoners; a kidney punch for Egbert, an upward jerk of his bound hands for Warnar.

  “Members of the council, do you concur with this judgement?” asked Cornelisz, looking this way and that along the table.

  Pietersz grunted.

  Zevanck, smiling, nodded.

  “Justice must be done,” said van Huyssen.

  “A unanimous verdict,” said Cornelisz. He stood. “Take the condemned men out.”

  The carpenters were hustled out, a man on each side, still protesting, reluctant feet sliding on the coarse coral sand.

  The usual bustle of activity in the tent town stopped. Eyes turned to the two men and their escorts. Cornelisz stood, hands on his hips, his councillors on each side of him. The canvas of the tent flapped in a brisk breeze. The islanders waited, silent, expectant.

  “You see before you the legally appointed council, representing the interests of the Company on these islands.” He waved a hand to include van Huyssen, Pietersz and Zevanck. “By the authority so vested in us, we have found these men, Egbert Roeloffsz and Warnar Dircx, guilty of a plot to steal from us all.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “The sentence for theft, as you all know, is death.”

  His audience sighed. Men looked at each other, shifting their feet. Someone cleared his throat and a sailor spat on the ground. Egbert tried to speak but was silenced by a blow.

  Cornelisz hid the surge of triumph. They accepted his judgement—as they should. He stepped back. “Take them away, up to the end of the island and carry out sentence.”

  The cadets almost had to carry Warnar, white-faced and pleading. Egbert was made of sterner stuff, yelling his innocence until one of his guards struck him hard across the face. From this distance, Cornelisz couldn’t see the details but he saw the rise and fall of arms, the glint of sunlight on the blades and the final splash as the bodies were cast into the ocean. Maybe sharks would come to feed.

  Around him, the daily noises of the settlement returned to normal. The two small boats the men had built were pulled up on the sand on the little beach. A sailor mended fishing nets, another plucked birds.

  “So. That’s over,” said Cornelisz. He turned towards his tent.

  “Two more down,” muttered Zevanck. “It’s a long way short of where we need to be.”

  “Patience, Davidt,” said Cornelisz, putting his arm around the younger man. “We’ve made an excellent start. Now you and Coenraat have a job to do.”

  Cornelisz returned to his tent and pulled out the cameo again. Should he sell it? he thought, his fingers caressing the cool agate. Or keep it to hang on his wall? Not here, of course, but on a wall in the mansion he’d have. Maybe in Macau or perhaps somewhere in Spain. He’d prefer Spain. More civilized. He could take Lucretia with him, dress her in Spanish lace.

  *

  Judyck beamed. “Thank you so very, very much.” She twirled again in the dress, one of Lucretia’s, dark blue with embroidered sleeves and a neat white collar at the throat.

  “It looks lovely, Judyck,” Lucretia said. And isn’t it nice to be able to wear something that isn’t frayed and stiff with salt?”

  Judyck sat on a stool in Lucretia’s tent and leant forward, keeping her voice low. “Mama wouldn’t let me keep the other one. Said it wasn’t proper. Papa agreed.”

  “Well, he is a predikant.”

  “Mm. But it was so beautiful.” She ran a hand over the dress she’d just returned, red with pearls all around the bodice. “And it wouldn’t have been revealing with a proper chemise underneath.”

  “Ah, well. The one you’re wearing is lovely and really suits your skin.”

  “Yes. And I really am grateful.” Judyck bit her lip.

  Lucretia patted the girl’s hand. “I know.” She supposed it was to be expected. She’d been a little surprised when Judyck had selected that dress as one of the two she’d offered.

  “Creesje.” Judyck’s voice interrupted, almost a nervous whisper. “What did you think about… you know… what happened today?”

  “The two men?” Lucretia hadn’t known them, of course. But she’d seen them working, building the little boats. They’d seemed pleasant enough young men and always treated her with respect. But then, everyone did, now.

  Judyck nodded, eyes wary.

  It had seemed harsh. And yet. “We have so little here. And if they were guilty, well, I suppose justice must be seen to be done. There are still a lot of rough soldiers and sailors. Remember how it was at first? Always fighting, stealing things from each other?” And their lecherous looks and the remarks as she walked past. Just the memory made her skin crawl.

  “They killed them with a sword,” whispered Judyck. “Just…” she lunged with one hand, inexpertly miming a stabbing action. “And then when they fell down, they were both stabbed again.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Coming back from the point. Agnete and I had gone to look for eggs. They came right past us.” Her eyes flicked to Lucretia’s face. “They looked really, really frightened.”

  Lucretia sighed. “I expect they would have been.” It seemed brutal. But then, life was brutal and without rules, without law, who knew what might happen?

  *

  The raft crunched on the coral as the men poled in to the shallows.

  Cornelisz frowned. Wasn’t Andries de Vries supposed to have been a casualty? Yet Zevanck seemed happy, a satisfied smirk plastered over his face as he approached, a hand on de Vries’s shoulder, propelling him along.

  “We have a new supporter, Jeronimus,” said Zevanck. “Isn’t that right, Andries?”

  De Vries’s lips trembled but he squared his shoulders and answe
red steadily enough. “That’s right. I want to join you. I swear I’ll do anything you want of me.”

  “Anything?” said Cornelisz. Now this could become entertaining. And useful.

  “Anything at all.” De Vries shot a nervous glance at Zevanck, who was cleaning his nails with that infernal knife again.

  “All right.” Cornelisz jerked his head. “You’ll be called.” The lad almost sagged with relief, stumbling off to his tent without a backward glance.

  “Well?” Cornelisz asked when de Vries had gone.

  “He begged for his life.” Zevanck grinned. “It was so easy. We waited until we were over the deep water and out of view, then we jumped them and tied their hands and feet. We had three over the side, but Andries pleaded.” He laughed. “I do declare he wet himself. Swore to God he’d do whatever we wanted.”

  “Yes. You’ve done well, Davidt. In fact, so very well, maybe you and Coenraat should organise for a few other people to head over to the High Island in a day or two? What do you think?”

  Zevanck laughed again.

  17

  Nerves twanging, Pelsaert hesitated for a moment at Coen’s door and hitched his breeches up. The borrowed clothes would have been a little too ample even had he not been so emaciated, but at least they were clean and he had been shaved. Even so, the perspiration on his brow was not just the result of the tropical heat and the over-warm clothing.

  “Sir?”

  The escort, a clerk in black wool costume, interrupted his reverie.

  “Yes. Let us proceed.” Pelsaert stood back and let the fellow knock, and then open the door for him.

  A polished wooden floor, heavy dark wood desk, a couple of fine landscapes on the walls. Grey light filtered in through tall windows that opened into the fort of Batavia’s courtyard, the painted shutters flung open. Coen, tall and elegant in black, his beard trimmed to a point, his moustaches curved up, stood beside the desk. Stern he looked, stern but interested. Pelsaert took off his hat, stepped inside and bowed. “My Lord Governor.”

  “Commandeur Pelsaert. Sit, sit. I have heard something of your ordeal from Councillor Raembruch. He came to me directly the remains of your fleet dropped anchor.”