Forlornly do the rest of the ship’s company watch them go, as they huddle on the deck with as many of their belongings as they can salvage pressed tightly to them. In the near distance, they watch the clearly visible sail of the yawl as it travels from a spot close to one of the small islands to another spot close to the other island – both of them are tiny puddles of land in an otherwise unbroken sea – and then at last comes back towards them just before nine in the morning.
With hope in their hearts again, they see Jacobsz return and clamber up the lee side of the Batavia. ‘Ja, ’tis possible,’ he reports to Commandeur Pelsaert quietly, as the sailors – who in these extreme circumstances have stepped up in the hierarchy aboard the ship – huddle close to hear him. ‘There is nowt of shelter or fresh water on either isle, but both will be safe from the high tide. Neither is easy to land on, but ’tis possible.’
At least this is one small mercy, for there is now no denying it, the whole ship is beginning to break up. The timbers so carefully crafted and joined by the teams of master tradesmen back in the Amsterdam shipyard are coming apart plank by plank, as every heave lessens the Batavia’s resistance.
At ten o’clock, it finally happens. With one last agonised groan, and then a fearful crack, the for’ard part of the ship below the waterline on the port side bursts asunder as the ocean – denied access for eight months – has its final revenge on the Batavia and crashes through the splintered oak and into the hold. Some of those closest to the breach in the hull, including several carpenters and caulkers who are right at the spot trying to prevent from happening the very thing that has occurred, immediately drown, while others manage to scramble up to the higher decks just in time. Among those parts of the ship that will now forever be underwater is the broot-kamer, bread-locker.
As the hold fills with water, the ship shifts position, with the stern starting to sink ever lower and gravity beginning to grip everything not fixed in place and slide it downwards. This includes people.
Jacobsz, aghast, now gives orders that the priority of those still on the ship must be to salvage food and water first, and everything that is still dry must be brought up to the deck in great haste. He has high hopes of getting most of the ship’s supplies and people onto the sad, barren little strips of land substantially intact, but everything – heaven and earth and the very gods themselves – seems to be against them.
Any traces of cohesion and discipline among the crew have long since disappeared with the moon, replaced by something far closer to the heavy storm clouds that have now gathered overhead. It was one thing to take strict orders from someone in authority when all was calm, when the presence of the Company was felt in the air they breathed and the penalty could be as high as death for disobedience. But it is quite another when all seems lost, and when this same authority has guided you onto this godforsaken reef. Suddenly, the Company is not there any more for the common sailors and soldiers, and those who do obey orders are doing so more because they understand it is their best hope of redemption than because of any lingering loyalty.
On the deck, some people have become so desperate to get off the ship that they hurl themselves into the surf in the hope of swimming to the island. No fewer than a dozen of them are grasped by the capricious claw of this raging animal of an ocean. They are cast up, then flung down upon the reef, and thereafter drown.
In this weather and these waters, no one can truly hope to swim to the nearby islands, and nor does it seem possible that anyone can stay for long on the Batavia, as the ocean continues to pound her and the wind to howl.
They are where they are, and there they will stay until they are either rescued or able to launch the other boats. Obvious to nearly all, the 32-foot yawl and the 40-foot longboat – both of which have oars and sails and can carry, respectively, ten people and 35 people comfortably – are all that stand between the ship’s company and certain death.
As tiny as the closest island is – just three times the length of the Batavia and not a lot wider, with no vegetation to speak of or even soft sand to rest on – it is at least solid land, above water, which is a very good start in the circumstances. With this information, the sailors and some of the soldiers set to with a will, making ready to begin ferrying people to dry land. In the time since the mast has fallen, the situation on board has continued to deteriorate, and time is now of the essence.
At this point, had they been left entirely to their own devices, both Jacobsz and Pelsaert may well have tried to start ferrying their precious cargo to the island, leaving the people till last. By this time, however, it is obvious that if they even attempt such a thing while the panicking, howling people on the deck clamber to board the boats even before they are in position, there will be an open revolt.
Thus, despite the appalling conditions, they begin to ferry people to relative safety, while several of the ship’s senior officers start to laboriously bring the precious cargo of money chests and other valuables to the main deck and secure it.
Some of the sailors and soldiers help in this process. Others are either too panicky or now believe it doesn’t matter what they do, for all is lost – and so refuse to cooperate. Still, though, there are just enough sailors and soldiers remaining at their posts and staying relatively calm to keep up the difficult operation of getting passengers from the deck of the Batavia into the yawl and longboat whenever they come alongside.
Notable among these are two Dutch soldiers, Wiebbe Hayes and Wouter Loos. Pelsaert has already noticed Hayes, in particular, quite a few times on the trip, and he has not noticed many other soldiers. There is a way this man carries himself that marks him as a cut above, even though he remains humble, something about his quiet, competent manner that is appealing and lends confidence to those around him . . . and never more so than on this occasion.
Every time the boats pull alongside after transporting more people, Hayes is there on the deck of the Batavia, helping passengers down, passing supplies, offering soothing words and doing whatever needs to be done to accomplish the hazardous task as safely as possible.
And, so, the day wears on. By the time the afternoon deepens and the light begins to fade, Jacobsz and his men have managed to ferry 180 people to the closest and tiniest island, along with ten casks of bread and several barrels of fresh water. In the madness of it all, husbands have been separated from wives, and children from parents, but the main thing is that over half of the ship’s company has been transferred, along with Pelsaert’s exceedingly heavy casket of jewels and the cameo – together worth well over 50,000 guilders.
After the final trip to the tiny island, however, Jacobsz returns to the Batavia somewhat shaken and angered. He declares to the Commandeur that it is no use their taking more water and bread onshore, since it is all devoured in the most lawless and ravenous manner, and everyone drinks as much as they can get their hands on. The most shocking thing to Jacobsz is that his own orders have no force or effect upon these panicky people. Reluctantly, thus, Jacobsz now asks the Commandeur to come with him in the hope that Pelsaert’s authority might help to calm the throng.
The Commandeur duly jumps into the yawl and goes with Jacobsz, intending to return to the stricken ship as soon as possible. He leaves the dozen money chests on the deck, secure in the care of the Onderkoopman, Jeronimus, as Pelsaert has decided to bring the money ashore on the next journey, once he has restored calm to the people on the island and made it safer for the Company’s precious cargo.
For the moment, Jeronimus remains on the ship with a largish group of some 120 others. This is not through some high-minded notion that, as the highest-ranking man on the ship, he should be the last to leave. It is because he is hampered somewhat by the fact that he can swim no better than a large rock and does not fancy getting into small boats in wild surf, particularly when there are so many desperate passengers trying to do exactly the same. As has always been Jeronimus’s wont, he bides his time, still nurturing some hope, as he confides in a fellow Mut
ineer, that the ship can in fact be refloated. With the ship’s hull now fully resting on the bottom, and waves regularly breaking over the side, it is as clear a measure as any of Jeronimus’s total lack of seafaring knowledge.
Meanwhile, others of the ship’s company are just about beyond caring what the future might or might not hold and are only interested in having what fun they can right now. For no few of the sailors and soldiers, convinced that they will shortly meet their deaths anyway on this reef on the outer reaches of the known world, have already stormed the liquor stores and begun drinking themselves into oblivion. They are led by Zwaantje’s one-time lover and Jacobsz’s fellow Mutineer, Allert Jansz of Assendfelt, a drunkard on the shore who is meant to be a gunner on the ship. Now that the ship is effectively on the shore, he desires to be a drunkard once more and so heads to where the liquor lies, near the officers’ quarters in the hold behind the mainmast.
Wielding a knife and slashing it back and forth before him, he snarls at the steward trying to defend the honour and virtue of the liquor store against the claims of the lower orders. ‘Out, cats and dogs,’ he roars, even as he slashes steward’s mate Lucas Gerritsz across the back for his trouble. ‘You have been masters here long enough, now I for a while.’
The terrified steward scampers, glad to escape with his life. And, as Jansz settles down to drink, it is not long before he is joined by his comrades. A serious session begins, as they raid the officers’ stores for cheeses and fine victuals. In terms of drinking, it has been over eight months since they’ve been able to indulge themselves to this level. As to food, they’ve never been able to wolf down so many fine things. This is almost worth getting shipwrecked for! Some of the women who smuggled themselves aboard also now join them. It is not long before the stricken ship begins to rock with drunken shrieks of laughter coming from its belly.
There is also a lot of fun to be had, clearly, with those money chests tied down on the deck. The boldest of the lot of them, or perhaps the drunkest, Jean Thiriou, takes an axe to the nearest chest and splits it wide open, spilling silver coins onto the briny deck. Plunging both hands into the treasure, the 38-year-old Thiriou gathers up dozens of the coins and begins flinging them at his nearly as drunken companions, just as if he were sowing seeds.
There is, however, just enough authority left on board, reposing in the breast of the few calm men remaining, to beat Thiriou and his fellow thieves off for the moment. A carpenter is found to nail a piece of wood over the axe hole, though God alone knows what Pelsaert will do when he finds out. If he finds out . . .
In normal circumstances, what Thiriou has just done would bring on a swift sentence of death, followed by his slow and painful realisation of it while being flogged to within an inch of his life, and then half an inch. That, however, requires somebody senior to have witnessed what Thiriou has done, such as Pelsaert or Jacobsz, and as it happens both of them already have their hands full . . .
No sooner have Pelsaert and Jacobsz left the ship than, by God’s truth, a very strong southerly wind begins to blow, making it obvious that there will be no return to the wreck that day. In fact, so powerful is that wind, so strong the current and high the swell, that it is all they can do to land on the lee shore of the tiny island, where . . . chaos reigns supreme.
Just as Jacobsz has described to Pelsaert, in their absence there has been a free-for-all to get whatever food and water the new islanders can for themselves and their cohorts. They have gorged, gorged, gorged as if nothing else matters . . . because it doesn’t. It is all that Pelsaert can do to re-establish some semblance of basic order, so that with at least some food and water in all of their bellies they can begin to pass an extremely uncomfortable night on the tiny island, hard shards of coral for their bed as the wind continues to shriek. For those who cannot sleep – and of course there are many – the constant temptation is to look back to the Batavia, where, intermittently through the sea-spray, they can just see a small light twinkling from the Great Cabin, which only 24 hours earlier was occupied by the Commandeur. What could be happening there?
An ancient Dutch dictum states that ‘Als de kat van huis is, dan dansen de muizen op tafel’, when the cat is not home, the mice dance on the table, and this is a case in point. From the moment that Pelsaert left the Batavia late that afternoon, Allert Jansz’s assault on the liquor stores and Thiriou’s outrage on the money chest have been just parts of a veritable general uprising, as the last shreds of restraint have slipped away.
Now, all who remain on the ship feel free to roam around it and do whatever they like – and none more than the Mutineers, many of whom have stayed on board with Jeronimus. After all, given what Jeronimus promised them, the conspiracy he led, the Onderkoopman could hardly protest if they continued to raid the liquor stores, help themselves to the finest victuals in the galley or hysterically throw silver coins at each other, could he? And, of course, Jeronimus does not protest at all.
Though a little aloof from their childish joy in dancing on the tables, the Onderkoopman is delighted to give his men the run of the ship, while he is interested in only one thing: installing himself in the Great Cabin. Throughout the voyage, he has admired both its spaciousness and its luxury, from its enormous oaken table to its Persian rugs and brass lanterns, all of which are in stark contrast to his own humble cabin.
Now nearing midnight, nearly 24 hours after the wreck, here he is in the finest abode on board, having taken his rightful place at last as the unchallenged master of the dying ship. Surrounded by the tightest coterie of the Mutineers – Coenraat van Huyssen, Allert Jansz, Cornelis ‘Boontje’ Jansz, Ryckert Woutersz and the cadet Lenart van Os among them, all of whom are roaring drunk – Jeronimus has already helped himself to the pick of the Commandeur’s wardrobe, selecting one of his superb velvet cloaks, and is leaning back in his ornately carved chair, feet up on the desk, drinking Pelsaert’s finest Spanish wine.
Far from being outraged at the Mutineers’ presumption, at their betrayal of the Company, nature herself appears to have calmed for the moment, and instead of shuddering with every wave, the Batavia is merely being lightly prodded. Fluttering around excitedly, Jan Pelgrom de Bye, the cabin servant, is able to bring them the finest food from Pelsaert’s private larder without stumbling, even though the whole ship still lies on an unnatural angle and does rock from time to time.
‘And now we’ll see!’ roars Allert Jansz, as he breaks into the Commandeur’s desk to upend all its drawers, before none other than Ryckert Woutersz breaks open the principal of the Commandeur’s personal sea chests. To the happy roar of the Mutineers, the once-pristine cabin is instantly awash with everything from Pelsaert’s underwear to letters from home and religious medallions, which they, in high hilarity, distribute among themselves. And here . . . here is his journal!
Had Jansz been able to read, he would have regaled the gathering with some of its choicer entries, but schooling was not a feature of his long and troubled past, nor of most of the Mutineers’, so the journal is passed to the only one among them who can figure out what sounds all the squiggly little lines should make. With something of a theatrical air, mimicking Pelsaert’s pompous tones, Jeronimus reads out the account from 14 May 1629:
(Ah, how they cheer at that line, clapping each other on the back and shouting, ‘Bravo! Bravo!’)
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Such entertainment! In the end, it is the sailor Cornelis Boontje Jansz who comes up with the perfect way to bring their merry evening to a head. Grabbing Pelsaert’s journal the instant Jeronimus has put it back on the desk, he ceremoniously rips the pages from it before hurling it out the window. Still not done, he grabs one of Pelsaert’s gold medallions, this one embossed with an image of Prince Frederick Hendrick of Holland, puts it in his hat and throws it out, too. ‘There goes the rubbish,’ he cries, ‘even if it be worth so many thousand guilders!’
On the small island, meanwhile, where sleeplessness reigns, people remain panicked. After the only suppl
ies have been devoured by the strongest and most desperate, thought quickly turns to questions of survival – where is the next portion of food and water to appear from, given the island is so obviously devoid of both? When, if ever, will they be rescued?
Two people who have not lost their calm are the Predikant and Lucretia – though for different reasons. The Predikant is professionally accustomed to counselling those in despair and walks from group to group providing solace, assuring the survivors that God will surely save them all if they can only place their faith in Him.
As for Lucretia, after all she has endured aboard the Batavia – the advances of men, the humiliation of her attack, the sullying of her fine personage – she is well used to suffering and keen to alleviate it in others. On this cold and blowy night, she is doing what she can to ensure that those who have been injured are made comfortable, and that the infants and children receive what morsels of food and water remain. This is all notwithstanding the fact that, because of the strict segregation of the ship, she has not seen most of the people before, and nor have they seen her.
5 June 1629, on the small island
From well before dawn, Jacobsz is on the move, together with his best men. Today, the most urgent tasks are to get the bulk of the people off the tiny island and onto the much bigger island just half a mile away, as well as seeing if they can get the rest of the survivors off the stricken Batavia. True, the bigger island offers similarly little in the way of shelter, but, at almost twice the length and width of the first island (in the rough shape of a triangle, it is 500 yards long at its maximum and 300 yards wide), it does have space.
With a little vegetation on it in the form of low scrub, it is marginally more hospitable than the bare island they are on, as that scrub offers some slight protection against the wind. With his team of men, thus, Jacobsz begins the job of ferrying the people to the larger island – something slightly easier this time as the island has two small beaches, next to deeper water, on which they can land.
Batavia Epub Page 14