So, finally, he decides to go. The only problem is Jacobsz’s point-blank refusal to even countenance the possibility of his trying to take his heavy chest of valuables with them, on the grounds that it would cause the longboat to lie too low in the water, making the vessel unstable. As this is squarely within Jacobsz’s province of responsibility – and what he says is no more than logical, anyway – Pelsaert must cede.
So it is that not long after the sun comes up, Pelsaert along with Skipper Jacobsz, Opperstuurman Claas Gerritsz and everyone else who was on the tiny island proceed into the gloriously dark blue of the deepwater channel, passing right by Batavia’s Graveyard once more. This again arouses furious protest from the survivors there, who wave, shout and beckon them to come ashore. ‘Brood! Brood!’ they cry. Bread! Bread!
Alas, as Pelsaert learned the previous day, they could not approach the island even if they did have bread or water to spare. In a vain attempt to forestall any accusations of abandonment, the Commandeur has left a message for those survivors back on Batavia’s Graveyard. Just up from where even a high tide might be expected to reach, there is, in clear view of the first person to land there – and it would be possible for a strong swimmer to get there from Batavia’s Graveyard – a bread barrel, albeit now empty, under which there is a note, penned by Pelsaert.
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As the people on Batavia’s Graveyard cry out once more when the longboat passes them by, Pelsaert averts his eyes. Not all of his men follow suit, however. One of them, Claas Jansz, the chief trumpeter, has just seen his wife, Tryntgien Fredericxs, on the shore, screaming for him, as she stands by her sister Zussie, who is doing the same. He and his wife became separated in the madness of the ferrying from the wreck, and they now lock eyes for the first time. But what can he do? Like many who make their living aboard ships, he cannot swim, and within a few seconds the longboat has pulled so far into the deepwater channel that it is simply out of the question for him to try jumping off the boat to get ashore. Besides which, he consoles himself, they will hopefully find plenty of water on the higher islands, and soon husband and wife will be reunited.
It is not just those on the larger island who are appalled to see the longboat disappear. There are those still out on the Batavia herself, watching them go and entirely unaware that Pelsaert has succeeded in insisting that, for the moment at least, the yawl should stay behind so it can help get more survivors off the ship once the weather has calmed. If it ever calms. For the huge waves continue to pound into the Abrolhos reef from the west, just as they have done for millennia.
For those souls still aboard the ship, it has been a tragic thing to see how quickly the once mighty vessel could be destroyed. Already, the Batavia is now a mere shell of her former self. The 70 survivors who remained aboard on the first afternoon of the wreck have now halved. One by one, the majority have tried their luck at drifting towards one of the two islands in the distance, clutching on to pieces of wood to help them stay afloat. Some drowned nearly immediately, the ocean swallowing them whole, squeezing the life out of their lungs and returning them to the surface, bloated and purple. Others appeared to have made it, though it is far from sure.
What is obvious is that, sooner or later, everyone will have to make the attempt, because each day sees a greater deterioration of the ship, and it will likely be only a few more days before the whole thing sinks beneath the waves. And yet, now, the one boat that can get nearly all of them off in the safest fashion is leaving them, heading north and already disappearing over the horizon! No one is more appalled than Jeronimus, watching closely from the poop deck, his half-lidded eyes taking it all in. What new game is this?
Quite what Jeronimus is going to do to survive, he isn’t yet sure, only that it will not involve him willingly throwing himself into that swirling and angry water. He will remain with what limited shelter the ship can provide right to the end.
Desperation is now Commandeur Pelsaert’s constant state. The only thing that changes, hour by hour, day by day, is that which he is desperate about. On this, the third day since hitting the reef, he is in the longboat with the 36 other crew members, all of them equally desperate to find water on one or both of the two larger, higher islands that lie west by nor’-west. From a distance, neither looks promising, as they are anything but green. But at least they are much higher above the sea than the two tiny islets they have come from, and there does seem to be some scraggly vegetation on them. Clearly, there is more chance of finding water there than anywhere else around them – where there is no chance at all.
There is, however, no deepwater channel beside these High Islands, and the boat is still nearly a mile off shore when its bottom lightly crunches upon rough rocks in the shallows. Reluctantly, they have to get out and wade forward, with great difficulty, half-lifting and half-dragging their boat to the shore.
At last ashore on the easternmost of the islands, their first impressions are dispiriting. With the apparent lack of a creek, or a spring, or pools of fresh water, they begin to dig, endeavouring to get down to water that they hope will be just a few feet or so below the surface. But their holes reveal only more sand beneath. The same happens when they venture a little further onto the island. The soil three feet down is marginally moister than the soil on the surface, but there is not the slightest indication that digging a lot deeper will yield a different result. True, at this point the obvious thing to do is for all of them to spread out around the two islands – it proves possible to wade between the two – but under the circumstances no one is keen to wander any distance from the longboat. That boat is the sole difference between them standing on a desert island and being stranded on a desert island, and everyone wants to keep it in sight at all times.
In the end, all they can find are some brackish pools of rainwater left in some of the small hollows on the cliffs of the larger island. Alas, sea-spray has made it so salty that it is only marginally closer to drinkable than ocean water. Sustaining themselves, thus, on only the supplies they have brought with them, they pass what proves to be a typical night in these parts – desperately uncomfortable.
7 June 1629, High Islands
The following morning is occupied with some more desultory searching for water, but with the same result. Things are looking grim . . .
Just before noon, Skipper Jacobsz engages in an extremely important task. As the skies have momentarily broken to reveal a half-hearted sun, it is time to use his astrolabe to calculate the position of his wrecked ship. It is something that must be accomplished quickly, as the sun comes and goes and there are a dozen other things he must attend to – most of which concern placating his sailors and ensuring that he remains in control – so he abandons his usual method. Instead of proceeding slowly and carefully, and checking all his calculations three times through, he does it just once.
With his tongue poking through pursed lips, he looks along his sights to read the angle between the sun and the horizon and quickly does his other calculations. He arrives at an estimation of their latitude as 28 degrees 20 minutes south and marks it down on a piece of paper, which he then folds and tucks securely into his pocket.
7 June 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard
The large group of survivors gathered on the shores of Batavia’s Graveyard continue to stare balefully out across the expanse of ocean whence the longboat disappeared the day before. Despite the overwhelming evidence, they cling to the hope that there has been some mistake, that they are not to be left on their island without contact with either the skipper or the Commandeur.
Some are getting on with making the best of it. A stand-out in this regard is the soldier Wiebbe Hayes. Over on the western side of the island, he is busy with some of his fellow soldiers constructing rough shelters where they can gain respite from the belting wind. While, at the time of the voyage of the Batavia, Hayes has not been with the VOC long enough to rise high, still leadership comes naturally to him, and he has the even happier knack of being able to ex
ercise it without getting others in the company of men offside.
It is he who is first to set up a small piece of sail in such a fashion that it will both provide shelter from the elements and collect whatever rain might fall, funnelling it down into a barrel – and all the others follow suit. It is also Hayes who organises the other soldiers to begin a systematic search for water on the island, digging everywhere. No matter that there are no early signs of success in this venture, he insists they all keep at it.
7 June 1629, High Islands
For Francisco Pelsaert, Ariaen Jacobsz and those with them, it is clearly time for . . . a committee meeting. There is simply no point in returning to the ship’s company upon the two islands to tell them that there is no water. And it is equally obvious to all that their best hope is to get to het Zuidland, which – if they are indeed on the Abrolhos – must lie only half a day’s sailing to their east, the coast to the north having been partially charted by Hartog a decade earlier. And, if still they could find no water there, then they should sail without delay to Batavia, to inform the authorities, with God’s grace, of their sad, unheard of, disastrous misfortune.
There is no dissension – for the only alternative is to return to the madness of the islands – so Pelsaert reluctantly gives the order for the preparations for the long journey ahead to begin. The three carpenters they have with them on the longboat busy themselves by starting to build strakes to lift the gunwale of their craft, to make allowance for the extra weight they will be carrying and render their vessel more secure against the open sea. Taking the planks that were thrown over to them from the stricken Batavia, they bring them close to the fire and bend them into the required shape before carefully nailing them into place on the vertical frame of the boat, which has been lengthened for the purpose. Thereafter, they use their caulking hammers and – in the absence of their favoured horsehair and pitch – apply torn pieces of cloth to start to properly seal it.
And then, suddenly, a shout goes up. A boat is coming their way! It is, of course, the only boat it could be, the yawl. In it are Third Steersman Gillis Fransz – known to the other sailors by his nickname of ‘Halffwaack’, Half-Awake, for his ever-sleepy, relaxed attitude – and ten other sailors, one of whom has brought his wife and their two-month-old baby with them. Pelsaert’s previous orders to Fransz to go to the wreck notwithstanding, they, too, are now in search of fresh water and have arrived on this shore by virtue of exactly the same reasoning that has propelled Pelsaert, Jacobsz and their men. Though happy to see the people of the longboat, Halffwaack and his men are devastated to realise from all the diggings that the search for water has been fruitless.
Fransz reports to Pelsaert and Jacobsz that it is still impossible to get to the wreck and that the situation back on Batavia’s Graveyard – which they could see and hear as they passed – looks to be grim and getting grimmer. He says that chaos reigns and the last of the survivors’ water on the island also appears to have gone. Fransz and his men also refused to land.
The earnest request of Gillis Fransz now is that he and everyone else in the yawl be allowed to accompany the expedition to het Zuidland, which makes a certain amount of sense. Among other things, Fransz is an expert sailor, as are his men, and his presence on the boat will increase their chances of success.
After discussion, just as the sun goes down, it is decided that Fransz and his ten men – plus the two women and baby they also have with them – will all travel in the longboat while they tow the yawl behind them, against the possibility they will need the lighter craft to get through difficult surf in search of water. It will be as tight as soused herring in a barrel, as there will be 48 of them in a boat designed to carry just 35, but a quick test, when they all pile in, shows that it is just possible for the boat to remain stable provided no one farts.
8 June 1629, High Islands
On this sparkling morning, from first light, the carpenters continue to work feverishly to make sure the extra strakes to heighten the gunwale are sealed and secure, while the sailors mostly simply watch and wait. One who stands a little aside, however, in an agony of indecision, is Chief Trumpeter Claas Jansz, who accompanied Pelsaert and Jacobsz to these islands on the reckoning they would be away for no longer than a day. He has left his wife, Tryntgien Fredericxs, back on Batavia’s Graveyard and she is expecting him to return! But everything has changed so rapidly. There will be no return to Batavia’s Graveyard in the near future. And he has no means of getting back to Tryntgien. What can he do? Stay behind, alone on this seemingly waterless island? Finally, he comes to the conclusion that he has no choice. He will have to go with them and trust that Tryntgien will be all right.
Before finally leaving, Pelsaert is more troubled than ever. The act of abandoning the 200-odd souls on the islands is such a dire, devastating thing to do that – against the day they will have to justify their actions to the Company – the Commandeur insists that everyone takes collective responsibility for the decision and signs a document to that effect. Carefully, he draws up the said document and then reads it out to the assembled company, before asking all the men to sign, which they do readily – at least those who are capable of writing more than an X. After all, there really is no alternative. To refuse is to make the case for being left behind on these waterless islands, and that would be an all but certain death warrant.
In order of precedence, thus, they sign the piece of parchment that Commandeur Pelsaert offers them:
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It is done. Pelsaert carefully folds the parchment and puts it in his inside coat pocket. And, with that, all 48 people climb into the longboat and set off in the name of the Lord, into the open sea and towards the mid-morning sun, steering north-east. Pelsaert most certainly does not approve of the fact that Jacobsz has brought his whore, Zwaantje, with him but is powerless to stop it. Their endeavour, which may well see them make an attempt to reach Batavia across 2000 miles of open sea, is one that will require extraordinary seamanship. This puts it squarely in the domain of Jacobsz’s responsibility, and if the skipper wishes to bring Zwaantje then so it must be. In any case, now that the frantic activity of the last few days has subsided, Pelsaert is beginning to return to his normal state – feeling as sick as two dogs – and knows that he simply does not have the strength to struggle with Jacobsz on this one.
So Pelsaert leaves with a heavy heart, still beset by cruel doubts as to whether they are doing the right thing. His most earnest hope is that once they reach the coast of het Zuidland, they can find a place with plentiful game and water. If they do, it might even be possible to lighten the load and drop off many of those currently aboard the longboat, then return to the Abrolhos and ferry the remaining survivors there. If all could be secured there, he and Jacobsz, with far fewer men than they have with them now, would be able to continue up the coast and on to Batavia to secure a rescue ship.
For his part, Jacobsz is beset by no such doubts as they leave. It is clearly the best thing for him and Zwaantje personally, as it maximises their chances of survival, and he also feels it is the best chance for the ship’s company back on the small islands. Instinctively, he pats the small piece of paper in the pocket of his pants, where he has written down the latitude of where the wreck is to be found.
8 June 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard
A sail!
At least the top of one, right on the far horizon to their north. The 200-odd souls gathered on Batavia’s Graveyard can see that the Commandeur’s longboat, which brushed so close to them two days ago before heading to the High Islands, is once again on the water. Surely, this time, the Commandeur will return to them and start to make things right. Surely, the sail, now moving from west to east, will soon veer to starboard and loom larger on the horizon, as the Commandeur makes his way towards them in the longboat now laden with full barrels of water and perhaps freshly killed meat from whatever fauna they have found on those islands.
To their horror, however, the sail keeps getting
smaller, not bigger. It is moving away from them. The Commandeur really is abandoning them! The disgust of the people is palpable, their outrage incandescent. It is traitorous, so traitorous that from this day forth the smaller island that the Commandeur and his fellow traitors had spent their first two nights on is referred to as Verraders’ Eylandt, Traitors’ Island.
8 June 1629, in the longboat
Aboard the longboat itself at this time, the worry is all-pervading. Even with as shallow a draught as they have, it is a major exercise to get away from the shallows and into water deep enough that they may sail freely. And, even then, there are myriad reefs and shallows ahead that they must negotiate.
And yet, after an hour or so, they are finally, truly on their way, in water deep enough that they can set a full sail to the wind. Their longboat begins to buck forward, eager to be free on the open ocean, and they head north-east at a good clip. Looking back, Pelsaert is stunned, and momentarily disconcerted, to see how quickly all trace of the extremely low islands have sunk beneath the waves. They were there, a small brown patch marking the point where the blues of the sky and the sea met, and then they were gone.
In the early afternoon, in a latitude of 28 degrees 13 minutes south, and in 28 to 30 fathoms of water, with the westerly wind behind them, Pelsaert, Jacobsz and the others in the longboat sight the coast of het Zuidland to their north-east.
At first look, it does not seem hopeful. Carefully continuing on their course towards it, they are appalled to see what appears to be an unending line of massive breakers pounding into tall, stark cliffs – breakers so huge and strong that they surely make the cliffs tremble. There appears to be no break in those cliffs to indicate a harbour, a river or a needed refuge of any description from the forbidding wall that confronts them. And not the smallest sign of a beach.
Batavia Epub Page 16