Batavia Epub

by Pete Fitzsimons

  The act of so tying himself was his last rational one before falling into a terrified torpor, aided by the copious amounts of wine and brandy he has drunk to get him through these last terrible days. Whimpering, staring glassy-eyed at the water beckoning below, Jeronimus knows only that he has no choice. He cannot swim and is so terrified of the water and of drowning that it has been completely beyond him to do what others did in the days after the wreck, which was to grab something that would float and jump into the water. But it is no longer a possibility to stay on the ship, for it can now only be hours before the final break-up occurs. All he can do is wait for whatever gods there may be to decide his fate . . .

  Finally, the gods do decide, and in the wee hours of this storm-battered morning, one last hammer-blow from a massive wave hits the wreck and finishes the last of it off. With an agonised scream from the ship, the bowsprit breaks free and starts to fall, followed by a shorter scream from Jeronimus that is terminated as he hits the water and immediately descends into the dark, briny depths of the boiling ocean.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Grip Tightens

  . . . and the men who were still on the ship came gradually from aboard, some of them were drowned, others came ashore where we were, amongst whom was Jeronimus, Undermerchant of the ship Batavia, who has been elected Chief; and this Merchant in the beginning behaved himself very well . . .

  The Predikant

  14 June 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

  On this morning, something appears in the distance, bobbing lightly up and down on the gentle swell and gradually getting closer and closer to their tiny island. With the survivors ever alert for supplies drifting their way from the wreck, it is spotted a couple of musket-shots distant from the shore, and a small crowd gathers. Whatever it is, everyone there wants, if not their fair share, at least whatever share they can get against the claims of everyone else who has the same attitude. Although the council has decreed that all supplies that drift ashore are to be carried to a central spot where they can be portioned out fairly, that decree has been entirely ignored, and, indeed, even some council members have gathered in this crowd, making sure they don’t miss out. Slowly, the thing forms up into something they recognise. Though they have all been willing it to be a barrel of bread, or perhaps red wine, it is in fact . . . why . . . it is a man lashed to a piece of wood!

  When the man is some 70 yards from the shore, a couple of braver young men in the crowd wade into the water and swim out towards him, to haul him and the bowsprit pole in.

  As one, the crowd gathers around the seemingly dead man. But then there is a gurgle, followed by a cough, and then a retching and shuddering from his whole body as water suddenly bursts from his mouth.

  Hij leeft! He is alive!

  They turn him over and are stunned to recognise none other than the Onderkoopman, the half-drowned Jeronimus.

  The word quickly spreads around the island and reaches Lucretia in the sick tent – a place that has been set up by the council for those needing extra care (this is the one initiative the council has taken that has had a genuine, positive effect). In tending to the sick under the care of Frans and Aris Jansz, the kindly ship’s surgeons whom she has grown to know in the course of looking after Pelsaert, Lucretia has come into her own in a way she never did on the Batavia, where she was isolated from all bar Pelsaert.

  When the news of the Onderkoopman’s survival and arrival comes to her, she is one of the few who do not react with excitement. She merely continues mopping the fevered brow of a young child with a rag and seawater. Since her own dreadful experience at the hands of her eight assailants, she has found an empathy and warmth, a humility, a common cause with the lower classes that she has never felt before. And the sick ones are now far more important to her than the arrival of the Onderkoopman, whom she never warmed to in the first place.

  Groaning, unable to support himself after two days in the water, Jeronimus is carried by the other survivors up to the central camp on the north-eastern section of the island, where he is placed in the shade of a suspended sail and slowly brought back to full awareness as he is given small sips of water and bits of hardtack. Dry clothes are brought for him, and, after he has eaten enough of the wretched biscuit to get a tiny bit of strength back, he is even given a hot meal consisting of a bit of cooked sea lion. It is Upper-Surgeon Frans Jansz who tends to him personally, and his care and kindness is, as ever, an inspiration for all to see.

  Not long after Jeronimus is truly aware and awake, he decides that what he most wants to do is sleep, and for the next few hours he sleeps the sleep of the dead and the dead exhausted.

  15 June 1629, on the coast of het Zuidland

  The morning after their first contact with the natives, those in the longboat find a reef running roughly parallel to the coast, on the land side of which the water is very calm. In their own rough swell, they look at that calm enviously, hoping to find an entry through the reef. Then, at noon, at the rough latitude of 23 degrees south, they have what appears to be a rare stroke of luck when just such an opening appears. Better still, they soon find a spot to land right next to some dunes, and for the first time in a week the whole lot of them are able to stand on solid ground.

  Immediately, Pelsaert and Jacobsz set everyone to digging for water, but they find only saltwater. However, a small party of sailors who warily head to some nearby higher ground – always keeping an eye out for the dreaded blacks – are very fortunate to find some small cavities in the rocky surface that do retain some fresh water left over from the rain. After drinking themselves to the point of bursting, the sailors send a messenger back to bring the others, so they, too, can get their complete fill before they load up the small barrels to take back to the boat.

  For the company of the longboat, the whole thing is a wonderful interlude – fresh water and firm land! – with only one particular worry. That is, they are clearly in a spot where savages have recently been, for dotted among the rock pools are the ashes of several small fires, in which the shells of crabs are apparent. When the first sailors arrived at the rock pools, the ashes were still warm.

  Pelsaert and Jacobsz thus mount a strong guard around the perimeter of their rough encampment, while also ensuring that a strong guard remains on the beached longboat.

  16 June 1629, on the shore of het Zuidland

  The following morning, with water in their bellies and at least some food – for they have found some crunchy crabs and molluscs of their own – they begin to look around. This red country is absolutely flat, with neither trees nor vegetation, and not even grass. The only things that grow tall here are massive anthills, rising from the earth in a manner that reminds Pelsaert of Indian huts. They spread from the Dutch encampment right out to the distant horizon. And the only other things that live here in abundance are flies. Thousands of them. Millions of them. All over their food and the Dutch themselves, landing on their faces, crawling into their ears, their noses, their eyes and – anywhere for some precious moisture – their very mouths! It is infernal, intolerable, horrifying. The only way to keep them off is to continually wave your hands in front of your face, which means the damned insects all take off for as long as two seconds before instantly landing again.

  The 40 or so Dutch are just so engaged when suddenly, at a distance of just beyond two musket shots, they look up to see eight savages, all of them naked men, each carrying in his hand a curious-looking curved piece of wood. The Dutch stop and watch. Slowly, the natives approach them and spread out – neither the blacks nor the whites certain of what is about to happen. Even at this distance, the Dutch are able to discern what appears to be terrible scarring upon the bodies and faces of these savages, yet their expressions are entirely unfathomable. They show neither fear nor aggression. They simply keep coming closer, until they are just short of a musket-shot away – about 100 yards – whereupon they stop.

  At this point, encouraged by the savages’ lack of aggression, three sailors who have
brought musquetten, muskets, with them begin to slowly walk towards the blacks. Still the sailors keep waving the infernal flies away, yet, strangely, these same flies appear to have no interest in the blacks, and the natives are able to stand there, stock still, propped up on their sticks as they balance on one leg, with the other curiously raised and resting on the other knee. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the sailors keep approaching.

  When they are just 80 yards apart, suddenly, the blacks turn and move away again at a slow, loping run. The sailors cry out, hoping they will stop, but there is no stopping these men. Within no more than 30 seconds, they seem to have disappeared, almost melting back into the earth from whence they came.

  16 June 1629, in the longboat, off the coast of het Zuidland

  The morning’s search for any more waterholes in the range proves futile. Led by Jacobsz and Pelsaert, all of the Dutch are back in the longboat by noon and making to sea again – Jacobsz estimates their latitude to be 22 degrees 17 minutes south. Continuing slowly north, they are not long in finding another opening in the reef and are soon once again in the open ocean. At this point, it is Pelsaert’s intention to continue up the coast until they reach the one river that is marked on the sketchy map they have: Jacop Remmessens, named for one of the Dutch mariners who discovered it in 1618.

  But a problem soon arises. The wind is from the north-east, so it is pushing them away from their desired course. It is time for a firm decision to be made. At this point, there is still the nominal notion among them that they are searching for water and food to take back to those on Batavia’s Graveyard. However, having found no water and now, according to Pelsaert's reckoning, being more than 100 miles away from the islands, and with limited water for themselves, if they are going to strike out from the coast and head for Batavia, this is the moment. Otherwise, they should turn the boat around and take back to the survivors what water they have.

  But what purpose would be served by their returning? To be right back where they started? It does not make sense. The obvious thing is to head out into the open sea and hope they can survive long enough to reach the southern coast of Java, around 2000 miles away. And yet it is such a momentous decision. From the moment they set that course, there would be no going back. To this point, Pelsaert has always been able to comfort himself that they have not really abandoned the others, they are simply searching for water to help them. But now is the time to make a tough decision, as the sun beats down ever harder.

  After a muted consultation with Jacobsz in the stern, Pelsaert addresses everyone. Their intent is to head to the open sea and do their utmost in the name of God the Almighty to reach Batavia. If anyone wishes to speak against that and return to the wreck site, they are to say so. But if they agree with him and Jacobsz, then he requires everyone to sign a document to the effect that it has been a joint decision.

  . . .

  No one speaks. Everyone signs.

  Jacobsz sets course for Java, and before long het Zuidland has disappeared behind them. The mood of those on the boat is both excited and a little fearful. The fact that they have thrown off that infernal coast somehow gives them the sense that their long-dreamed-of destination is just up ahead. And yet, whereas the coast of het Zuidland was forbidding, at least it was land, and that gave them some comfort. Now, alone on the vast ocean in a tiny boat, all feel that the whim of nature could overwhelm and kill them at any moment. All they can do is pray that God will smile upon them.

  Pelsaert by this time has completely withdrawn from the rest of the people on the boat. This is partly due to his continued fevers and ongoing physical weakness after travelling so far on too little food, water and rest. Another factor is that on this flimsy boat, on this vast ocean, he is entirely in the domain of Jacobsz – something that still does not sit well with him. But also . . . every mile further north brings him closer to Batavia’s notorious governor, Jan Pieterszoon Coen, a man to whom he will have to explain just why it was that the Company’s finest ship came to grief on a reef, and why he – as commanding officer – has abandoned the vast majority of the survivors there to their fate. These are the things that keep churning through Pelsaert’s mind as their tiny boat ploughs north.

  16 June 1629, and several days thereafter, Batavia’s Graveyard

  It has taken a remarkably short time for Jeronimus to recover, and soon he is up and about, walking the island, warmly greeting his fellow survivors and being haled in turn, as he gets his bearings.

  As he wanders, his feet crush shells with every step, making a curious crackling sound, while so fine is the sand beneath – it reminds Jeronimus of talc – that the going is slow. As he makes his way around the southern shoreline, the bountiful small crabs scurry madly away at his every step – something that he finds curiously pleasing to his spirit.

  The major impression Jeronimus gains is of the sheer desolation of the place. Here, on the opposite side of the globe to the Dutch Republic, it is hard to imagine a place more tragically different to the world they have left behind. On this whole wretched island, there is nary a tree to break the terrible flatness of it all and only scattered stunted shrubs in their stead; no creeks or pools of fresh water to please the eye and the spirit – there is nothing. It is as if a knob of the seabed itself has hesitantly emerged from the depths of the ocean and simply frozen there, refusing to go higher or lower and just sitting there for all eternity. There are a few small sand dunes on the eastern side of the island, while on the southern side are a couple of small beaches from where the survivors could easily launch their rafts – had any rafts been built. Not surprisingly, they haven’t.

  For it is equally obvious to Jeronimus that, since the day the survivors landed here and set up their first rudimentary shelters on the northern part of the island, little has been done to alleviate its very bleakness. Scattered over a small area in desultory groups defined by blood, common callings and friendships, the survivors have basically scratched together whatever protection they can from the near-constant westerly and southerly winds and made their homes on the lee side of them. Their squalid, tatty little shelters are composed essentially of small walls of rock and driftwood and are mostly right alongside the stunted shrubs, which give an added bit of protection. Thin wisps of smoke coming from several small fires dotted around the island complete the sad tableau.

  The only group that appears to have any sense of organisation is the soldiers, who have positioned themselves a little away from the rest, on the eastern end of the island, between the dunes. As men whose calling has long seen them bivouacking in rough country as a matter of course, they have adapted better than anyone else to the situation in which they find themselves and are, as they were on the ship, something of a force apart.

  For the moment, this suits Jeronimus perfectly. In the plans he is already forming, having the soldiers a little out of the way in the first instance is crucial. The important thing for now is that the continued absence of the Commandeur and the skipper on the longboat can only mean that they have not found water on the nearby island, nor on the continent, so in all likelihood have decided to try to reach the city of Batavia, around 2000 miles to the north, in an effort to get help. That leaves, in terms of authority, him, Jeronimus, as the highest-ranking officer on the island – a fact that is quickly acknowledged by the other survivors, with his strong if still tacit encouragement.

  And here are Frans Jansz and the Predikant now. In the time after the wreck and before Jeronimus’s arrival on Batavia’s Graveyard, they explain, a raad has been set up to provide some organisational authority on the island. It consists principally of themselves, Pieter Jansz the provost, Salomon Deschamps the clerk, and Gabriel Jacobsz the highest-ranking soldier. And so to the point. ‘Onderkoopman,’ the Predikant addresses Jeronimus formally, ‘we would like you to join our raad. After all, in the absence of the Commandeur and captain, you are the highest-ranking official of the VOC among us.’

  Graciously, Jeronimus thanks the Predikant for his pol
iteness and kindness and replies that he would be delighted to join them. And, of course, Jeronimus expected nothing less, but there is form to be observed, just as there is at the first council meeting, where he warmly thanks the council, adding that he only hopes he will be of some use in their deliberations.

  And so it begins. From the moment of Jeronimus taking his place in the council, it is noticed by all on Batavia’s Graveyard that, suddenly, the Company is back among them. Once again, there is authority, there is organisation, there is discipline. Before his arrival, no particular person emerged as a leader in the council, simply because none of them, with the possible exception of Frans Jansz, has any leadership qualities to speak of – and all Jansz has really been able to do is to impose some rough order on the even division of their food.

  The generally appalling conditions now immediately change with the arrival of Jeronimus, as he imposes control by force of his silken tongue, power of personality and genuine leadership ability. No sooner has he taken his place than new edicts emerge, which are immediately followed through. Pit toilets are to be dug. Hunting parties are to be organised. All stores that have already been retrieved from the wreck of the Batavia – many continue to wash up on the shore, as the island is directly downwind and down-current from the shipwreck – are to be gathered in the one storage tent, situated right beside the rather grand tent that has been especially constructed for Jeronimus.

  The most important edict from Jeronimus and the council, however, is that the driftwood daily gathered from the southern shores of their island must not simply be burned by whoever finds it but added to a central store so that the carpenters can take their pick of the best wood from which to build skiffs and sturdy yawls. As two of the most experienced carpenters, Jacob Hendricxsz and Stoffel Stoffelsz, set to with a will, the frame of the first yawl starts to take shape. Using some of the pine decking that has washed up on the shore, they first make up the flat bottom of the boat by nailing together a few planks, before heating and bending other pieces of timber to form the frame, onto which other planks are soon added.