Batavia Epub

by Pete Fitzsimons

  Once the provost and his party have been moved to Traitors’ Island, things at Batavia’s Graveyard are suddenly extraordinarily quiet. Over the previous three days – involving several ferrying trips on the barge back and forth – the island has been so emptied that there are just 140 souls remaining.

  This is still way too many in the view of Jeronimus and his closest henchmen, but it is at least a good start.

  22 June 1629, in the longboat, Indian Ocean

  On this day, as every day at noon, Jacobsz uses his astrolabe to take his sights from the sun at its highest point and calculate their position. They are now at 16 degrees 10 minutes south, meaning – dot three, carry one, subtract two – in 24 hours they have rather neatly travelled 24 miles. Running with a south-west to south-easterly wind, together with a northerly current, they are now making excellent progress.

  24 June 1629, High Islands

  After three days of intensive searching, Wiebbe Hayes is now sadly certain that the island on which they have been landed contains no steady supply of water, beyond the odd brackish pool. That water has been enough to keep them alive for the three-day search, but there is no chance it will sustain them in the long term. Hayes thus orders his men to move at low tide the one-mile distance across the shallows of the muddy causeway to the neighbouring island, so they can begin another methodical search.

  Ably assisting Hayes in the relocation of the 20-odd troops to the lower of the two islands is Otto Smit, who has proved himself to be something of a master of logistics. For although Jeronimus has done his very best to ensure the privation of the High Islanders, nevertheless, a store of hard-won goods and supplies – including humpies fashioned from driftwood covered in scrub, a reasonable supply of fresh ‘cat’ meat, and scant water collected from brackish ponds – has been built up over their short period on the first of the islands.

  And, despite the fact the larger cay is only a mile away, given the difficult nature of negotiating the mudflats that separate the two islands it is Smit’s responsibility to coordinate the movement of men and supplies. Calling on his cadet training, Smit has worked out every detail: which man is responsible for which item; the time the tide will be at its lowest so they can most easily make the crossing; the optimum route to be taken; how to distribute the water among the men, and so on.

  Within a short time, the men are efficiently relocated in their new home – named Hayes’s Island in honour of their leader – have re-established their shelters, and have gathered kindling and firewood to make a fire with which to dry out their washed clothing and cook their evening meal of grilled cats. Wiebbe Hayes and Otto Smit have a quick meeting to divide the men into two groups for exploration on the morrow.

  And there is a lot of ground to search. For though this island is not nearly so high as the first, it is bigger – about three miles long and two miles wide. Blessedly, this island, too, is well supplied with wildlife, and they also discover that the fish are particularly abundant here, while the birdlife is teeming. Still, with only the water they have found on the original island so far, it is not going to be easy, and the need to find a reliable supply is, as always, paramount. Meanwhile, they continue to look towards Batavia’s Graveyard, hoping to see boats coming their way with the promised provisions, but day after day there is no sign. No one can work out why.

  26 June 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

  In his tent, surrounded by a coterie of his closest Mutineers, Jeronimus lets the last drops of his fifth glass of wine of the evening swirl around his mouth, before letting them trickle down, down, down . . .

  At last satisfied, he leans back. Things are sorting themselves out admirably. It was a very good move indeed to insist that all of the key stores be kept in his tent, one of the many good moves he has made to this point. He is strengthening by the day – a fact attested to by the presence on this evening of one Wouter Loos, a soldier he has had his eye on for some time. A natural leader of men, rather in the manner of Wiebbe Hayes, Loos kept well away from the Mutineers in the early days on the island and remained his own man, but this evening he has accepted an invitation to dine and drink with them – a sure sign that he understands which way the tide is turning and wants to run with it.

  For Jeronimus now stands all but unchallenged on his tiny patch of coral – at least temporarily – with only the need to have the raad sign off on his decisions acting as a slight brake. There does, of course, remain the possible problem of Wiebbe Hayes and his men, but hopefully they are all now dying of hunger and thirst, and even if they aren’t there would be a heavily armed welcoming party waiting for them should they try to return. Still, without a boat, or even the tools to build one, that possibility is remote. Whatever is happening to Hayes and his men, they are trapped there on the High Islands.

  In these last days of June, some on Batavia’s Graveyard continue to gaze towards where Jacobsz, Pelsaert and all the rest disappeared – in their eternal hope that they might soon reappear, bringing water and food. But Jeronimus is not of their number. A realist, it is obvious to him that, if the skipper, the Commandeur and their men have not perished, they are making an attempt to get all the way to Batavia. If they succeed, a rescue yacht will likely soon be on its way, and, should that yacht arrive, Jeronimus’s plan is clear. He and his men will kill all aboard and take it over, before continuing with their previous plan of being buccaneers. And what rich buccaneers they would be, what treasure they would have in their hold, what lives they would be able to lead!

  There is, however, another possibility that he and the Mutineers canvass. And that is that Jacobsz and Evertsz will seize the moment to throw the Commandeur overboard, take over the whole expedition and sail the longboat all the way to somewhere such as Malacca, beyond Dutch control, where they might very well be able to obtain a yacht and come to get their co-conspirators and the money chests.

  Either way, they will have to be prepared, but it all depends on what is happening in the longboat . . .

  27 June 1629, in the longboat, Indian Ocean

  Sometimes, Jan Evertsz stares at a spot on the Commandeur’s back so intensely he is surely in danger of burning a hole through his coat. It is the spot where he longs to slip in a dagger, just to the left of the spine in the middle reaches, where it could be guaranteed to penetrate the heart. Alas, as tightly packed as they are, out on the open seas Evertsz simply cannot do it, night or day, without there being a grave danger that the subsequent disturbance – because there is no way it could be accomplished without an uproar – would overturn the boat, in which case they would all be lost. And even when they are on land, there is no occasion when the Commandeur is sufficiently isolated to make it a possibility. Further complicating it all is the fact that, while they have a lot of Mutineers on board, the ten men of Gillis Fransz who joined them just before departure are all loyalists, as is Half-Awake Fransz himself, and could not be counted on to join them. So, all Evertsz can do is stare intently and hope against hope that some opportunity might present itself.

  On this day, however, it is beginning to look as if all of them might die, not just Pelsaert. After five days without a drop of rain, it is now going to be a serious struggle to get through the voyage without dying of thirst or madness. Each day, they are allowed just two small pannikins of water each, totalling half a pint per person, and on this day the barrel of water they have been drawing from is itself down to its last two pints. It is all anyone can talk about, including Zwaantje, sitting just behind the Commandeur, as the slumbering Jacobsz – who has guided the longboat through the night, always keeping a particular eye out for anything that merely looks like moonshine upon the waves – leans upon her, his head on her shoulder.

  ‘For this we have come all this way, Commandeur?’ she croaks quietly, for all the world as if it is his fault. ‘For this we have crossed the oceans, only to die for want of rain?’

  Pelsaert does not seem to be listening.

  Far, far ahead, amid all the fluffy white cl
ouds that are slowly changing shape, he is focusing on one part of one cloud that seems not to be moving at all . . .

  Could it be? Is it possible?

  Could it be that the distant, unmoving cloud he is staring fixedly at is in fact no cloud at all but the peak of a mountain? Checking his calculations for at least the tenth time that day – he is not a mariner, but he at least understands the basics – Pelsaert realises it is indeed possible that Java could be up ahead, and the growing presence of steenkroos, seaweed torn from rocks, in the water confirms that they are at least in the general vicinity of some land.

  Still, though, he keeps his counsel, unwilling to risk exciting the entire boat for no reason.

  Within an hour or so, the choice is no longer his.

  ‘Land in zicht! Land ho!’ The caller is Third Steersman Gillis Fransz, in the prow of the boat, and he has been gazing north for just such an eventuality seemingly from the moment they left het Zuidland. And he is right. This time, there can be no doubt about it. Far to the north – perhaps some five miles – but clearly visible through the shimmering haze is the shining peak of a mountain. The base of that mountain, of course, is still below the horizon and thus not visible, but no one has any doubt that the worst of their journey will soon be over – so long, that is, as they can make a landing.

  As it turns out, it is relatively easy. A bare four hours after that first sighting, the longboat is off the blessedly green coast of the island of Nusa Kambangan, lying parallel to the coast of Java. This fertile coast is such a contrast to the red and barren coast of het Zuidland they have left behind that they can barely believe they lie in the same part of the world.

  For now, they continue sailing west by nor’-west along the Javan coast, looking for the best spot to land. Just before evening, the people onboard spot a knob of land in front of them with an islet covered with dark green trees. Carefully, as it is now getting dark and they have come too far to make a foolish mistake, Jacobsz steers the longboat behind a reef that protects the cape. Behind the reef, there is a deep inlet, almost a tiny bay, and in the darkness, still unsure what lies on the shore, the sailors drop anchor in eight fathoms of water. It is a safe place to rest for the night, in the hope that on the morrow they can make a landing.

  28 June 1629, in the longboat, off Java

  In the morning, it is the extraordinary, beautiful sound of cawing birds that awakes them, birds that turn out to be so extraordinarily patterned that it looks as if they have flown through a rainbow and taken pieces of it with them.

  The Dutch survivors are clearly on the shore of a great and bountiful jungle, an earthly paradise the likes of which most have never seen before. For some, it even looks like the biblical Garden of Eden, which, it has long been rumoured, lies in these parts. And, best of all, they soon find an easy landing spot. Now taking up oars, they only need to row for a very short time before reaching the shore. There, they find, to their infinite delight, a beautiful pond that a sparkling waterfall is filling with gallons of the purest water imaginable, thanks and praise be to the Lord.

  As one, the entire boatload of 48 souls frolic in and around the water, the baby gurgling with delight as its mother gives it the first sweet comfort it has known in the last three weeks.

  Protestant prudence be damned on this occasion – some strip down to whatever is left of their linen undergarments, while others go in fully clothed, knowing that their outer garments are as badly in need of a wash as they are.

  In the pure, bountiful joy of it all, the whole party forgets their woes, the privations of the immediate past and the potential problems of the immediate future. For several hours, it is as though they are children again hilariously splashing around on the foreshores of the Zuyder Zee after worship on a Sunday morning.

  Skipper Ariaen Jacobsz, vindicated and puffed up in equal measure that, despite everything, they have made landfall on Java just as he predicted, due to his brilliant seamanship and navigation, sits on the edge of the stream. He luxuriously combs his long black hair, moustache and beard and laughs gaily at the antics of some of the more boisterous of the longboat’s crew around the water, taking running jumps and ‘bombing’ those already in there.

  Even Commandeur Pelsaert, just ten yards away, has forgotten the burden of his own authority long enough to smilingly and gently stroke across the pool from one side to the other, occasionally dipping his mouth below the surface again to take one more long gulp until he thinks his belly will surely burst.

  By noon, all of the people are back in the longboat with the water barrels as full as their bellies. They are heading back out to sea again on the gentle swell, though always keeping in sight of the coast. It is far and away the most pleasant part of their long journey to date, the wind blowing benignly, a relatively safe shore at hand and their destination now within reach. God is in his heaven.

  28 June 1629, Hayes’s Island

  Under Wiebbe Hayes’s direction, the soldiers keep searching for water, starting early and finishing late and eating just enough cats to keep them going. Fortunately, there has been a little rain in the preceding days, resupplying the pools they are living on and enabling the men to partly fill their barrels. However, water remains their abiding problem. It is now obvious that the stories Jeronimus has told them, courtesy of Zevanck, are just so many lies. Why would they have been told that when it is not true? For the moment, Hayes cannot work this out, but it troubles him deeply. What is obvious is that if his men can’t find water and are left on these islands, they will perish the first time the island goes two or three weeks without rain.

  29 June 1629, Traitors’ Island

  As confirmed by Jeronimus’s search party, Traitors’ Island has a dearth of both food and water but it does have driftwood in abundance. And so, under the provost’s command, the bosun Paulus Barrentsz and sailor Bessel Jansz, with the aid of soldiers Claas Harmansz and Nicklaas Winckelhaack, set about constructing the two rafts they intend to use when Wiebbe Hayes signals his discovery of water on the High Islands. After all, Jeronimus Cornelisz has made an oath to the provost that he and his party will be permitted to join Hayes in this event.

  As the men hammer away at their craft, Claudine and her child sit close by, playing in the sand and watching the men go about their work. Meanwhile, the provost leads the others in their daily and mostly futile search of the barren island for any sustenance they can possibly scavenge – the odd mollusc here, a slow seabird there. (By throwing stones into a thick flock, it is occasionally possible to bring one down, but there is neither any soft sand nor sufficient shrubs for the birds to properly nest in.) Unequipped as they are to hunt and gather, their spirits dwindle as the fruitless days pass, and their already thin bodies grow even thinner. Adding to their discouragement and confusion is the fact that the Onderkoopman, knowing they have no supplies – no food, no water – has nevertheless made no contact with them in over a week. Has he forgotten about them, left them for dead? Surely not, the provost’s wife reassures her increasingly worried husband. Jansz wants to believe her, but he is deeply troubled.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bloody Oath

  Jeronimus Cornelisz is not only tainted with abominable crimes, but has moreover adopted a most abominable creed, maintaining that there is neither devil nor hell, and trying to inculcate this belief on his comrades, thereby corrupting them all.

  Pelsaert’s Journal

  2 July 1629, in the longboat, Sunda Strait

  Over the last five days of blow-bobbing pleasantly westwards in the gentle wind, as the longboat makes its way towards the Sunda Strait on the western tip of Java – through which they must sail to get to Batavia – Pelsaert’s thoughts have focused ever more sharply on the issue that has been with him since the terrible night the Batavia hit the cursed reef a month earlier. That is, just what is he going to say to the high authorities about what has happened to their flagship? And how will he justify the actions he has taken since that time?

  Skipper J
acobsz’s line of thinking has been much the same, though more specific: just how is he going to explain that he has been in command of a ship that hit a reef that all Dutch sailors to the East Indies have been warned about? The one thing he has going for himself in this regard is that, despite the inevitable fault that will be attributed to him because of it, at least he can claim the unprecedented feat of guiding an open boat through uncharted stormy waters over such a vast distance from the shipwreck without losing a single member of the company.

  And Jan Evertsz? If he has been thinking anything at all, it is not apparent. Day after day, night after night, he simply sits in the prow of the boat, mostly scowling intently, though occasionally merely brooding darkly.

  Sail ho!

  As the red orb of the sun begins to set spectacularly on this second day of July, the longboat is at last in the Sunda Strait. Just off the small island of Sangiang, known to the Dutch as Dwars-in-den-Weg, In-the-Way, they see the top of a sail some ten miles to their south. Clearly, it is a ship entering the same strait as them on her way to Batavia.