Batavia Epub

by Pete Fitzsimons

  Zevanck gestures to the good surgeon to be his guest and lead the select hunting party comprising Lenart van Os, Mattys Beer, Hans Jacobsz and Lucas Jellisz. With little choice in the matter, Jansz leads off down the beach, making towards the colony of unsuspecting seals.

  Suddenly, after several hundred yards, all the true Mutineers stop walking. The surgeon is a couple of paces ahead before he knows it. The assassination party remember too well what happened with assistant surgeon Aris Jansz, how he got away because the first strike did not go deep enough to mortally wound him. So it is the notably vicious Lenart van Os who strikes first. With a heavy grunt of effort, he takes his pike and, with that right hand only recently cared for by the surgeon, like Brutus thrusts it deep into the surgeon’s back. Feeling that not quite adequate, Hans Jacobsz now strikes him a devastating blow on the side of the head with his morgensterre.

  It all happens so quickly that what might have been a scream is instantly stifled, as the blow of the whistling morning star practically shakes it out of him – an effect little diminished by Mattys Beer splitting the surgeon’s bonce wide open with his sword, like a butcher opening up a carcass with a cleaver. No matter that Jansz is clearly dead before he hits the ground. To show good faith, Lucas now gratuitously stabs him right through with his pike. The former good surgeon, who so singularly devoted himself to their health and held their lives in his capable hands, now lies dead by their hands. However, there is no chance now of the surgeon ever making his way across to Hayes’s Island.

  Impressed with himself, sitting in the yawl on the way back to Batavia’s Graveyard, Zevanck leans across to Jeronimus and whispers, ‘Kapitein-Generaal, I have thought of another brilliant plan.’

  ‘What is that?’ Jeronimus asks.

  ‘If a yacht comes to rescue us, we should seize it and go pirating and sail to Spain.’

  ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ Jeronimus shouts. ‘Do you have that only now in mind, that I have long thought of and had in mind?’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Deliver Us from Evil

  So we altogether expected to be murdered at any moment, and we besought God continuously for merciful relief. O cruelty! O atrocity of atrocities! They proved themselves to be nothing more than highwaymen. Murderers who are on the roads often take their belongings from people, but they sometimes leave them their lives; but these have taken both, goods and blood.

  The Predikant

  6 August 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

  Still, Jeronimus is not sated! Appalled at the ongoing failure to wipe out Hayes and his men, he needs release. Someone else must pay . . .

  Stoffel Stoffelsz. While the carpenter had nothing to do with the failed attack, he has of late fallen lame and is of little further use to the Mutineers.

  So, in part to assuage Jeronimus’s rage at the Mutineers’ inability to solve the problem of Wiebbe Hayes, and in part to lift their morale, Jeronimus hands his own dagger to Jan Hendricxsz and casually tells him, ‘Go and cut out the heart of Stoffel Stoffelsz, that lazy lout, who stands there working as if his back is broken.’

  Hendricxsz does not need to be told twice.

  Just a few minutes later, Stoffel, perched on the edge of one of the little yawls, is slowly and carefully crafting a new tiller.

  ‘Hallo, Stoffel,’ Hendricxsz says rather pleasantly. ‘I have a message for you from the Kapitein-Generaal.’

  ‘A message . . . for me?’ Stoffel replies, nervously. For the carpenter, any contact at all with Jeronimus is a worry. All he wants to do is stay clear of the whole red-velvet band, get on with his work and wait until, hopefully, a rescue yacht comes to save them all.

  ‘Yes, a message, my friend,’ Hendricxsz continues. ‘And here it is!’

  With which, Hendricxsz matter-of-factly drives his dagger deep, right up to the hilt, into the very heart of the unsuspecting carpenter. So clean is the incision, so devastating the result, that there is little spurting blood. Stoffel is dead before he hits the ground, with barely a whimper. For his part, Hendricxsz simply wipes his blade on the dead carpenter’s trousers until it gleams clean once more and then nods to Mattys Beer and Jan Pelgrom, standing a short way off, to dispose of the body in the usual fashion – carry it to a nearby tent and bury it in a shallow grave. In the old days, just a month ago, such a murder would have been done under a legal pretext and under the cover of darkness, with the burying of the body done discreetly. Now, they needn’t bother.

  10 August 1629, Batavia

  Gazing out from the top floor of the Batavia citadel, Governor-General Jan Pieterszoon Coen can now see with his own eyes, in the far distance, what his spies in the countryside have been keeping him informed of for months. The Sultan of Mataram is massing his forces for another attack, this time with far more men than he had the last time. Some in the settlement are saying there will be over 100,000 soldiers coming at them – and it is known that these men are so committed that they are paying their own way, so as not to drain the royal coffers. They began gathering as long ago as May, and though Coen organised for several of the VOC’s men-of-war to destroy their stockpiles of rice and boats at Tegal and Cerebon, still it did not stop them. Still, they kept growing, and now here they are, their mass getting larger and blacker even as he watches them.

  Such are their numbers, and their confidence – these troops are now brazenly sitting around on the edge of the Javanese jungle, looking at him just as he is looking at them – that Coen suddenly feels very, very tired. This second attack, whenever it comes, will clearly be prolonged and the foe more formidable for the lessons it learned the last time. With that many soldiers, whatever small supplies they have will soon be consumed, so the Sultan will have to unleash them on a death-or-glory charge sooner rather than later.

  Does he still have the energy for the fight? Of late, his health, like that of all who spend a great deal of time in the Indies, has begun to wane. He sleeps poorly, wakes in a cold sweat and is exhausted by nine o’clock in the morning. Can he lead his own men to victory again this time? He can only hope so. He has no choice but to try.

  16 August 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

  An uneasy, undeclared truce now lies over the Abrolhos. Jeronimus and the Mutineers have learned that until such time as they come up with a new method of attack, there is little they can do to destroy Hayes and his men. Meanwhile, much as they would like to, the Defenders do not have the capacity to attack the Mutineers. They are capable of defending themselves on their own island, but if they ever set foot on Batavia’s Graveyard they will surely be shot to pieces. For the moment, thus, both sides are at an impasse.

  But it is hard. And perhaps hardest hit by this appalling lack of action is Jan Pelgrom, who has been waiting too long for the opportunity to kill another by his own hand in full view of the men he so reveres. It has been ten days since the last murder on the island and again Pelgrom’s role in it was merely to clean up after the event.

  As it happens, however, on this very day it is made known to him that the nettebraijer, net-maker, Cornelis Aldersz Schagen, is to have his head cut off, primarily because Jeronimus feels a little bored and secondly because there has been some discussion among the Mutineers as to whether it is possible to take off a man’s head with a single slash of a sword, as it is said the samurai warriors can do. Jeronimus is happy to indulge them by offering up a victim upon whom they can test out their theories.

  Cornelis Aldersz Schagen has been selected as the target because he has been so ailing of late that his work around the island will not be missed. Pelgrom is beside himself with enthusiasm for the task at hand and implores Jeronimus that he be granted the honour of striking the blow. ‘Please, Kapitein-Generaal,’ he entreats, emphasising the title that Jeronimus so adores, ‘I beg this privilege be mine and mine alone, so that I may prove my value to you. I should sooner do this than eat or drink.’

  Feeling a rare burst of magnanimity, and admiring the sheer heartlessness and ruthlessness of Pelgrom’s plea – was
it really only three months ago that he was a mere subservient cabin boy? – Jeronimus acquiesces with a casual nod of his head. This is followed up with the Kapitein-Generaal even handing over his own sword for the task, its gleam reflected in Pelgrom’s bloodthirsty eyes.

  The young man’s ecstasy, however, will not last long, for when one of the most bloodthirsty brigands of them all, David Zevanck, hears of it, he is insistent. ‘That boy,’ he sneeringly advises a bemused Jeronimus, right in front of Pelgrom, ‘is simply not strong enough for such a task. He can hardly heft your sword, let alone swing a true blow. Far better to afford young Mattys Beer this pleasure.’

  And so it is that Pelgrom is trumped, with Jeronimus reneging on his promise – which is, of course, the Kapitein-Generaal’s privilege – as with another nod of his head he grants Beer the honour of finishing the life of Cornelis Aldersz Schagen.

  With this, the ever-eager Mattys Beer asks Pelgrom to hand over the coveted sword. To the great amusement of the gathered Mutineers, however, the latter shakes his head resolutely and, fighting back tears, tries to hold on to the weapon. Ah, how they laugh.

  But enough.

  Mattys Beer steps forward and, with one vicious cuff to the side of Pelgrom’s head, plucks the sword from the kid’s hand before heading off to see Gillis Phillipsz, the blacksmith, to have it sharpened. Half an hour later, all is ready.

  An exceedingly nervous Cornelis Aldersz Schagen is summoned to Jeronimus’s tent, where he is sat down in a chair and immediately blindfolded by the relegated Pelgrom.

  ‘Be happy, sit nicely, it is just a joke,’ Jeronimus reassures the young cooper. With such soothing words, Schagen does settle a little, as the sense of delicious expectation in the room heightens. Mattys Beer steps forward and, from beneath his red cloak, displays the freshly sharpened, exquisitely honed sword. With a smile, he plays it up for the crowd, imitating the samurai, measuring up the weapon against Schagen’s goosebumped neck, without touching it.

  So silent has everything now become, so tight the air of expectation, with only the stifled giggles of Jeronimus to distract from it, that Schagen senses something is amiss. The cooper is just starting to stir, to try to remove his blindfold, when Beer takes a little skip forward and, with one almighty, perfectly aimed horizontal blow, does indeed sever Schagen’s head from his body. Blood immediately gushes from the stump of his neck in a triumphant fountain, before just as quickly subsiding. Schagen’s still terrified head bounces to the floor like a dropped coconut. A roar goes up from the Mutineers as Beer completes the arc of his sword with a final flourish. They crowd around him in congratulation, slapping him on the back and offering him a celebratory wine.

  Not all are quite so elated. Tears of jealousy run down Jan Pelgrom’s face. That was meant to be his kill! But no one in the tent cares about Pelgrom’s tears, and it is perhaps the two Germans, Jan Hendricxsz and Mattys Beer himself, who care least of all. Both are looking closely at the torso of the unfortunate Schagen.

  As Germans who have spent time at sea, they are all too aware of one of the most famous stories of their nation, concerning the fourteenth-century German pirate Klaus Störtebeker, who, in 1401, was captured and sentenced to death by beheading, together with his 73 crew members. The legend has it that Störtebeker managed to negotiate with the mayor of Hamburg that as many of his compadres as he could walk past once he was beheaded would be released. And he did so, famously rising and walking past 11 of his fellow pirates before the executioner put out his foot to trip him up. Annoyed at being so humiliated, the mayor saw to it that those 11 men were executed too, their heads installed on spikes along the banks of the River Elbe.

  From yonder Schagen, however, any walking appears highly unlikely. There is not the slightest sign of movement, bar the growing puddle of blood beneath a headless stump.

  Mid-to late-August 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

  Schagen’s murder is both a great success and a wonderful talking point. Morale is boosted accordingly, at least among the Mutineers. There being for the moment no outlet for their murderous designs against the Defenders, a fresh burst of killings on their own island soon takes place. As the weather begins to warm slightly, the number of Survivors on Batavia’s Graveyard continues to diminish.

  This round of murders satisfies both Jeronimus’s bloodlust and his aim of ultimately reducing the island’s population to 40-odd putatively loyal souls, together with Lucretia, Judick and the surviving women for common service – those who don’t suddenly think they’re too good for it. These women have the example of what happened to Anneken before them if they but once try to close their legs, and there is no further trouble from them.

  Still, as the target of 40 comes ever closer, the boldness of Jeronimus runs so high that, though he has long ago left behind the name of Onderkoopman in favour of Kapitein-Generaal, he now decides to formalise it.

  Accordingly, on 20 August, a third oath-swearing allegiance to each other and to the Kapitein-Generaal is dictated by Jeronimus and, as before, scribed by Salomon Deschamps:

  Click Here

  It is signed by 37 Mutineers, including the Predikant. It is not that he has actually joined them – he is frankly amazed to still be alive – but he feels it is the best thing for Judick and himself to do.

  While Jeronimus is pleased at this re-affirmation of his power, he still has the gnawing worry of the problem of Wiebbe Hayes and his men over on the High Islands – a constant thorn in his side. With every passing day, the likelihood has grown that a rescue yacht will appear, and the consequence of Hayes getting to that yacht first will almost certainly be a death warrant for them all.

  On the High Islands, in the meantime, while Wiebbe Hayes and his men are equally aware of the possibility of that yacht arriving, what they can’t work out is – if Pelsaert and Jacobsz and their men did get through to Batavia – why hasn’t the yacht already arrived? By their reckoning, it would likely have taken four weeks to get from the Abrolhos to Batavia, with perhaps a week to get a yacht organised to return, and then another four weeks to come back. But if that was the case, the yacht should have appeared a fortnight earlier. This indicates that either all the men have perished or the yacht is for some reason delayed, or lost, or somesuch. With each day that passes without sight of a sail, hope fades a little more.

  Of course, as a soldier, Hayes still has a plan in place for its arrival, together with a constant lookout, but even he wonders whether they are hoping for something that is simply never going to happen. After all, where can their rescuers be?

  25 August 1629, aboard the Sardam, off the coast of het Zuidland

  Jacob Jacobsz puts down his astrolabe and quickly does his calculations. ‘We are,’ he reports sorrowfully to Pelsaert, ‘at the latitude of 27 degrees 56 minutes south.’

  This means that, in the previous 24 hours, despite Jacobsz’s efforts to steer due east as they continue to search for the Abrolhos, the current and wind have carried them northward. It is all Pelsaert can do not to shout out his extreme frustration. For two weeks now, they have been trying to find the islands, but all to no effect. The only thing they have ascertained is that the wretched Ariaen Jacobsz was mistaken when he calculated the latitude of the Abrolhos at 28 degrees 20 minutes south, because the Sardam has been all along that line and found no sign of the islands.

  Their only option has been to continue the search by setting a zigzagging course along Ariaen Jacobsz’s latitude, but therein lies another problem. They find themselves in an archipelago extending some 50 miles in the north–south direction, full of reefs, shoals, shallows and small islands, running roughly parallel to the coast of het Zuidland 40 miles to the east, which makes it extremely fraught to do any searching. In front of every zig, there is a barren reef; before every zag lie impassable shallows. The only way to continue is extremely slowly, with Pelsaert’s faithful opperstuurman, Claas Gerritsz, taking constant soundings, in the hope that, by conducting the search as systematically as possible, th
ey will stumble upon the wreck and the Survivors and . . .

  And there!

  On this sparkling mid-afternoon, the man in the Sardam’s crow’s nest spies some breakers far to their east, which, after consulting his map, Jacob Jacobsz is sure must be the breakers of the very reef the Batavia foundered on. Further, with his eyes straining to the horizon, he is nearly equally convinced that he can see some high islands just beyond that reef, the very thing they have been looking for!

  Pelsaert has to resist the urge to exhort Jacob Jacobsz to set the sails to go faster and fidgets with excitement as the Sardam edges ever closer. More excited still is Upper-Trumpeter Claas Jansz, who is willing the yacht to go faster as he at last feels he is back in the environs where he left his beloved wife Tryntgien and her sister Zussie.

  Alas, alas, three hours later they are close enough to the breakers to be able to hear them but, to Pelsaert’s infinite distress, the high islands the yacht’s company have spied prove to be no more than reflections of the clouds on the water. There is nothing for it but to continue their search, slowly and carefully, ever conscious that the only thing worse than having lost the Batavia would be to lose the Sardam as well. One couldn’t even bear to think about how the Company would regard that.

  1 September 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

  Jeronimus and his Mutineers are now at breaking point. With the coming of the southern spring and the end of the rainy season, the water on Batavia’s Graveyard starts to run ever lower, as the tension gets ever higher. A desperate Kapitein-Generaal, uncertain of how much longer he can sustain the life of his charges, and still coveting his stolen yawl – the yawl that is the greatest threat to them should a rescue yacht appear – hatches a plan.