To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck

by Greta van Der Rol

  Voices drifted up from behind him, coming from the poop. Laughter; raucous, unfettered laughter. No panic there. Relief turned his legs to water. Best to join them; best to wait for the sea to become calm.

  Cornelisz stepped through the splintered doorway into Pelsaert’s cabin in time to see a sailor breaking open the Upper Merchant’s sea chest. The man straightened up and glared, challenging him with bleary, bloodshot eyes. Drunk. No doubt about it. The other six men stiffened, tightening their grip on the knives in their hands. A gunner and three sailors in their distinctive baggy breeches, tied at the knee. One even had a knife tucked into his hat. The other two he knew—military cadets of good family, young men he’d already befriended.

  “Why’re you still here?” slurred a sailor. “Thought you’d be up there with the rest of the toffs. They’ll get off all right. Only us poor bastards left here to drown. Might’s well drown happy.” He raised the bottle he held and poured some more fine brandy into his mouth.

  He’d have to be careful, thought Cornelisz. He was the under merchant, nominally third in command on the ship, after Pelsaert and Jacobsz, most definitely a toff, and those knives looked dangerous. “Ah, Lenert. You have wine?” He asked one of the cadets. Of course they did. Some held bottles, clearly stolen from the officers’ stores. “Only it’s cold out there.”

  Lenert van Os stepped forward grinning, bottle in hand. “Here, Jeronimus. There’s plenty more.” He gestured in the direction of the store room and chuckled. “We’re in charge of drink, now.”

  Cornelisz smiled, took the bottle and drank. “Why not? Life’s short. Enjoy it while you can.”

  The men cheered and a couple slapped him on the back. Too familiar, really, but they were drunk, staggering as they fumbled over Pelsaert’s valuables. They’d broken open Jacobsz’s chest, too. Papers and documents were scattered about. Cornelisz scooped them up. The captain’s log, charts and—ah—proceedings about the incident with Lucretia. Pelsaert hadn’t shared the findings with him, said it could wait until they reached Batavia.

  “What’s that?” said Coenraat van Huyssen, coming to read over his shoulder.

  Cornelisz snatched the papers away. Silence fell. He could almost feel the distrust in the stares. He managed a smirk. “I’ll read it out for everybody.”

  They sat in chairs around the table in the saloon, bottles in hand, while Cornelisz placed himself in the commandeur’s ornate, padded chair at the far end. Grey light from the three windows in the stern fell over his shoulder onto the pages.

  “In the matter of the incident concerning Lucretia, Jansdochter, wife of Boudewijn van der Mijlen,” he read.

  It was all there. She’d been waylaid as she left from the table in the evening. Unknown attackers, faces covered, had dragged her off, pulled her gown up over her waist, smeared her with tar and excrement and left her in the gallery, where she was found by Upper Steersman Claas Gerritsz. But she recognised a voice, when one of her attackers spoke. She was sure it was Jan Evertsz, the boatswain. Pelsaert added that he thought the captain, Adriaen Jacobsz, had instigated the attack.

  “Shouldn’t never have women on a ship,” said the gunner. “Bad luck, it is. That’s why we’re here on this reef. Mark my words.” He upended the last of the bottle he held into his mouth. “Or if you must have a woman on a ship… well, then.” He gestured with his fingers to illustrate his thoughts.

  The listeners laughed. “You’re right,” said Lenert. “I know what I’d have done if she’d had her dress around her ears.”

  Cornelisz laughed with them as they added detailed suggestions. He wondered if any of them had had anything to do with the attack. Animals. He’d know how to punish the scum. They wouldn’t be attacking any other women. Ever. “Well, perhaps they didn’t have time.”

  “Huh. Who did she say? Jan Evertsz? He can’t get it up at the best of times. Probably too cold for him,” said one of the sailors. He hung his little finger out of his fist.

  “Or too old,” jeered another.

  “Can’t see why they think the Cap’n had anything to do with it. He’d had his way with the maid months ago.”

  Easy enough, thought Cornelisz. He’d been surprised to read the words, but the ill-feeling between Jacobsz and Pelsaert was well known. Pelsaert would be happy to accuse his captain of just about anything. “Well, be that as it may, names have been given. No need to leave evidence against anyone, is what I say,” he drawled. He tore the papers up, slowly and thoroughly and handed the fragments to one of the soldiers, along with the captain’s log. “Go fling these over the side. And on the way back, bring more wine and schnapps.” He snapped his fingers at the cabin boy, leaning against the wall. They’d found him cowering in the pantry. What was his name again? Pelgrom, that was it. Jan Pelgrom. He’d remember that. “You lad, get me a silver cup, hmm? Schnapps tastes better that way.”

  They’d lit the lamps. Why not? The light gleamed on the silver goblet, accentuating the grapevines engraved around the bowl. The schnapps burned Cornelisz’s throat, hot and fiery. Lovely. The ship still lurched but that was too bad. The others slurred, slumped in the fancy chairs, their looted booty on the table before them or pinned to their shirts or hats, a brooch here, a jewelled pin there, ludicrous against grubby shirts or rough, knotted neck cloths.

  Lucretia, thought Cornelisz, cup in hand, the lovely Creesje. Beautiful as a portrait, distant as snow-capped mountains. He’d undressed her in his mind a thousand times. She had refused them, refused all three; the captain, the commandeur and himself. The captain he could understand. He’d befriended the man but Jacobsz was coarse, crude; and the commandeur was weak and effete, although both of them fancied themselves as ladies’ men. He snorted into his cup. When Pelsaert had been confined to his bunk three weeks ago, he thought he’d have a chance. But the attack had frightened her, made her even more distant. Cornelisz threw down another mouthful of liquor. Well, at least he knew now why Pelsaert hadn’t tried too hard to find out who the assailants were. He’d be hard pressed to keel-haul the captain.

  *

  Jacobsz had his sailors run the longboat up as close to the shore of the larger island as he could. He didn’t even have to tell the passengers to get out. The soldiers and sailors and three of their women scrambled past him onto the island. A few sagged, weeping, to their knees. “Thank God, thank God.”

  The captain snorted as the men unloaded the barrels. The predikant could help them with that. Maybe he could turn these meagre supplies into food for the multitude, like the loaves and fishes. A couple of butts of water and a few barrels of bread were all the quarter master had been able to salvage from the flooded hold before the drunks on the ship prevented any access at all. Three trips. Three trips the two boats had made and maybe one hundred and eighty people stood here on this barren shore, men, women and children, with another thirty on the smaller island. But at least those thirty—his officers and the best sailors—were hand-picked, shuttled from one to the other as the boats made their trips.

  He gazed around the press of people, pushing towards where the sailor had placed the water butts. One man shoved forward, then another.

  “Hey,” someone shouted, “I’m thirsty, too.”

  “Ration it,” bellowed Jacobsz as fevered hands broached the barrels, the food as well as the water. He tried again, louder, shoving people aside and they backed off. “That’s all there is,” he said. “You have to ration the water. Just a cupful for everybody until we can see what else we can get off the ship.”

  He grabbed one of the men by the arm and thrust him at the barrel. “You. Hand out water. No more than a cup each. Understand?”

  The man cast wary eyes at him and nodded. The crowd grumbled but they did as they were told. It wasn’t going to last. They stirred, reluctant, barely held in check. Jacobsz had seen it all before. The only way you could apply discipline to a rabble like this was to have an officer in charge—a good one—with well-trained enforcers to back him up. But his office
rs were busy and he couldn’t stay himself. There were still people on the ship.

  “Let’s go, lads,” he said to his crew. He watched from the longboat as the toiling sailors turned back towards the Batavia. He knew it. They’d barely gone two hundred feet when the fighting broke out. Ah, well. He’d warned them.

  “Get some rest, eh, lads,” said Jacobsz as his tired sailors filed off the longboat onto the smallest island. He’d used it as a staging post to rest the oarsmen and change crews. They were exhausted. Tough men sagged onto the coarse coral grit and stared at the ground, water dripping from soaked hair.

  “Cap’n?” A sailor offered him a cup of water—all they could spare. Hand shaking, Jacobsz took the cup and forced himself to sip, savouring the liquid even though it tasted foul. He could have finished half the cask.

  He stared around him at the rest of the sailors, only slightly less spent. “One more trip, I need to make one more trip to get the rest of the people off and recover some more supplies. Who’ll come with me?”

  A few shared looks and Evertsz climbed to his feet. “My turn, I think. I’ll take the tiller.”

  “Aye.” Willem stood, scarred and battered as an oak, and just as strong. Young Jan Bijlensz joined him and stared around, eyes challenging. Jacobsz swallowed his smile as others rose to their feet. He’d have his crew.

  “I shall come with you.”

  Jacobsz whirled. “It’s dangerous, Commandeur. Do you think it wise?” His eyes flicked over Pelsaert, his little pointed beard and moustache, the white lace collar over his embroidered long-coat. Bedraggled and wet as everyone else. But his chin jutted in that way he had when he was adamant.

  “We must try and save some of the Company’s goods, Captain. There are twelve strongboxes of silver on board, gold and silver plate and… and some other valuables. It is my duty and I order you to do your best to save these treasures.”

  Order me. You order me. Jacobsz bit down his rage. He wasn’t sure how many people remained on the ship but the Devil take the silver. Had the man no idea of what they faced? Gold over water, over bread?

  “Do you refuse an order?” Pelsaert’s voice cut through the red rage filling Jacobsz’s vision.

  “Come if you must.” Jacobsz strode away. The men were already in the boat. He waded through the water, surprised that Pelsaert followed of his own accord without being helped. Pity he couldn’t put the fool to work on an oar. But then, a ‘gentleman’ like him wouldn’t be able to keep up the pace.

  The longboat heaved as it left the relative calm of the reef flat, surfing over the ridge with the falling wave. Wind-swept waves surged and broke on the battered ship. Jacobsz’s heart sank as the spume of spray climbed even above the poop-deck. Amidships, debris-strewn water foamed around broken spars, shattered timber, casks, ropes. A group of people huddled together under the meagre protection offered by the lip of the quarterdeck.

  “Heave to, lads. Keep her out here and we’ll see if we’ve got a chance.”

  The longboat rode the swell, bucking and yawing, bow into the wind. Jacobsz looked at his sailors, holding her with their oars. Soaking wet, faces drawn with fatigue. He’d done his best to spell them but three times they’d braved the sea and trusted in Saint Nicholas. They were exhausted. He was, himself.

  “Look, Cap’n.” A sailor pointed, arm stiff.

  Jacobsz followed the line. A man, working his way down the twisting deck of the Batavia. God in Heaven! He dived into the water. For a moment he disappeared behind a swell. No, there he was, coming this way. “Bring the boat around. As close as you can.” Another wave swallowed the swimming figure. He couldn’t survive. Yes. Still there. The sailors cheered and applied the oars. A couple of men pulled him out, streaming and exhausted.

  Pelsaert leaned forward. “Oh, well done. That was brave.”

  The man panted, chest heaving, lying in the bottom of the boat. “There are still seventy people on board,” he said. “The under merchant is with them.”

  “You must get them off,” said Pelsaert, holding the captain with dark, hooded eyes.

  Jacobsz measured the surf breaking on the ship. His ship. She was starting to break up. Hard to believe. A massive, brand-new vessel but in the face of the relentless sea she was as helpless as a babe in arms. The discarded mainmast, surrounded by rigging and debris, sagged and rocked in the swell, almost as if it was trying to get back onto the ship. Barrels bobbed, planks rode the wave tops, bodies tossed. Seventy people, maybe more, remained on board. But two hundred others already relied on him, relied on this boat.

  “We can’t, Commandeur,” he said at last. The words dragged past his lips, reluctant as a confession. “If we try to go alongside, the longboat will be swamped, too.” Surely even Pelsaert could see that.

  It seemed he could. “Can you get close enough to shout?” he asked at last.

  That Jacobsz could do. “We’ll do our best.”

  They brought the boat around towards Batavia’s stern, at least away from the reef. On the doomed ship somebody brave hung over the railing. Jacobsz stood, legs apart and cupped his hands around his mouth as the sailors held the longboat as steady as they could.

  “We can’t get to you,” he shouted. “Make rafts, get off, before she founders completely.”

  Twice he shouted, hoping his words had not been snatched away in the unrelenting wind, before he turned and sat down.

  “Nothing more we can do, boys.” He turned to the swimmer, sitting now, sodden and shivering, his hair dripping water into his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  The man passed his tongue over his lips. “Some of them are still drunk. But they know. They’re playing with the silver.”

  “What?” Pelsaert’s eyes positively glittered as he faced their passenger, who quailed in the glare.

  “What about the silver?” asked Jacobsz, swallowing a smile. The look on Pelsaert’s face was almost worth it.

  “They… somebody broke into a chest. They were throwing guilders around the deck. Playing catch.” His eyes pleaded. “Not me,” he added. “I wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  “God help them,” said Pelsaert.

  4

  Jacobsz woke to the unusual sound of a baby crying, that insistent mewling of a hungry infant. Irritated, he turned his head and saw its mother give the child her breast, her dark hair obscuring her face as she bent over her baby. He already regretted giving in to Zwaantie. What place was there for an infant on such a journey? But she’d been adamant, staring up at him with her fists on her hips. Saartje was her best friend, she’d declared, and it wasn’t fair to send her to the other island with all the other women. He’d tried to insist but then she’d burst into tears and sobbed on his chest. What was a man to do?

  The child sucked contentedly. More luck to him, thought Jacobsz, running his tongue around his mouth. What he would give for a long drink of good water. He rolled over on his back and stared up at swift moving clouds, driven by a brisk breeze. The rain was ended but the sea was still up. Waves boomed on the reef close by. He sat up and put his hands around bent knees. Zwaantie lay beside him, still asleep, long eyelashes feathered across soft, pink cheeks. Around him, other people scattered amongst the low shrubs and coral outcrops started to stir. Thirty-eight souls. Thirty-eight people, three small barrels of water, a few casks of bread and preserved meat. And some of the more precious items of cargo, as ordered by their esteemed leader, Commandeur Pelsaert. Baubles; trinkets. What use were they here, on this God-forsaken speck in the middle of the ocean?

  The breeze stirred his hair as he lifted his gaze to the other island, half a mile away. Two hundred persons with less water and food than they had here. And over there, on the edge of a long, wave-lashed reef, lay his ship. His stomach twisted. The two masts still standing hung at an angle. He wondered how much longer she’d last before the ocean claimed her. And how long it would be before the seventy fools still on board sobered up and got out? Well, they’d have to do it on their own. He wasn’t going t
o be going back for them. God only knows he’d tried.

  “Hey. You’ve had enough.”

  “Says who?”

  He turned. Two sailors, one holding a pewter cup, chins jutting over a water cask.

  “That’s enough of that,” said Jacobsz, rising to his feet. Three strides and he stood over them, hands on hips. “There’s little enough and we must make it last.”

  The sailor, nut brown and leathery, took a step backwards, deferring to rank. The other scowled, sullen, blue eyes snapping defiance. He spoke with the thick accent of Brabant. “One cup… It’s not enough.”

  Jacobsz skewered the man with his eyes. Insolent pup. “You won’t take orders? Then go.” He jerked his head at the larger island. “Get yourself over there with the rest of your mates. Go on. Swim.” He shoved the fellow’s shoulder, pushing him off balance.

  Fear blossomed, eyes staring, as he recovered his footing. “I…I can’t swim.”

  “You stay, you follow orders. Understood?” Jacobsz spoke loudly. Others were listening, he knew, some openly staring, others looking away, pretending disinterest.

  “I…”

  “Understood?” Jacobsz grated the word.

  The lad licked his lips and swallowed. “Yes.” He nodded.

  Jacobsz grabbed the front of the boy’s shirt and dragged him up onto his toes to face level. “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Cap’n.” He forced the words through tensed lips as he strained his neck away from Jacobsz.

  The captain approved. A little fear was always a good thing.

  “Very good,” said Jacobsz. He let go and the boy deflated like an empty bladder. “And as a reward, you can be one of the first to stand guard in case anybody else has notions about sharing.” His eyes roved around the gathered men and picked out the boatswain, Jan Evertsz. “Jan, set up a ration and get a roster organised to enforce it.”