Evertsz nodded once and set to work. Zwaantie caught his eye, lips parted, admiring. He smiled just for her, very, very slightly.
What to do now? Jacobsz stared across the patchwork carpet of the coral flats, pale green where the water was shallow or the bottom clear of weed, dark blue in the deeper sections. To port across deep water lay a long, narrow spit of land, white beaches sparkling in the sun. Further away, to the north-west, a couple of other islands rose out of the ocean. Not like these dead flat pieces of sandy coral with their sprinkling of thorny, leathery bushes. Maybe he could find water there.
Pelsaert’s voice made him jump.
“They have so little water. All those people…”
Pelsaert’s eyes reflected his misery as he turned his head towards the larger island where figures stirred. Like ants around a nest.
“Yes. I was just thinking.” Jacobsz pointed at the dark masses on the horizon. “That island looks a little larger. I’ll take the sloop and some people and see if I can find water.”
Pelsaert stiffened. “And leave us here?”
“Well, yes.” In God’s name. What did he expect?
“No.” The smaller man’s head swivelled from side to side like a puppet. “No. I forbid it. I will not have it.”
“And what would you have me do?” Pestilential idiot, Jacobsz raged inside his head. There he stood, the company lackey, ridiculous in his breeches and his buckled shoes and his brocade coat with a lace collar. The words crowded Jacobsz mouth. No. He could not say what he wanted to say. Not with all those people listening.
“Stay here and share their fate?” he hissed, voice lowered. “Die of thirst bravely, with everybody else? What do you think will happen to them,” he cast a hand behind him to the people clustered around the provisions, “or to the folk over there if we don’t find more water?”
Pelsaert blinked. His eyes were brown and Jacobsz wondered—not for the first time—if the Upper Merchant had Spanish blood. Judging by the way he hugged his arms to his body, his blood was thin enough.
The commandeur’s lips worked. “All right. You may go. But I will go with you.”
“With me?” Jacobsz spread his hands. “Why? I’ll take a few of the crew. I’ll be back.” Pelsaert’s eyes flickered. He doesn’t trust me. The God forsaken son of a Spanish whore doesn’t trust me. He took a step closer. “I’ll return if I find water.”
“And if you don’t?”
“I’ll head for Batavia.” He’d said the words. The reality had always been there, simmering, in the back of his brain. It was the only way. These people—all of them—would die here, sooner or later, unless they were rescued. As sure as God made women and schnapps.
“Batavia? In the sloop?”
What else? The yawl? A raft? “Yes, the sloop.”
“But how will you know where to go?”
“We have some idea where we are. The South Land is there. I have my instruments. We head north, using the sun and the stars.”
Pelsaert turned and stared over the coral flats to the other island.
Jacobsz watched his indecision. Ah. “You should stay. As their leader. Stay with them and help them through this time until I can return with a boat.”
“No. No. I should like to stay. Of course. But I am first and foremost a servant of the Company. It is my duty to report to my masters in Batavia. If you make this trip, I must go with you.”
Jacobsz suppressed the snort. He couldn’t blame the man. He wouldn’t like to be over there with the rabble, the soldiers and the rest of the seamen. A bunch of uncouth cut-throats. And half those soldiers—Germans, Frenchmen—hardly spoke a word of Dutch. He’d taken care to keep his senior officers and the most trustworthy sailors here, and had the rest, the riff-raff, ferried over to the other islet. They’d started calling it Batavia’s Graveyard. “In that case, I will prepare a crew, see if I can find water on yonder islands and come back for you.”
Brown Spanish eyes turned on Jacobsz. “I will go with you. But first, you will take me to the island,” he nodded at the larger coral flat, “and I’ll explain to them what we’re going to do.”
Jacobsz fought to push down the rage that surged up from his belly. He bristled, teeth bared. “You’re mad. You’re going to go there and say what? Good luck people, we’ll be back? Have a good time?”
“I’ll tell them we’ll look for water—over there and if we don’t find it there, on the South land—and bring it back. Then, and only then, we’ll sail for Batavia.” The merchant kept his voice even.
Jacobsz glanced around. Zwaantie and the woman with the baby sat to one side. Four men stood guard over the provisions and an orderly line of people waited for their rations, to be handed over by an overseer. All eyes were on the argument between him and Pelsaert. He turned back to Pelsaert and noted the set of his jaw, the etched lines of his face. The man was an Upper Merchant, a title he’d had to earn the hard way. The Company didn’t award that status to cowards. “All right. So be it.” He beckoned. “Jan.”
The man trotted over at the call.
“Commandeur Pelsaert wishes to go to the other island to talk to our compatriots. Take him in the yawl.”
*
Pelsaert prepared his speech in his head. We go to search for water, then we go to Batavia. They’d understand. Of course they would. His heart went out to them, to all these poor, lost souls. Jacobsz. Was he really on watch last night? Last night. Only last night. It seemed so long ago. His eyes strayed to the reef in the distance where the surf battered the stricken ship and wondered if the men who remained on board would survive. Well, it was their choice. Drunks and wastrels, all of them.
“Commandeur?” Evertsz tugged his forelock. “The boat is ready.”
A sailor carried the Upper Merchant on board, while Evertsz followed, splashing through the shallow water. The six men rowed strongly in an easy rhythm. Down, pull, glide, lift. The island grew steadily larger, the group of people waiting on the shoreline became a crowd. They’d been spotted. From his position in the prow, Pelsaert watched in growing alarm as people waded forward to meet them. Shouts and cries rang out across the water. He swallowed as a trickle of fear slid down his spine. There must be near on two hundred people in that mob. All crying out to him. What could he do? What could he offer? One small cask of water to share amongst them?
“Stop, lads,” said Evertsz.
Pelsaert swung around.
The boatswain leaned forward. “I’m sorry, your Excellency. If we land, they’ll take the boat. We’ll never get away.” His voice pleaded, but his eyes were hard.
The man was right, of course he was. These desperate people would seize the boat. And he couldn’t really do anything to help them. Not without water or supplies. Those shouts were angry, not welcoming greetings. What had Jacobsz said? They wouldn’t listen to him when he told them to take care with the supplies. He thought they’d already consumed what had been left for them. Why would they listen to a Company bureaucrat?
He stood legs apart to hold himself steady in the rocking boat. Evertsz pulled him down.
The boat turned.
Even from this distance, Pelsaert could hear the venom in the chorused responses. Traitor. Murderer. You’re abandoning us to save yourself. Rot in Hell. Rot in Hell. A few men started to swim towards the boat.
“Rij, yongens. Krijg ons hieruit.” Evertsz’s voice broke into Pelsaert’s thoughts, urgent, commanding. They bent their backs and the yawl fled.
Pelsaert held his head in his hands and wept.
The sailors ran the vessel up close to the island and carried Pelsaert ashore. Jacobsz waited, a slight smile curving his lips. “Satisfied, Commandeur?”
Pelsaert gathered himself, straightening his shoulders and his jacket. The man was completely obnoxious. “I agree that the most prudent course of action is to seek assistance from Batavia. But we will try to find water for them first.”
“We’ll leave in the morning.”
Pelsae
rt sagged to the ground. Somewhere someone was preparing food, a stew of salt meat and pulses, washed down with a little wine. The aroma wafted in the air. Pelsaert looked around the faces. He knew some of them, the senior men; the steersman, Claas Gerritsz and his two lieutenants; the high boatswain. But the sailors and the artisans he’d never encountered. Even if he hadn’t been ill, a man of his rank never mixed with those who sailed before the mast. Rough, they looked to his eyes, with their wide, coarse cloth breeches and woollen stockings and their knitted caps. He wondered if they were trustworthy. Whatever that meant. Jacobsz seemed comfortable with them and they respected him.
Someone handed him a cup of wine. He took it automatically and sipped, the liquid warm in his throat, as the salt-laden breeze stirred his hair and probed his jacket with icy fingers.
A child’s chuckle attracted his attention. A few yards away, a sailor and his woman played with their baby. He frowned. Why were they still here? Pelsaert scrambled to his feet and beckoned Jacobsz.
“Commandeur?” The captain’s lips curled as though the word tasted unpleasant.
“The woman and the baby,” Pelsaert murmured. “What will you do with them?”
“They’ll come with us.”
“A baby? What foolishness is this?”
“I’m not sending a boat over there,” Jacobsz said, jerking his head towards the other island. “And I’m not leaving them here. She’s the wife of one of my senior sailors.”
“You should have asked me.”
Jacobsz snorted. Pelsaert could have hit him.
“If we find water and bring it back to them, then perhaps they’ll stay,” Jacobsz said. He turned away.
Pelsaert watched him plonk down on the ground and put an arm around Zwaantie, Lucretia’s former maid. His thoughts strayed to Lucretia, the lovely Creesje with her golden hair, alabaster skin and limpid blue eyes. She’d refused them both—he himself and the captain. Indeed, after that shameful attack, she’d kept herself even more distant, despite his best efforts. Maybe if she hadn’t, she would be here with the senior folk instead of over there with the rabble.
He sighed. But then, who was safe? Nobody, really.
5
The sloop pulled out at first light, carrying thirty-eight passengers. The men rowed silently, rhythmically, six on each side. The oars dipped into the water, dug, lifted, swept back dripping and dug down again. The rowlocks creaked and waves slapped against the bows. Early dawn light cast long shadows and sparkled off the wave crests. The baby stirred and whimpered softly.
Pelsaert sat on the centre thwart, misery in his heart as the men rowed them down the deep channel, past Batavia’s Graveyard. Shouts echoed across the water. He knew what they were saying, even if the breeze caught the words. His heart was a lead weight in his chest. What else could he do? What food they could spare—a few barrels of bread—remained on the tiny islet they’d just left, together with a note to explain that they would return with water or go on to Batavia.
At least he had the treasure. Jacobsz had tried to refuse to take it. Too heavy, he’d said, and of no value. No value. A barrel full of jewels, a king’s ransom worth sixty thousand guilders, he’d estimated. And that was without the cameo. Well, he’d won that argument, too. He’d watched Jacobsz load the barrel himself. But then, eleven chests of silver still lay inside the Batavia.
He sighed and rubbed a hand over his chin.
“They’ll build rafts and boats,” Jacobsz said, as if he’d heard Pelsaert’s thoughts. “They have carpenters there and plenty of wood.” He jerked his head at the many objects bobbing in the water. “There are fish here, seabirds, seals. And it’s sure to rain again. It’s winter here.”
Pelsaert nodded listlessly as his eyes sought again the drunken masts in the surf, barely visible now in the distance. God grant them rain, he prayed, soon.
He wondered where the rest of the fleet was. Buren, Assendelft, Sardam and Dordrecht. Last he’d seen them was a few days out of Table Bay, as Batavia out-ran them. Well, it seemed they’d all beat him to Batavia now.
The boat travelled the length of a deep channel, a long, low island on the port side. Seals on the shoreline lifted inquisitive heads as they passed. At last the boat turned west and Batavia’s Graveyard disappeared from view. Two larger islands drew steadily nearer. At least they seemed more promising. They each even sported a low hill.
*
“Easy, lads,” said Jacobsz. “We don’t want to run aground.”
A few ironic snorts greeted his words. No, indeed.
Testing the depth all the way, they eased towards the nearest island until the man in the bow judged they could get no closer. They anchored the sloop a few yards out and splashed through the shallows to a scrubby shore line, Pelsaert again carried by one of the bigger seamen. Tough looking bushes, the largest no more than a few feet high, covered shaly soil. Rocky outcrops emerged like bald heads amongst a carpet of grey-green, burgundy, and parched straw vegetation. The sea wind sighed, rustling the leaves, a brief staccato above the background sough of the surf on the reef. A few terns drifted in the sky on dark wings.
“Not even a tree,” whispered Zwaantie.
Jacobsz heard her disappointment. He felt the same. The place didn’t look encouraging and they didn’t have much water left in their barrels. “Maybe the search parties will find something.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a brief hug.
“Split up. Three in a group. See what you can find.”
The men spread out, searching and digging, while Pelsaert found a little shelter beside some of the larger bushes. The two women played with the baby a short distance away.
Jacobsz went himself with two sailors, trudging up to the island’s highest point. From this rocky platform, maybe fifty feet up, the two coral islands where the survivors had been landed were just visible in the many-hued greens and blues of the reef. And there at the edge of the deeper water, Batavia wallowed in her final death throes. If only. If only the ship’s course had been half a degree different, she might have swept up the channel the sloop had just crossed, between the long island and Batavia’s Graveyard, passing them, all unknowing, in the night. If only. The words echoed in his mind like tolling bells. He’d heard mention of a low island group that Houtman had called ‘Abrolhos’ after the group off the coast of Brazil. This must be it, even though the place wasn’t marked on his charts yet. At least he knew roughly where he was.
*
Pelsaert sat, knees bent, and gazed across the ocean. Sunlight sparkled on the white-caps through gaps in the clouds. He’d done what he could. He would have removed more food and water from the Batavia if it had been possible. Jacobsz should never have felled the mast. It had only made matters worse. And then the wind and the squall. What more could he, the commandeur, have done? At least all the women and children were safe. Or as safe as people could be with so few supplies. He prayed Jacobsz and his men would find water. Then at least they could sail for Batavia with a clear conscience.
Batavia. He sighed and piled up pebbles between his knees. He was finished. They’d never trust him again. Unless he could persuade Jan Pieterszoon Coen, Governor of Batavia, that he could recover the silver and the cargo. His only hope was to get back, bring divers to retrieve the valuables from the wreck and placate the Company’s council, the Gentlemen Seventeen, in Amsterdam. If he didn’t—he might as well perish trying.
Still, at least he had the treasures. And, thank God, the cameo. He pictured in his mind’s eye the exquisitely carved agate in its jewel-encrusted frame. The Emperor and his consort in a chariot drawn by two centaurs. It was said the piece had hung in Constantine’s palace. If that had been lost, Boudawen would ruin him. All the money he had carefully earned from his private trade dealings wouldn’t be enough to repay the Antwerp jeweller. His private nest-egg—gone.
He stared at the ocean and the long island. Batavia lay a few miles away, invisible now.
The laughter of the two yo
ung women and the chortling child distracted him. Life went on.
*
The searchers gathered on the shore at noon. Hope had surged for a moment when Evertsz’s group found water in a few hollows above the high tide, remnants of the rain storm. But the sea had washed in just enough to contaminate the pools. Others had dug in a few promising places to no avail.
“But we did see animals,” said Evertsz. He scratched his head, looking for words. “Not big. About as high as my knee, with dark fur. Like cats. But with long back legs and little short front legs. They hop. Like this.” He demonstrated, hands held together at chest height, while the other snickered. “I reckon we could catch one.”
“Let’s try the other island, first,” said Jacobsz. “The main thing we need is water. Maybe we’ll find these things over there, too.”
A line of exposed mud and reef almost formed a bridge to the other island. The sailors picked their way carefully over rocks slippery with algae, keeping to the exposed sections as much as possible, until they stood on dry land. Flat and stark, this island held even less promise than the one they had just searched. A few hardy bushes struggled to survive in cracks in the rocks. The last clouds had swept away and the breeze had dropped. Sunlight brightened the drab undergrowth. The new growth on the deep red bushes almost glowed, a striking contrast to the predominant grey-green.
Once again they spread out, searching with little hope under flat rocks for places where rain water might collect, and digging in one or two places where the ground seemed damp, but to no avail.
At last, as the sun was starting its descent in the west, Jacobsz called a halt and they slipped and sloshed back across a causeway now awash with the incoming tide.
“Come on lads,” Jacobsz said. “Let’s see if these hoppy things are any good to eat.”
He grinned as the sailors whooped and chased like children. They’d killed a couple with cudgels before the other animals grew wary, disappearing into thicker scrub. At least they’d eat well tonight.
To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck Page 4