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

by Greta van Der Rol

  *

  Pelsaert received his cupful of tainted water from the barrel. It tasted bad but at least it assuaged his thirst a little. He handed the cup back to the man in charge and went to examine the animals the men had brought back. They had already skinned and butchered one, ready for roasting. The fire flared and crackled in a light breeze. He knelt beside a second carcass and ran a hand over fur as soft as a rabbit’s, dark brown with an even darker line down the spine and the tail. Short forearms with small hands, a narrow head like a cat and big, erect ears. He lifted a lip and saw teeth like a rabbit, or a sheep. The hind legs were long and strong. His fingers slid down the beast’s front and snagged on something. A hole in the fur. Not a wound. He probed gently. A pocket. How odd. His fingers jerked as he felt something hairless. He pulled gently and withdrew what had to be an infant, only half formed, pink and hairless. His questing fingers found a teat inside the pocket. The infant must have been suckling.

  Footsteps disturbed him and he looked up. Jacobsz. A sailor, knife in gore-stained hand, hovered behind him.

  “See here?” said Pelsaert. “They must raise their infants in this pouch.”

  Jacobsz grunted. “As long as they taste good. Have you finished? Pieter is waiting to skin it.”

  *

  The sun had set by the time the meat was cooked. The smell of roasting flesh set Jacobsz’s mouth watering until at last the food was done and handed out. The silence of the night was punctuated with murmurs of approval. Oh, this meat was good. As tasty as any venison he’d ever eaten, anywhere. He sat with Zwaantie beside him and gnawed on a bone. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something so delicious and judging by the contented silence around the rebuilt campfire, everyone else felt the same. “Enjoy the meal, lads. Tomorrow, we’ll build up the sides of the boat and head for the South land.”

  “The South Land?” someone muttered. “What in God’s name for?” A few others stirred.

  “Yes, in God’s name,” said Pelsaert, voice soft. “To look for water.”

  “For ourselves, and for those on the islands,” said Jacobsz.

  A rustle of disquiet swept around the group as men stirred and shifted where they sat. “And then?” someone else asked.

  “If we find water, we bring some back, then we head for Batavia. If we don’t find water, we head for Batavia immediately.” Jacobsz’s eyes roved around the group. Most were content. Or if not content, at least they accepted. He’d picked his sailors well. They would follow where he led.

  One of the men pulled a flute out of his shirt and put it to his lips. A few chords and a sailor started to sing; then another, voices weaving together.

  My bonny lass she smileth,

  when she my heart beguileth.

  Fa la la la...

  Smile less, dear love, therefore,

  and you shall love me more.

  Fa la la la...

  The captain smiled. Let them sing. Feet began to tap, handclaps set the beat. Out here under the wind-swept stars the familiar words were an anchor of normality. Soon the words became ribald and the voices bubbled with mirth.

  Jacobsz listened to the rise and fall of the melody, Zwaantie leaning against him. Hans and his wife Saartje sat close together on the other side of the circle, the babe between them. A couple of fellows broke out their long pipes and last precious cache of tobacco.

  Warm food and the hypnotic dance of an open fire buoyed his spirits. They’d done quite well, really. Yes, some had died but they were the ones who’d panicked and cast themselves into a heavy sea. Perhaps one hundred and eighty on the larger island, about forty here. And the remaining idiots on the ship. Ah well. He’d done what he could for them. And there would still be food and water in the shipwreck. The barrels might float free, or the survivors could build rafts and see what they could salvage.

  The long, hard days began to take their toll and one by one, the men stretched and yawned and arranged themselves to sleep.

  Jacobsz heaved himself to his feet and pulled Zwaantie up beside him. An arm around her shoulders, he drew her over to a clear space between some bushes. “Not quite a cabin, but it’ll have to do.”

  She giggled up at him and sat, arranging the dress around her as she did so. It was the first time he’d heard her giggle since before the wreck. A bit of warm food certainly helped. Water would help even more. He lay down beside her and gazed up at the sky, hands behind his head. Bushes rustled as other people found a place to sleep. Somebody damped down the fire and voices murmured. They’d all be tired. They’d worked hard for days.

  Overhead, the river of the stars flowed across the sky. The scorpion’s tail curved not far from the zenith. Jacobsz searched for the four stars of the southern cross which would point him to the south. On a clear night, anyway.

  “Adriaen.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Will we be all right?”

  Good question. What should he say? Tell her the truth that the whole journey was a gamble? Thousands of miles of ocean in an open boat? At least he had his navigation instruments with him; an hourglass, a compass, a cross staff and an astrolabe. “We have to be all right,” he replied at last. “For us and for them.” He jerked his head at the unseen islands.

  “What can I do? To help?”

  He smiled in the darkness. Beyond the bushes behind them, somebody snored.

  “Well, you could keep me happy,” he said, rolling over towards her. His fingers slid inside her shirt and around so the warm weight of her breast filled his hand. He caressed her already tight nipple with his thumb and felt her shiver at his touch.

  She unlaced the front of her gown for him and he slid the material away so he could suck her nipple into his mouth.

  “Oh,” she complained softly, “your bristles are all hard.”

  “That’s not all that’s hard,” he said, reaching a hand down to hoik up the long skirt.

  “Let me.” She brushed his hand away and rolled the material up to her waist.

  His fingers slid into her before she’d even finished arranging herself. Mmm. Warm and wet. He unbuttoned his breeches, eased out his rampant cock and thrust it into her. Ah. She sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck as he moved his hips on her.

  *

  Pelsaert wished he could use his jacket as a pillow. But the night was cold; colder than he would have expected. Over in the bushes someone moaned. Dreaming, no doubt. And who could blame them? He was certain he’d be plagued with nightmares. In his mind he replayed the final leap from the bucking ship into the careering longboat. And then the row ashore. Beside the boat cataracts of water poured off the reef as a wave sucked back. And the body; the dead man with the shattered head, eyes staring into the sky. He shivered. In the silence, he heard a grunt and then a groan of pleasure, a woman’s sigh. Frowning, he rolled over on his side. The man had no shame. Coupling with that woman here, out in the open, in front of all his men.

  6

  Wiebbe Hayes stood behind the hecklers and watched the longboat pass down the channel in the early morning. Traitors, they called them, those men in the sloop. Leaving all of us here to our fate. But what point was there in shouting, throwing stones? Better to trust in God that they would return and make the best of what they had. Although, he conceded, that wasn’t much. A tiny, barren island on a wind-swept reef. As if in answer to his thoughts, the bushes rustled dry stems in the breeze and a sea bird mewed its lonely cry.

  “At least it isn’t raining anymore.”

  Hayes turned to Corporal Gabriel Jacobsz, standing beside him. “We might regret that, too,” he said. “The water barrels are empty.”

  Gabriel stared at him. “We’d better hope they come back with water. But meanwhile, we’d better set up a camp. Come help me organise the fellows. You speak a little French, don’t you?”

  “Yes, a little.”

  The corporal was already striding away. “Come on, fellows, form up. Let’s get some working parties together, build a camp. Ov
er here. Come on, move it.”

  The Frenchmen stood in a group and Hayes joined them, thanking the Lord his family—in better times—had seen to it he learned French. His skill, limited as it was, had proved useful more than once on the Batavia, with its motley group of mercenaries.

  “Qu’a-t-il dit?” said one.

  Hayes grinned and explained what Gabriel had said. They followed him readily enough to where the corporal was ordering his troops. “You lot—search the island for any water. Dig wells, look under rocks. You—collect wood, sails, anything you can find in the water that we can use to build shelter. You others—food detail. There’s birds here. Look for birds, see what you can catch. Everybody clear?” He stood with his hands on his hips, staring around at the men, waiting while a few translated for colleagues.

  Hayes stayed with the Frenchmen, who’d been given food duty. He gestured to his French mates and they went off along the island, while Gabriel shouted a few more orders. At least they could feel they were doing something. Fights had already broken out between the sailors and the soldiers and most of the civilians milled around or lay about, despondent. Corporal Gabriel had never impressed him much and he knew many of his colleagues agreed with him. As for the officers on the ship—what officers? A few wet-behind-the-ears pups whose parents had bought them commissions.

  They walked past a group gathered around the predikant, heads bent in prayer.

  One of the Frenchmen snorted. “They pray. Do they think God will help them? God has dumped us here.” He flung out a hand, encompassing the horizon. Sea on every side.

  “It gives them hope,” Hayes said. The other raised the edge of his lip and Hayes added, “And in the meantime, maybe we can help God to help us. Find some food—birds, as the corporal said.”

  “Catch birds?” said Theroux. “Do you think we’ll be able to get close enough?”

  De Villiers laughed. “I used to bring down birds with stones in a slingshot back home.”

  “Well, let’s try that, then.”

  Three birds, they killed. Three, between ten of them. Hayes carried them, legs down, dead wings flopping.

  The island was too small for so many people. How many, Hayes wondered? Most of the soldiers, he thought. They kept bumping into them, everywhere they went. So fifty, sixty soldiers, as many sailors. And so many women. He hadn’t realised. He’d known a few soldiers had wives with them but he’d counted fifteen, twenty women. One of them was beautiful. He’d noticed her with the predikant’s prayer group. Everyone knew who she was: Lucretia van der Mijlen. The soldiers had heard what had happened to her, too, in that attack, but this was the first time any of them had actually set eyes on her. They’d talked about it for days, speculated about what the assailants had done to her. The stories became wilder by the hour. If Hayes believed everything he heard, every man on duty that night had had a turn with her. Huh. In their dreams.

  A child’s cry rose, a querulous, petulant whine. He hadn’t expected to see so many children, either. A few were babes in arms that must have been born on the ship. Poor little souls.

  Shouts interrupted his thought. Shouts and the sound of fists hitting flesh. “Who are you ordering about, you klootzak?”

  “Klootzak? Why, you…” The sailor snarled and thrust forward, swinging a right hook into the face of the soldier.

  Dazed, the man staggered backwards. The sailor advanced and drove his left fist into the man’s stomach. Another sailor cheered. It was enough. Hayes watched the melee grow as one, then another darted forward to join in.

  “Lads! Lads!” Pieter Jansz the provost waded in and grabbed a sailor’s shoulder. “Stop it. Stop it.” He took out a cudgel and began to rain blows.

  Gabriel came in from the other side. “Soldiers! Back off! Enough! Jacop,” he shouted for the lance corporal. True to his nickname, the Stone-cutter joined the fray, pulling men out by their collars.

  Two men were on the ground now, one astride the other, landing savage punches while the rest traded blows. Hayes put out a hand to stop de Villiers from joining in. “Save your energy.”

  The fight ended when the barber, Frans Jansz, arrived at a run. Hayes liked the man; so did everybody else. “Peace, lads,” he shouted, arms held high. “We’re in this together.”

  Some of the men held others back but at least they listened.

  “Well, I’m not taking no orders from no bloedpoepende maaghond sailor,” snarled the soldier who’d originally begun the brawl. Blood seeped out of his nose.

  “Come, friend. We’re all in this together,” answered the barber, his hand on the sailor’s chest. “We must work together if we’re to survive. Don’t you agree?”

  The man scowled.

  “On the ship we had a council,” said Jansz. “Maybe we should do that again.” He turned to the provost and the corporal. “What do you think? You for the soldiers and the sailors—”

  “He doesn’t represent me,” a sailor shouted.

  “Well, then,” said Frans. “Who would you have? The predikant?”

  Hayes stood silent as the onlookers shifted and exchanged glances. No, they didn’t want the predikant. He couldn’t blame them for that, either. He might be a Man of God but he seemed a bit colourless for a situation like this.

  “Gerrit,” someone shouted. “Gerrit can represent us.”

  Hayes craned his neck to see as a sailor stepped forward, an older man, leathery and wizened.

  “Fair enough. I’m probably the most senior sailor here, now,” Gerrit Haas said.

  “Good,” said Jansz, amid murmurs of agreement. “Well, then. Let’s work together to build shelter. Maybe the sailors can catch fish.”

  Hayes approved. The most sensible thing they’d done all day. Not that he thought the co-operative spirit would last. The barber was a nice man, respected by all but he didn’t have that flare that set a real leader apart.

  He passed his tongue over dry lips. What he’d give for a drink of water. He glanced up at the clouds, scudding rapidly to the east, leaving a clear sky in their wake.

  *

  Lucretia clutched a hand to her chest, holding her blouse closed tight. If she’d been frightened before, it was nothing to what she felt now. The only people she knew on this wind-swept spot in the ocean were the predikant and his wife and children. No maid, even. Zwaantie was gone. Not that she’d been much use since she’d taken up with the captain.

  She shifted, easing her position on the ground. At least she was in the shade, under a canvas lean-to the men had constructed for the predikant and his family from pieces of sail and driftwood. Many others didn’t even have that luxury. Judyck, the predikant’s eldest daughter, sat with the two youngest children. The boy, eight-year-old Roelant, lay on his side shuffling rocks into patterns.

  “Is there something to drink?” asked the little girl.

  “No, sweetheart. Not yet.”

  “Well, when, then? I’m thirsty.”

  Judyck sighed and stroked the child’s hair. “So am I, Agnete.”

  What do you say to an eleven-year-old, thought Lucretia? How could you make children understand?

  A couple of soldiers ambling by stared at Lucretia and smacked their lips. She looked away, their ribald chuckles ringing in her ears. A shiver of revulsion mixed with terror slid down her back. She thought she’d dealt with the attack, put it out of her head, into the past where it belonged. Although on the ship, with so little fresh water, it had been nigh on impossible to wash away the stink of the filth they’d smeared on her. And they’d touched her. Touched her bare skin, her thighs. She shuddered. In the privacy of her thoughts she blushed. Remarkable to think that was only three weeks ago. She’d thought at the time things couldn’t get worse. Now, with so few women here and no authority, the prospect of another attack was real, frightening. And this time she didn’t think she’d just be smeared with filth. Some of the men had ogled her with ill-concealed lust. Some had even made licentious remarks.

  Two women sitting t
ogether under another makeshift shelter, smirked and giggled behind their hands as they shot surreptitious glances at her. She could imagine what they were talking about; they’d heard the stories, too. Of course they had. Zwaantie was quite happy to gossip and on the ship gossip spread like wildfire.

  Why had she ever come on this benighted voyage? Oh, Boudewijn; how she longed to see him, longed for her husband’s strength and support. Would he know she was on her way? Would her letter reach him in Batavia before she did? It hardly mattered now. If a rescue ship didn’t come, they would all die here, on this barren speck, far from Amsterdam. A vision of her home on the Heren Gracht swept into her mind. The tall house with its elegant gables, tiled floors, rich wall hangings, discreet servants bringing wine in fine Venetian glass goblets… They’d had to sell a lot of the furniture and the paintings but she could live with that, a dutiful wife, awaiting her husband’s return from the East. But after Lijsbet died, nothing mattered any more. The house echoed with ghosts. Hans, Lijsbet and Stefani. Every haunted room tugged at her. A small face here, a fading shadow there.

  A group of sailors walked past the shelter, almost close enough to touch her skirt, and Lucretia jumped. One of them looked back over his shoulder to leer at her and run a thick tongue across his lips. Fear surged again, a hollow in the pit of her stomach.

  What would Boudewijn say if he knew his wife had been treated like this? What would he think of her? Pray God she’d get a chance to explain. She huddled beside Judyck and tried to swallow.

  “Mama, I’m so thirsty.”

  Lucretia looked over to where young Roelant buried his head in his mother’s skirts and reproached herself for selfishness. Maria had three young children and four older ones. How must she feel, with nothing to give them? Perhaps they should all pray for rain.

  7

  Jacobsz smelled cooking, the rich aroma of meat simmering. He eased himself to a sitting position. Morning, a few hours after dawn. Zwaantie wasn’t next to him. He stood, stretching sore muscles. Scratching absently at a scab on the back of his hand, he followed his nose in search of the smell.