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

by Greta van Der Rol

Jacobsz woke with a hand on his shoulder.

  “An inlet, Cap’n.” Hollert pointed.

  True enough, thought Jacobsz, peering at the mysterious land mass. Dunes, a depression in the cliffs. A river, surely. “Bring her in, cautiously. Take soundings as we go.”

  Jacobsz stood, holding onto the mast, aware of the ripple of excitement in the boat as they sailed closer. Hope soared until he saw the surf. No chance of bringing the longboat close with that. But then they had the yawl, bouncing in their wake on the painter. He turned, selecting sailors. The sudden surge of the swell nearly knocked him off his feet. Where had that come from? A high sea, running from the west. No chance of getting close enough to send off the yawl. In fact, they’d be lucky not to be blown ashore in this. Hollert shouted orders. Men were already trimming the sail, changing direction.

  Jacobsz sagged down onto the thwart. Waves slipped along the vessel’s sides, slopped over even the heightened boards and the wind blew keen and sharp.

  Pelsaert caught his eye. Jacobsz shrugged. “We’re in for a storm. And there’s nothing we can do but try to ride it out.”

  *

  Pelsaert hung on. Oh God in Heaven, surely we have not come so far only to be driven onto this alien shore? The sea was so much more dangerous, malevolent at this level. A wave rose ahead, pale green and glassy, the bow lifted, and he stared into the sullen sky; then the crest passed beneath and he braced himself as the boat raced down the slope, deep into a trough until the next wave smashed against the bow. His stomach lurched and the nausea rose. Swaying, he tried to reach the side but the boat was too crowded. He retched, forcing down the bitter bile. His stomach held little enough and in the end he vomited into the water sloshing about his feet, already above the level of the boat’s false floor. He sat, panting. At least he wasn’t the only one. The woman Zwaantie cowered, a bundle of misery, on the bench beside him; even a couple of the sailors. But not the other girl, the young mother. She held her child against her breast and let the wind whip her long dark hair about her face as if challenging the deep.

  It hadn’t been like that on the Batavia, even in the storms in the south. Yes, the ship had rolled and pitched but it had been large and solid, with room to move. Yes, waves broke over the deck. But when it did, he’d retired to his cabin to let the men work without his presence. Truth be told, he’d kept to his bed most of the way, tossing with fever.

  Another wave towered and the sickening ride began again. Up, down. The boat landed in the trough with a shuddering thud and cold water drenched his face. All day, they’d hovered here, the sailors standing at their oars holding the boat against the forces that drove it towards the rain-veiled cliffs. He stared at Jacobsz, who sat beside him, at the lines in his face, the set of his jaw. The man was as soaked as they all were, yet he sat there, hard-eyed, unafraid, almost like the wood of the longboat.

  The time-keeper flipped over the hour glass and the men at the oars changed over, one-by-one in a careful, dangerous dance.

  “How much longer?” shouted Pelsaert.

  “Who knows?” said Jacobsz. “It shows no sign of abating.”

  “Can’t we move on? Why stay here?”

  “We cannot raise a sail and it’s all they can do to keep us out here. The sea is a hard mistress.” His lips quirked. “You could pray. Ask Saint Nicholas to intervene.”

  Pelsaert shivered and waited for the next wave. Would this never end?

  *

  Hard to believe the nightmare could get worse, thought Pelsaert. Driving rain had woken him from a troubled doze. Not that he could get any wetter. He couldn’t remember when he’d been so cold, even in the dead of winter in Antwerp. His skin froze, even underneath the layers of clothing. But at least the water was fresh. He let it trickle down his face and into his mouth.

  Towards the front of the boat the men draped out the sail to catch the water from the sky and pour it into the waiting casks. And still the vessel pitched into the swell. Nobody had slept; not really. The sailors must be exhausted, even more than he was. He’d never felt so useless, just a dead weight, an impediment.

  An hour and the water casks were full. The rain poured down steadily and the waves, unstoppable, unrelenting, ran on to the South Land, invisible in the deep darkness of an overcast night. Pelsaert’s feet were frozen; almost like solid lumps on the ends of his legs and the cold was rising, slopping around his calves.

  “If you’ll move a little?”

  He started. The dark apparition of a sailor loomed next to him, a bowl in his hand.

  “I have to bail. Please… move a little.”

  “Come on, move yourselves.” Jacobsz’s voice rose above the roar of the sea. “Take anything that holds water and bail. Bail for your lives.”

  “We can’t, Cap’n. It’s too crowded,” someone yelled.

  “Then make room. Squeeze together. Throw some of the stuff over the side.”

  “It’s bread.”

  “If you drown you won’t need it. Do as I say.”

  Pelsaert made himself as small as he could as sailors threw barrels overboard. But not the water, he took note. All around him men bailed, while the boat heaved. Perhaps he should have stayed on the island with the people. Anything would be better than this, surely. If he’d realised… Too late now. Maybe too late for everybody.

  “Here.”

  Pelsaert stared up at a shadow that was Jacobsz and then down at the bowl being thrust into his chest.

  “My men are exhausted. Get up and bail.”

  Pelsaert’s jaw dropped. Surely he wasn’t serious?

  “Come on. Even the women are taking their turn. We’re not out of this yet.”

  Struggling against the lurch of the boat, Pelsaert took his place at the gunwale, dipped the bowl into the water around his feet and emptied it over the side. All around him others did the same, defiant in the face of the ocean’s wrath. Back aching, eyes stinging with salt, over and again he bent and lifted, bent and lifted until his arms shook with effort and yet it seemed to make no difference. He could have sworn the boat wallowed deeper, the sea spilled more often over the stern.

  “We’re being dragged under,” A voice shrieked over the clamour of the storm. “Look. She’s sinking at the stern.”

  Pelsaert straightened, heart pounding. Yes. He could feel the pressure, something pulling on the boat, drawing it down, stern first, beneath the surface. His mind conjured up massive jaws clamped on the keel…

  “The yawl. She’s sinking. Cut the painter. Cut the painter,” shouted Jacobsz.

  A few anxious moments later the longboat jerked. And steadied, levelled. Pelsaert sucked in a sigh of relief.

  “Keep bailing,” the captain roared. “It’s not over yet.”

  *

  The rain stopped with the dawn. Jacobsz felt the change in the atmospheric pressure, a sense in the air. The sun struggled into a leaden sky, briefly staining a few cloud-edges red before it became a slightly brighter disc behind a grey curtain. He’d really thought they were done for, more than once, in that night of despair. At least the wind had veered to west-south-west and dropped, so they could raise a sail. He’d set a course north. The inlet was impossible now, without the yawl.

  He tilted his neck back and ran tired hands over his face. He’d love to get out of the boat, stretch his legs, eat something warm. The brief stay on the Cats’ Island was almost a memory of paradise. Just as well they’d taken that day. He looked around at his people, forty-seven souls. Of them all, the baby was the most comfortable. The rest were as cold, wet, tired, sleep-deprived as he was himself.

  10

  “Are we all agreed?” asked Frans Jansz, looking around the convened councillors with barely concealed glee. The tent canvas slapped a little in the breeze. “Yes? Master Cornelisz, I’m happy to relinquish my position as chairman of the council to you.” He beamed and stepped to the end of the trestle table while Cornelisz took his place to polite applause.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, for yo
ur welcome and your support,” said Cornelisz. “Frans was kind enough to show me what a truly excellent job you’ve done in such a short time to make the people’s lives more comfortable.” He let them shift in their seats, positively basking in the glow of his praise. “But while God has provided, is it not true that God helps those who help themselves?”

  Yes, agreement. “Gerrit, if the sailors have built a boat and rafts, might I suggest the first thing we do is send men to the ship and see what else we can find? When last I was there, the Great Cabin was still dry. We might find items of importance to the Company. Valuables, trade goods, wine, vinegar.”

  Jansz nodded. “Yes. Perhaps clothes, herbs, cooking utensils if the galley is not flooded.”

  “Good. Well, then, Gerrit, perhaps you could organise that?”

  “Of course,” said Haas. “It’ll be a pleasure to give them something to do.”

  “Wonderful. Now, I’ve also heard that there has been some disturbance between soldiers and sailors?”

  The provost, the corporal and Haas exchanged embarrassed looks. “We do our best,” said the corporal.

  “But it’s difficult,” added the provost. “We’re just lucky they haven’t used weapons.”

  Cornelisz inspected a knot of wood in the pine that served as a council table. This was so easy. “Then perhaps, gentlemen, we should control the weapons?”

  “You mean an armoury?” said the provost, “like we had on the ship?”

  “Just so. Controlled by the council.”

  “Excellent. Why don’t I see to that?” said the provost.

  “We can set up a guard-duty rotation for the soldiers,” put in the corporal.

  “Very good.” Cornelisz rubbed a hand over his newly-shaved chin. So much more comfortable. And tonight he would be dining with the predikant and the beautiful Lucretia. He could hardly wait.

  “One more thing. Shelter. I do feel we should be able to house people a little more comfortably, don’t you? Instead of large groups of people all huddled together we could build smaller tents. We have lots of building materials coming in with the tide. Small tents for family groups. There are some, aren’t there, apart from the predikant?”

  “We felt he deserved some priority,” mumbled Frans Jansz, “as a Man of God and with so many children.” He straightened up and added, more clearly, “But, yes, several soldiers and sailors, too, have wives and children. And now that we have the material that does sound sensible.” He flicked a glance at Corporal Jacobsz.

  “Can we then organise some building parties? Perhaps you, corporal, with your soldiers?” said Cornelisz. He turned to Jacobsz without waiting for a nod. “Perhaps you, sir, could help to create a list of needs and priorities for housing? I will direct the Company clerks to assist you.”

  He waited, looking around the table. No dissent, more relief that someone had taken charge. Good. At the end of the table, Salomon Deschamps, the senior clerk, finished taking notes.

  “Well, then, gentlemen, I declare this meeting of the council closed. We should meet again, I think, in… shall we say five days?” He waited for the nods and murmurs of agreement. “We can see what progress has been made.”

  They stood and filed out, full of purpose.

  “Salomon, if you would have someone fetch the Company assistants for me,” said Cornelisz.

  They entered together, seven of them, including the predikant’s eldest son, also named Gijsbert. They stood respectfully in front of him, waiting for orders. Cornelisz ran his eyes along the line. Most of them were colourless nobodies; he knew that from the Batavia, when they sat along the table in the Great Cabin and carried out duties for Pelsaert. But Davidt Zevanck, now. Surly, dark eyes, curled lip. He’d always been a bit different, as though suppressing an inner fire. And Daniel Cornelissen, with his pinched face and shrewd, cold eyes. Nobody knew much about him; he’d joined late. But these two, in particular, had shown some interest when he’d talked of his mentor, Torrentius, when he’d told them, late at night, that Hell was just a notion to frighten children and old women; that the scriptures were nothing but a collection of fables; that life was meant for pleasure.

  “Now then, I want you all, as loyal servants of the Company, to assist the members of the Council as they require. At present, Mister Jansz has need of two of you—Gijsbert and Andries de Vries, please go to him now.”

  They almost brightened, pleased to have a job. Zevanck stirred restlessly as the two men left, pushing the tent flap aside.

  “Davidt and Daniel, you will come with me. The rest of you will be given other opportunities when they arise.” He rose, indicating the interview was over. The remaining clerks filed out, leaving him with the two young men. He smiled at them. “I’d like you to help me check the stores inventory.”

  They went through the list Jansz had drawn up, adding new items, checking existing stock. Cornelisz watched them work, Zevanck in particular. The young man’s scowl deepened and he trimmed his quill with ever-growing anger, the knife cutting hard and sharp.

  “You’re not happy, Davidt?”

  He looked up, startled. “Sir?”

  “You can still call me Jeronimus, just as on the ship. Are you thinking there’s not much here?”

  It was like opening a sluice. “It’ll be months before a rescue ship comes back—months. This… this isn’t going to last all those people. Kids and sick. Pregnant women. Not unless God himself works a miracle.”

  “And we know God doesn’t work those sorts of miracles, don’t we, Davidt?” Cornelisz said.

  “Not unless we work them for him,” said Cornelissen. His pale eyes glittered in the soft light under the canvas.

  “Indeed. In God’s eyes, the deserving will survive and thrive.”

  Cornelisz stroked his moustache. Now to see what support he could engender from the soldiers. He returned to the tent he’d woken up in, and now shared with many of his erstwhile companions on the ship. That would be a temporary arrangement. He’d soon have his own accommodation, befitting his position.

  Coenraat van Huyssen, slim and handsome, resentful that his father had sent him away; the two van Welderen brothers, Gijsbert and Olivier, who hadn’t a choice; Lenert van Os, medium height, medium colouring, biddable. They all looked up as he entered. His eyes flicked around the group, making contact with each one. “Well now gentlemen, perhaps you’d like to join me on a tour of inspection?”

  They walked through the untidy settlement, past playing children and men busy with retrieved casks and timber. A few were coiling rope and Cornelisz noticed a small boat nearing completion. Carpenters used adzes to shape driftwood, building simple furniture. A number of people called a greeting, which he acknowledged with a wave of his hand.

  A short walk and the four men reached the windswept end of the island, a narrow, rocky point. A mile away, a little east of south, the Batavia’s masts and the poop rose above the reef.

  “What now, Jeronimus?” said van Huyssen. “What did you want to talk about?”

  Cornelisz found a rock to sit on and the others did the same, curious, interested. A breeze stirred their hair and whispered among the stunted bushes, carrying with it the scent of seaweed. “Tell me, do you think the captain and the commandeur will come back with water?”

  Olivier, elder of the two van Welderen brothers, was first to answer. “I think if they found any, they would have been back by now. And since it’s rained…” he shrugged. “Why come back?”

  The others all nodded. Lenert van Os pulled a piece of grass out between his feet and began to shred it. Cornelisz thought he’d lost weight. Olivier didn’t look too well, either.

  “You think they’ll make it to Batavia?”

  Another ripple of exchanged glances went between them.

  “Everybody seems to think so. They have enormous faith in Captain Jacobsz.” Van Os’s voice faltered.

  Cornelisz grinned. “But not in Commandeur Pelsaert?”

  “No. They feel he’s deserted the
m. Sure, Captain Jacobsz needed to go to Batavia. But not him,” said van Os. He related the story of Pelsaert’s abortive trip from Traitors’ Island, in the yawl. “The people were disgusted. He just abandoned them—us. Left and went away.”

  “And do they think he’ll come back?”

  “Captain Jacobsz?” said Van Huyssen. “Yes.”

  A cruising bird in the sky above them folded its wings and stabbed down into the sea, emerging a moment later with a struggling fish.

  “How long do you think such a journey would take?” asked Cornelisz, meeting each man’s eyes. “There and back here?”

  Again they exchanged looks. This time the younger van Welderen answered. “We’ve heard the sailors talk. They say months.” He sighed and his shoulders sagged.

  “And do they say how many of us will still be left alive when Captain Jacobsz comes back?”

  Van Os’s fingers stopped their shredding.

  “What did you think of last night’s dinner?” asked Cornelisz.

  Both van Welderens pulled an almost identical face, van Os snorted and van Huyssen frowned. A small bowl of preserved meat with a few pulses and a piece of weevil-infested bread, with a small glass of wine. That’s what they’d eaten; all of them. Cornelisz looked at each face.

  “This is what we talked about on the boat, isn’t it? Making a fortune, any woman you want, lovely maids to wait on you. That’s how it is in Batavia, so they tell me. Gold, jewels. Anything you want. Well, you heard the commandeur talk about Jahangir’s court in India?” He remembered well enough himself. Beautiful, dark-skinned women; silks, jewel-encrusted ornaments, goblets and platters of silver and gold and ivory.

  Greed glistened in van Huyssen’s eyes. “What do you have in mind, Jeronimus?”

  “Only to ensure we are alive to see the rescue ship.”

  The wind sighed through the bushes and the waves slapped on the rock below where they sat. They waited, expectant, interested. Cornelisz rose to his feet and slapped the dirt from his breeches. “Well. We'd best be going. We'll talk again soon. ”

  *