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

by Greta van Der Rol

  Lucretia allowed Cornelisz to take her hand. Very briefly.

  “It’s delightful to see you, Lady,” he said.

  His hazel eyes glittered in the lamplight. He’d been shaved, his moustache trimmed and his light brown hair hung around his shoulders. Full lips curved into a smile. He was quite attractive really, exuding a sort of animal magnetism, even wearing salt-stained clothes.

  “It’s good to see you fully recovered, Master Jeronimus,” she murmured.

  The predikant’s maid brought wine—their ration for the day—served in wooden, hand-carved cups.

  “You’ve been busy already, Master Cornelisz,” said the predikant. “The work teams have started, I see.”

  “Ah, well, we have plenty of materials now.” Cornelisz swung around to Lucretia again. “I’ve arranged for a tent to be built for you, Lady. It’s not right that someone of your status should be forced to share.”

  “Predikant Bastiaensz has been most generous,” said Lucretia. And that was true. But the idea of her own tent was certainly attractive. The crowded tent with the two children had become tiresome, she had to admit. She missed her privacy. And Bastiaensz snored.

  “Of course. And I appreciate that at first you had no choice. But I think it’s important that we establish a proper society here. I’ve heard you’ve been subjected to… shall we say… unpleasantness?” He smiled at her blush. “Rest assured you’ll be protected. I’ve instructed that your tent will be close to mine, and that you’ll be guarded.”

  “Quite right, sir,” said the predikant. “I’ve admonished the miscreants but they are Godless men.” He shook his head. “I must protect my own daughter from them, too.” He lifted a hand to indicate Judyck, who stood with her cup of wine held in two hands. “We are so pleased that you’ve come to us.”

  “I hope that restricting access to weapons will make a difference,” said Cornelisz.

  His voice was a purr, mellow and pleasant, yet authoritative. He certainly had a presence, this man, thought Lucretia. Maybe it needed an emergency like this one to bring out his personality.

  11

  “If we are all here, gentlemen, let’s get the meeting under way,” said Cornelisz. He shifted his shoulders in his chair. The men had collected furniture from the Great Cabin and as chairman of the council, he’d requisitioned Pelsaert’s padded chair as his own. No one had argued. Nor had anyone complained when he’d taken Pelsaert’s clothes for his own use. The long coat fitted well enough and at least he looked the part.

  A murmur of agreement.

  “I’m impressed with what we’ve achieved in five days. A number of tents built for families and the armoury has been established. Well done.” They had done well. He’d spent his time getting to know people, seeing who was content, who was not. Who might be useful, who would not.

  “Hmm,” said the provost. “We had some dissent from the soldiers but we managed to persuade them—with some help from Gabriel, here.”

  “Dissent has been a problem, hasn’t it?”

  The corporal sighed. “It’s difficult. Some don’t speak any Dutch at all. They form cliques of their own—the French at one end of a tent, the Germans at the other. And everyone is so cramped.”

  “I have a suggestion, gentlemen,” said Cornelisz. “Overcrowding is part of the problem, I think. If the people had a little more room, they could perhaps be a little happier.” He looked around from man to man.

  “I expect you’re right,” said the barber. “But where can they go?”

  “We could set up a group on Traitors’ Island,” said Cornelisz.

  Pieter Jansz the provost pulled at his moustache. “There is no water on Traitors’ Island.”

  “No, but we can supply water from here. Water and supplies. Easy enough to do. We have rafts now and a boat. It just means we all have more room.”

  They exchanged glances. Cornelisz waited while the thought percolated into their brains. “We could send a small group over there,” he added. “Families with children. To separate them from the rougher sailors and soldiers.”

  He watched the body language. Hands on chins, lips licked.

  And then a nod from Frans Jansz. “Good idea.”

  “They’d need a leader, of course,” said Cornelisz. “Can you suggest anyone?”

  The provost cleared his throat. “I’d be happy to lead such a group,” he said. “I have a wife and child, as you know. I could pick a few others.”

  “But then… who would take your place?” asked Cornelisz, making sure he sounded reluctant.

  “Jacop Pietersz will be here. And I won’t be far away,” said the provost.

  “Lance Corporal Pietersz.” Cornelisz said the words slowly, considering.

  “And you have a number of cadets, too,” added the provost. “Plenty of people to select from.”

  “True.” Cornelisz hesitated again. “All right. Do you agree?” he asked the other councillors. They all glanced at each other, eyes bright. No voices of dissent, no objections. “Yes? Well, then, if you will organise your group, Pieter, we’ll arrange for you to be taken to Traitors’ Island tomorrow.” He smiled.

  “What about the other islands?” asked the barber. “We really should explore them, too.”

  “Yes, good idea,” said Cornelisz. He hadn’t even had to prod. “Leave that to me. I’ll arrange for a few fellows to take a raft over to Seals’ Island to see if they can find water. And I thought perhaps a group of soldiers could be taken over to the High Islands to search there?”

  More murmurs of approval.

  This was so easy, Cornelisz thought to himself. He felt like God’s instrument. But no; much more than that. Torrentius was right. He, Cornelisz, had ignited the divine spark within his own soul. It had to be so.

  The meeting ended on a high note. The provost, in particular, walked with new purpose. Cornelisz waited while Deschamps finished writing up the notes, the quill scratching on paper. The noise of people drifted in through the canvas—children playing, the dull thump of hammers, soft conversations. Deschamps finished writing, blew on the ink to dry the last letters and closed the notepad.

  “Fetch Zevanck and van Huyssen for me, please,” said Cornelisz.

  The two men arrived in minutes. Van Huyssen made to pull out a chair but stopped at Cornelisz’s frown. They stood, side by side, hands behind their backs, in front of the table.

  “I want you to go over to the Seals’ Island and find out what’s over there. Water, building sites, food supplies. But you’re to report back to me. No one else.”

  “Understood, Jeronimus,” said Zevanck. His smile was feral.

  *

  Wiebbe Hayes couldn’t help his jaw dropping. He couldn’t believe his luck. To get off this rock for a time and go somewhere else seemed almost a miracle. “I’d be pleased to go.”

  “I’ve picked out a team,” said the corporal, “and Otto Smit and Allert Jansz will accompany you.” He nodded at the two young cadets waiting nearby. “I’ve arranged with Gerrit Haas and the sailors to take you over to the High Islands. We can’t spare the rafts so we’ll bring those back but we’ll supply you with provisions.”

  “And if we find water?”

  “You light three signal fires. We’ll see the smoke and come to you straight away.”

  It sounded good. “Weapons?”

  “Take your own knives of course. But you won’t need muskets or pikes. What for? You’ll just be searching for water. And it means we’d have to make more trips to get you over there.”

  Hayes searched the corporal’s face. The fellow was a few years older than him, ruddy-skinned, sandy-haired with faded blue eyes. Why not, though? He could see no hint of a lie in the other’s features.

  “Who have you picked?” he asked.

  “Most of the Frenchmen—you’re friends with them.” Jacobsz rattled off another few names and a few suggestions until the two men had agreed on a team of twenty.

  “Well, then,” said Hayes. “When d
o we start?”

  Hayes sat as close to the middle of the raft as he could. He didn’t like this; he didn’t like this at all. The water lapped far too close, slopping over the edges of the timber. He couldn’t swim and he didn’t fancy learning now, not after he’d seen what the sharks did to people. Of the other four men, only Thomas de Villiers seemed comfortable. But then, he came from Marseilles and he could swim.

  “You’re lucky it’s calm today,” said Claas Visser as he hoisted the sail. “Rafts aren’t pleasant when it’s rough.”

  Hayes said nothing. If it had been rough, he doubted if he’d have had the courage to attempt the crossing. He watched the horizon as the raft rose and fell beneath him. He’d expected to be fighting heathens in the Indies, not bobbing around on a trackless ocean. Still, he reminded himself, it was something to do and they’d be away from the crowded friction on Batavia’s Graveyard.

  At last, after seemingly countless hours, Visser beached the raft on the rocky shoreline. Hayes was last off, sliding into shallow water. He waded onto dry land with legs like jelly and gazed around him. On the other side of the narrow spit of land on which he stood, wavelets broke and ran in to a small beach. The bulk of the island lay to the left, flat and rocky but rising to a low hill in the centre. The place was almost verdant in comparison to Batavia’s Graveyard. The vegetation looked tough but at least there were some larger bushes. The wind, redolent of salt and seaweed, whispered through the shrubs and the sea murmured its endless song.

  Visser’s voice broke the silence. “Here you are, lads. Help me get these ashore and I’ll be off for the next load.” He handed them their supplies—barrels of bread and water enough for a week—and with a cheery wave, went on his way.

  *

  “They’re back.” Judyck clasped her hands and Lucretia smiled.

  “You mean Coenraat van Huyssen’s back. He’s only been gone a couple of days.”

  Judyck blushed as they watched the three young men pull the little boat up onto the shore. “He’s very handsome.”

  “He is. And I notice he’s quite taken with you. What do your parents think?”

  “Mama says I should be in no hurry. But I think, really, she’s pleased.”

  “And your father?”

  “Father is pleased, of course. He’s of good family.”

  Very likely, thought Lucretia. With seven children, he’d no doubt be anxious to marry his eldest daughter to the son of a prosperous family. And really, Judyck could have a choice of suitors here. Young, attractive and single, with all these eligible cadets.

  “Have you seen how it is with the two Frederichsz sisters?” said Judyck, low-voiced. “They have their own tent now, and the men queue.”

  Yes, she’d noticed. It hardly bore thinking about what some women would do. She’d heard the low voices, the laughter, clear in the night. She shuddered. Yes, the men brought extra food, perhaps a little wine. But she would never descend to such depths, no matter how bad the circumstances.

  Van Huyssen, tall and blond, strode forward, smiling. “Ladies.” He spoke to both of them but his eyes were on Judyck’s face.

  “Was your trip successful?” asked Judyck.

  “Yes. Yes, indeed,” he said.

  “Ah, Coenraat. You’re back.” Cornelisz approached, elegant in breeches and a blue brocade longcoat, so different to the ragged sailors or even to the Company cadets. Lucretia wondered where he’d obtained the clothes.

  “Come and join Davidt and me, and tell me what you discovered. Maybe the ladies would care to join us for dinner this evening in my tent?” added Cornelisz. “And your mother and father, of course, Mistress Judyck.” He turned to Lucretia. “If you please, my lady?”

  Lucretia gazed up at him, at his sensual mouth, curved in a smile. “Of course.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to your company.” His smile widened, he offered her a small bow and turned, clapping a hand around van Huyssen’s shoulder. “Come, Coenraat.”

  Lucretia watched as Cornelisz and van Huyssen joined a waiting Zevanck. A quick conversation, heads together, and Cornelisz smiled. That boded well.

  *

  Dinner was served in the Council tent, which Cornelisz now used as his own. A canvas sheet partitioned off his private sleeping area. He’d had the carpenters build a bed for him from driftwood and appropriated one of the mattresses brought from the wreck. He had shelves, too, and a hanging rack where he’d arranged Pelsaert’s retrieved clothes.

  The council table, covered with a linen cloth for the dinner party, stood between the two poles. Cornelisz, in his usual chair, seated Lucretia on his right and van Huyssen on his left, with Judyck beside the young cadet. Gijsbert and Maria were placed next to their daughter and Zevanck, Gabriel Jacobsz and Frans Jansz opposite. The cook had done his best, creating a soup from broiled bird, pulses and seaweed, served with the allotted portion of the bread and a glass of Spanish red wine. A single lantern lent an orange glow to the silverware, recovered from the Great Cabin.

  Cornelisz lifted his cup. “Excellent news. Davidt and Coenraat have returned from the Seals’ Island and report resources sufficient to support a group of people.”

  The corporal’s grin almost split his face. “Excellent news, indeed, Master Cornelisz. And I’d be happy to lead a group over there.”

  A murmur of pleased remarks went around the table.

  “I thought perhaps forty people. Families, some of the youngsters to do the work for you. We’ll supply you weekly, just as for the High Islands group.”

  “We’ll need building materials,” said the corporal, a hand on his chin.

  “No need,” van Huyssen chimed in. “There’s plenty of wood and rope and—oh, all sorts of things—on the other side of the island. Washed up from the ship.”

  “I think this calls for a celebration,” said Cornelisz, beaming around the table. He jerked his head at Jan Pelgrom, who stood nearby. “One more glass each, Jan. To drink a toast to a new beginning.”

  Cornelisz’s lips curved in a hint of a smile as the lad refilled the offered goblets. Another forty less mouths to feed. Add that to the fifteen with Pieter Jansz the provost on Traitors’ Island and twenty of the best soldiers gone to the High Islands. That left a few more than one hundred and ten on Batavia’s Graveyard.

  He had no doubt the soldiers would not find water on the High Islands. Pelsaert hadn’t or he would have returned with it. Zevanck and Van Huyssen hadn’t found any water on Seals’ Island, either, but the corporal didn’t need to know that. If the Lord meant them to survive, He would see that they did. He stood and raised his glass. “To our new ventures. May they be as successful as we all hope.”

  “To our new ventures,” they chorused.

  They sat, heads together, discussing who might go and what might be needed. Zevanck and van Huyssen were called on to tell what they’d seen, to describe the marshy pools on the western side of the island.

  “Yes. Wading birds fishing. Not enough to supply all of us but plenty for forty,” said van Huyssen.

  At last they’d talked enough and conversation waned.

  “I’d best be off, then,” declared the corporal, setting his goblet back on the table. “I’ve a lot to think about and organise.”

  “Yes. Good night to you,” said the predikant.

  Lucretia stood and Cornelisz followed. God, she was lovely. The light from the lamp heightened the colour of her hair, gave her skin a glow. “Allow me to escort you, Lady,” he murmured.

  She turned to him, lips slightly parted. “No need, Jeronimus. My tent is close by. And I feel safe, now that you’ve restored order.”

  “Please. I insist.” He placed his fingertips, just for a moment, on the small of her back to guide her beyond the tent. “May I call you Creesje?”

  The night breeze, heavy with salt, sighed through the encampment, flapping canvas, singing in taut ropes. Clouds scudded overhead. Laughter drifted through the darkness. A light bloomed in a tent as the dinner gues
ts made their way home.

  “I am a married woman, sir. It would not be proper.”

  Cornelisz walked at Lucretia’s side, arms behind his back. “Well, then, I hope we can at least be friends.”

  “Of course.”

  He held the flap of her tent open for her as she slipped inside. “Good night, my lady. Sleep well.”

  A candle flared, casting her silhouette on the canvas. Cornelisz watched, blood pounding, as the shadow shed her skirt and bodice. His erection was so hard it was painful. For a moment he thought of the sisters in their make-shift brothel. But only for a moment. Not for him a quick roll on the canvas with one of the soldiers’ women. This beauty would need careful treatment.

  12

  “Smoke! See there? Smoke!” The sailor pointed a rigid arm at the shores of the South Land.

  Jacobsz squinted, following the line. Yes. A finger of smoke spiralled up into the afternoon sky, up there above the cliff-tops. If there was smoke, there was fire—and a fire could well mean people. Hope soared. “Bring her round, a little closer.”

  The current drove the longboat north, aided only slightly by a hint of breeze. Paul Barentsz, the officer-of-the-watch, had the sailors bring out the oars. They set-to with a will, their actions purposeful. Everyone sat up a little straighter, staring at the massive cliffs that stretched as far as the eye could see.

  “If someone has lit a fire, maybe there is fresh water,” said Pelsaert.

  Jacobsz put an arm around Zwaantie’s shoulders and gave her a brief hug. Trust the merchant to state the obvious. “You think so, Adriaen? Water?” she asked.

  “Let’s hope so,” he said. Let’s hope so indeed. The water they had stored was nearly gone, despite the careful rationing. If they didn’t find water soon, they were finished.

  “We can’t land in that, Cap’n,” said Barentsz.

  No, indeed. The sea seemed calm and yet the ocean rollers dashed themselves at the base of the cliffs, sending spray billowing high into the air. All eyes were on him, on the captain. Even Pelsaert stared at him with a mixture of hope and fear. “We can’t land, no. But we need answers, lads. We need water, or we’re finished. Will some of you swim ashore, see what you can find?”