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

by Greta van Der Rol

  “I’ll go, Cap’n.” The sailor was already pulling off his shirt.

  “Good lad, well done. Who else? We need maybe six of you.”

  And six he had. Young, strong men. They slipped over the side and rode in with the waves while the longboat stood off shore, beyond the breakers. They struggled ashore, dragging themselves up onto the rocks. One man fell and was sucked back with the receding water and for a moment Jacobsz thought he was lost. But no. He bobbed up again and caught the next wave.

  He counted them. One, two, three… Now four, five. Ah, the sixth clambered up a sloping rock as the water drew back behind him. Now they started the steep ascent to the top of the plateau, finding handholds with fingers and toes. If they did find water, Jacobsz wondered, how would they bring it back?

  Jacobsz rolled his shoulders and scratched absently at his beard. The boat rocked a little as the waiting passengers took the chance, with six less people, to shift position, stretching cramped muscles in between watching the six explorers. June thirteenth and latitude twenty four degrees. By now, they had passed that corner of the unknown land where the coast starts to run north-north-east. They must be three hundred miles from the wreck site. Hard to believe that all this began just nine days ago.

  “I wonder how the other people are?” said Zwaantie. She leant against his arm, her voice low.

  “Huh. Yes, I was thinking that, too,” said Jacobsz. “I hope they collected the rainwater.”

  “What will happen if we don’t find water?” whispered Zwaantie.

  “Don’t give up just yet. The smoke means people. And people means water.” He refused to let himself consider anything else.

  Pelsaert’s head turned towards them enough so Jacobsz could see his forehead creased in a frown. He’d obviously heard what they said. No privacy here. Not for anything. Maybe he was thinking about the rest of the survivors too. Or maybe his mind was on the boxes of silver.

  “Cap’n. Look.” Barentsz pointed, tense.

  “Savages,” Pelsaert hissed.

  Four forms ran inland, away from the searching sailors.

  “You see? People,” said Pelsaert, turning triumphant eyes on Jacobsz.

  “A good sign,” said Jacobsz. People? Maybe. Maybe some other species that looked human. They certainly were savages —or so it seemed. As long as they needed water to survive, that was all that really mattered.

  The longboat rocked in the current, held on the sea-anchor. The baby stirred.

  The six swimmers battled their way back past the breakers as the setting sun tinted the cliff faces vermillion. One by one, they were dragged back into the boat, to sit panting, soaking wet and exhausted. Each one bore the scars of the journey, blood from scrapes and gashes staining the water dripping from their bodies.

  “What of the savages?” Pelsaert asked, eager and urgent.

  “They ran away as we approached. Scared the … the life out of us, they did. Black as night, they were, and stark bollocks naked. We called to them, but...” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Did you find water? A campfire?”

  “The remains of a campfire, sir. No water. No spring. It’s a God forsaken land with nothing but flies and a few birds. No person could live there.” Someone handed the sailor a cup of water and he sipped slowly, rolling the moisture around his mouth.

  Pelsaert’s shoulders slumped. So did a few others.

  “We’re not dead yet,” said Jacobsz. “And whether they’re human or something else, they’ll need fresh water. These cliffs must end. Come on, lads, raise some sail and we’ll follow the coast.”

  *

  Pelsaert woke with the dawn. The girl Saartje and her husband leaned against each other. Jacobsz dozed, his head on Zwaantie’s shoulder, lips parted. Somebody stood in the bow to pee, the sound drowned by the steady slap of waves on the hull. God, what he would give to sleep in a bed, to stretch out full-length, to be clean and shaved and eat a full meal with a glass of fine wine.

  The longboat ran with the current under a shortened sail. At least the sea was mercifully calm. The memory of the storm rose and he shifted uncomfortably on the hard wood. He’d been sure he was going to die. Perhaps he would, anyway. Drown, his carcass eaten by sharks, or die of thirst, his body desiccating until the boat dashed itself to pieces on the rocks.

  To the west the surf still boomed but now he put his mind to it, not so loudly. The shore loomed black and invisible in the half-light, a menacing bulk against the orange skyline. Hard to tell.

  Hopes rose with the sun. Yes, the cliffs had receded. They sailed along a reef protecting the coastline from the sea. Much like the reef around the tiny islets which had caught the Batavia.

  Jacobsz, roused by the duty officer leaning to whisper, yawned and stretched, nearly hitting the man next to him. “A reef?”

  Pelsaert started. A reef? Out here? No one seemed concerned.

  “Come inside it,” said Jacobsz. “Could be we’ll find an inlet.”

  “Why?” asked Pelsaert.

  Jacobsz shot him a look, as though he was talking to an idiot. “Because maybe that’s why the outer reef was formed. Deposits. You see it a lot. Islands around a river mouth. Like Texel and the islands along the Zuider See.”

  The time would come, Pelsaert promised himself as the captain turned away. He’d make sure the arrogant cock would never sail again.

  The sun rose higher into a pale, clear sky. Sea birds wheeled in the still air and schools of fish darted and dived beneath the boat’s keel. Jacobsz ordered soundings of the depth as the vessel eased along between the reef and the shore. The monotonous landscape marched on, a shoreline reef protecting silver-white dunes that lapped an escarpment.

  “There. Bring her into that opening.”

  An opening, yes, thought Pelsaert, but no beach. He sat, impatient, as the sailors rowed the boat in close to the rocks and set an anchor. Jacobsz was first to clamber over the side and hold up his hands to help Zwaantie. Pelsaert, legs strangely stiff and yet rubbery, struggled over the raised side and set his feet down on dry land. The sensation of movement would diminish, he knew, as his brain recognised where it was.

  “Take care, all of you. You’ve seen the savages. Keep in your watch groups and don’t stray too far.” Jacobsz stood, hands on hips, giving the orders, as usual. “You four, look after the commandeur and the women.”

  Pelsaert stumbled along with the others, obscurely pleased that none of them was comfortable on the solid ground. The soft sand shifted beneath his feet. Walking was hard work. Even the infant complained at his mother’s strained gait until his father took the child from her arms and tossed young Wouter up onto his shoulder.

  “This will do,” Pelsaert said, flopping down beside a rocky outcrop. His muscles shook. The sunlight was bright but not hot and clouds were building in the west, big, fluffy clouds that never brought rain. The women were content, leaving a respectful gap between him and them. He sat, knees up to his chin, watching as Saartje crooned to the child. Zwaantie leant her back against a rock beside her and the four sailors paced around, stretching legs and arms. Not far away, a group laboured to dig, using an oar. Flies swarmed. He waved them away from his eyes and his mouth but still they hovered like a cloud.

  “Water.”

  Pelsaert scrambled to his feet at the cry and hurried to where the men surrounded a pit a few feet deep. Gerritsz lay face down, hand scooping up the liquid. A quick slurp and he spat the mouthful into the sand beside him.. “Salty.”

  Jacobsz’s shadow loomed. “Take your watch up to the high ground,” he said to Gerritsz, waving a hand. “See what you can find there.”

  “We’re wasting our time, Cap’n,” mumbled Gerritsz, low-voiced. “This place is hell, or what comes before.” Flies buzzed around his face.

  “So you’ll curl up here and die? Is that what you want?” Jacobsz’s voice dripped contempt. “Stay here then, with the women. We’ve seen savages, we’ve seen fires. There must be water. Who wants to come w
ith me?” He stared around at the ring of faces as they stirred, shifting their weight, exchanging glances.

  Pelsaert held his breath. He could negotiate a deal with a trader, agree on a good price. But only a man like Jacobsz could win over these hardened men. And he did. The captain strode off towards the escarpment. So many followed him he had to send some back.

  *

  Jacobsz led the way up weather-smoothed rock onto a flat, featureless plain. No trees, just the same tough, leathery vegetation they’d seen on the Cats’ Islands. Sunlight bounced off pale rock, red dirt and silver-grey leaves. A movement in the corner of his eye turned out to be a small lizard, startled into hiding. He waved the incessant flies away from his face.

  “I wonder what they eat when they can’t get Dutchman?” somebody muttered as he slapped a hand to his cheek.

  Everybody chuckled, ironic, half-hearted mirth.

  “Spread out, lads, but not too far. Pairs, eh? Who’s got the weapons?”

  Clouds had built up, the type that rise above the sea and then float inland with the sea breeze, galleons in the air, casting patches of shadow as they sailed past. The men searched through the noon hours until at last a cry went up.

  “Cap’n. Here.” The sailor waved his arm, his excitement obvious and his colleagues came running. Water lay in rock pools, fresh and sweet.

  “Excellent,” said Jacobsz, clapping the man on his back. “You’ve drunk? Yes? Go down and fetch some others with the water casks.” He stood, head bowed. Tears—tears of relief—pricked at his eyes. Enough for a few more days. Men lay on the rocks, slurping like animals. He wasn’t ashamed to take his turn. Cool, sweet water flowed over his tongue and down his parched throat. It tasted better than anything he’d ever drunk before.

  Men swarmed up the cliffs, tearing their hands in their eagerness for the precious liquid. Jacobsz had them fill a few casks to take down to Pelsaert, the women and their escort, then widened the search around the rock pools. The men explored, heartened by the change in their fortunes. Soon, they found the remnants of a recent camp fire and a pile of crab shells.

  “Looks like a good idea,” said a sailor. He eyed Jacobsz as if expecting a rebuke.

  “Agreed,” said Jacobsz. Crabs and shellfish. The last thing a man would eat. But needs must. “Go down to the beach and tell the duty officer I said to organise a crab hunt.”

  *

  The flies disappeared with the sun. Pelsaert sat close to the fire, enjoying the warmth on his face. Strange that such simple pleasures could mean so much. Fresh water, dancing flame, the smell of crabs cooking in a pot. Some of the creatures had seemed very small but he expected they would taste sweet. And best of all, the food would be warm. His mouth watered at the thought. He passed a tongue over lips no longer cracked as dry mud. The men sat in groups, lay with legs stretched out on the sand. Jacobsz had set a watch and Pelsaert approved. Who knew if the savages might return? He’d heard often enough of tribes who ate human flesh. And if not savages, who knew what other strange animals might live on this forsaken shore? Or in the oceans, ready to crawl from the waters while they slept?

  The crabs were soon done. The men poured them out onto the sand and they ate with their hands, waiting impatiently until the shells were cool enough to handle. Pelsaert watched the sailors remove the flesh, carefully avoiding the ‘dead man’s fingers’. He sucked the juices from the legs along with everybody else, cracking the shells with his teeth.

  *

  Jacobsz rolled over and sat up, careful not to disturb Zwaantie. Moving quietly, he stepped over to where Evertsz, the current duty officer, sat with his back to the land.

  “Not your turn yet, Adriaen,” Evertsz said. “Still another hour.”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Huh. Can’t say that about anyone else.”

  Snores and mutters issued from huddled forms surrounding the glowing coals of the fire. A few yards away a couple of men paced, keeping watch. Jacobsz said nothing, staring at the horizon. A sliver of moon raised her horns in the sky. The stars blazed.

  “What now?” asked Evertsz.

  “Now? Batavia.”

  “He won’t object?”

  “Pelsaert? This land is dry, barren. You can tell by the plants.”

  A mumble of agreement.

  “Speaking of Pelsaert. I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Evertsz. “About the lovely Creesje. What’s he going to do? About the attack?”

  “Don’t worry about it. There’s no proof—just her word.”

  Evertsz sat silent for a moment. “Any regrets? You know … that she wouldn’t have you…?” he said at last.

  Jacobsz shrugged. “Ah, I wouldn’t have minded giving her a good seeing-to. But … she’s a pretty cold, unemotional piece. I reckon I’m better off with Zwaantie. She knows what a man wants.”

  He had a fair idea who was responsible for the attack. The sailors said they were affronted because the woman had turned down their captain. But he knew better. Bored men, the worst for illicit drink, distracted by a beautiful woman who so clearly thought she was better than everyone else. So they’d brought her down a peg or two. And if he’d intervened, if he’d meted out discipline … who knew what might have happened, so late in a voyage? He’d made that clear to Pelsaert. Besides, they hadn’t hurt her. Just her pride.

  Evertsz tossed a stick onto the fire and it flared into flame. “I wonder how they’re getting on, back there.”

  Back there. Back there on that desert island. She was one of a handful of women, mixed in with the rabble. “No point in wondering,” said Jacobsz. No point at all. But he did, for all that. “Go on, get some sleep. I’ll take over.”

  *

  “You signed. You signed an undertaking as God was your witness that we’d take water back,” said Pelsaert.

  Jacobsz stood before him, bearded now, maybe a little thinner, as they all were, but tough as a mast. “We are three hundred miles away, and the wind and the current flows against us. We’d die of thirst ourselves before we got to them.”

  The two men stood apart from the others. They’d revived the fire and the aroma of cooking fish drifted into the air.

  “We must try,” said Pelsaert, voice cracking with emotion. His ignominious retreat that day when the boat approached Batavia’s Graveyard still plagued his conscience. Voices echoed in his ears. Traitor; heartless; coward.

  “We have tried. All morning we’ve tried. The water we found can only have been left from the rain a few days ago. There is no stream, no lake, no well. Just high anthills and a few lizards. Hardly even a bird in the sky apart from the gulls. The best we could do for our people is bring them help. We must go now, with what water we have and head for Batavia. If we follow the coast any further, we will lengthen our own journey.” The captain’s eyes blazed with irritation.

  Pelsaert sighed. What choice was there? No choice at all. He nodded. “Very well.”

  13

  Cornelisz carried the barrel, retrieved from Traitors’ Island and standing all this time amongst the stores, into his tent. No one had denied his right, as the most senior representative of the Company, to take charge of the Company’s goods. He hadn’t noticed it before, hadn’t known where it came from, until they’d brought a new pile of bounty from the flotsam of the wreck and taken it to the stores tent. The rest could stay there—bales of black cotton and red laken, fine wines, cochineal, mercury, embroidered gold and silver lace, silk stockings, buckled shoes. But this barrel, this special barrel, he wanted to see for himself. Just a glimpse had been enough to set his pulse racing. Pelsaert must have packed it, must have taken it with him when he left the sinking ship. Oh, how he must have kicked himself when he realised he’d left it behind.

  The barrel was heavy. He’d thought about having someone else carry it down for him, but no. This was special. Having set the barrel on the floor next to his chair at the council table, Cornelisz removed the lid. Hands trembling, he drew out the contents and placed them on the
table in front of him. Jewels. A ruby ring, the stone the colour of fresh blood. A necklace, at its centre a winking emerald, on both sides, sapphires. He let the stones run through his fingers, cool and sensual, before he turned his attention to a glittering, diamond encrusted tiara. Pearl earrings, a dagger with an elaborately worked hilt in the form of a dragon’s head. Silver tobacco tins, candlesticks, brooches. Destined for the merchants in Batavia or maybe the Sultans or even the Great Mogul’s court.

  Except now, they were his.

  What was this, now? He prised out the box, pushed awkwardly at an angle into the barrel. The plain wooden container held a second box, of finely-carved, polished pine with a gold hasp. Mouth dry with anticipation, he flicked open the hasp and took out a velvet-wrapped object. He placed the treasure on the table with reverential care and carefully peeled back the wrapping.

  Ah. Exquisite.

  An agate cameo, the figures, glossy cream with greenish highlights, dramatically posed on a deep green background. Two centaurs drew a chariot carrying a man and woman seated side-by-side, with a small boy in military costume in front of them. An angel flew overhead, a laurel wreath in its hands. Entranced, Cornelisz slid his fingers over the smooth stone and admired the detail, the drape of the tunics, the angel’s wings, the centaurs’ hair and beards. The bejewelled surrounds only served to heighten the value of the carving at the centre. A border of gold and precious stones edged the cameo and the whole sat in an ornate, star-shaped setting that sparkled with filigrees of gold and multi-coloured gems.

  This thing must be priceless. He wondered where it had come from and where it was going. Antique, he’d guess, a relic of something Roman? Or Greek? He wondered whether the Company had known about it. Or about the other items in the barrel. He’d heard that merchants did some trading of their own, on the side. Was this Pelsaert’s example?

  “Jeronimus?”

  The voice startled him until he remembered he’d told van Huyssen, Zevanck and the others to report to him after they’d finished seeing the goods stored. Covering the cameo with the velvet cloth, he rose, smiling. “Come in, come in.”