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

by Greta van Der Rol

  Cornelisz hid his scowl.

  “Jeronimus,” shouted Zevanck.

  Cornelisz’ scowl deepened. Zevanck had better have a very good reason for his interruption. The day had dawned fine and clear and Lucretia was actually talking to him, telling him about her house in Amsterdam as they walked together along the scrap of beach a short distance from the settlement. She stepped back as Zevanck approached them at a jog. Behind him, Pietersz led three soldiers, the middle one, it seemed, reluctant.

  “I shall leave you, Jeronimus,” said Lucretia, already moving away.

  “I’ve enjoyed our chat.” One last glimpse at her retreating form—lovely in the blue dress—and Cornelisz turned to Zevanck. “Well?”

  Zevanck’s grin faded a little. “We caught this fellow tapping a wine barrel.” He jerked his head at the man in the grip of two of Pietersz’s trusted men, Janssen and Beer.

  “Is that so?” purred Cornelisz. Just what he’d been waiting for. And he hadn’t had to wait very long at all. “Corporal Pietersz, I’ll put you in charge of interrogating our friend. What’s his name?”

  “Abraham. Abraham Hendricksz.”

  “I shall convene a special meeting of the council,” said Cornelisz. “Just tell me when you’ve finished your questioning.”

  He smiled as Pietersz hustled his prisoner away.

  *

  Abraham, dishevelled, bruised and with a swollen eye, appeared before the council as the sun started to dip towards the horizon. Arms tied behind his back, he stood, downcast, between Beer and Janssen.

  “He’s admitted his crime, gentlemen of the council,” said Pietersz. He loomed over the man, justifying his nickname, the Stonecutter. “Says he’s tapped barrels several times before.”

  A sigh went around the assembled councillors. This was more than stealing; given their straitened circumstances, it was low and selfish.

  “He’s stolen enough to be drunk,” said Pietersz.

  “What have you to say, Abraham?” asked Cornelisz. “Is this true?”

  The prisoner shuffled his feet, silent until Beer jabbed him. “Yes.”

  “You have selfishly stolen wine meant for others. We have little enough to go around. Only one punishment is fitting for such a low act,” said Cornelisz, shaking his head as if in sorrow. A quick glance at his fellow councillors’ faces confirmed his judgement. “Death. Death by drowning.”

  Hendricksz staggered, the colour draining from his face. “But it wasn’t just me.”

  “No? Who else?” asked Cornelisz.

  “I shared. Shared with a gunner,” stammered Hendricksz.

  “Name?”

  “Adriaen,” he gasped. “Adriaen Adriaensz.”

  “Well, then, you will both die,” said Cornelisz. This was even better. As Abraham’s lips opened and closed like a caught fish, around the table, the councillors stirred.

  “Now wait a minute, Master Cornelisz,” said Frans Jansz. “I agree this Adriaen should be punished but if he didn’t steal the wine, death seems a little excessive.”

  Haas nodded. “A flogging, yes. Short rations, perhaps.”

  “The gunner stole as much as Abraham did,” said Cornelisz. He stared at the others, voice laced with outrage. “Just because he wasn’t there when the wine was taken, he is no less culpable for what happened next. They must both die. It will set an example to others.”

  “Master Cornelisz, I’m sorry, I cannot agree,” said the barber. “The soldier, yes. But the other deserves some mercy.”

  At his side, Salomon Deschamps nodded agreement.

  Fools. Soft-hearted, weak idiots. Cornelisz hid his elation. He’d expected this. According to the way the council was established, he had no choice but to agree with the majority decision. “Then so be it. Abraham Hendricksz, you have admitted to the charge of theft of provisions and I hereby sentence you to death by drowning. Take him away.”

  Hendricksz struggled, gasping ‘no, no’ as Beer and Janssen dragged him outside. Cornelisz would have liked to watch the punishment, but first things first. “Corporal,” he said, “after the sentence has been carried out, find this gunner Adriaen and arrest him.”

  Pietersz grinned and lumbered out, leaving Cornelisz and the council.

  “Gentlemen, I have acceded to your decision,” said Cornelisz. He kept his voice deep. “But I am frankly amazed at your conduct and deem it is not in the best interest of the people we represent. Therefore, I thank you for your service. You are all dismissed as councillors.”

  Faint splashes and cries drifted into the tent from outside.

  “You can’t do that,” said Frans, eyes bright with outrage.

  “Er, in fact he can,” said Deschamps. “The Chairman of the Council has the legal right to remove any councillor from the council, provided a replacement is made within a day.”

  “And that,” said Cornelisz, “I will do.” He stood. “Good day to you all.”

  15

  Latitude, wind, weather and course. Pelsaert looked down at the daily list of entries in his journal, sparse commentary for this endless voyage. Eight days. Eight days since they’d left the desiccated shores of the South Land. But what else could he write? The men on duty sagged, conserving their energy, their faces reddened by salt and sun. Those off duty rested or slept, leaning against each other. No one spoke unless they had to. Waves lapped the hull; the ropes that held the sail creaked against the bollards.

  He passed his tongue over cracked lips. A pointless reflex reaction. He had little moisture in his mouth and his tongue was thick and stiff. They’d subsisted on two cups of water each day since they left the South Land and even so, if the merciful rain had not fallen once or twice, well death comes as the end.

  Saartje wriggled beside him, no doubt trying to relieve muscles tired of sitting. He’d tried the same thing himself. What could you do if you couldn’t stand, couldn’t lie down, couldn’t stretch? The child swung in the sling at her breast. Young Wouter had complained long and bitterly last night but he was better fed, better protected, more comfortable than anyone else. Now he whimpered as his mother adjusted a shawl over his head to protect him from the sun, hot and fierce in the tropical sky.

  “Seaweed,” mumbled the man in the prow. He pointed to starboard.

  More seaweed. Pelsaert leaned forward, eyes narrowed against the reflected glare and spied the lump of seagrass riding the swell. You got that when land was close by, they’d told him. He hoped they were right. And that the land was the Indies.

  Evertsz, officer of the watch, stood to take his noon measurements, holding the backstaff against the side of his face, his back to the sun. Pelsaert loaded his quill with ink and looked at him, expectant, while he did his calculations.

  “Eleven thirty. Thirty-one. North by west. Wind to south-east.” Evertsz laboured to speak, his tongue slurring the words.

  By now, Pelsaert could translate his words. Latitude eleven degrees thirty minutes, they’d sailed thirty one miles, bearing north by west, with a wind from the south-east. He added a note that they’d hoisted the top gallant and that they’d noticed seaweed floating.

  Another day, another two degrees further north. The sun burned, the water glittered. Saartje leant over the side to collect water so she could wash Wouter, who complained lustily. Nobody grumbled. It seemed to Pelsaert that for everyone the baby was a symbol of hope, something to strive for. If this tiny infant could survive, why could not they? If only to deliver him safely to Batavia.

  Jacobsz’s voice announcing the change of shift roused Pelsaert from the fitful doze which passed for sleep. He joined in the routine as they moved around the boat, practised now as they all were. At dawn the breakfast ration was passed around—a small mug of water and a sliver of bread each. He sipped, savouring each precious drop, before handing the mug back for the next man. The bread could have been paper but he forced himself to eat it. He wasn’t hungry. His shrunken stomach was now well used to short commons. Ah, what he’d give for real bread,
with butter and cheese, good Dutch cheese.

  “We’ll get some rain today,” said the captain when he’d finished his water. “Be ready to catch what you can.”

  “Can’t be far now,” Gerritsz said.

  “No. Wake me if you have landfall, huh?” said Jacobsz. He settled himself down to rest.

  Rain, thought Pelsaert. It had rained a few days after they’d left the High Island and that with the huge seas had almost been enough to sink the boat. Some rain was a blessing; too much rain and they would surely drown. Best to think of landfall. Jacobsz had seemed sure and—loath as he was to admit it—the man had never been wrong.

  *

  “Land, Cap’n.” The lookout pointed ahead, a little to port.

  Jacobsz sat up, straightening his back and stared over a sullen sea. Yes. Land. A long, dark horizon. His muscles quivered with the numbing fatigue of relief. The duty officer hadn’t been able to take a reading of latitude because of the overcast sky but a reasonable guess was eight degrees, which would put them just off the coast of Java.

  A sigh went through the boat like a ripple of breeze. Cracked lips half hidden in tangled beards parted in smiles. Hans hugged Saartje; men woke their sleeping friends.

  Zwaantie grabbed Jacobsz’s arm in a tight grip. “Land. We’re saved,” she whispered.

  Jacobsz took a mouthful of water, collected in a mug when a cloud had drifted over the boat. “We’re not there yet.” Too early for jubilation. This was the south coast of Java. They had still to find the strait that led to the north, to Batavia.

  “We must be careful,” said Pelsaert, his voice thick and heavy. “We are at war with the natives.”

  True, thought Jacobsz but water was more important, now. The shower a few hours ago would see them through today and they had enough for tomorrow. After that? He glanced around the faces, sunburnt, hollow-eyed, gaunt; every man bearded, the two women’s skins red and rough from sun and salt.

  “We’ve come this far. God is with us, lads. Set course along the coast,” he said. “We’ll find a place to go ashore.”

  No one slept.

  The dark mass on the horizon became a green coast. The longboat sailed five miles out to sea along tree-lined sandy beaches swept by gentle surf. So different from the pounding rollers that hammered the rocky shores of the South Land and yet too difficult for an exhausted crew. Towards evening they approached a tree-covered island that lay off a cape.

  “In there,” said Jacobsz. The sea would be calm there, between the island and the land. “We’ll find somewhere to anchor and go ashore tomorrow.”

  With shortened sail the boat slipped into the calm waters between the main mass of Java and the island. The shadows lengthened and the light took on the orange glow of evening as the sun disappeared behind the trees.

  “Take soundings,” said Fransz, the duty officer.

  The last red glow of sunset was beginning to fade when Jacobsz ordered the anchor to be dropped into hard ground at eight fathoms. The sea was so calm it felt odd, as though the boat’s keel should be moving.

  “I long to stand on dry land,” Zwaantie said, voice soft yet petulant. “Why can’t we land tonight?”

  “It’ll soon be dark and we don’t know what’s out there. There are wild beasts in the jungle; maybe natives. They don’t like us,” Jacobsz said.

  Zwaantie sighed. “Perhaps I would have done better to have stayed on the islands.”

  She leant against Jacobsz’s shoulder and he put an arm around her. He felt her ribs through the material of her dress. Oh, poor girl. She had suffered, this buxom maid with her lovely bosom. But he’d make it up to her, fatten her up again when they reached Batavia.

  He started at cries drifting across the water from the trees and relaxed as he recognised the evening caterwauling of monkeys preparing to sleep. Tiny wings were briefly silhouetted against the darkening sky as bats flew abroad to hunt. There would be water here. Water in the forest, streams that ran to the shore. Many were the times he cursed the never-ending rain in these Eastern ports. He grinned, allowing the joy to surge into his belly. “A few more days, girl. A few more days and we’ll be in Batavia.”

  Dawn brightened the treetops and the stars faded as the birds welcomed the sun, their calls loud in the still air. Jacobsz listened and shared a half-smile with the sailors on watch. They’d had nothing to do but wait for the morning. The longboat lay unmoving on the water for the first time since they’d left the High Island twenty days ago. He gazed along the shoreline. Where to land? As the light rose he noticed an indentation in the beach. A stream. It had to be.

  “Raise the anchor and set the oars,” said Jacobsz.

  As the rest of the passengers roused around them, the oarsmen rowed the hundred yards to the shallows. The anticipation in the boat was palpable, faces lifted, eager, excited. Jacobsz cast an indulgent look at Zwaantie, chin raised, eyes bright.

  He left the boat a little off-shore, at anchor, and they waded the last few yards, even Pelsaert. The unusual sensation of solid ground had many staggering. Jacobsz helped Zwaantie, Hans helped Saartje but many sailors also stumbled ashore, arms around each other. Several fell to their knees, eyes closed. No doubt thanking the Lord, thought Jacobsz. He wouldn’t be doing that until he was safe within the harbour in Batavia, but a brief thank you to Saint Nicholas was probably in order. Zwaantie sagged. “A little further and you can lie on your face and drink your fill,” he urged her.

  Water. Fresh, cool, clean water poured down out of the jungle into the sea, gurgling over the rocks, sunlight glancing from the ripples. Jacobsz cast himself down, Zwaantie beside him, and sucked the stuff into his throat and when he could suck no more, he stuck his whole head into the current, washing away salt and grime. At last, replete, he sat up. Everyone else had done as he had. Now, some did pray to God for their deliverance. Thank you, Saint Nicholas, he said to himself. Now help me just a little further.

  He rose to his feet and breathed in moist air that carried a tang of earth and decay, a subtle whiff of a flower. So different from the salt-laden breezes of the sea.

  “Cap’n. Look.”

  The call came from further up the creek. Jacobsz followed the stream where it passed around the bole of an enormous tree. He stopped, grinning. Evertsz stood under a waterfall that cascaded over a lip of rock a few feet above his head and into a shallow pool that overflowed into the stream. Ferns grew in the crevices in the rocks, and jungle plants stretched across the water, the droplets that beaded their leaves sparkling in the early morning light.

  “Magnificent,” said Jacobsz. “We’ll easily fill our barrels here.”

  Evertsz stepped out of the cascade shaking water from his hair and beard. “Ah, that feels good. I was stiff with salt.”

  “We’ll fetch the women,” said Jacobsz. “They’ll enjoy this.”

  “You mean to sail on today?” asked Evertsz as they walked together back to the beach.

  “We must. It’s twenty days since we left.” Jacobsz gazed past the island, south. How many were still alive, he wondered? How long had it taken before the sea had claimed his ship, taken her finally beneath the waves?

  “Do you think they could survive?” asked Pelsaert.

  Jacobsz started. He hadn’t noticed the merchant approach him. He stared at the man, as ragged and haggard as the rest, cheek bones prominent above the beard, his dark eyes bright. “If it rained, if they were careful, maybe. The ship is strong and stuck fast on the reef she would be accessible for many days. If they built rafts they could salvage some goods. Building materials for tents, more provisions.”

  Pelsaert nodded. Jacobsz wondered what he was most concerned about—the people left behind on the islets on the reef, or the cases of silver.

  “Don’t worry. Your treasure won’t be drowned too deep.”

  The dark eyes flashed with anger. “I have not forgotten what you left behind, Captain,” Pelsaert hissed.

  For a moment Jacobsz wondered. Oh yes. Pelsa
ert’s personal barrel of booty, left on the islet in place of a barrel of bread. Well, too bad. “I’ll have the water casks replenished and then we’ll sail on before noon. The last thing we want is for the local Sultan to catch us.”

  “A plate of roast meat and vegetables and a jug of good wine,” said Fransz as they raised the sail. “That’s to start. And then I’ll hire me a doxy or two.”

  A sailor chuckled. “Better get a shave first. She’ll think you’re one of those big apes.”

  “Or a skeleton of an ape.”

  *

  Pelsaert smiled with the rest as they bantered about Batavia and what they’d do when they got there. He had his own agenda. Food first, then a shave and clean clothes. And then? And then he’d have to face Jan Pieterszoon Coen. He shivered slightly and glanced at Jacobsz, who sat silent. The captain wouldn’t be looking forward to that interview with the Governor, either. Served him right.

  A damp breeze filled the sails; the longboat skirted the tree-lined coast, heading for the gap between Sumatra and Java.

  Pelsaert sharpened his quill again. The boat glided over smooth sea, lamentably slowly. The journey to the Straits had taken longer than anyone had anticipated but then, no man could command the weather. The wind had failed, as it so often did in these latitudes and the sailors had to row. His heart had gone out to these gaunt men, hungry and hollow-eyed. But at least they had water and now they were so close they had hope. He bent over his book. They were well into the Sunda Strait now, on the last leg to Batavia.

  “A sail.” Gerritsz pointed into the setting sun, the island of Dwars-in-den-Wegh a stark silhouette against the orange glow. Pelsaert shaded his eyes with his hand and peered. Sure enough; the angular sails of a square-rigger. A stir swept through the passengers.

  “One of ours?”