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

by Greta van Der Rol

  A slim slave girl passed him, hips swaying, wearing the cool cotton skirts they draped around their bodies, a basket on one hip. Nice. Much more sensible the way the natives dressed.

  A sharp jab in the ribs diverted his attention. Zwaantie scowled at him. “I see you’re feeling better.”

  “That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  He thought so, too. Neither of them had been interested in much but eating and sleeping since they boarded Sardam seven days ago.

  “Have you been with them?” she asked, jerking a wrist at the woman’s retreating back. “In bed?”

  “Well, there’s not a lot of choice here, is there?” He cast a hand around. Not a white woman in sight.

  “They’re so different to us,” said Zwaantie, her face flushed with the heat. He’d bought her a new gown—still a little large for her until she’d put some meat on her bones. “All with black hair and dark skin. And eyes a funny shape.”

  True, thought Jacobsz, but they were all the same in the dark, in the only places that mattered. “I prefer pale skin and a good handful of woman,” he said.

  That seemed to placate her. She smiled up at him but just as quickly the smile was gone. “Will we be going home soon?”

  “Don’t you like it here?”

  “It’s… not what I expected.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know.” She was silent for a moment. “It was meant to be an adventure. Somewhere new, living in a fine house with a fine lady. Like at home, but different.”

  He knew what she meant. Within the walled city, the houses looked like houses at home, with tall, gabled roofs and large, shuttered windows, set along canals. Everyone wore the same clothes they’d wear at home. But this wasn’t home and it never would be. No sane person ever wanted to live here.

  “It’s so hot,” she complained.

  “It is, but you get used to it.”

  “I don’t want to get used to it. I want to go home.” Her lip jutted in a pout.

  “They send a fleet every three months. You’ll be able to get on a ship.”

  She stopped. “I want to stay with you.”

  “They might send me back to the wreck, Zwaantie. I’d be gone a few months.”

  He hadn’t talked about it, not to Pelsaert, not to anybody, but it made sense and he’d be happy to go back to the wreck site, back to rescue his passengers and crew. Well… not happy. But it was his duty. He felt a twinge of unease that they hadn’t summoned him yet. They’d reached Batavia two evenings ago. He wondered if Pelsaert had been to talk to Coen. Maybe not on the Sunday, but surely today?

  “How many months?” Zwaantie asked.

  “Let’s find the others,” he said, leading her towards one of the taverns. “See how they’re all getting on.” He had no real illusions about Zwaantie. If he wasn’t around, there would soon be someone else, he was certain. Sad but true. Such was the life of a sailor.

  The scent of tobacco filled the bar, built low and dark, just like the taverns in Old Amsterdam. The high shutters were flung open but the sultry air did little to dissipate the fug in the room. Figures sat at tables, long pipes in one hand, tankards in the other, laughing and conversing in loud voices. Some had local girls draped over them. Jacobsz looked around, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, until a voice called.

  “Cap’n, over here.”

  He headed for the waving hand and grabbed a vacant chair as he passed. Familiar faces, still gaunt and thin, but smiling. Gerritsz, Fransz and Hollert, his senior officers from the Batavia. Like him, they’d all had their beards shaved, revealing pink cheeks and chins contrasting with burnt foreheads and noses.

  “Well met,” he said, arranging his seat at the table. The others moved along for Zwaantie.

  All the steersmen, but not the high boatswain, thought Jacobsz. He must be out having a piss or something. The proprietor appeared immediately at his elbow and he ordered beer.

  “Where’s Jan?” Jacobsz asked.

  They hushed and stared at him. “Don’t you know?” Gerritsz said.

  “Know what?”

  “They arrested him.”

  Blood sang in Jacobsz’s ears. “Arrested?”

  Fransz nodded. “This morning. We thought you’d know. Marched him off to the prison cells.”

  “What for?” Jacobsz asked.

  The three steersmen exchanged glances.

  “They didn’t say,” Gerritsz said. “Maybe it was something from before, that we don’t know about.”

  “Maybe,” Jacobsz said. But if it wasn’t something from before then it had to be—it could only be—the matter with Lucretia. His stomach knotted. Coen. Righteous bastard, so he’d heard. Hard as nails but pious as they come. And of course Pelsaert would have told the tale.

  The beer arrived, brought on a wooden platter by a male slave. They drank. Not as good as the beer at home but good all the same.

  “Do you think it’s about the Lady Lucretia?” Fransz asked.

  “‘Cos if it is, Jan’s in trouble,” muttered Hollert. He leaned across the table, eyes glassy with drink. “Did you hear what Coen did to Specx’s daughter? Just twelve years old. Specx left her here for Coen to look after. She was caught in a love tryst with a boyfriend. In the Governor’s apartments. Boy’s the relative of some high-up Company official in Amsterdam. Didn’t matter, though. The fellow was beheaded and they only just convinced Coen not to drown the girl. Flogged her within an inch of her life, instead.”

  Jacobsz wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Where’d you hear this?”

  Fransz pointed at the inn keeper, fat and florid. “It happened just a couple of months ago.”

  “Hey, look, they’re setting up the gallows,” somebody shouted from the doorway.

  The room erupted. What better source of entertainment than a hanging? Men pushed towards the courtyard outside the town hall, some gulping down a last mouthful of ale. Jacobsz and the others followed. A queasy worm of unease wriggled in Jacobsz’s stomach. But no. It couldn’t be. They’d only just arrested him this morning.

  They’d finished putting up the noose by the time he arrived. The cross-pieces were always there, solid wooden uprights and a span wide enough to hold half a dozen bodies. The skeletal remains of one still hung down one end. The soldier tested the knot and stepped down from the ladder. An officer, sweating in his formal coat with its stiff collar, nodded. A squad appeared, half-carrying a thin figure, arms tied behind his back, from a cart at the side of the square. Jacobsz’s heart bounced and Zwaantie’s fingers dug into his arm.

  “Adriaen,” she whispered.

  The officer turned, a document in his hand. “The prisoner, Jan Evertszoon, high boatswain of the Company’s ship Batavia is accused of foul mistreatment of a woman passenger, a lady of standing, on board the said ship, to which crime he has confessed. By order of the Governor General, His Excellency Jan Pieterszoon Coen, he is sentenced to punishment on the gallows with the cord till death follows, with confiscation of all his money, gold, silver, monthly wages and all claims which here in the Indies he may have against the profits of the East India Company, our masters.”

  A whisper rippled through the listening audience and then the taunts started, the usual sport for a man condemned to death. Men chuckled and set wagers on how long he’d last before he died, whether he’d get a hard-on, piss his pants, empty his bowels.

  Jacobsz hardly heard the jibes. Evertsz had confessed. He stood now, head bowed, listless, as though accepting his fate. They must have tortured him. In his condition, it wouldn’t have lasted long.

  The steersmen gathered around Jacobsz, as silent as he. He very much suspected that one of their number ought to be the man being helped up the ladder, having the noose put around his neck. The officer pushed. Evertsz swung. The rope tightened and he began to choke, his body arching and swaying as he squirmed. His face turned red, eyes popped, lips parted. The crowd roared. Guilders changed hand
s. Still Evertsz writhed. He wasn’t heavy enough to end it quickly.

  With his jaw set, Jacobsz shoved and barged his way through the crowd to the gallows. Two soldiers stepped towards him, pikes across their chests to bar his way.

  “I’m a friend,” he said to the officer.

  A curt nod. Jacobsz grabbed Evertsz’s feet and pulled down, hard, with all the weight he could muster. A last gurgle and it was over.

  “Aw, bastard. Whaddya do that for? Spoiled all our fun. No, it doesn’t count, he ended it sooner than it would have…”

  He walked away.

  *

  “Are you at least going to make love to me?” pleaded Zwaantie. “I know I didn’t feel like it before, but… well, I’m feeling much better.” She reached out for his hand and placed it on her breast, warm and soft under his palm.

  He tried a smile. A few slivers of light knifed into the room between the shutters. “Sorry, lass. I’ve been thinking about Jan.”

  “Well, whoever did it, they didn’t deserve… that. Snooty bitch. She just got her due,” Zwaantie said. She wriggled closer to him in the bed and slipped her fingers down his chest. “Her dress stank. She threw it away. She stank, too.” The tickling fingers slid lower. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about her.”

  Jacobsz sighed and sat up. Evertsz. The body still hung on the gallows, rotting by the hour in the hot sun. The birds had taken their fill, and the maggots. After three days there wasn’t much left.

  Zwaantie growled, a little exasperated gurgle in her throat.

  “I don’t know why they haven’t sent for me yet,” Jacobsz said. “I’m the best person to take them back to the Batavia.”

  “They can send somebody else, can’t they?” purred Zwaantie. She leant against him, pushing her bosom into his back.

  “I suppose. But—”

  The door crashed open. An officer and three soldiers with drawn swords crowded into the room while Zwaantie shrank behind Jacobsz with a gasp.

  “You are Adriaen Jacobszoon?” demanded the officer, hands on hips.

  “Yes.” He swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood. He recognised the man, the same one who had officiated at Evertsz’s execution.

  “You are under arrest.”

  A shiver of fear coursed down Jacobsz’s spine. What if that bastard Pelsaert had persuaded Coen he’d had something to do with the attack on Lucretia?

  “On what charge?” he asked, putting on his breeches. Zwaantie, white-faced, sat on the bed, cowering against the wall.

  “You are accused of negligence, leading to the loss of the Company’s ship, Batavia.”

  Weak-kneed, Jacobsz shrugged into his jacket and fastened the collar. Loss of a ship was serious, but then, ships had been lost before in barely charted waters. This charge at least he could argue. Coen’s sanctimonious wrath would have been harder to bear.

  “Adriaen.” Zwaantie put out her arm, hand outstretched as he put on his shoes. Her voice quavered, her lip trembled.

  He reached across and kissed her briefly. “Stay here, lass. It’s paid for. I’ll be back, wait and see.”

  *

  Pelsaert clambered over the railing onto the deck of the Sardam, where the captain, Jacob Jacopsz, awaited him.

  “Welcome aboard, Your Honour,” Jacopsz said. “We’ll sail with the tide, if it pleases you?”

  “Thank you, it does.” Pelsaert approved. So different from Adriaen Jacobsz, this fellow, showing proper respect. Younger, less experienced but from all accounts a competent sailor.

  “May I show you to your cabin?”

  Pelsaert glanced at Jacopsz, noting the concern in the captain’s eyes. He must still look a fright, even shaved and washed and properly dressed. Only twelve days since he’d set foot on Sardam"s deck in the Sunda Strait. He would have liked to rest longer but Coen and the Council had made it clear. Recover the Company’s assets—especially the silver—and rescue the people. His honour, his written orders said, depended on his success.

  “I think I can find it myself, captain. But I would like to talk with you in the Great Cabin.”

  Jacopsz followed him through the companionway from the quarterdeck and into the Great Cabin, smaller, shabbier than the Batavia. But then, Sardam was an older, smaller ship. A servant brought in his sea chest and, with a respectful tug at his forelock, left the two men to share a glass of wine.

  “You have a route?” Pelsaert asked.

  “I have, sir. I spent some time with Captain Jacobsz on the voyage into Batavia.” He hesitated and looked a little anxious. Pelsaert realised he must have frowned. “Uncharted islands, sir. They are always of interest to sailors. These seas are not well-charted yet. Captain Jacobsz said he thought they were the ones Commandeur Houtman encountered a few years back.”

  “True. So you know where you’re going?”

  “Oh, yes. Claas Gerritsz, Jacop Hollert and I have conferred at length. At least we can assume the latitude will be reasonably accurate, with a longitude of about twenty-eight degrees twenty minutes. It is a wonderful help to have them return with us. They will no doubt recognise the islands as we approach.”

  Pelsaert nodded. Gerritsz and Hollert hadn’t had any choice, of course. With Jacobsz in the dungeons and Evertsz dead, Gerritsz was the most senior of the Batavia"s officers available and Hollert, as one of the Batavia’s under steersmen, would also have to take part of the blame. The captain and the steersmen calculated longitude together, after all. And if Pelsaert was well enough to make the journey, so were they. “You have enough sailors?”

  “Twenty-six crew. Enough to handle the ship provided we avoid illness. It will be difficult, sir. Against the winds and the currents.”

  “Yes. I know. Therefore best away as soon as we can.”

  “We’ll weigh anchor before noon, sir.” Jacopsz finished his wine and disappeared onto the deck to finish final preparations.

  Pelsaert followed, more slowly. Along the length of the vessel, the sailors prepared the ship for departure, scrubbing the decks, checking ropes, loading supplies, a bustle of activity and shouted orders. He leant on the stern rail and gazed across the harbour to the city. The fortress dominated, its high walls lined with cannon. No wonder the local fellow had given up his siege. The ground surrounding the city still showed signs of burning but the black areas would disappear soon. Already the jungle had regenerated and the native huts had reappeared. Misty clouds hung around the mountains in the distance and the sun, hot even through his hat, sparkled across the ripples of the sea. A breeze, a breath of air from the land, stirred the flag on the stern, the red, white and blue of the Seven Provinces.

  “We’re ready to sail, Your Honour.”

  Jacopsz’s words interrupted his reverie. The captain stood at his side, hands behind his back, awaiting orders.

  “Of course, Captain. Please proceed.”

  “Weigh anchor, lads, unfurl the sails,” shouted Jacopsz.

  Men scrambled up the ratlines, while others turned the capstan to raise the anchor. Sails flapped in the breeze, wood creaked, waves lapped gently against the hull.

  Pelsaert’s gaze returned to the fortress, where Captain Jacobsz was now a prisoner of the Company. Well-deserved, too. Pity Coen wasn’t prepared to accept Jacobsz’s complicity in the incident with Lucretia. But he’d make sure the arrogant drunkard paid for his negligence. His thoughts drifted to the cameo and its gem-encrusted surrounds. And the silverware, the gold, the jewels. All in a barrel on a desolate speck in the ocean. All because of Jacobsz.

  If he couldn’t recover those, well, at the very least, he would exact his revenge.

  24

  The poison hadn’t worked. Cornelisz scowled at the child in Mayken’s arms.

  “I gave her the potion,” Mayken said, “just as you explained. But she lies in this coma, hardly breathing.”

  He smiled. “Don’t concern yourself, Mayken. The child is at ease, is she not?”

  The woman stared across the table at him. H
er lip trembled as if she intended to say something but she remained silent. She nodded and left, the child clutched to her breast.

  He’d used mercury. It should have worked. Probably would in time. But at least the brat was quiet. Then again, even if the stuff worked, the baby would just… die. Cease to breathe. No blood, no last gasp. Nothing. He picked up the knife he always left close by and thrust the point deep into the wood of the table. Thunk. The blade quivered slightly. So his one attempt at killing was a dismal failure. How pathetic.

  This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Wasn’t he the supreme power here? Was not his word the law? The will of God?

  And if that was so—and it was—perhaps some other outcome had been ordained.

  Deschamps entered his tent, hesitating in front of the desk, eyes on the knife. Cornelisz noted the sudden spurt of fear. The man was a clerk, that was all. Nothing more, albeit he’d signed his name to the group’s oath.

  “I have the tally of the stores, Master Cornelisz,” Deschamps said, lifting the document in his hand. “As you requested.” His tongue passed between his lips.

  Deschamps. Perhaps he should be tested, to prove his allegiance? Everyone else had obeyed orders for the common good; even Frans Jansz the barber had killed during the attack on the Seals Island.

  “Thank you, Salomon,” Cornelisz said. “You may go. Ask Corporal Pietersz to attend me, if you will?”

  *

  It rained a little in the night. The wind blew cold and fresh from the south-west, causing the tent canvas to billow. Lucretia jolted awake. Raindrops beat a staccato tune above her head, her mind filled with nightmare images taken from the very halls of Purgatory itself. Laughing demons with pikes and swords tormented their victims; people whose faces she recognised even if she hadn’t known their names.

  The rain squall ended. A few last patters and the island was left to the wind and the darkness. A sound. A muffled sob from somewhere. Oh, God. Not more deaths. She wouldn’t have been surprised to open the tent-flap to see the Grim Reaper himself, scythe in his skeletal hand, walking abroad. Would this never end?