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

by Greta van Der Rol

  Captain Jacopsz stirred in his seat next to Pelsaert. “But I don’t understand. If the commandeur was off the ship, why would they bother with the privy?”

  “I believe it,” said Pelsaert. “It’s just the sort of thing Adriaen was capable of. Fancy offering a woman like Lucretia gold to submit to his will.” He jerked his head at Cornelisz. “Go on.”

  “Two days later, Adriaen took Zwaantie and me on a visit to the Buren and the Assendelft. Do you remember?”

  “Yes,” said Pelsaert. How could he not?

  “Well, after you gave him a public dressing-down, Adriaen came to me and said that if the other ships were not here, he would have given you such a beating that you would not come out of your bunk for fourteen days. And he swore that as soon as could be he would separate from the other ships and then he would be his own master.”

  “And what did you say to that?” asked Pelsaert, murder in his heart. Jacobsz. Sneaking, conniving, arrogant oaf.

  “I asked him how he would manage that.”

  Jacopsz sucked in a breath. Pelsaert glanced at Gerritsz’s raised eyebrow. “What did he say?” he asked Cornelisz.

  “That he would manage in his own watch.”

  “The captain did not stand the watch alone. Every watch must also have a steersman,” said Gerritsz, voice laced with distrust. “It may have been me. Or Hollert.”

  “Yes, yes, he said that,” said Cornelisz. “That he would have to persuade one of them to his plan. But I don’t know which one.”

  “Not me,” grunted Gerritsz. “He didn’t like me much.”

  “That’s what he said,” agreed Cornelisz. “He didn’t like the Upper Steersman.”

  “And when were you planning to seize the ship?”

  “I do not know, Commandeur. I do not know.”

  “I do not believe you,” said Pelsaert. “More water.”

  The soldier lifted the bottle.

  “I heard from others that had the wreck not happened, the move would have been made soon,” gabbled Cornelisz, his eyes on the bottle.

  Pelsaert gestured. The bottle shifted to upright but the man still stood beside Cornelisz.

  “They had hoped to force a situation when men laid hands on Lucretia. When you put those miscreants in irons, the captain would have made his move, thrown you overboard and killed all but one hundred and twenty persons. Then they would have sailed for Madagascar or Saint Helena. I have heard this, too, from Coenraat van Huyssen. He said he would have been among the first to leap with a sword into your cabin to throw you overboard.”

  So. At last the truth comes out, thought Pelsaert. A plot simmering for all those months. It made sense; perfect sense.

  37

  At last, calm weather. Pelsaert clambered into a boat for the trip to the wreck. The sea sparkled, tranquil and unruffled, a striking contrast to the hard gales and hostile surf of the past week. He leant forward, glad to feel the sun on his face. Eight days had passed since his return; eight days when all he could do was send men to look at the wreck. Eight days of examinations as one by one the scoundrels were brought before the ship’s council to confess their misdeeds.

  A gentle, salt-laden breeze helped to cleanse his soul. So much horror he had listened to; so many dreadful tales that hardly bore thinking about. The murder of those folk on Traitors’ Island and the Seals’ Island and then of the predikant’s family. Seven men, he had learnt, one for each of the predikant’s wife and the six children, all unsuspecting, preparing an evening meal. The murderers had doused the light and set upon the family in the darkness. Battered to death with an adze, hacked with a hatchet, sliced with a sword. Eight-year-old Roelant had almost escaped in the confusion—until Zevanck killed him with his axe. And then all the bodies were dragged away and tossed like animals’ carcasses into a pit they had dug beforehand. And all that while, Cornelisz and van Huyssen entertained the predikant and his daughter. Such wickedness. Such deception.

  Cornelisz had tried to deny his involvement, as he had throughout. But Pelsaert had begun to recognise the under merchant’s signature; subtlety, guile, deceit were always his first weapons. And then he made use of his murderers to finish the job. At least now he did not deny giving the orders. Pelsaert made sure that Cornelisz was present for every interview, so that he could answer any charge made.

  The boat rolled as the sailors left the protection of the reef flats and headed into the open ocean. Pelsaert dragged his thoughts away from murder and back to the task at hand. Already, three boats were anchored above the wreck, bobbing in a gentle swell. The extra boats, built by the survivors on Batavia’s Graveyard, had proved useful. Captain Jacopsz’s larger longboat lay just ahead. Pelsaert shaded his eyes with his hand and peered at the captain’s back as he leant over the bow, obviously intent on something. Maybe today the divers would have some success.

  The sailors brought the yawl alongside the longboat and Jacopsz looked up. “Looks like they’re bringing something up,” he called, jerking his head at a third boat already busy on the reef.

  Pelsaert hoped so. The vessel lay at a dangerous angle, almost slopping water on board as the men hauled on ropes. “See if we can help,” he said to his sailors.

  Additional manpower and the larger boat made the difference. A diver attached a second rope to the chest he’d uncovered and the men dragged it, dripping, to the surface. True, a chest of tinsel was disappointing, but the crew had already recovered a money chest. A little further away, the Gujarati divers worked from a fourth boat. Pelsaert had his own crew row closer.

  “You have success?” he called across the intervening space.

  “Oh, yes,” the leader said, his head waggling with his words. “We are bringing up two chests and we have seen six more that we are thinking we can get.”

  “Excellent news,” said Pelsaert. “As soon as you can.” Wonderful news. It seemed he would recover all eleven money chests intact. Coen would be pleased. Other trade goods, too, they might recover; mercury and oil, and he already had the treasure. Yes, a ship had been lost but—from a Company point of view—it could have been worse; much worse.

  “Best return to the island, Commandeur,” called Jacopsz. “The wind is rising again.”

  This confounded place with its confounded weather, thought Pelsaert. Hard to believe that the ocean could be calm and clear for a few hours in the morning and then in an instant become murky and restless. Now he had no option but to sit through another round of interviews. But this time, at least, he would learn more of this plan to mutiny.

  *

  “You are Jan Hendricxsz, soldier, of Bremen?”

  “I am, m’lord.” Hendricxsz stood before the table, shoulders slumped, head bowed.

  “Tell me what you know of the conspiracy to seize the ship Batavia,” said Pelsaert.

  “Din’t know anything about it till I got to this island.”

  “Take care, Jan,” said Pelsaert. “The funnel is here, with water. Or we can hoist you if you’d prefer?” He flicked a hand at the rope strung over the main beam of the tent, ready to be tied to the cords that held Hendricxsz’s arms behind his back and pulled up to lift him off his feet.

  “As God is my witness, sir, I knew nothing. But others told me that Jeronimus, the captain, the high boatswain, Coenraat van Huyssen, Gijsbert van Welderen and a few of the soldiers would have started. They were going to nail down the hatches to the soldiers’ deck. That’s all I know, I swear.”

  “Names? You have names of men who are not dead?” asked Jacopsz.

  “Allert Jansz of Assendelft,” muttered Hendricxsz. “He was one.”

  “Fetch Allert Jansz,” said Pelsaert.

  Allert Jansz was brought, head held high, mouth set in a line.

  “Tell us of the plot to steal the ship Batavia,” said Pelsaert.

  Pelsaert wasn’t surprised when he denied all knowledge. They fitted the collar. Jansz had only swallowed a few cupfuls of water before he begged for release.

  “We
ll?” demanded Pelsaert. “We know you were involved. Who? How?”

  “Jeronimus,” gasped Jansz. He coughed. “Jeronimus told me of the plot.”

  “On the ship?”

  The soldier tipped the bottle, ready to pour more water.

  “Yes, on the ship. We had weapons ready, just waiting for the order.”

  “When would the order have been given?”

  Jansz shot a look at the water bottle. “After the attack on the lady.”

  “Explain.”

  “Jeronimus said that would be the start.”

  “More water.”

  “No. No. I swear, that’s all I know. No one knew everything.”

  “Were you involved in the attack on Lucretia?” asked Pelsaert.

  “I… Yes. They said a woman on board was bad luck. And she refused the captain. A few lads came and asked me to help them play a trick on her. That’s all. We didn’t hurt her. Just…” His voice trailed off.

  “Just smeared her with filth. Tar and excrement.” Pelsaert’s voice snapped with anger and contempt. “Left her in the gallery for someone else to find.” He half-stood, leaning far over the table. “Who put you up to it? Evertsz? The high boatswain?”

  Silence.

  “Answer me.”

  Water trickled. “Yes.” Jansz barked the word, lips bared.

  Pelsaert sat down again. Evertsz. He’d been sure. And he was right. “Who else? Name them.”

  The names came tumbling out, seven men, all scoundrels from the lower decks except Harmann Nannings, the quartermaster.

  “We sat forward in the ship one afternoon, and… and the high boatswain came to us and asked if we wanted to help to play a trick on Lucretia. We said yes and it was done that evening, between light and dark.”

  How she must have felt, thought Pelsaert; a fine lady set upon by ruffians like this scoundrel, to feel their filthy hands on her body. They could count themselves lucky they’d done no more than mishandle her. He flicked his fingers at Jansz as if he were an insect. “Take him away.”

  Collar removed, Jansz shuffled out of the tent, head downcast.

  “It all fits,” Pelsaert declared. “Jeronimus and Adriaen Jacobsz in a murderous plot to seize the ship.” Oh, Jacobsz would hang for this. At the very least.

  Jacopsz scrubbed his face with one hand. “You were on the ship, Claas,” he said to Gerritsz. “Did you know anything of this plan?”

  “I did not. But then I have already agreed the captain and I were not friends.”

  “You saw no sign?” said Jacopsz.

  “Jacob, you are a captain yourself. You have sailed on the retourships. Always and always there is discontent and murmurs of mutiny. The Batavia was no different.” Gerritsz shot a glance at Pelsaert. “And it was well known that there was tension between the commandeur and the captain.”

  “For good cause,” said Pelsaert.

  “Aye, sir. Which brings us to the business with the Lady Lucretia,” said Gerritsz.

  “Surely you do not excuse that,” said Pelsaert.

  “Not at all. But you know the stories. Women on ships are bad luck and there was a belief that she caused the tension between you,” Gerritsz replied.

  “And this excuses Claas Evertsz arranging this attack?” demanded Pelsaert. “May I remind you that Lucretia herself identified him?”

  Gerritsz blinked and look away from Pelsaert’s furious gaze. “No, sir, it does not.”

  Pelsaert sat back, satisfied. He wished her identification had been more certain. I thought he sounded like Evertsz, she’d said. Well, he’d admitted it and he’d paid.

  38

  The time of reckoning had come.

  Cornelisz sat in a yawl with Jan Hendricxsz, Matthijs Beer and Lenert van Os. No one spoke. Only a mile across the choppy water of the channel from Seals’ Island to Batavia’s Graveyard, but still his stomach lurched with every roll and lurch of the boat. Especially tied like this. The wind stirred his hair and salt spray struck his face each time the oars lifted above the water. Not far to go now. He had to compose himself.

  Weeks of interrogation, accusations, claims and counter-claims. But at least no one could prove he’d actually killed anyone. Men made their own decisions, didn’t they? He just suggested. No fault to him that they carried out his suggestions.

  The boat grated on the sand and the sailors shipped their oars. He rose to his feet, awkward with his hands tied behind his back and stepped carefully out of the boat. A crowd waited for him, standing silently on the coral beyond the settlement. The commandeur and his councillors stood in a solemn line. Behind them ranged maybe one hundred people. They must have brought the men from Wiebbe’s Island and the crew of the Sardam as well. There stood Hayes and his two cadets; the officers of the Sardam, resplendent in formal coats; Lucretia, the predikant and his daughter; and there the five other women. Truth be told he wasn’t sure who most of the others were. They hadn’t been important; sailors, soldiers; just men. To their left, apart from the others and under guard, stood all his erstwhile followers, to hear his sentence and their own. His eyes ranged over faces; nothing he could use, just hatred or contempt; any smiles were grim, vengeful.

  Cornelisz bent his head and ignored the susurrus of conversation. Time. He needed time. Once on the way to Batavia in an overcrowded ship he would get his chance. If what he’d heard was true, Pelsaert’s divers had found most of the Batavia’s silver, even if the weather had prevented them from lifting it yet. Not to mention the cameo and the other treasures. He had a lure; all he needed was a slim chance to dangle it before an audience. Whatever he might have lost, he still had his tongue. And God on his side.

  “Bring the prisoner Jeronimus Cornelisz forward,” said Pelsaert.

  A soldier on each side, he stepped before the commandeur.

  “Jeronimus Cornelisz, you are accused of and have confessed to the following crimes.”

  Cornelisz listened to the man drone on. ‘Sent me to kill here, murder there.’ The fellow didn’t understand. It hadn’t been his doing; he was an instrument of God, doing His will. If these people had been meant to survive, they would have. He listened with half an ear as the charges were read.

  “…Item, Jeronimus together with Davidt Zevanck, Coenraat van Huyssen and Gijsbert van Welderen, having called Andries de Vries, assistant, have gone out on the night of tenth July and forced him to cut the throats of a party of sick people; which he had to do.”

  “It’s lies. All lies,” said Cornelisz. “The witnesses are lying. They made their own decisions to kill. And I knew nothing of any plot to seize the Batavia.”

  An incredulous whisper went around the watching congregation. Pelsaert stared at Cornelisz, eyes bulging. “You confessed. We have it in your testimony. You confessed. Salomon,” he barked at the clerk, “read it to him.”

  Cornelisz shook his head. “I only confessed because you threatened me with torture.”

  Pelsaert’s face darkened to an unattractive purplish colour. Under different circumstances, Cornelisz may have been amused. But now he had to hope he’d read the commandeur correctly. “According to our law, I can recant a confession obtained through torture,” he said.

  “You’ve been confronted. We brought the people in—Jan Hendricxsz, Allert Jansz, Wouter Loos and others. They named you and you confessed,” said Pelsaert.

  “Because you threatened torture.”

  Nostrils flaring, Pelsaert found his place in the papers. “Bring Jan Hendricxsz and Allert Jansen.”

  The two men were shoved forward, pikes at their backs. Cornelisz glanced between them. Their eyes were hard and accusing.

  “Swear your testimony again,” said Pelsaert.

  “It’s as we said before, m’lord. If the Batavia had not been wrecked, it would have been seized. The captain, the high boatswain, Jeronimus, Coenraat van Huyssen and some others were the leaders,” said Allert Jansz.

  Pelsaert leaned towards Cornelisz, his body tense. “You want to start over?�
�� he asked through gritted teeth. “You mock the Council with your evasions and lies, accuse us of wanting to kill you unjustly. It is not so. But the collar still stands in the tent. The rope hangs from the beam.”

  That hadn’t worked, thought Cornelisz. And his followers had proved quick enough to point the finger. He had to use guile, play on Pelsaert’s more tender emotions. “I apologise. Forgive me. I don’t deny my guilt. I sought to buy myself time. I long to see my wife again. She awaits me in Batavia. Surely you would not deny me that?”

  Pelsaert stared at him, frosty as ice on a canal in mid-winter, and read on, page after page. “Is this all the truth, as testified to the Council before witnesses?”

  What to do now, thought Cornelisz, as Pelsaert waited.

  “We can start over,” said the commandeur.

  “Yes, it is all truth,” said Cornelisz. “I will sign.”

  He was led to a small table and his hands were unbound. Deschamps handed him the quill. Cornelisz signed his name and stepped back.

  “So now I will read your sentence as decided in accordance with our law by the members of the Council.”

  Pelsaert cleared his throat. “The commandeur and we the undersigned persons of the ship Sardam, having given the matter our utmost consideration after long examinations and much searching, and after much discussion and weighing, in order to turn us from the wrath of God and to cleanse the name of Christianity from such an unheard of villain, have sentenced the foresaid Jeronimus Cornelisz of Harlem. He will be taken to Seals’ Island to the place prepared to execute justice. First both his hands will be cut off and then he will be punished on the gallows with the cord until death follows. Further, all his gold, silver, monthly wages and all that he may have to claim in the Indies against the General East India Company, our Lord Master is confiscated. Thus done and attested on the island named Batavia’s Graveyard, this 28 September, 1629.”

  The watchers cheered and applauded amid shouts of ‘Just as you deserve!’, ‘The devil take you!’ and even, ‘It should be the wheel!’