Batavia (18 page)

By Jacobsz’s estimation, the ship is close to her maximum speed of about eight knots as she rides the swells, skidding down one wave and quickly climbing the next, her bulbous bow tucking the water beneath her like a duck’s breast. There is a purity to sailing like this, a mesmerising rhythm to it as the top of the mizzen mast slices graceful arcs through the night sky and the bow rises and falls on the swell. It all takes him back to his childhood, learning sailing at the hands of his father on the
Zuyder Zee
, a joyous exercise so far removed from all the adult complexities that come with making sailing one’s life. And the wonderful thing about being out in the open ocean like this – according to his calculations at noon the day before, they are about 600 miles off the coast of
het Zuidland
– is that they need have no fear about the speed they are travelling. A few days earlier, he turned the
Batavia
to port, to head towards the Sunda Strait far to their north, and they are now heading nor’ by nor’-east.

Still, notwithstanding the fact that Skipper Jacobsz is so confident of their safety that he does not even bother to have a man in the top, he knows he can never relax
too
much, as long experience has taught him to expect the unexpected when at sea. Standing on the quarterdeck just above Claas Gerritsz, the
opperstuurman
in control of the whip-staff, Jacobsz grows instantly alert when he sights what appears to be a slightly strange water configuration dead ahead, something different from everything he has seen in his last few hours on watch. He instantly knows: difference is danger.

Across the thin stretch of water in front of them, there is something that could possibly be the white froth of waves being agitated against cruel coral reefs – the very thing that every ship’s captain has to be most on the lookout for. Worse, though the wind is blowing from aft, it is just possible that the sound coming his way is that of waves crashing on reefs . . . or is it just the normal surge of water slapping against the bows? Even after all these years at sea, it is sometimes not possible to tell, and you have to go by instinct alone.

On this occasion, however, neither observation nor instinct is giving him a clear guide, but he at least knows he needs to get another opinion. With that in mind, he asks the ship’s lead gunner, Hans Bosschieter, standing beside him, to have a look. This ’un – who, like most on watch in the middle of the night, is completely exhausted – leans forward, squints his eyes as he strains for detail and, at last satisfied, reports back. What the captain thinks might be the sign of potentially fatal froth caused by waves hitting a reef, he says, is actually simply ‘the shine of the moon o’er the waves’.

Skipper Jacobsz is mightily relieved – half-suspecting that to be the case but glad to have the confirmation – and the
Batavia
holds her course northward, propelled by the strong wind that has been blowing from astern all night. Onwards, onwards, onwards . . .

Almost directly behind where Jacobsz and Bosschieter stand, Commandeur Pelsaert sleeps fitfully. So too does Lucretia in her own cabin, with her heavy door firmly chained against intruders. As to Lucretia’s erstwhile maid, Zwaantje, the one whom Jacobsz has promised to very soon make into a great lady, she is sleeping in the Great Cabin, and he is looking forward to getting back there shortly, once he hands over the midnight watch.

Below decks, and all around, the better part of another 330 or so souls are sleeping, rocked by the back and forth motion of the ship rising and falling on the ocean’s swell. They are 219 days out of Texel and have less than 20 days remaining to reach their destination of Batavia.

As the oaken hull pushes through the ocean, it creates a delightful swishing that interplays with the flapping of the canvas sails and the low, growling voices of the men on watch. It is no less than a symphony of smooth sailing . . .

And then, from completely out of nowhere, comes a sudden explosion of sound: grinding wood, followed by a long, low groaning shudder, followed by an even bigger series of bangs, as the higher extremities of the top masts simply snap off, all as the
Batavia
goes from eight knots to a dead stop in what seems like less than a second. In that moment, all standing on deck are thrown hard forward and to their left, while those few lucky enough to have bunks or hammocks fall out of them and the rest are suddenly hurled about where they lie on their straw-and horsehair-filled sleeping mats, with many of the gunners being thrown hard into their cannons, and many cannons coming loose from their moorings and crushing whoever lies next to them. As the bow of the ship suddenly rears up, those cannons, which were initially thrown forward, come roaring back. The air is filled with a shattering cacophony of oaths, cries of dismay and the thunder of furiously flapping sails going nowhere. What has just happened?

The bow of the ship has suddenly run into, and then partially up and over, a reef . . . for a reef it is. And it is not just bodies and cannons flying, as barrels also come loose from their moorings and start to roll, crockery and glassware come crashing and shattering to the deck, and anything and everything not entirely bolted down seeks to continue its journey northwards to Batavia, even though the ship herself has stopped.

The sea-sprayed air is filled with the sounds of shouting, cursing, screaming, crying children below decks and at least one woman wailing in the wind in a long, low-pitched cry from the soul that seems to go on without end. Maybe it is a woman . . . or maybe it is the
Batavia
herself, moaning in agony. And she is not the only one.

Through all the din now can even be heard the terrified sows and goats in their pens on the deck, squealing in panic and kicking out against their tight wooden enclosures. Down among the soldiers, in complete darkness, there is a catastrophic confusion as all strain to work out what has just happened.

In the
Commandeur’s
quarters adjacent to the Great Cabin, the shock has been severe, and Pelsaert has gone straight from having a troubled dream about being hot and sick at home in Amsterdam to flying through the air and landing in a crumpled mess against the bulkhead. Gathering himself, Pelsaert gets up and gropes nearly blindly forward, fortunate at least that his sleeping quarters are directly beneath the quarterdeck. In no more than 20 seconds after the crash, he bursts out onto it, still attired in a rather absurd nightshirt, complete with nightcap. Even in the extremity of the situation, with soldiers, sailors and merchants now also bursting onto the deck and falling over each other as the whipping sea-spray stings their eyes . . . still,
still
the ship’s company takes pause to see the
Commandeur
so ludicrously attired, when they are accustomed to only ever seeing him in full regalia.

Just as no one ever considers kings or queens performing their ablutions, there is many a man who has never imagined that the
Commandeur
, the very personification of Company power and dignity, is
ever
so attired, even in the middle of the night. But here he is, an odd-looking man in stockinged feet, his nightgown flapping around him. Strange, he looks so small, so insignificant without it all and . . .

And, of course, there is little time to reflect upon it, as another wave crashes into the stricken timbers of the
Batavia
, jolting her from stem to stern as the foamy brine now pours in over the fo’c’sle deck and quarterdeck, and the freezing sea-spray from the angry waves lashes the shattered ship again and again so thickly that those gathered high at the stern on the poop deck can no longer see the bow in the fading moonlight.

Even a man with as little sea experience as Pelsaert can surmise that the
Batavia
has hit a reef in the middle of what was meant to be a clear ocean and is now stuck on it. The sails that only a short time earlier were gloriously full and pulling them powerfully through the ocean are now all angry impotence, furiously flapping in the strong wind to no effect. And now he sees Jacobsz screaming imprecations at the gunner, something about
‘Dat vervloekte maanlight?’
, the f—g moonshine?,
‘rif’,
reef, and
‘Godverdomme het is een totale ramp!’
, total f—g disaster. Typical Jacobsz vulgarity, but accurate.

And it certainly concurs with Pelsaert’s preliminary view of things. Though almost always a quietly spoken and considered man, such are the extremities of the situation that he momentarily loses control and wheels on the
Batavia
’s captain. ‘What have you done,’ he screams at Jacobsz, ‘that through your reckless carelessness you have run this noose around our necks? How in God’s name have we been brought to this?’

Jacobsz will have none of it. ‘
Me
, Commandeur?’ the skipper roars back over the thundering waves. ‘By God,
this is not of my doing!’

‘Who else but you? ’Tis you who was on watch this very
nacht
, night, and it is you who will stand before God responsible for us all!’ Pelsaert fulminates. ‘Who else but you, Skipper, has scuppered us?’

‘I did not sleep but watched out very well and make no mistake! As God be my witness, I watched well, for when I saw the breakers in the distance I asked Hans the gunner
what can that be
?’

To Pelsaert’s bark of contempt, Jacobsz continues, harder now. ‘I swear the gunner promised it was but the shine of the moon o’er the waves,’ hisses the skipper, barely bothering to hide his contempt for whatever the
Commandeur
thinks. ‘It is my only sin, trusting his youthful eyes!’

Grabbing the skipper by the arm, Pelsaert sinks his nails into the old salt’s leathery skin. ‘Let’s hope,’ he mutters darkly, ‘you can soon put your case in a more
formal
environment. But now what advice? Where do you think we are? Not a man aloft – you said no need – then where are we? And what depth of water do we founder in?’

‘God alone knows!’ Jacobsz explodes.
‘Some
koraal rif
, coral reef, miles from
het Zuidland
. I’ll put out a kedge anchor astern so we may haul her off the reef. If ’tis low tide, I’ll warrant it will be a simple affair.’

It is time for Jacobsz to reassert control, and as quickly as possible, as the whole ship is in danger of breaking up. ‘God deliver us all from the Devil!’ Jacobsz roars. ‘Pull down the sails. Bare poles, bare poles, I say.’

In an instant, sailors are scrambling up and down the masts, and most of the ship’s company have pushed their way up on deck. Women are continuing to scream and wail, the less stouthearted of the men are openly shaking and some of the children are still sobbing. In the midst of all this confusion, six-year-old Hilletje Hardens and her new-found friend cling to each other, frozen with fear, as all around them the ocean is roaring in exultation at its fallen prey, even as it rushes up, around and over that prey, seeking to devour it whole.

Jacobsz continues to shout his commands while gunners, sailors, soldiers and even passengers jump to it, though one who seems completely oblivious to whatever Jacobsz says is the
Predikant
. The 52-year-old Dutchman, with his ubiquitous black leather Bible under one arm and his three youngest children holding grimly onto him, seems half-dazed as he gazes skywards uttering prayers unknown, as if the same God who has put them on this rock might now have mercy on them and get them off. Jacobsz has no time for such nonsense and roughly pushes the preacher aside with an oath to the effect that if he values his life he will stay out of the way . . . as dozens of seagulls wheel around above, gazing with mild curiosity at these strange new arrivals in their ancient world.

Jacobsz now focuses his attention on the remaining terrified passengers, standing there with their mouths agape. ‘Clear the deck, you fools, or be cleared yourselves.’ And then, to the other men pouring up from below decks, ‘Move! Move! We’ll haul off yet. Let the yawl loose and sound round the ship.’

With which, Claas Gerritsz, whose job it is to determine the depth of the ocean beneath them at all times, drops a lead line both fore and aft, which establishes that while there is around 18 feet of water astern, there is not a third of that for’ard. In short order, by lowering the
sloep
, yawl, over the side of the ship – using a system of pulleys suspended from a spar on the mainmast – and putting Claas in it,
they are able to take further soundings
with the lead, establishing that at the distance astern of a
pijlschot
, arrow’s shot, the water is seven fathoms deep but there is not enough water to fill a bucket for’ard of them.

For the moment, the wonder is that, despite being stuck fast, the mighty hull of the
Batavia
has remained intact, though with all the grinding on the coral it is obvious that it can only be a matter of hours, at best, before it is pierced and all is lost.

One small hope is to lighten the load of the stricken ship by as much as possible so the added buoyancy might lift them off, and it will be all the easier if there is a high tide coming. Jacobsz now orders the throwing overboard of all the heavy cannons, having the men slash the lines that bind them, then opening the gun ports and pushing them through, using all of the crew and soldiers who are still willing to follow orders.

One of the gunners, Abraham Hendricxsz – who has so lovingly polished his brass gun all the way from Texel that the others joke he is near married to it – is seen to weep as he pushes his beloved overboard.

Alas, alas, the ditching of the guns appears to make no difference whatsoever, as the
Batavia
remains stuck fast.

The second hope is that by taking the longboat and dropping the
Batavia
’s anchor 50 yards astern, where it will hopefully hold firm, they can haul on the circular winch of the capstan to pull the ship back towards the anchor. Before they can manage this, however, the waves breaking over the
Batavia
are now so strong that a rogue one carries away the longboat, and, as the sullen dawn begins to break, it is all they can do to retrieve it with the yawl.