Batavia (20 page)

After the final trip to the tiny island, however, Jacobsz returns to the
Batavia
somewhat shaken and angered. He declares to the
Commandeur
that it is no use their taking more water and bread onshore, since it is all devoured in the most lawless and ravenous manner, and everyone drinks as much as they can get their hands on. The most shocking thing to Jacobsz is that his own orders have no force or effect upon these panicky people. Reluctantly, thus, Jacobsz now asks the
Commandeur
to come with him in the hope that Pelsaert’s authority might help to calm the throng.

The
Commandeur
duly jumps into the yawl and goes with Jacobsz, intending to return to the stricken ship as soon as possible. He leaves the dozen money chests on the deck, secure in the care of the
Onderkoopman
, Jeronimus, as Pelsaert has decided to bring the money ashore on the next journey, once he has restored calm to the people on the island and made it safer for the Company’s precious cargo.

For the moment, Jeronimus remains on the ship with a largish group of some 120 others. This is not through some high-minded notion that, as the highest-ranking man on the ship, he should be the last to leave. It is because he is hampered somewhat by the fact that he can swim no better than a large rock and does not fancy getting into small boats in wild surf, particularly when there are so many desperate passengers trying to do exactly the same. As has always been Jeronimus’s wont, he bides his time, still nurturing some hope, as he confides in a fellow Mutineer, that the ship can in fact be refloated. With the ship’s hull now fully resting on the bottom, and waves regularly breaking over the side, it is as clear a measure as any of Jeronimus’s total lack of seafaring knowledge.

Meanwhile, others of the ship’s company are just about beyond caring what the future might or might not hold and are only interested in having what fun they can right now. For no few of the sailors and soldiers, convinced that they will shortly meet their deaths anyway on this reef on the outer reaches of the known world, have already stormed the liquor stores and begun drinking themselves into oblivion. They are led by Zwaantje’s one-time lover and Jacobsz’s fellow Mutineer, Allert Jansz of Assendfelt, a drunkard on the shore who is meant to be a gunner on the ship. Now that the ship is effectively on the shore, he desires to be a drunkard once more and so heads to where the liquor lies, near the officers’ quarters in the hold behind the mainmast.

Wielding a knife and slashing it back and forth before him, he snarls at the steward trying to defend the honour and virtue of the liquor store against the claims of the lower orders. ‘Out, cats and dogs,’ he roars, even as he slashes steward’s mate Lucas Gerritsz across the back for his trouble. ‘
You have been masters here long enough
, now I for a while.’

The terrified steward scampers, glad to escape with his life. And, as Jansz settles down to drink, it is not long before he is joined by his comrades. A serious session begins, as they raid the officers’ stores for cheeses and fine victuals. In terms of drinking, it has been over eight months since they’ve been able to indulge themselves to this level. As to food, they’ve
never
been able to wolf down so many fine things. This is almost worth getting shipwrecked for! Some of the women who smuggled themselves aboard also now join them. It is not long before the stricken ship begins to rock with drunken shrieks of laughter coming from its belly.

There is also a lot of fun to be had, clearly, with those money chests tied down on the deck. The boldest of the lot of them, or perhaps the drunkest, Jean Thiriou, takes an axe to the nearest chest and splits it wide open, spilling silver coins onto the briny deck. Plunging both hands into the treasure, the 38-year-old Thiriou gathers up dozens of the coins and begins flinging them at his nearly as drunken companions,
just as if he were sowing seeds
.

There is, however, just enough authority left on board, reposing in the breast of the few calm men remaining, to beat Thiriou and his fellow thieves off for the moment. A carpenter is found to nail a piece of wood over the axe hole, though God alone knows what Pelsaert will do when he finds out.
If
he finds out . . .

In normal circumstances, what Thiriou has just done would bring on a swift sentence of death, followed by his slow and painful realisation of it while being flogged to within an inch of his life, and then half an inch. That, however, requires somebody senior to have witnessed what Thiriou has done, such as Pelsaert or Jacobsz, and as it happens both of them already have their hands full . . .

No sooner have Pelsaert and Jacobsz left the ship than, by God’s truth, a very strong southerly wind begins to blow, making it obvious that there will be no return to the wreck that day. In fact, so powerful is that wind, so strong the current and high the swell, that it is all they can do to land on the lee shore of the tiny island, where . . . chaos reigns supreme.

Just as Jacobsz has described to Pelsaert, in their absence there has been a free-for-all to get whatever food and water the new islanders can for themselves and their cohorts. They have gorged, gorged, gorged as if nothing else matters . . . because it doesn’t. It is all that Pelsaert can do to re-establish some semblance of basic order, so that with at least some food and water in all of their bellies they can begin to pass an extremely uncomfortable night on the tiny island,
hard shards of coral for their bed
as the wind continues to shriek. For those who cannot sleep – and of course there are many – the constant temptation is to look back to the
Batavia
, where, intermittently through the sea-spray, they can just see a small light twinkling from the Great Cabin, which only 24 hours earlier was occupied by the
Commandeur
. What could be happening there?

An ancient Dutch dictum states that
‘Als de kat van huis is, dan dansen de muizen op tafel’
, when the cat is not home, the mice dance on the table, and this is a case in point. From the moment that Pelsaert left the
Batavia
late that afternoon, Allert Jansz’s assault on the liquor stores and Thiriou’s outrage on the money chest have been just parts of a veritable general uprising, as the last shreds of restraint have slipped away.

Now, all who remain on the ship feel free to roam around it and do whatever they like – and none more than the Mutineers, many of whom have stayed on board with Jeronimus. After all, given what Jeronimus promised them, the conspiracy he led, the
Onderkoopman
could hardly protest if they continued to raid the liquor stores, help themselves to the finest victuals in the galley or hysterically throw silver coins at each other, could he? And, of course, Jeronimus does not protest at all.

Though a little aloof from their childish joy in dancing on the tables, the
Onderkoopman
is delighted to give his men the run of the ship, while he is interested in only one thing: installing himself in the Great Cabin. Throughout the voyage, he has admired both its spaciousness and its luxury, from its enormous oaken table to its Persian rugs and brass lanterns, all of which are in stark contrast to his own humble cabin.

Now nearing midnight, nearly 24 hours after the wreck, here he is in the finest abode on board, having taken his rightful place at last as the unchallenged master of the dying ship. Surrounded by the tightest coterie of the Mutineers – Coenraat van Huyssen, Allert Jansz, Cornelis ‘
Boontje
’ Jansz, Ryckert Woutersz and the cadet Lenart van Os among them, all of whom are roaring drunk – Jeronimus has already helped himself to the pick of the
Commandeur’s
wardrobe, selecting one of his superb velvet cloaks, and is leaning back in his ornately carved chair, feet up on the desk, drinking Pelsaert’s finest Spanish wine.

Far from being outraged at the Mutineers’ presumption, at their
betrayal
of the Company, nature herself appears to have calmed for the moment, and instead of shuddering with every wave, the
Batavia
is merely being lightly prodded. Fluttering around excitedly, Jan Pelgrom de Bye, the cabin servant, is able to bring them the finest food from Pelsaert’s private larder without stumbling, even though the whole ship still lies on an unnatural angle and does rock from time to time.

‘And now we’ll see!’ roars Allert Jansz, as he breaks into the
Commandeur’s
desk to upend all its drawers, before none other than Ryckert Woutersz breaks open the principal of the
Commandeur’s
personal sea chests. To the happy roar of the Mutineers, the once-pristine cabin is instantly awash with everything from Pelsaert’s underwear to letters from home and religious medallions, which they, in high hilarity, distribute among themselves. And here . . . here is his
journal
!

Had Jansz been able to read, he would have regaled the gathering with some of its choicer entries, but schooling was not a feature of his long and troubled past, nor of most of the Mutineers’, so the journal is passed to the only one among them who can figure out what sounds all the squiggly little lines should make. With something of a theatrical air, mimicking Pelsaert’s pompous tones, Jeronimus reads out the account from 14 May 1629:

(Ah, how they cheer at that line, clapping each other on the back and shouting, ‘Bravo! Bravo!’)

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Such entertainment! In the end, it is the sailor Cornelis
Boontje
Jansz who comes up with the perfect way to bring their merry evening to a head. Grabbing Pelsaert’s journal the instant Jeronimus has put it back on the desk, he ceremoniously rips the pages from it before hurling it out the window. Still not done, he grabs one of Pelsaert’s gold medallions, this one embossed with an image of Prince Frederick Hendrick of Holland, puts it in his hat and throws it out, too. ‘
There goes the rubbish
,’ he cries, ‘even if it be worth so many thousand guilders!’

On the small island, meanwhile, where sleeplessness reigns, people remain panicked. After the only supplies have been devoured by the strongest and most desperate, thought quickly turns to questions of survival – where is the next portion of food and water to appear from, given the island is so obviously devoid of both? When, if ever, will they be rescued?

Two people who have not lost their calm are the
Predikant
and Lucretia – though for different reasons. The
Predikant
is professionally accustomed to counselling those in despair and walks from group to group providing solace, assuring the survivors that God will surely save them all if they can only place their faith in Him.

As for Lucretia, after all she has endured aboard the
Batavia
– the advances of men, the humiliation of her attack, the sullying of her fine personage – she is well used to suffering and keen to alleviate it in others. On this cold and blowy night, she is doing what she can to ensure that those who have been injured are made comfortable, and that the infants and children receive what morsels of food and water remain. This is all notwithstanding the fact that, because of the strict segregation of the ship, she has not seen most of the people before, and nor have they seen her.

5 June 1629, on the small island

From well before dawn, Jacobsz is on the move, together with his best men. Today, the most urgent tasks are to get the bulk of the people off the tiny island and onto the much bigger island just half a mile away, as well as seeing if they can get the rest of the survivors off the stricken
Batavia
. True, the bigger island offers similarly little in the way of shelter, but, at almost twice the length and width of the first island (in the rough shape of a triangle, it is 500 yards long at its maximum and 300 yards wide), it does have space.

With a little vegetation on it in the form of low scrub, it is marginally more hospitable than the bare island they are on, as that scrub offers some slight protection against the wind. With his team of men, thus, Jacobsz begins the job of ferrying the people to the larger island – something slightly easier this time as the island has two small beaches, next to deeper water, on which they can land.