Batavia (24 page)

Pelsaert, for one, has never experienced anything like it before. Off the coast of India, you could always spy signs of thriving civilisation well before you actually landed: the silhouette of grand structures, people on the shore, friendly fishermen in small boats casting their nets. And even on undeveloped African shores, there were signs of life. He has never imagined that a coast like this
could
exist! As before, there is only one option: continue to push up the coast in the hope that it will change and they will find water.

At one point later on, they sight what appears to be an inlet surrounded by low dunes, but, once they approach it, it becomes clear that getting to the inlet would be fraught, protected as it is by enormous crashing breakers. It might just be possible to survive those breakers and come out the other side, but it would be a near impossible task to get back out to sea again, trying to sail through that endless cavalcade of enormous waves. Reluctantly, thus, Jacobsz gives the order to haul away again, and they continue their slow, tortured journey along this infernal coast. As tough as it is, all on the boat are at least glad they are not back upon the wretched islands and shipwreck where they left 250 of the ship’s company. Often, they wonder just what is happening back there . . .

9 June 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

It is not just the physical discomfort, gnawing hunger and rising thirst that is bothering Lucretia this afternoon. It is that, whereas on the
Batavia
she had shelter from the leering stares of 300 men by virtue of the strictly segregated nature of shipboard life, and had besides always been able to retreat to her cabin, here there is no such segregation, no shelter. And she can
feel
them staring at her wherever she goes, even openly licking their lips as she passes, almost as if they would eat her. And now there is no Pelsaert to protect her, no authority who can call into line those who go too far.

At least there are a few exceptions, a few men who treat her with nothing but decency. One of these is the minor VOC assistant Andries de Vries. Circumstance placed the two of them together in the longboat that brought them from the wreck of the
Batavia
, and he was so solicitous of her comfort, so unthreatening in his aspect, so fraternal and entirely unsexual in his approach that she has gravitated to him thereafter. If anything,
she
feels protective towards
him
, such a sensitive and delicate young man is he, and on this afternoon
the two are walking along the southern shore
, talking quietly, when they notice a commotion up ahead.

There is a crowd gathered by the shore, and neither she nor Andries are surprised by what they see when they glance over the shoulders of some of the people. Sure enough, it is another couple of dead bodies. These particular ones look to be sailors and soldiers who have drowned in their attempt to get from the wreck to the islands without the benefit of boats. On other days, the bodies are those who have died on the island. People are falling all around them.

The supplies of fresh water on the island have quickly run out, and there has been no rain to replenish them. All around, beneath the withering sun – this is, after all, a place where the sun does not so much shine as
beat
– survivors are going mad, with thickening tongues, and, after sucking on pebbles gives no more relief, they are reduced to drinking the blood of
meeuwen
, gulls, and sea lions, along with seawater and their own urine. What little urine they have, anyway . . .

People look to the tiny baby of Mayken Cardoes with great jealousy. Despite suffering from thirst every bit as much as everyone else, Mayken still offers her withered teat to the infant, who somehow manages to suck tiny amounts of milk from its mother. Would that they could benefit from such a solution. Anything,
anything
for some sustaining moisture! The words of the
Predikant
, quoting Psalm 22 from the Bible, capture it well: ‘My strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou has brought me into the dust of death.’

And then begins their long descent. For it is a dreadful thing to find yourself withering for want of water, the life-force within you slowly, torturously expiring as you become progressively more sluggish and terrible cramps set in. Whereas with hunger, the gnawing pain finishes after just a couple of days, with thirst there is no relief at all. First, the mouth becomes dry and the saliva thickens, then the tongue begins to swell and sticks to the roof of the mouth. Your whole being cries out for sweet moisture even as a lump grows in your throat and the skin on your face tightens to the point where you feel that your head will split open and you feel giddy if you try to stand. You hallucinate, dreaming of fresh ponds, of gurgling creeks, and now your tongue feels like a piece of wood, growing too big for your mouth. It is impossible to speak, and all that you can emit are low groans and moans as the sun still beats down, and now your tongue is sticking out through your teeth, almost as a root grows in its search for water. Your eyelids crack open and you start to weep tears of blood, as your dry throat renders it progressively harder to breathe. You even – and this is the most ludicrous part of all – feel like you are starting to drown. If only, if
only
that were the case, you would accept it, so long as the drowning involved fresh water that you could drink as you drowned, but there is no respite. Your head feels as if it is going to explode, and your neck glows in agony, as if the top of your spine is a red-hot poker, and your body crawls with an itch that no scratching can reprieve. Passing people, looking down upon you with pity, see that your lips seem to have disappeared, replaced by what appear to be simply burned bits of flesh, showing bleeding gums beneath, and the flesh of your body now blackens all over, with the exception of some blotches and streaks that appear, as all movement of your body ceases, the groans stop and your nose is so withered that it has turned back to reveal your blackened nostrils, almost appearing inside out, and your dull eyes stare out without blinking, and at last . . .
u bent dood
, you are dead. No fewer than ten of those who made it to Batavia’s Graveyard die in just this fashion in the first five days after the shipwreck.

From where can the survivors on Batavia’s Graveyard get the precious water they need to stay alive? No matter how much they dig on the island, there is not the smallest sign of any moisture that is not completely salt-ridden. Nor is there a cloud in the sky to offer the smallest possibility of rain. That leaves only one place where they can get it: the wreck. When they hit the reef, the
Batavia
had enough water supplies to get them through at least another month on the high seas, and the bulk of that water must still be upon the wreck. After all, in the previous few days, some of those barrels have washed up on the shore and been eagerly gulped down. It stands to reason that there are still a lot of barrels in the hold. Yet, without a skiff, or a sloop, or a raft, it is impossible to get to them.

Or is it? In the extremity of the situation, it is the
Predikant’s
servant girl,
Wybrecht Claas, who volunteers to swim to the ship
. And so she does! Before their very eyes, the brave young woman – a mere slip of a girl – enters the waters and swims towards the wreck. For some 45 minutes, they watch her, the splash of her stroke becoming ever smaller as she gets more and more distant. Sometimes, it seems she has disappeared and they fear she has drowned, but then they catch sight of the tiny splash again as she rises on a swell . . . before disappearing again in the subsequent trough. She is still going! Finally, about 40 yards to the right of the wreck, they see her climbing up and out, to stand upon the water! At first, it seems extraordinary, miraculous even. Of course, she is standing on the reef.

‘
Gooi me een lijntje!
Throw me a line!’ she cries to those gathered on the ship, gazing at her with awe.

From the highest part of the wreck – the beakhead – a line soon comes snaking through the air. She grasps it, ties it around her waist and is soon being hauled through the boiling surf towards the
Batavia
, before she rises from the water like a leaping frog and is standing, dripping, before the 30 men gazing upon her. She has made it!

What Wybrecht wants above everything else is fresh water, and the men on the
Batavia
happily give it to her – they have more than they can possibly drink, and many have been quaffing only wine for days anyway. She guzzles it down before answering their many questions.

Yes, it is true, the
Commandeur
and the skipper have gone with nearly 50 others in the longboat and there has been no sign of them since. She informs the men that there are about 170 of them now gathered on the biggest of the two islands they can see from the wreck. No, there is no water and very little food upon it, but there are still some supplies left, though they are going fast.

And Wybrecht in turn looks around at these sodden, mostly drunken men, standing on the shattered remains of what was once their proud ship. Apart from the unlimited wine and water, and a fair amount of food to consume, the conditions they have endured are appalling, and it is obvious that within days there will be nothing left of the ship for them to stand on. To a man, they are petrified of falling into the sea, as all those who are not struck with terror have long since jumped in with large pieces of wood and tried to kick and paddle their way to shore. Some have made it; many have not.

As to what she came here for, to get some water to take back to the island, there is of course only a limited amount that she can carry: a small barrel of only a few gallons, which she does not fill to the brim, so it will float. After tying it to one end of a rope, with the other end around her waist, she dives in and swims back to Batavia’s Graveyard. The small amount of water she has brought with her is instantly grabbed and drunk by the men who win the fight for it.

What is needed on Batavia’s Graveyard, of course, is leadership – someone with sufficient authority and clout to insist that whatever stores of water and food they have are shared equally, instead of merely being devoured by the strongest, leaving the weakest to die. However, in the absence of both Commandeur Pelsaert and Skipper Jacobsz, that leadership is lacking. In an effort to restore order, some of the more senior men on the island – including Gijsbert Bastiaensz the
Predikant
, Frans Jansz the surgeon, Pieter Jansz the provost and Salomon Deschamps the clerk – make a unilateral declaration that, observing VOC protocol, they will henceforth be the
raad
, the council.
There is no dissent
, but that is at least in part because dissension requires energy, which the survivors simply no longer have.

The council does the best it can to establish some organisation, but its control is absolutely minimal. For there they all are, a motley group of 170, right on the edge of the known world. They are dying, so what do they care what any council thinks they should or shouldn’t be doing? And what force does the council have to back up whatever decisions it makes? None at all.

9 June 1629, in the longboat, off the coast of
het Zuidland

Ariaen Jacobsz can smell it, can
feel
it, well before he sees the distant flashes of lightning. As one who has spent the bulk of his life on the water, he has developed almost a sixth sense about approaching storms, and, on this night, with the barest breath of slightly cooler air coming from the west, he senses that they are in for a big one. Had he been on the
Batavia
at the time, he would have noted it only in the manner that he noted there was fish for lunch – something that is neither here nor there, it just is. But in this boat it is problematic. As they are so heavily overloaded, they are sitting extremely low in the water, even allowing for the fact that they have lifted the gunwale to allow them more clearance from the ocean.

All afternoon, Jacobsz looked to the shore in the hope that providence would send them just in time a beach, a river, an inlet, a reef behind which they could take shelter, but there was nothing. And now they are going to have to weather this storm, and they are not long in waiting. In less than an hour, the sky has darkened, the waves are increasing in frequency and volume and the wind is picking up. Suddenly,
they are into the storm proper
.

From out of the north-west come vicious gusts of wind that nearly capsize them, and a great wave of water leaps over the gunwale.

‘Three reefs in the mains!’ Jacobsz barks out in defiance of this implacable tempest. ‘The rest of you, bail for your lives! We must clear her before we take another wave! Make fast the supplies. We must bear away, east-south-east. We must run before it, riding wind and wave, else we are done for! Now trim the weight to the stern so she doesn’t bury her bow in the troughs!’

And God save us all, he says to himself, ignoring the gaze of his crew and the cries of his passengers. All 48 of them are facing the fight of their lives, as the wind shrieks, the rain falls –
the blessed rain!
– and the ocean awakes, seemingly intent on finishing the job of a few days before and this time wiping them out completely.

Manning the helm, Jacobsz expertly manoeuvres the boat with the wind, while his sailors trim the sail so there is just enough canvas to give them some propulsion but not enough, hopefully, to blow the boat over in a sudden gust. From the first, it is obvious their survival is going to be a close-run thing. Time and again, they breast one wave only to find the next one coming at a different angle. They hit the next wave the wrong way, and inevitably water bursts over the side and into the boat. Worse, by this time the wind gusts are becoming so strong that the sail has to be taken down almost entirely, meaning Jacobsz’s control over the angle at which they breast each wave is vastly reduced.