To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (11 page)

Jansz nodded. “Yes. Perhaps clothes, herbs, cooking utensils if the galley is not flooded.”

“Good. Well, then, Gerrit, perhaps you could organise that?”

“Of course,” said Haas. “It’ll be a pleasure to give them something to do.”

“Wonderful. Now, I’ve also heard that there has been some disturbance between soldiers and sailors?”

The provost, the corporal and Haas exchanged embarrassed looks. “We do our best,” said the corporal.

“But it’s difficult,” added the provost. “We’re just lucky they haven’t used weapons.”

Cornelisz inspected a knot of wood in the pine that served as a council table. This was so easy. “Then perhaps, gentlemen, we should control the weapons?”

“You mean an armoury?” said the provost, “like we had on the ship?”

“Just so. Controlled by the council.”

“Excellent. Why don’t I see to that?” said the provost.

“We can set up a guard-duty rotation for the soldiers,” put in the corporal.

“Very good.” Cornelisz rubbed a hand over his newly-shaved chin. So much more comfortable. And tonight he would be dining with the predikant and the beautiful Lucretia. He could hardly wait.

“One more thing. Shelter. I do feel we should be able to house people a little more comfortably, don’t you? Instead of large groups of people all huddled together we could build smaller tents. We have lots of building materials coming in with the tide. Small tents for family groups. There are some, aren’t there, apart from the predikant?”

“We felt he deserved some priority,” mumbled Frans Jansz, “as a Man of God and with so many children.” He straightened up and added, more clearly, “But, yes, several soldiers and sailors, too, have wives and children. And now that we have the material that does sound sensible.” He flicked a glance at Corporal Jacobsz.

“Can we then organise some building parties? Perhaps you, corporal, with your soldiers?” said Cornelisz. He turned to Jacobsz without waiting for a nod. “Perhaps you, sir, could help to create a list of needs and priorities for housing? I will direct the Company clerks to assist you.”

He waited, looking around the table. No dissent, more relief that someone had taken charge. Good. At the end of the table, Salomon Deschamps, the senior clerk, finished taking notes.

“Well, then, gentlemen, I declare this meeting of the council closed. We should meet again, I think, in… shall we say five days?” He waited for the nods and murmurs of agreement. “We can see what progress has been made.”

They stood and filed out, full of purpose.

“Salomon, if you would have someone fetch the Company assistants for me,” said Cornelisz.

They entered together, seven of them, including the predikant’s eldest son, also named Gijsbert. They stood respectfully in front of him, waiting for orders. Cornelisz ran his eyes along the line. Most of them were colourless nobodies; he knew that from the
Batavia
, when they sat along the table in the Great Cabin and carried out duties for Pelsaert. But Davidt Zevanck, now. Surly, dark eyes, curled lip. He’d always been a bit different, as though suppressing an inner fire. And Daniel Cornelissen, with his pinched face and shrewd, cold eyes. Nobody knew much about him; he’d joined late. But these two, in particular, had shown some interest when he’d talked of his mentor, Torrentius, when he’d told them, late at night, that Hell was just a notion to frighten children and old women; that the scriptures were nothing but a collection of fables; that life was meant for pleasure.

“Now then, I want you all, as loyal servants of the Company, to assist the members of the Council as they require. At present, Mister Jansz has need of two of you—Gijsbert and Andries de Vries, please go to him now.”

They almost brightened, pleased to have a job. Zevanck stirred restlessly as the two men left, pushing the tent flap aside.

“Davidt and Daniel, you will come with me. The rest of you will be given other opportunities when they arise.” He rose, indicating the interview was over. The remaining clerks filed out, leaving him with the two young men. He smiled at them. “I’d like you to help me check the stores inventory.”

They went through the list Jansz had drawn up, adding new items, checking existing stock. Cornelisz watched them work, Zevanck in particular. The young man’s scowl deepened and he trimmed his quill with ever-growing anger, the knife cutting hard and sharp.

“You’re not happy, Davidt?”

He looked up, startled. “Sir?”

“You can still call me Jeronimus, just as on the ship. Are you thinking there’s not much here?”

It was like opening a sluice. “It’ll be months before a rescue ship comes back—months. This… this isn’t going to last all those people. Kids and sick. Pregnant women. Not unless God himself works a miracle.”

“And we know God doesn’t work those sorts of miracles, don’t we, Davidt?” Cornelisz said.

“Not unless we work them for him,” said Cornelissen. His pale eyes glittered in the soft light under the canvas.

“Indeed. In God’s eyes, the deserving will survive and thrive.”

Cornelisz stroked his moustache. Now to see what support he could engender from the soldiers. He returned to the tent he’d woken up in, and now shared with many of his erstwhile companions on the ship. That would be a temporary arrangement. He’d soon have his own accommodation, befitting his position.

Coenraat van Huyssen, slim and handsome, resentful that his father had sent him away; the two van Welderen brothers, Gijsbert and Olivier, who hadn’t a choice; Lenert van Os, medium height, medium colouring, biddable. They all looked up as he entered. His eyes flicked around the group, making contact with each one. “Well now gentlemen, perhaps you’d like to join me on a tour of inspection?”

They walked through the untidy settlement, past playing children and men busy with retrieved casks and timber. A few were coiling rope and Cornelisz noticed a small boat nearing completion. Carpenters used adzes to shape driftwood, building simple furniture. A number of people called a greeting, which he acknowledged with a wave of his hand.

A short walk and the four men reached the windswept end of the island, a narrow, rocky point. A mile away, a little east of south, the
Batavia’s
masts and the poop rose above the reef.

“What now, Jeronimus?” said van Huyssen. “What did you want to talk about?”

Cornelisz found a rock to sit on and the others did the same, curious, interested. A breeze stirred their hair and whispered among the stunted bushes, carrying with it the scent of seaweed. “Tell me, do you think the captain and the
commandeur
will come back with water?”

Olivier, elder of the two van Welderen brothers, was first to answer. “I think if they found any, they would have been back by now. And since it’s rained…” he shrugged. “Why come back?”

The others all nodded. Lenert van Os pulled a piece of grass out between his feet and began to shred it. Cornelisz thought he’d lost weight. Olivier didn’t look too well, either.

“You think they’ll make it to Batavia?”

Another ripple of exchanged glances went between them.

“Everybody seems to think so. They have enormous faith in Captain Jacobsz.” Van Os’s voice faltered.

Cornelisz grinned. “But not in
Commandeur
Pelsaert?”

“No. They feel he’s deserted them. Sure, Captain Jacobsz needed to go to Batavia. But not him,” said van Os. He related the story of Pelsaert’s abortive trip from Traitors’ Island, in the yawl. “The people were disgusted. He just abandoned them—us. Left and went away.”

“And do they think he’ll come back?”

“Captain Jacobsz?” said Van Huyssen. “Yes.”

A cruising bird in the sky above them folded its wings and stabbed down into the sea, emerging a moment later with a struggling fish.

“How long do you think such a journey would take?” asked Cornelisz, meeting each man’s eyes. “There and back here?”

Again they exchanged looks. This time the younger van Welderen answered. “We’ve heard the sailors talk. They say months.” He sighed and his shoulders sagged.

“And do they say how many of us will still be left alive when Captain Jacobsz comes back?”

Van Os’s fingers stopped their shredding.

“What did you think of last night’s dinner?” asked Cornelisz.

Both van Welderens pulled an almost identical face, van Os snorted and van Huyssen frowned. A small bowl of preserved meat with a few pulses and a piece of weevil-infested bread, with a small glass of wine. That’s what they’d eaten; all of them. Cornelisz looked at each face.

“This is what we talked about on the boat, isn’t it? Making a fortune, any woman you want, lovely maids to wait on you. That’s how it is in Batavia, so they tell me. Gold, jewels. Anything you want. Well, you heard the
commandeur
talk about Jahangir’s court in India?” He remembered well enough himself. Beautiful, dark-skinned women; silks, jewel-encrusted ornaments, goblets and platters of silver and gold and ivory.

Greed glistened in van Huyssen’s eyes. “What do you have in mind, Jeronimus?”

“Only to ensure we are alive to see the rescue ship.”

The wind sighed through the bushes and the waves slapped on the rock below where they sat. They waited, expectant, interested. Cornelisz rose to his feet and slapped the dirt from his breeches. “Well. We'd best be going. We'll talk again soon. ”

*

Lucretia allowed Cornelisz to take her hand. Very briefly.

“It’s delightful to see you, Lady,” he said.

His hazel eyes glittered in the lamplight. He’d been shaved, his moustache trimmed and his light brown hair hung around his shoulders. Full lips curved into a smile. He was quite attractive really, exuding a sort of animal magnetism, even wearing salt-stained clothes.

“It’s good to see you fully recovered, Master Jeronimus,” she murmured.

The predikant’s maid brought wine—their ration for the day—served in wooden, hand-carved cups.

“You’ve been busy already, Master Cornelisz,” said the predikant. “The work teams have started, I see.”

“Ah, well, we have plenty of materials now.” Cornelisz swung around to Lucretia again. “I’ve arranged for a tent to be built for you, Lady. It’s not right that someone of your status should be forced to share.”

“Predikant Bastiaensz has been most generous,” said Lucretia. And that was true. But the idea of her own tent was certainly attractive. The crowded tent with the two children had become tiresome, she had to admit. She missed her privacy. And Bastiaensz snored.

“Of course. And I appreciate that at first you had no choice. But I think it’s important that we establish a proper society here. I’ve heard you’ve been subjected to… shall we say… unpleasantness?” He smiled at her blush. “Rest assured you’ll be protected. I’ve instructed that your tent will be close to mine, and that you’ll be guarded.”

“Quite right, sir,” said the predikant. “I’ve admonished the miscreants but they are Godless men.” He shook his head. “I must protect my own daughter from them, too.” He lifted a hand to indicate Judyck, who stood with her cup of wine held in two hands. “We are so pleased that you’ve come to us.”

“I hope that restricting access to weapons will make a difference,” said Cornelisz.

His voice was a purr, mellow and pleasant, yet authoritative. He certainly had a presence, this man, thought Lucretia. Maybe it needed an emergency like this one to bring out his personality.

11

“If we are all here, gentlemen, let’s get the meeting under way,” said Cornelisz. He shifted his shoulders in his chair. The men had collected furniture from the Great Cabin and as chairman of the council, he’d requisitioned Pelsaert’s padded chair as his own. No one had argued. Nor had anyone complained when he’d taken Pelsaert’s clothes for his own use. The long coat fitted well enough and at least he looked the part.

A murmur of agreement.

“I’m impressed with what we’ve achieved in five days. A number of tents built for families and the armoury has been established. Well done.” They had done well. He’d spent his time getting to know people, seeing who was content, who was not. Who might be useful, who would not.

“Hmm,” said the provost. “We had some dissent from the soldiers but we managed to persuade them—with some help from Gabriel, here.”

“Dissent has been a problem, hasn’t it?”

The corporal sighed. “It’s difficult. Some don’t speak any Dutch at all. They form cliques of their own—the French at one end of a tent, the Germans at the other. And everyone is so cramped.”

“I have a suggestion, gentlemen,” said Cornelisz. “Overcrowding is part of the problem, I think. If the people had a little more room, they could perhaps be a little happier.” He looked around from man to man.

“I expect you’re right,” said the barber. “But where can they go?”

“We could set up a group on Traitors’ Island,” said Cornelisz.

Pieter Jansz the provost pulled at his moustache. “There is no water on Traitors’ Island.”

“No, but we can supply water from here. Water and supplies. Easy enough to do. We have rafts now and a boat. It just means we all have more room.”

They exchanged glances. Cornelisz waited while the thought percolated into their brains. “We could send a small group over there,” he added. “Families with children. To separate them from the rougher sailors and soldiers.”

He watched the body language. Hands on chins, lips licked.

And then a nod from Frans Jansz. “Good idea.”

“They’d need a leader, of course,” said Cornelisz. “Can you suggest anyone?”

The provost cleared his throat. “I’d be happy to lead such a group,” he said. “I have a wife and child, as you know. I could pick a few others.”

“But then… who would take your place?” asked Cornelisz, making sure he sounded reluctant.

“Jacop Pietersz will be here. And I won’t be far away,” said the provost.

“Lance Corporal Pietersz.” Cornelisz said the words slowly, considering.

“And you have a number of cadets, too,” added the provost. “Plenty of people to select from.”

“True.” Cornelisz hesitated again. “All right. Do you agree?” he asked the other councillors. They all glanced at each other, eyes bright. No voices of dissent, no objections. “Yes? Well, then, if you will organise your group, Pieter, we’ll arrange for you to be taken to Traitors’ Island tomorrow.” He smiled.