To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (14 page)

The barrel was heavy. He’d thought about having someone else carry it down for him, but no. This was special. Having set the barrel on the floor next to his chair at the council table, Cornelisz removed the lid. Hands trembling, he drew out the contents and placed them on the table in front of him. Jewels. A ruby ring, the stone the colour of fresh blood. A necklace, at its centre a winking emerald, on both sides, sapphires. He let the stones run through his fingers, cool and sensual, before he turned his attention to a glittering, diamond encrusted tiara. Pearl earrings, a dagger with an elaborately worked hilt in the form of a dragon’s head. Silver tobacco tins, candlesticks, brooches. Destined for the merchants in Batavia or maybe the Sultans or even the Great Mogul’s court.

Except now, they were his.

What was this, now? He prised out the box, pushed awkwardly at an angle into the barrel. The plain wooden container held a second box, of finely-carved, polished pine with a gold hasp. Mouth dry with anticipation, he flicked open the hasp and took out a velvet-wrapped object. He placed the treasure on the table with reverential care and carefully peeled back the wrapping.

Ah. Exquisite.

An agate cameo, the figures, glossy cream with greenish highlights, dramatically posed on a deep green background. Two centaurs drew a chariot carrying a man and woman seated side-by-side, with a small boy in military costume in front of them. An angel flew overhead, a laurel wreath in its hands. Entranced, Cornelisz slid his fingers over the smooth stone and admired the detail, the drape of the tunics, the angel’s wings, the centaurs’ hair and beards. The bejewelled surrounds only served to heighten the value of the carving at the centre. A border of gold and precious stones edged the cameo and the whole sat in an ornate, star-shaped setting that sparkled with filigrees of gold and multi-coloured gems.

This thing must be priceless. He wondered where it had come from and where it was going. Antique, he’d guess, a relic of something Roman? Or Greek? He wondered whether the Company had known about it. Or about the other items in the barrel. He’d heard that merchants did some trading of their own, on the side. Was this Pelsaert’s example?

“Jeronimus?”

The voice startled him until he remembered he’d told van Huyssen, Zevanck and the others to report to him after they’d finished seeing the goods stored. Covering the cameo with the velvet cloth, he rose, smiling. “Come in, come in.”

Van Huyssen, Zevanck and Pietersz entered with the van Welderen brothers and Lenert van Os. Wan sunlight brightened the tent for a moment until the flap swung closed behind them.

He waved a hand. “Sit.”

They sat, all eyes on the treasure scattered apparently carelessly across the table top. Pietersz, the massive soldier, gaped like a fish.

Zevanck’s face closed, the lust scarcely hidden. Van Huyssen stretched out a tentative hand.

“This was in a barrel retrieved from Traitors’ Island,” said Cornelisz. “I’ve only just now had a chance to look.” He gazed around the faces. “Brandy?” Without waiting for an answer he pulled out a bottle of fine spirits from his private cache. “Help me, will you, Lenert,” he added, handing silver goblets from the side table.

While Lenert set out goblets, van Huyssen picked up the necklace and turned it over in his fingers. Pietersz held the jewelled dagger in one massive hand and Gijsbert van Welderen ran a pearl necklace across his palm. No one spoke.

Cornelisz let them stare as he splashed liquor into the goblets.

“Who were these for?” asked Olivier van Welderen at last.

“Who knows,” said Cornelisz. “A sultan? The Great Indian Mogul or one of his many wives?” He sipped at his brandy. “It’s ours now.”

“Ours?”

“Of course. Think on it. We are the most senior of the Company’s servants on this island.”

They exchanged glances. It wasn’t strictly true. Zevanck was an assistant and the rest were military cadets. But weapons were persuasive.

“What about the council?” asked van Os.

Cornelisz flicked a dismissive hand. “Who is left? Frans—he’s a barber. Gerrit Haas is no officer and Gabriel and Pieter are on the other islands.” They agreed. He noted the small nods, the thoughtful reflection. Pietersz, the great oaf, swallowed the brandy as if it was beer.

“Ah. I haven’t shown you this yet.” He set down his goblet and withdrew the velvet from the cameo. The intake of breath was like a sigh.

“Oh, God in Heaven,” murmured van Huyssen.

He let them admire, touch, caress, marvel while they swallowed fine brandy. Most of them were more impressed with the surrounds than the cameo itself. At length he wrapped the precious object and placed it back into the case, while they handed the bottle along the table.

“This is just a taste, gentlemen. The East is full of such things. And it can all be ours. We’ll all be rich. Wealthy beyond our wildest dreams.” He kept his voice low, leaning towards them over the jewels. Each single gem was worth a fortune to any of these boys.

“But we have to get off this… this speck,” said Olivier.

“Captain Jacobsz will return. We’re all certain, aren’t we?” He studied their faces, one after another. Yes, they were—perhaps not certain but hopeful.

“Well, then. Let me tell you something. You’d be aware that Captain Jacobsz and I were good friends?” Yes, they knew. “At the Cape, you’d recall the captain and the
commandeur
had a… falling out?”

Pietersz laughed. “You both went off and got drunk.
Ja
, we all heard.”

Sniggers.

“Yes,” said Cornelisz. “The whole ship knew. Well, Captain Jacobsz was very annoyed with Pelsaert over that public dressing-down. He told me he’d decided to do away with Pelsaert and steal the ship.”

“Steal the ship? But he was the captain.”

“The Company’s captain. He was going to steal the ship and take her pirating.”

Glances exchanged, nervous now. Outside, a gull screamed a challenge. Zevanck ran his finger around the rim of his goblet. “That’s mutiny,” he breathed. But his eyes were narrowed. “Who else was involved?”

“Most of the senior officers.”

“But then… it should have been easy,” said Olivier.

“Not so very easy. The ship had soldiers and not everyone would support a mutiny. Captain Jacobsz needed to prepare and plan. Why else do you think he lost the rest of the fleet?”

“But that happens quite often. Doesn’t it? That the ships get separated at sea?” said van Os.

Did it? Cornelisz didn’t know, but neither did they and that was all that mattered. “Captain Jacobsz certainly didn’t want the other ships around—especially the warship.”

They drank more brandy. More than one scratched at his nose. Zevanck was already convinced; Pietersz, too.

“But… why hadn’t he done anything sooner?” asked Gijsbert.

Cornelisz had expected that one. “Well, yes. The intention had been to spring the trap when the Lady Lucretia was attacked.”

“How so?”

Van Huyssen answered. “Captain Jacobsz organised the attack. He didn’t like her much after she refused him.”

Leers and sniggers. The story had circulated, of course it had.

“Pelsaert’s whore, they called her,” slurred Pietersz. “Too good for a sailor—even a captain.”

“That’s right. And if Pelsaert had tried to punish the sailors, Captain Jacobsz would have supported his people and thrown the
commandeur
overboard.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No, because Pelsaert didn’t try to mete out punishment. So the captain decided to wait until the ship was closer to the Indies and then make away with it.” Cornelisz sighed, all eyes on his face. “And then we hit the reef.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Zevanck.

“We found Pelsaert’s journal in his sea chest back on the ship” van Huyssen said. “Jeronimus read out to us what he’d written about the attack.” Van Os nodded in support. “She said she recognised Jan Evertsz’s voice.”

“What about the soldiers?” asked Pietersz.

“Easy enough to nail down the hatches to the Orlop deck,” said Cornelisz.

Zevanck put his goblet on the table. “What now?”

“Now, we make sure we survive to meet the captain when he returns. Then, whatever ship he comes with, we can go pirating with him, make ourselves a fortune and live in luxury somewhere like Macau or Spain.”

Van Huyssen grinned. “Sounds good to me.”

Cornelisz leaned towards them and lowered his voice. “You’ve all seen the stores we have. Tell me—realistically—how many people can survive on what we have for at least two months?”

The canvas slapped a little in the wind, loud in the ensuing silence. A few people walked past, their voices indistinct. No one answered.

“I would say about forty people. No more,” said Cornelisz. He watched them absorb his words.

Olivier van Welderen rubbed a finger under his bottom lip, backwards and forwards. “Even without the people on the other islands, there must be over a hundred people here. Soldiers, sailors, as well as women and children.”

“Of course, we’ll have no place for the sick or the old. Or the very young. Much as I feel sorry for them, we have little enough rations to spare without wasting them on people who are not strong enough to survive.”

Nods from around the table.

“Now then, who can you trust?” Cornelisz caught each man’s eye with his own. “Sound out your friends so we know those who will join us and those who will not. And those who are… shall we say, superfluous.”

Pietersz grunted. “Easy enough. Ryckert, Allert, Matthijs. They’ll all be willing. I’ll sound out some others.”

“Carefully,” said Cornelisz, pointing a finger at him. He could just imagine the big oaf being subtle.

“I think the cadets will all be willing,” said Olivier van Welderen. “Why live for the future?”

Cornelisz suppressed his smile. He’d won them over, all those nights on the ship, as they talked about the treasures of the East. And who owned them. Time well spent, it seemed. Torrentius would have been proud.

“What happens to those who will not join us?” asked Zevanck. He lifted the corners of his mouth in a nasty half-smile. He’d picked up the dagger, running his thumb along its edge.

Cornelisz dropped his hand, palm down, onto the table, as if in judgement. “Those who are not with us are against us.”

*

“They won’t be coming now,” said Otto Smit. He gazed out to the east, where rain from a single cloud darkened the surface of the sea, heading away from their island towards Batavia’s Graveyard. “Not so late in the afternoon.”

“They won’t be coming at all, will they, Wiebbe?” said Allert Jansz.

No, they wouldn’t be, thought Hayes. Ten days now, three days past when his group was supposed to have received a new supply of rations. He didn’t need to guess why.

“Better talk to the men,” he said, leading the way back to the camp, making up his speech in his mind. The two cadets would support him, he knew. They’d come on well, taking the time to get to know the men in their teams. Jansz was even trying to learn a few words of French.

“Are either of you concerned about the men in your groups?” he asked. “Will any of them cause trouble?”

Smit and Jansz exchanged a glance. “Some are resentful,” said Jansz. “They say we’ve been left to die.”

Probably true enough, thought Hayes, if they hadn’t found food. And if it hadn’t rained. Still, if they were to survive they would have to work together. It had seemed clear to him, back on Batavia’s Graveyard, that many expected the captain to return to save them. It was a hope to cling to.

He delayed his speech until the men had all returned from collecting water out of the hollows in the rocks. They used pewter cups to scoop the precious liquid and pour it into casks. The soldiers gathered around the campfire, some standing, arms folded, others sitting hunched, chins on their knees. Most looked interested, expectant. But not all.

“I’m not telling you anything you don’t know,” said Hayes. “It’s been three days. We have to assume we’ve been abandoned.”

A low murmur ran around the group. Hayes could make out an occasional French oath. “Left us to die,” said one man.

“Well, we’re doing pretty well for dead men, aren’t we?” said Hayes. Tonight they’d eat roast bird, the succulent sea birds that nested underground. The smell from the cooking fire wafted through the camp.

“That’s not the point. If we hadn’t found water—” said Thomas.

“But we did. So God doesn’t want us to die.”

“Ah. They are
cochons
. Saving the food for themselves.” The soldier spat on the ground.

“You’d rather dried bread?” asked Hayes. He stood with his hands on his hips, legs apart, challenging them. “Here we eat bird, meat as good as venison, fish, berries. As much as we want. And we have water. Not much, but enough.”

Men shifted, moving their weight.

“And if it doesn’t rain again?”

“Why shouldn’t it?” said Smit, stepping forward. “It’s rained twice since we came here. I think Wiebbe’s right. We’re better off here than over there.”

“We can’t go anywhere else,” muttered another man. He sat, sullen-faced, on the ground. “We’ll rot here.”

“The people on the island think the captain will return,” said Jansz.

“Huh. Return. All that way in a longboat, then back here?” A rustle went around the group.

“Yes,” insisted Jansz. “They say if anyone can do it, he can.”

“And when he comes back, we’ll be waiting,” said Hayes.

“And if he doesn’t?”

That was always the question, wasn’t it? But hope was better than despair. “Do any of you… honestly… believe we’d do better there, on the other island?” asked Hayes. “Remember how it was? Crowded, fighting with the sailors all the time—”

“We won,” muttered somebody and the mood lifted.

They glanced at each other. A few shrugs, licked lips.

“They have wine,” said one man. But he was smiling.

“Tomorrow we move to the other island,” said Hayes. “Maybe we’ll find wine there.”

14

Cornelisz stood in Lucretia’s tent with his hands behind his back, elegant in breeches and a buttoned coat with a cream lace collar. “See what the men have rescued?” He waved a hand and a sailor entered, carrying a chest.