To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (5 page)

“Nothing more we can do, boys.” He turned to the swimmer, sitting now, sodden and shivering, his hair dripping water into his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

The man passed his tongue over his lips. “Some of them are still drunk. But they know. They’re playing with the silver.”

“What?” Pelsaert’s eyes positively glittered as he faced their passenger, who quailed in the glare.

“What about the silver?” asked Jacobsz, swallowing a smile. The look on Pelsaert’s face was almost worth it.

“They… somebody broke into a chest. They were throwing guilders around the deck. Playing catch.” His eyes pleaded. “Not me,” he added. “I wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“God help them,” said Pelsaert.

4

Jacobsz woke to the unusual sound of a baby crying, that insistent mewling of a hungry infant. Irritated, he turned his head and saw its mother give the child her breast, her dark hair obscuring her face as she bent over her baby. He already regretted giving in to Zwaantie. What place was there for an infant on such a journey? But she’d been adamant, staring up at him with her fists on her hips. Saartje was her best friend, she’d declared, and it wasn’t fair to send her to the other island with all the other women. He’d tried to insist but then she’d burst into tears and sobbed on his chest. What was a man to do?

The child sucked contentedly. More luck to him, thought Jacobsz, running his tongue around his mouth. What he would give for a long drink of good water. He rolled over on his back and stared up at swift moving clouds, driven by a brisk breeze. The rain was ended but the sea was still up. Waves boomed on the reef close by. He sat up and put his hands around bent knees. Zwaantie lay beside him, still asleep, long eyelashes feathered across soft, pink cheeks. Around him, other people scattered amongst the low shrubs and coral outcrops started to stir. Thirty-eight souls. Thirty-eight people, three small barrels of water, a few casks of bread and preserved meat. And some of the more precious items of cargo, as ordered by their esteemed leader,
Commandeur
Pelsaert. Baubles; trinkets. What use were they here, on this God-forsaken speck in the middle of the ocean?

The breeze stirred his hair as he lifted his gaze to the other island, half a mile away. Two hundred persons with less water and food than they had here. And over there, on the edge of a long, wave-lashed reef, lay his ship. His stomach twisted. The two masts still standing hung at an angle. He wondered how much longer she’d last before the ocean claimed her. And how long it would be before the seventy fools still on board sobered up and got out? Well, they’d have to do it on their own. He wasn’t going to be going back for them. God only knows he’d tried.

“Hey. You’ve had enough.”

“Says who?”

He turned. Two sailors, one holding a pewter cup, chins jutting over a water cask.

“That’s enough of that,” said Jacobsz, rising to his feet. Three strides and he stood over them, hands on hips. “There’s little enough and we must make it last.”

The sailor, nut brown and leathery, took a step backwards, deferring to rank. The other scowled, sullen, blue eyes snapping defiance. He spoke with the thick accent of Brabant. “One cup… It’s not enough.”

Jacobsz skewered the man with his eyes. Insolent pup. “You won’t take orders? Then go.” He jerked his head at the larger island. “Get yourself over there with the rest of your mates. Go on. Swim.” He shoved the fellow’s shoulder, pushing him off balance.

Fear blossomed, eyes staring, as he recovered his footing. “I…I can’t swim.”

“You stay, you follow orders. Understood?” Jacobsz spoke loudly. Others were listening, he knew, some openly staring, others looking away, pretending disinterest.

“I…”

“Understood?” Jacobsz grated the word.

The lad licked his lips and swallowed. “Yes.” He nodded.

Jacobsz grabbed the front of the boy’s shirt and dragged him up onto his toes to face level. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, Cap’n.” He forced the words through tensed lips as he strained his neck away from Jacobsz.

The captain approved. A little fear was always a good thing.

“Very good,” said Jacobsz. He let go and the boy deflated like an empty bladder. “And as a reward, you can be one of the first to stand guard in case anybody else has notions about sharing.” His eyes roved around the gathered men and picked out the boatswain, Jan Evertsz. “Jan, set up a ration and get a roster organised to enforce it.”

Evertsz nodded once and set to work. Zwaantie caught his eye, lips parted, admiring. He smiled just for her, very, very slightly.

What to do now? Jacobsz stared across the patchwork carpet of the coral flats, pale green where the water was shallow or the bottom clear of weed, dark blue in the deeper sections. To port across deep water lay a long, narrow spit of land, white beaches sparkling in the sun. Further away, to the north-west, a couple of other islands rose out of the ocean. Not like these dead flat pieces of sandy coral with their sprinkling of thorny, leathery bushes. Maybe he could find water there.

Pelsaert’s voice made him jump.

“They have so little water. All those people…”

Pelsaert’s eyes reflected his misery as he turned his head towards the larger island where figures stirred. Like ants around a nest.

“Yes. I was just thinking.” Jacobsz pointed at the dark masses on the horizon. “That island looks a little larger. I’ll take the sloop and some people and see if I can find water.”

Pelsaert stiffened. “And leave us here?”

“Well, yes.” In God’s name. What did he expect?

“No.” The smaller man’s head swivelled from side to side like a puppet. “No. I forbid it. I will not have it.”

“And what would you have me do?” Pestilential idiot, Jacobsz raged inside his head. There he stood, the company lackey, ridiculous in his breeches and his buckled shoes and his brocade coat with a lace collar. The words crowded Jacobsz mouth. No. He could not say what he wanted to say. Not with all those people listening.

“Stay here and share their fate?” he hissed, voice lowered. “Die of thirst bravely, with everybody else? What do you think will happen to them,” he cast a hand behind him to the people clustered around the provisions, “or to the folk over there if we don’t find more water?”

Pelsaert blinked. His eyes were brown and Jacobsz wondered—not for the first time—if the Upper Merchant had Spanish blood. Judging by the way he hugged his arms to his body, his blood was thin enough.

The
commandeur’s
lips worked. “All right. You may go. But I will go with you.”

“With me?” Jacobsz spread his hands. “Why? I’ll take a few of the crew. I’ll be back.” Pelsaert’s eyes flickered.
He doesn’t trust me. The God forsaken son of a Spanish whore doesn’t trust me.
He took a step closer. “I’ll return if I find water.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I’ll head for Batavia.” He’d said the words. The reality had always been there, simmering, in the back of his brain. It was the only way. These people—all of them—would die here, sooner or later, unless they were rescued. As sure as God made women and schnapps.

“Batavia? In the sloop?”

What else? The yawl? A raft? “Yes, the sloop.”

“But how will you know where to go?”

“We have some idea where we are. The South Land is there. I have my instruments. We head north, using the sun and the stars.”

Pelsaert turned and stared over the coral flats to the other island.

Jacobsz watched his indecision. Ah. “You should stay. As their leader. Stay with them and help them through this time until I can return with a boat.”

“No. No. I should like to stay. Of course. But I am first and foremost a servant of the Company. It is my duty to report to my masters in Batavia. If you make this trip, I must go with you.”

Jacobsz suppressed the snort. He couldn’t blame the man. He wouldn’t like to be over there with the rabble, the soldiers and the rest of the seamen. A bunch of uncouth cut-throats. And half those soldiers—Germans, Frenchmen—hardly spoke a word of Dutch. He’d taken care to keep his senior officers and the most trustworthy sailors here, and had the rest, the riff-raff, ferried over to the other islet. They’d started calling it Batavia’s Graveyard. “In that case, I will prepare a crew, see if I can find water on yonder islands and come back for you.”

Brown Spanish eyes turned on Jacobsz. “I will go with you. But first, you will take me to the island,” he nodded at the larger coral flat, “and I’ll explain to them what we’re going to do.”

Jacobsz fought to push down the rage that surged up from his belly. He bristled, teeth bared. “You’re mad. You’re going to go there and say what? Good luck people, we’ll be back? Have a good time?”

“I’ll tell them we’ll look for water—over there and if we don’t find it there, on the South land—and bring it back. Then, and only then, we’ll sail for Batavia.” The merchant kept his voice even.

Jacobsz glanced around. Zwaantie and the woman with the baby sat to one side. Four men stood guard over the provisions and an orderly line of people waited for their rations, to be handed over by an overseer. All eyes were on the argument between him and Pelsaert. He turned back to Pelsaert and noted the set of his jaw, the etched lines of his face. The man was an Upper Merchant, a title he’d had to earn the hard way. The Company didn’t award that status to cowards. “All right. So be it.” He beckoned. “Jan.”

The man trotted over at the call.

“
Commandeur
Pelsaert wishes to go to the other island to talk to our compatriots. Take him in the yawl.”

*

Pelsaert prepared his speech in his head. We go to search for water, then we go to Batavia. They’d understand. Of course they would. His heart went out to them, to all these poor, lost souls. Jacobsz. Was he really on watch last night? Last night. Only last night. It seemed so long ago. His eyes strayed to the reef in the distance where the surf battered the stricken ship and wondered if the men who remained on board would survive. Well, it was their choice. Drunks and wastrels, all of them.

“
Commandeur
?” Evertsz tugged his forelock. “The boat is ready.”

A sailor carried the Upper Merchant on board, while Evertsz followed, splashing through the shallow water. The six men rowed strongly in an easy rhythm. Down, pull, glide, lift. The island grew steadily larger, the group of people waiting on the shoreline became a crowd. They’d been spotted. From his position in the prow, Pelsaert watched in growing alarm as people waded forward to meet them. Shouts and cries rang out across the water. He swallowed as a trickle of fear slid down his spine. There must be near on two hundred people in that mob. All crying out to him. What could he do? What could he offer? One small cask of water to share amongst them?

“Stop, lads,” said Evertsz.

Pelsaert swung around.

The boatswain leaned forward. “I’m sorry, your Excellency. If we land, they’ll take the boat. We’ll never get away.” His voice pleaded, but his eyes were hard.

The man was right, of course he was. These desperate people would seize the boat. And he couldn’t really do anything to help them. Not without water or supplies. Those shouts were angry, not welcoming greetings. What had Jacobsz said? They wouldn’t listen to him when he told them to take care with the supplies. He thought they’d already consumed what had been left for them. Why would they listen to a Company bureaucrat?

He stood legs apart to hold himself steady in the rocking boat. Evertsz pulled him down.

The boat turned.

Even from this distance, Pelsaert could hear the venom in the chorused responses.
Traitor. Murderer. You’re abandoning us to save yourself. Rot in Hell. Rot in Hell
. A few men started to swim towards the boat.

“
Rij, yongens. Krijg ons hieruit
.” Evertsz’s voice broke into Pelsaert’s thoughts, urgent, commanding. They bent their backs and the yawl fled.

Pelsaert held his head in his hands and wept.

The sailors ran the vessel up close to the island and carried Pelsaert ashore. Jacobsz waited, a slight smile curving his lips. “Satisfied,
Commandeur
?”

Pelsaert gathered himself, straightening his shoulders and his jacket. The man was completely obnoxious. “I agree that the most prudent course of action is to seek assistance from Batavia. But we will try to find water for them first.”

“We’ll leave in the morning.”

Pelsaert sagged to the ground. Somewhere someone was preparing food, a stew of salt meat and pulses, washed down with a little wine. The aroma wafted in the air. Pelsaert looked around the faces. He knew some of them, the senior men; the steersman, Claas Gerritsz and his two lieutenants; the high boatswain. But the sailors and the artisans he’d never encountered. Even if he hadn’t been ill, a man of his rank never mixed with those who sailed before the mast. Rough, they looked to his eyes, with their wide, coarse cloth breeches and woollen stockings and their knitted caps. He wondered if they were trustworthy. Whatever that meant. Jacobsz seemed comfortable with them and they respected him.

Someone handed him a cup of wine. He took it automatically and sipped, the liquid warm in his throat, as the salt-laden breeze stirred his hair and probed his jacket with icy fingers.

A child’s chuckle attracted his attention. A few yards away, a sailor and his woman played with their baby. He frowned. Why were they still here? Pelsaert scrambled to his feet and beckoned Jacobsz.

“
Commandeur
?” The captain’s lips curled as though the word tasted unpleasant.

“The woman and the baby,” Pelsaert murmured. “What will you do with them?”

“They’ll come with us.”

“A baby? What foolishness is this?”

“I’m not sending a boat over there,” Jacobsz said, jerking his head towards the other island. “And I’m not leaving them here. She’s the wife of one of my senior sailors.”

“You should have asked me.”

Jacobsz snorted. Pelsaert could have hit him.

“If we find water and bring it back to them, then perhaps they’ll stay,” Jacobsz said. He turned away.