To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (6 page)

Pelsaert watched him plonk down on the ground and put an arm around Zwaantie, Lucretia’s former maid. His thoughts strayed to Lucretia, the lovely Creesje with her golden hair, alabaster skin and limpid blue eyes. She’d refused them both—he himself and the captain. Indeed, after that shameful attack, she’d kept herself even more distant, despite his best efforts. Maybe if she hadn’t, she would be here with the senior folk instead of over there with the rabble.

He sighed. But then, who was safe? Nobody, really.

5

The sloop pulled out at first light, carrying thirty-eight passengers. The men rowed silently, rhythmically, six on each side. The oars dipped into the water, dug, lifted, swept back dripping and dug down again. The rowlocks creaked and waves slapped against the bows. Early dawn light cast long shadows and sparkled off the wave crests. The baby stirred and whimpered softly.

Pelsaert sat on the centre thwart, misery in his heart as the men rowed them down the deep channel, past Batavia’s Graveyard. Shouts echoed across the water. He knew what they were saying, even if the breeze caught the words. His heart was a lead weight in his chest. What else could he do? What food they could spare—a few barrels of bread—remained on the tiny islet they’d just left, together with a note to explain that they would return with water or go on to Batavia.

At least he had the treasure. Jacobsz had tried to refuse to take it. Too heavy, he’d said, and of no value. No value. A barrel full of jewels, a king’s ransom worth sixty thousand guilders, he’d estimated. And that was without the cameo. Well, he’d won that argument, too. He’d watched Jacobsz load the barrel himself. But then, eleven chests of silver still lay inside the
Batavia
.

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his chin.

“They’ll build rafts and boats,” Jacobsz said, as if he’d heard Pelsaert’s thoughts. “They have carpenters there and plenty of wood.” He jerked his head at the many objects bobbing in the water. “There are fish here, seabirds, seals. And it’s sure to rain again. It’s winter here.”

Pelsaert nodded listlessly as his eyes sought again the drunken masts in the surf, barely visible now in the distance. God grant them rain, he prayed, soon.

He wondered where the rest of the fleet was.
Buren
,
Assendelft
,
Sardam
and
Dordrecht
. Last he’d seen them was a few days out of Table Bay, as
Batavia
out-ran them. Well, it seemed they’d all beat him to Batavia now.

The boat travelled the length of a deep channel, a long, low island on the port side. Seals on the shoreline lifted inquisitive heads as they passed. At last the boat turned west and Batavia’s Graveyard disappeared from view. Two larger islands drew steadily nearer. At least they seemed more promising. They each even sported a low hill.

*

“Easy, lads,” said Jacobsz. “We don’t want to run aground.”

A few ironic snorts greeted his words. No, indeed.

Testing the depth all the way, they eased towards the nearest island until the man in the bow judged they could get no closer. They anchored the sloop a few yards out and splashed through the shallows to a scrubby shore line, Pelsaert again carried by one of the bigger seamen. Tough looking bushes, the largest no more than a few feet high, covered shaly soil. Rocky outcrops emerged like bald heads amongst a carpet of grey-green, burgundy, and parched straw vegetation. The sea wind sighed, rustling the leaves, a brief staccato above the background sough of the surf on the reef. A few terns drifted in the sky on dark wings.

“Not even a tree,” whispered Zwaantie.

Jacobsz heard her disappointment. He felt the same. The place didn’t look encouraging and they didn’t have much water left in their barrels. “Maybe the search parties will find something.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a brief hug.

“Split up. Three in a group. See what you can find.”

The men spread out, searching and digging, while Pelsaert found a little shelter beside some of the larger bushes. The two women played with the baby a short distance away.

Jacobsz went himself with two sailors, trudging up to the island’s highest point. From this rocky platform, maybe fifty feet up, the two coral islands where the survivors had been landed were just visible in the many-hued greens and blues of the reef. And there at the edge of the deeper water,
Batavia
wallowed in her final death throes. If only. If only the ship’s course had been half a degree different, she might have swept up the channel the sloop had just crossed, between the long island and Batavia’s Graveyard, passing them, all unknowing, in the night. If only. The words echoed in his mind like tolling bells. He’d heard mention of a low island group that Houtman had called ‘Abrolhos’ after the group off the coast of Brazil. This must be it, even though the place wasn’t marked on his charts yet. At least he knew roughly where he was.

*

Pelsaert sat, knees bent, and gazed across the ocean. Sunlight sparkled on the white-caps through gaps in the clouds. He’d done what he could. He would have removed more food and water from the
Batavia
if it had been possible. Jacobsz should never have felled the mast. It had only made matters worse. And then the wind and the squall. What more could he, the
commandeur
, have done? At least all the women and children were safe. Or as safe as people could be with so few supplies. He prayed Jacobsz and his men would find water. Then at least they could sail for Batavia with a clear conscience.

Batavia. He sighed and piled up pebbles between his knees. He was finished. They’d never trust him again. Unless he could persuade Jan Pieterszoon Coen, Governor of Batavia, that he could recover the silver and the cargo. His only hope was to get back, bring divers to retrieve the valuables from the wreck and placate the Company’s council, the Gentlemen Seventeen, in Amsterdam. If he didn’t—he might as well perish trying.

Still, at least he had the treasures. And, thank God, the cameo. He pictured in his mind’s eye the exquisitely carved agate in its jewel-encrusted frame. The Emperor and his consort in a chariot drawn by two centaurs. It was said the piece had hung in Constantine’s palace. If that had been lost, Boudawen would ruin him. All the money he had carefully earned from his private trade dealings wouldn’t be enough to repay the Antwerp jeweller. His private nest-egg—gone.

He stared at the ocean and the long island.
Batavia
lay a few miles away, invisible now.

The laughter of the two young women and the chortling child distracted him. Life went on.

*

The searchers gathered on the shore at noon. Hope had surged for a moment when Evertsz’s group found water in a few hollows above the high tide, remnants of the rain storm. But the sea had washed in just enough to contaminate the pools. Others had dug in a few promising places to no avail.

“But we did see animals,” said Evertsz. He scratched his head, looking for words. “Not big. About as high as my knee, with dark fur. Like cats. But with long back legs and little short front legs. They hop. Like this.” He demonstrated, hands held together at chest height, while the other snickered. “I reckon we could catch one.”

“Let’s try the other island, first,” said Jacobsz. “The main thing we need is water. Maybe we’ll find these things over there, too.”

A line of exposed mud and reef almost formed a bridge to the other island. The sailors picked their way carefully over rocks slippery with algae, keeping to the exposed sections as much as possible, until they stood on dry land. Flat and stark, this island held even less promise than the one they had just searched. A few hardy bushes struggled to survive in cracks in the rocks. The last clouds had swept away and the breeze had dropped. Sunlight brightened the drab undergrowth. The new growth on the deep red bushes almost glowed, a striking contrast to the predominant grey-green.

Once again they spread out, searching with little hope under flat rocks for places where rain water might collect, and digging in one or two places where the ground seemed damp, but to no avail.

At last, as the sun was starting its descent in the west, Jacobsz called a halt and they slipped and sloshed back across a causeway now awash with the incoming tide.

“Come on lads,” Jacobsz said. “Let’s see if these hoppy things are any good to eat.”

He grinned as the sailors whooped and chased like children. They’d killed a couple with cudgels before the other animals grew wary, disappearing into thicker scrub. At least they’d eat well tonight.

*

Pelsaert received his cupful of tainted water from the barrel. It tasted bad but at least it assuaged his thirst a little. He handed the cup back to the man in charge and went to examine the animals the men had brought back. They had already skinned and butchered one, ready for roasting. The fire flared and crackled in a light breeze. He knelt beside a second carcass and ran a hand over fur as soft as a rabbit’s, dark brown with an even darker line down the spine and the tail. Short forearms with small hands, a narrow head like a cat and big, erect ears. He lifted a lip and saw teeth like a rabbit, or a sheep. The hind legs were long and strong. His fingers slid down the beast’s front and snagged on something. A hole in the fur. Not a wound. He probed gently. A pocket. How odd. His fingers jerked as he felt something hairless. He pulled gently and withdrew what had to be an infant, only half formed, pink and hairless. His questing fingers found a teat inside the pocket. The infant must have been suckling.

Footsteps disturbed him and he looked up. Jacobsz. A sailor, knife in gore-stained hand, hovered behind him.

“See here?” said Pelsaert. “They must raise their infants in this pouch.”

Jacobsz grunted. “As long as they taste good. Have you finished? Pieter is waiting to skin it.”

*

The sun had set by the time the meat was cooked. The smell of roasting flesh set Jacobsz’s mouth watering until at last the food was done and handed out. The silence of the night was punctuated with murmurs of approval. Oh, this meat was good. As tasty as any venison he’d ever eaten, anywhere. He sat with Zwaantie beside him and gnawed on a bone. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something so delicious and judging by the contented silence around the rebuilt campfire, everyone else felt the same. “Enjoy the meal, lads. Tomorrow, we’ll build up the sides of the boat and head for the South land.”

“The South Land?” someone muttered. “What in God’s name for?” A few others stirred.

“Yes, in God’s name,” said Pelsaert, voice soft. “To look for water.”

“For ourselves, and for those on the islands,” said Jacobsz.

A rustle of disquiet swept around the group as men stirred and shifted where they sat. “And then?” someone else asked.

“If we find water, we bring some back, then we head for Batavia. If we don’t find water, we head for Batavia immediately.” Jacobsz’s eyes roved around the group. Most were content. Or if not content, at least they accepted. He’d picked his sailors well. They would follow where he led.

One of the men pulled a flute out of his shirt and put it to his lips. A few chords and a sailor started to sing; then another, voices weaving together.

My bonny lass she smileth,
when she my heart beguileth.
Fa la la la...
Smile less, dear love, therefore,
and you shall love me more.
Fa la la la...

The captain smiled. Let them sing. Feet began to tap, handclaps set the beat. Out here under the wind-swept stars the familiar words were an anchor of normality. Soon the words became ribald and the voices bubbled with mirth.

Jacobsz listened to the rise and fall of the melody, Zwaantie leaning against him. Hans and his wife Saartje sat close together on the other side of the circle, the babe between them. A couple of fellows broke out their long pipes and last precious cache of tobacco.

Warm food and the hypnotic dance of an open fire buoyed his spirits. They’d done quite well, really. Yes, some had died but they were the ones who’d panicked and cast themselves into a heavy sea. Perhaps one hundred and eighty on the larger island, about forty here. And the remaining idiots on the ship. Ah well. He’d done what he could for them. And there would still be food and water in the shipwreck. The barrels might float free, or the survivors could build rafts and see what they could salvage.

The long, hard days began to take their toll and one by one, the men stretched and yawned and arranged themselves to sleep.

Jacobsz heaved himself to his feet and pulled Zwaantie up beside him. An arm around her shoulders, he drew her over to a clear space between some bushes. “Not quite a cabin, but it’ll have to do.”

She giggled up at him and sat, arranging the dress around her as she did so. It was the first time he’d heard her giggle since before the wreck. A bit of warm food certainly helped. Water would help even more. He lay down beside her and gazed up at the sky, hands behind his head. Bushes rustled as other people found a place to sleep. Somebody damped down the fire and voices murmured. They’d all be tired. They’d worked hard for days.

Overhead, the river of the stars flowed across the sky. The scorpion’s tail curved not far from the zenith. Jacobsz searched for the four stars of the southern cross which would point him to the south. On a clear night, anyway.

“Adriaen.”

“Hmm?”

“Will we be all right?”

Good question. What should he say? Tell her the truth that the whole journey was a gamble? Thousands of miles of ocean in an open boat? At least he had his navigation instruments with him; an hourglass, a compass, a cross staff and an astrolabe. “We have to be all right,” he replied at last. “For us and for them.” He jerked his head at the unseen islands.

“What can I do? To help?”

He smiled in the darkness. Beyond the bushes behind them, somebody snored.

“Well, you could keep me happy,” he said, rolling over towards her. His fingers slid inside her shirt and around so the warm weight of her breast filled his hand. He caressed her already tight nipple with his thumb and felt her shiver at his touch.