Batavia (32 page)

And Jan Evertsz? If he has been thinking anything at all, it is not apparent. Day after day, night after night, he simply sits in the prow of the boat, mostly scowling intently, though occasionally merely brooding darkly.

Sail ho!

As the red orb of the sun begins to set spectacularly on this second day of July, the longboat is at last in the Sunda Strait. Just off the small island of Sangiang, known to the Dutch as
Dwars-in-den-Weg
, In-the-Way, they see the top of a sail some ten miles to their south. Clearly,
it is a ship entering the same strait
as them on her way to Batavia.

In consultation with Pelsaert this time – because they are now coming closer to the province of VOC business matters, rather than pure seamanship – Jacobsz decides to drop anchor close to the shore to allow time for the equally slow-moving ship to catch up with them.

3 July 1629, in the longboat, Sunda Strait

Before daybreak the following day, they weigh anchor and make their cautious approach to the ship they saw the previous evening . . . and to the two other ships that they now see are just three miles or so behind her. Among other things, Pelsaert wants to ask them for some guns for their own defence, as they have no idea whether at this point the Dutch are at war with the Javanese or relatively at peace. If it’s the former, they are totally vulnerable.

When the first-seen ship has come within two miles of them, Pelsaert gasps in recognition. He is looking at none other than the
Sardam
, the very
jacht
that they left Amsterdam with eight months earlier!
What extraordinarily whimsical and often vicious winds
there are in this world that can blow two vessels from the same starting point through such different experiences, to join once again in the same place at the same time!

The highest VOC official aboard the
Sardam
, Jan Adolph van Dommelen, is at least as stunned. From the moment they saw the strange longboat bobbing dead ahead, the whole crew have been on alert, for they, too, could not be sure of the latest state of play with the Javanese, and it is always as well to be wary. When they drew closer, they were staggered to see so many people in such a small craft. The skipper hailed them in Dutch and one of them introduced himself as none other than his esteemed Excellency Commandeur Francisco Pelsaert!

Could it be? Could this wraith-like figure with the sallow complexion and sunken eyes, the wild hermit’s beard, dressed in rags, actually be the same man whom van Dommelen last saw in all his finery on the poop deck of the
Batavia
in
Tafelbaai
just three months earlier?

To his complete amazement, it is soon apparent that it really is.

Van Dommelen quickly invites Pelsaert on board, giving him the run of the
jacht
and advising him that the vessel immediately behind them is the
retourschip Frederick Hendrick
, and that on board he will find the highly esteemed official of the VOC and member of the Privy Council for India Hon. Crijn van Raemburgh.

When Pelsaert requests a meeting with Raemburgh – as he is precisely the kind of high official the younger man wishes to unburden himself to, before facing Coen – van Dommelen heaves to and waits for the
Frederick Hendrick
to come alongside. When she does, both Pelsaert and the longboat itself are taken onto the larger ship, while the rest of the survivors are divided up between the
jacht
and the ship.

In short order, Pelsaert is in private counsel with the high-ranking VOC official, the grey-haired Councillor of India, Hon. Crijn van Raemburgh, who treats him with nothing but kindness and understanding as, over dinner and drinks, late into the night, the whole story comes out: the horror of the wreck, the scramble to get the people onshore afterwards, the agony of the decision he was obliged to make to leave the people behind and go for help.

In fact, Raemburgh is so sympathetic that the esteemed Councillor of India even gives Pelsaert a glimmer of hope that Coen might have the same reaction. But it is only a glimmer. Pelsaert, while immeasurably relieved to be alive and now comfortable and safe, feels progressively more nervous at the reception he will receive from the Governor-General of the East Indies, once that infamously merciless man finds out that he has arrived in Batavia without the richest cargo ever assembled by the VOC.

4 July 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

Perfect.

On this fine morning, David Zevanck, who has emerged as the
Onderkoopman’s
chief lieutenant, informs Jeronimus that one of the gunners, Abraham Hendricxsz of Delft – formerly married to his brass gun that he had to push overboard – has been caught stealing wine from one of the barrels in the supply tent. Better still, after interrogation, Hendricxsz implicates a fellow gunner, Ariaen Ariaensz, saying that he drank some of the wine that Hendricxsz had stolen. This is precisely the kind of provocation that Jeronimus has been looking for.

Immediately calling together the
raad
, the
Onderkoopman
demands nothing less than the death penalty for both men. It is crucial, he argues, on two counts: first, to show that the Company’s property will be protected at all costs; and, second, to ensure that proper discipline on the island will be maintained, come what may. Yes, they are far from the Dutch Republic, but that is no reason that Dutch law should not be enforced as strictly as ever. Why, it is the very basis of their civilisation! In the name of justice and the VOC, thus, he
insists
that both men be put to death.

The council demurs.
It is one thing to put Hendricxsz to death
– they agree with that – but it is going too far to also take Ariaen Ariaensz’s life for simply having imbibed liquor that Hendricxsz stole.

Though privately pleased at this resistance, Jeronimus is publicly outraged. ‘How can you not let this happen?’ he explodes, in the face of the ashamed council, who now refuse to look him in the eye. ‘In any case, you will soon find yourselves reflecting on something quite different . . .’

His last words hang there, as none of the councillors can quite understand what he is referring to, but they will not have long to wait.

5 July 1629, Batavia’s Graveyard

On the following morning, still loudly disgusted that the
raad
is not backing him, Jeronimus calls together all those on the island and addresses them. He regrets to say he feels very badly let down, and he is sorry but, as the VOC’s highest official on the island, he feels he has no choice. The
raad
, which has refused to impose law and order to defend the interests of the Company – the Company! – is hereby dismissed. Furthermore, Jeronimus declares the formation of a new council, composed of men who he knows will have the interests of the Company at heart. Those men are himself, Coenraat van Huyssen, David Zevanck and that burly bastard Stonecutter Pietersz.

Dismayed at their dismissal, the ousted councillors could, of course, strenuously object to Jeronimus’s high-handedness, but . . . which of them would speak up? Their former council member, the provost, Pieter Jansz, might have, of course, but he has been moved to Traitors’ Island. And the leader of the soldiers, Gabriel Jacobsz, might have too, but he is over on Seals’ Island. Of those who remain, Salomon Deschamps and the
Predikant
certainly have sufficient rank and moral authority to speak out against this outrageous act. And yet, with the
Onderkoopman
glaring at them, while over his shoulders the aforesaid van Huyssen, Zevanck and Stonecutter stand staring, with their hands on their swords, almost as if – but surely they are mistaken – they would use them on anyone who resisted, neither man protests. Instead, the
Predikant
sits wringing his hands, his eyes downcast. So, too, Salomon Deschamps. Of all people on the island, he is the one who could have claimed to most represent the will of the absent
Commandeur
– they worked together for nigh on ten years, starting back in India – but for the same reasons that the
Predikant
stays quiet, so too does he. At this most crucial of moments, the easiest thing is to do nothing, and the hardest and most dangerous thing is to speak up.

In the end, it is only the surgeon, Frans Jansz, who protests that this is
not
the way things should be run, but, with no support for his objection coming from anywhere, the move by Jeronimus is soon a fait accompli.

To prove that this new council stands ready to defend the interests of the Company at all costs, Jeronimus’s new councillors immediately back his view that Hendricxsz and Ariaensz should be executed, and even go further. There is a rumour that two other men, Egbert Roelofsz and Warner Dircxsz, are hatching a plan to steal one of the two yawls that these carpenters have made. This, the new council gravely intones, is a threat to them all, perhaps the worst crime that could possibly be committed against their community, and it would have to be punished . . . with death.

That very afternoon, the provost, Pieter Jansz, is on the northern shore of Traitors’ Island, gazing across the half-mile distance to Batavia’s Graveyard, when he notices what seems to be a guard of men with flashing cutlasses leading three other men with their arms seemingly bound behind their backs down to the southernmost point of the island. Then, with precious little ceremony, the cutlasses suddenly flash and thrust forward, and the three bound men fall to the ground! And they do not get up. The provost strains forward to make sense of it, but from the moment the three fallen men are then thrown into the ocean – presumably for the sharks to eat – he is under no doubt that he has just witnessed an execution. What on earth is going on over on Batavia’s Graveyard? He is not sure, but the cold grip of fear clutches at his very soul.

The man who has struck the first of the killing blows, to Warner Dircxsz, is a newly joined Mutineer, Daniel Cornelisz, and that evening in the tent of Jeronimus, where he gathers with his closest henchmen – many of whom are no less than
councillors
now – young Daniel is quick with his boasts. ‘My sword was so sharp,’ he says, ‘it went through him as if he was butter!’

Ah, how they all laugh . . . none harder than Jan Pelgrom on the outer circle, for still he is trying hard to be a fully fledged Mutineer, without quite getting there.

For the other Mutineers, the Pelgrom problem has not gone away, and if anything it is worse. For on many occasions, just as on nights like this, when they are full of wine and bonhomie, Jeronimus frequently regales the gatherings in his tent with his views that there is no such thing as either heaven or hell and, because they are only fables, there is no risk in doing nominally bad things on earth . . . ‘Where,’ he asks rhetorically, ‘is this devil, with all his devilish sacraments? What proof is there of his existence? Of course there is none, because
he does not exist
!’ Pelgrom is always seen to nod his head enthusiastically. When Jeronimus continues that because God is everywhere, and God is in us all, there is nothing in our hearts that we might like to do that God, who is perfect in virtue and goodness, has not put there, and, therefore, one is entirely free to do whatever one wants without fear of divine retribution . . . Pelgrom claps his hands together with all the glee of a sea lion who has just caught a tasty fish. While the other Mutineers are under the spell of Jeronimus, Pelgrom positively worships him and in recent weeks has even taken to referring to and addressing Jeronimus as
Kapitein-Generaal
, the rank of the departed Pelsaert. Seeing that Jeronimus does not protest this, and in fact actively encourages it, the practice of so addressing him begins to take off.

Further, noting that all of the men around Jeronimus tend to blaspheme and swear liberally and do things that would have seen them flogged on the
Batavia
, Pelgrom has started swearing and blaspheming more than anyone, but such oaths somehow don’t sound right in this puppy’s mouth.

Nonplussed, Zevanck and his Mutineer brethren always feign inattention and look in precisely the opposite direction to this mad boy, this poor man’s Jeronimus, all awry like a drunkard’s cap at midnight, and only tolerate him because he appears to be Jeronimus’s pet project – to turn such a callow youth into a full-blown killer.

And so to the task at hand. While they are off to a good start in the killings, the obvious question is just who else of the non-Mutineers should be culled?

This is the subject of much discussion between Jeronimus and his Mutineers on this very night. For the babies, there is no use at all. They distract the focus of their parents from the work at hand, and their incessant cries are a constant irritation for everyone else.

In a roughly similar position are the young children, who are not yet old or skilled enough to provide work, and the cabin boys – they had their uses on the ship, running errands and fetching meals, but on these islands they are little more than hungry mouths. Jeronimus would as soon be rid of them all, though the precise way to accomplish that has not yet come to him.

As to the women, they are generally only good for one thing, and while it has to be admitted that at that particular thing they are
wondrous
, it is equally obvious that, as one woman can service the needs of many men, there is no need to keep all of the women alive. Which ones will be saved and which ones will be killed will be a subject of many drunken discussions over many an earnest brandy in the nights to come.

And then there are the men. What is needed among the non-Mutineers are skilled but docile workers, to fish, to build boats at their command, to cook, to repair nets and tents, hunt sea lions and all the rest. Anyone capable of mounting any resistance against them must be neutralised. Anyone not providing an essential service to the community also has an existence that could be subject to review, and termination, at any time. As Jeronimus now makes clear to his gang, there remains a great deal of work to do to ensure that the numbers on Batavia’s Graveyard are further reduced.