To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (10 page)

Cornelisz pointed to a pile of neatly folded, but clearly used, clothing. “What are these?”

“Ah. We removed those from the dead. It felt bad but we have so little.”

“Where are they buried?”

Jansz’s eyes flickered as if he was uncomfortable. “This land is so small. We committed the bodies to the sea. The predikant spoke a few words from the shore.”

“Sensible,” said Cornelisz. “These other islands you mentioned—can you show me?”

Outside, back in the bright sunlight, Jansz guided Cornelisz to the water’s edge. “See there?” He pointed over the reef flats to a small islet not a half mile away. “That’s Traitors’ Island.” He turned around to his right. “And there in the distance are the High Islands.”

Not too far away at all, then. If Pelsaert and Jacobsz found water there, they would have been back by now. “And there?” asked Cornelisz, pointing to the long, low stretch of land across a deep blue channel.

“We haven’t been able to get there yet.” Jansz grinned, eyes sparkling. “But now we have enough timber we’ll soon have a boat and proper rafts. Then we’ll be able to see what else we can salvage from the ship, too.”

“The Lord has preserved you, Master Cornelisz.” The predikant’s voice interrupted. Cornelisz turned to see Bastiaensz striding towards him, dressed in black, Bible clutched as ever in a meaty hand. He smiled, teeth just visible through a thick black beard.

“And I am grateful, Predikant.”

“You will join us in worship?”

Why not? thought Cornelisz. He might as well go through the motions, see what he could learn. “Of course. We can pray that
Commandeur
Pelsaert will return soon,” he said, eyes on the older man’s face.

“We hope so. We do pray so.”

“Ah, but do you believe so? Will he return?”

The nod from both men was emphatic. “Indeed he will.
Commandeur
Pelsaert is an honourable man. I’m sure that he has done what he thought was best for us all,” said the preacher.

“Aye,” added Jansz. “And Captain Jacobsz is an expert seaman. If anyone can get us out of this, he will.” He jerked his head in an emphatic nod.

Cornelisz smiled. “Of course.”

What they’d said of Jacobsz was true; Pelsaert? He gave a mental shrug. He’d heard the doubt in the predikant’s voice. They’d been away six days now. He wondered how far it was to the South Land and back. A few more days should tell the tale. Either way, they’d head for Batavia, leaving him in charge. He’d see to that. And then maybe he could manipulate the pieces to fall the way he wanted them to.

9

Terra Incognita Australis. A dark smudge above the horizon. Fingers flipped the hour glass. Noon. The duty officer took out his instruments and measured the longboat’s position as it rode on the swell. A fresh breeze from the west filled the sail. They’d made good progress.

“How far would you say we have come, Captain?” asked Pelsaert, his journal and his ink block poised on his knee.

“From
Batavia
?” Jacobsz looked a question at Fransz, whose lips moved as he did his calculations.

“Six miles or so,” the steersman said as he recorded the figures in the log.

Only one thousand nine hundred and ninety four to go to the other Batavia.

Pelsaert scribbled. “Latitude?”

“Twenty-eight degrees thirteen minutes,” Fransz said.

Pelsaert scribbled again. “And the South Land? When do you expect we’ll reach there?”

Jacobsz glanced at the distant mass. “Too far to reach this day. And we won’t approach the shore at night. Probably tomorrow.” Stretching his arms as best he could, Jacobsz gazed around the boat. The baby slept, lulled by the waves. He’d divided his seamen into six watches, just as on the ship. The men on duty tended the sail, the tiller and the hourglass while the others dozed or talked quietly together. Soon, the watch would change for the first time. That was going to be interesting.

Gillis Fransz, currently in command, called the change. “Forenoon watch, stand down.”

Jacop Hollert, officer in charge of the incoming group, stirred and shifted, carefully easing himself between the people to take Fransz’s place, while Fransz moved around the other side of the sail, keeping the boat balanced. One-by-one starting with the man at the tiller, the sailors changed positions, steadying themselves in the rocking boat. Jarred awake, the baby began to cry. Saartje cradled him, soothing him with her voice.

“Best you change, too,” said Jacobsz, directing his gaze at Pelsaert, Zwaantie and Saartje. “It helps to stretch the muscles a little.”

Dawn broke over the South Land, painting the sky red. Jacobsz chanted the old lay in his head. Red in the morning, seamen’s warning; red at night, seamen’s delight. Not that he needed it. The air had that smell of rain. With luck some of it would fall on the islands they’d left behind.

The longboat ran along the edge of the continent on short sail. As the light grew the featureless darkness resolved into a line of reddish cliffs, tall and stark. The surf boomed at their feet and sprays of foam burst skyward, filling the air.

“They’re like the cliffs in England,” murmured Evertsz, voice leaden with disappointment. “They must be three hundred feet high.”

“And the tops are level. No sign of trees, even,” said Jacobsz. His heart sank. This country looked as bleak and barren as the tiny coral islands they’d just left. Unless they found an inlet. Surely the place would have rivers? “There must be a river somewhere. Keep your eyes peeled for anything likely and wake me if you see anything, hmmm?”

He settled himself down to sleep as best he could. No point in thinking too much. Plan the voyage, yes, of course. But take every day as it comes.

Jacobsz woke with a hand on his shoulder.

“An inlet, Cap’n.” Hollert pointed.

True enough, thought Jacobsz, peering at the mysterious land mass. Dunes, a depression in the cliffs. A river, surely. “Bring her in, cautiously. Take soundings as we go.”

Jacobsz stood, holding onto the mast, aware of the ripple of excitement in the boat as they sailed closer. Hope soared until he saw the surf. No chance of bringing the longboat close with that. But then they had the yawl, bouncing in their wake on the painter. He turned, selecting sailors. The sudden surge of the swell nearly knocked him off his feet. Where had that come from? A high sea, running from the west. No chance of getting close enough to send off the yawl. In fact, they’d be lucky not to be blown ashore in this. Hollert shouted orders. Men were already trimming the sail, changing direction.

Jacobsz sagged down onto the thwart. Waves slipped along the vessel’s sides, slopped over even the heightened boards and the wind blew keen and sharp.

Pelsaert caught his eye. Jacobsz shrugged. “We’re in for a storm. And there’s nothing we can do but try to ride it out.”

*

Pelsaert hung on. Oh God in Heaven, surely we have not come so far only to be driven onto this alien shore? The sea was so much more dangerous, malevolent at this level. A wave rose ahead, pale green and glassy, the bow lifted, and he stared into the sullen sky; then the crest passed beneath and he braced himself as the boat raced down the slope, deep into a trough until the next wave smashed against the bow. His stomach lurched and the nausea rose. Swaying, he tried to reach the side but the boat was too crowded. He retched, forcing down the bitter bile. His stomach held little enough and in the end he vomited into the water sloshing about his feet, already above the level of the boat’s false floor. He sat, panting. At least he wasn’t the only one. The woman Zwaantie cowered, a bundle of misery, on the bench beside him; even a couple of the sailors. But not the other girl, the young mother. She held her child against her breast and let the wind whip her long dark hair about her face as if challenging the deep.

It hadn’t been like that on the
Batavia
, even in the storms in the south. Yes, the ship had rolled and pitched but it had been large and solid, with room to move. Yes, waves broke over the deck. But when it did, he’d retired to his cabin to let the men work without his presence. Truth be told, he’d kept to his bed most of the way, tossing with fever.

Another wave towered and the sickening ride began again. Up, down. The boat landed in the trough with a shuddering thud and cold water drenched his face. All day, they’d hovered here, the sailors standing at their oars holding the boat against the forces that drove it towards the rain-veiled cliffs. He stared at Jacobsz, who sat beside him, at the lines in his face, the set of his jaw. The man was as soaked as they all were, yet he sat there, hard-eyed, unafraid, almost like the wood of the longboat.

The time-keeper flipped over the hour glass and the men at the oars changed over, one-by-one in a careful, dangerous dance.

“How much longer?” shouted Pelsaert.

“Who knows?” said Jacobsz. “It shows no sign of abating.”

“Can’t we move on? Why stay here?”

“We cannot raise a sail and it’s all they can do to keep us out here. The sea is a hard mistress.” His lips quirked. “You could pray. Ask Saint Nicholas to intervene.”

Pelsaert shivered and waited for the next wave. Would this never end?

*

Hard to believe the nightmare could get worse, thought Pelsaert. Driving rain had woken him from a troubled doze. Not that he could get any wetter. He couldn’t remember when he’d been so cold, even in the dead of winter in Antwerp. His skin froze, even underneath the layers of clothing. But at least the water was fresh. He let it trickle down his face and into his mouth.

Towards the front of the boat the men draped out the sail to catch the water from the sky and pour it into the waiting casks. And still the vessel pitched into the swell. Nobody had slept; not really. The sailors must be exhausted, even more than he was. He’d never felt so useless, just a dead weight, an impediment.

An hour and the water casks were full. The rain poured down steadily and the waves, unstoppable, unrelenting, ran on to the South Land, invisible in the deep darkness of an overcast night. Pelsaert’s feet were frozen; almost like solid lumps on the ends of his legs and the cold was rising, slopping around his calves.

“If you’ll move a little?”

He started. The dark apparition of a sailor loomed next to him, a bowl in his hand.

“I have to bail. Please… move a little.”

“Come on, move yourselves.” Jacobsz’s voice rose above the roar of the sea. “Take anything that holds water and bail. Bail for your lives.”

“We can’t, Cap’n. It’s too crowded,” someone yelled.

“Then make room. Squeeze together. Throw some of the stuff over the side.”

“It’s bread.”

“If you drown you won’t need it. Do as I say.”

Pelsaert made himself as small as he could as sailors threw barrels overboard. But not the water, he took note. All around him men bailed, while the boat heaved. Perhaps he should have stayed on the island with the people. Anything would be better than this, surely. If he’d realised… Too late now. Maybe too late for everybody.

“Here.”

Pelsaert stared up at a shadow that was Jacobsz and then down at the bowl being thrust into his chest.

“My men are exhausted. Get up and bail.”

Pelsaert’s jaw dropped. Surely he wasn’t serious?

“Come on. Even the women are taking their turn. We’re not out of this yet.”

Struggling against the lurch of the boat, Pelsaert took his place at the gunwale, dipped the bowl into the water around his feet and emptied it over the side. All around him others did the same, defiant in the face of the ocean’s wrath. Back aching, eyes stinging with salt, over and again he bent and lifted, bent and lifted until his arms shook with effort and yet it seemed to make no difference. He could have sworn the boat wallowed deeper, the sea spilled more often over the stern.

“We’re being dragged under,” A voice shrieked over the clamour of the storm. “Look. She’s sinking at the stern.”

Pelsaert straightened, heart pounding. Yes. He could feel the pressure, something pulling on the boat, drawing it down, stern first, beneath the surface. His mind conjured up massive jaws clamped on the keel…

“The yawl. She’s sinking. Cut the painter. Cut the painter,” shouted Jacobsz.

A few anxious moments later the longboat jerked. And steadied, levelled. Pelsaert sucked in a sigh of relief.

“Keep bailing,” the captain roared. “It’s not over yet.”

*

The rain stopped with the dawn. Jacobsz felt the change in the atmospheric pressure, a sense in the air. The sun struggled into a leaden sky, briefly staining a few cloud-edges red before it became a slightly brighter disc behind a grey curtain. He’d really thought they were done for, more than once, in that night of despair. At least the wind had veered to west-south-west and dropped, so they could raise a sail. He’d set a course north. The inlet was impossible now, without the yawl.

He tilted his neck back and ran tired hands over his face. He’d love to get out of the boat, stretch his legs, eat something warm. The brief stay on the Cats’ Island was almost a memory of paradise. Just as well they’d taken that day. He looked around at his people, forty-seven souls. Of them all, the baby was the most comfortable. The rest were as cold, wet, tired, sleep-deprived as he was himself.

10

“Are we all agreed?” asked Frans Jansz, looking around the convened councillors with barely concealed glee. The tent canvas slapped a little in the breeze. “Yes? Master Cornelisz, I’m happy to relinquish my position as chairman of the council to you.” He beamed and stepped to the end of the trestle table while Cornelisz took his place to polite applause.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for your welcome and your support,” said Cornelisz. “Frans was kind enough to show me what a truly excellent job you’ve done in such a short time to make the people’s lives more comfortable.” He let them shift in their seats, positively basking in the glow of his praise. “But while God has provided, is it not true that God helps those who help themselves?”

Yes, agreement. “Gerrit, if the sailors have built a boat and rafts, might I suggest the first thing we do is send men to the ship and see what else we can find? When last I was there, the Great Cabin was still dry. We might find items of importance to the Company. Valuables, trade goods, wine, vinegar.”