To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (16 page)

*

“Land, Cap’n.” The lookout pointed ahead, a little to port.

Jacobsz sat up, straightening his back and stared over a sullen sea. Yes. Land. A long, dark horizon. His muscles quivered with the numbing fatigue of relief. The duty officer hadn’t been able to take a reading of latitude because of the overcast sky but a reasonable guess was eight degrees, which would put them just off the coast of Java.

A sigh went through the boat like a ripple of breeze. Cracked lips half hidden in tangled beards parted in smiles. Hans hugged Saartje; men woke their sleeping friends.

Zwaantie grabbed Jacobsz’s arm in a tight grip. “Land. We’re saved,” she whispered.

Jacobsz took a mouthful of water, collected in a mug when a cloud had drifted over the boat. “We’re not there yet.” Too early for jubilation. This was the south coast of Java. They had still to find the strait that led to the north, to Batavia.

“We must be careful,” said Pelsaert, his voice thick and heavy. “We are at war with the natives.”

True, thought Jacobsz but water was more important, now. The shower a few hours ago would see them through today and they had enough for tomorrow. After that? He glanced around the faces, sunburnt, hollow-eyed, gaunt; every man bearded, the two women’s skins red and rough from sun and salt.

“We’ve come this far. God is with us, lads. Set course along the coast,” he said. “We’ll find a place to go ashore.”

No one slept.

The dark mass on the horizon became a green coast. The longboat sailed five miles out to sea along tree-lined sandy beaches swept by gentle surf. So different from the pounding rollers that hammered the rocky shores of the South Land and yet too difficult for an exhausted crew. Towards evening they approached a tree-covered island that lay off a cape.

“In there,” said Jacobsz. The sea would be calm there, between the island and the land. “We’ll find somewhere to anchor and go ashore tomorrow.”

With shortened sail the boat slipped into the calm waters between the main mass of Java and the island. The shadows lengthened and the light took on the orange glow of evening as the sun disappeared behind the trees.

“Take soundings,” said Fransz, the duty officer.

The last red glow of sunset was beginning to fade when Jacobsz ordered the anchor to be dropped into hard ground at eight fathoms. The sea was so calm it felt odd, as though the boat’s keel should be moving.

“I long to stand on dry land,” Zwaantie said, voice soft yet petulant. “Why can’t we land tonight?”

“It’ll soon be dark and we don’t know what’s out there. There are wild beasts in the jungle; maybe natives. They don’t like us,” Jacobsz said.

Zwaantie sighed. “Perhaps I would have done better to have stayed on the islands.”

She leant against Jacobsz’s shoulder and he put an arm around her. He felt her ribs through the material of her dress. Oh, poor girl. She had suffered, this buxom maid with her lovely bosom. But he’d make it up to her, fatten her up again when they reached Batavia.

He started at cries drifting across the water from the trees and relaxed as he recognised the evening caterwauling of monkeys preparing to sleep. Tiny wings were briefly silhouetted against the darkening sky as bats flew abroad to hunt. There would be water here. Water in the forest, streams that ran to the shore. Many were the times he cursed the never-ending rain in these Eastern ports. He grinned, allowing the joy to surge into his belly. “A few more days, girl. A few more days and we’ll be in Batavia.”

Dawn brightened the treetops and the stars faded as the birds welcomed the sun, their calls loud in the still air. Jacobsz listened and shared a half-smile with the sailors on watch. They’d had nothing to do but wait for the morning. The longboat lay unmoving on the water for the first time since they’d left the High Island twenty days ago. He gazed along the shoreline. Where to land? As the light rose he noticed an indentation in the beach. A stream. It had to be.

“Raise the anchor and set the oars,” said Jacobsz.

As the rest of the passengers roused around them, the oarsmen rowed the hundred yards to the shallows. The anticipation in the boat was palpable, faces lifted, eager, excited. Jacobsz cast an indulgent look at Zwaantie, chin raised, eyes bright.

He left the boat a little off-shore, at anchor, and they waded the last few yards, even Pelsaert. The unusual sensation of solid ground had many staggering. Jacobsz helped Zwaantie, Hans helped Saartje but many sailors also stumbled ashore, arms around each other. Several fell to their knees, eyes closed. No doubt thanking the Lord, thought Jacobsz. He wouldn’t be doing that until he was safe within the harbour in Batavia, but a brief thank you to Saint Nicholas was probably in order. Zwaantie sagged. “A little further and you can lie on your face and drink your fill,” he urged her.

Water. Fresh, cool, clean water poured down out of the jungle into the sea, gurgling over the rocks, sunlight glancing from the ripples. Jacobsz cast himself down, Zwaantie beside him, and sucked the stuff into his throat and when he could suck no more, he stuck his whole head into the current, washing away salt and grime. At last, replete, he sat up. Everyone else had done as he had. Now, some did pray to God for their deliverance.
Thank you, Saint Nicholas
, he said to himself.
Now help me just a little further
.

He rose to his feet and breathed in moist air that carried a tang of earth and decay, a subtle whiff of a flower. So different from the salt-laden breezes of the sea.

“Cap’n. Look.”

The call came from further up the creek. Jacobsz followed the stream where it passed around the bole of an enormous tree. He stopped, grinning. Evertsz stood under a waterfall that cascaded over a lip of rock a few feet above his head and into a shallow pool that overflowed into the stream. Ferns grew in the crevices in the rocks, and jungle plants stretched across the water, the droplets that beaded their leaves sparkling in the early morning light.

“Magnificent,” said Jacobsz. “We’ll easily fill our barrels here.”

Evertsz stepped out of the cascade shaking water from his hair and beard. “Ah, that feels good. I was stiff with salt.”

“We’ll fetch the women,” said Jacobsz. “They’ll enjoy this.”

“You mean to sail on today?” asked Evertsz as they walked together back to the beach.

“We must. It’s twenty days since we left.” Jacobsz gazed past the island, south. How many were still alive, he wondered? How long had it taken before the sea had claimed his ship, taken her finally beneath the waves?

“Do you think they could survive?” asked Pelsaert.

Jacobsz started. He hadn’t noticed the merchant approach him. He stared at the man, as ragged and haggard as the rest, cheek bones prominent above the beard, his dark eyes bright. “If it rained, if they were careful, maybe. The ship is strong and stuck fast on the reef she would be accessible for many days. If they built rafts they could salvage some goods. Building materials for tents, more provisions.”

Pelsaert nodded. Jacobsz wondered what he was most concerned about—the people left behind on the islets on the reef, or the cases of silver.

“Don’t worry. Your treasure won’t be drowned too deep.”

The dark eyes flashed with anger. “I have not forgotten what you left behind, Captain,” Pelsaert hissed.

For a moment Jacobsz wondered. Oh yes. Pelsaert’s personal barrel of booty, left on the islet in place of a barrel of bread. Well, too bad. “I’ll have the water casks replenished and then we’ll sail on before noon. The last thing we want is for the local Sultan to catch us.”

“A plate of roast meat and vegetables and a jug of good wine,” said Fransz as they raised the sail. “That’s to start. And then I’ll hire me a doxy or two.”

A sailor chuckled. “Better get a shave first. She’ll think you’re one of those big apes.”

“Or a skeleton of an ape.”

*

Pelsaert smiled with the rest as they bantered about Batavia and what they’d do when they got there. He had his own agenda. Food first, then a shave and clean clothes. And then? And then he’d have to face Jan Pieterszoon Coen. He shivered slightly and glanced at Jacobsz, who sat silent. The captain wouldn’t be looking forward to that interview with the Governor, either. Served him right.

A damp breeze filled the sails; the longboat skirted the tree-lined coast, heading for the gap between Sumatra and Java.

Pelsaert sharpened his quill again. The boat glided over smooth sea, lamentably slowly. The journey to the Straits had taken longer than anyone had anticipated but then, no man could command the weather. The wind had failed, as it so often did in these latitudes and the sailors had to row. His heart had gone out to these gaunt men, hungry and hollow-eyed. But at least they had water and now they were so close they had hope. He bent over his book. They were well into the Sunda Strait now, on the last leg to Batavia.

“A sail.” Gerritsz pointed into the setting sun, the island of Dwars-in-den-Wegh a stark silhouette against the orange glow. Pelsaert shaded his eyes with his hand and peered. Sure enough; the angular sails of a square-rigger. A stir swept through the passengers.

“One of ours?”

“Could be. Could be English, too.”

Yes, he agreed, it could be English. Best to take care. They were so close to their own people, now. He turned his head to speak but Jacobsz forestalled him.

“Shelter under the shore, Claas, and drop the anchor. We’ll take a close look tomorrow,” said the captain.

“Very good, Captain,” said Pelsaert. “Just what I would have ordered.” He met Jacobsz’s stare. Somewhere in the boat, over the creak and splash of the oars, he was sure he heard a snigger.

*

Jacobsz stared east at the fading darkness. Dawn wasn’t far away. “Raise the anchor, lads, and run up the sail.”

People stirred at the rattle of the ropes, the slap of waves as the longboat got underway. The baby complained and Saartje gave him her breast.

“Adriaen?” said Zwaantie.

“Let’s pray it’s a VOC ship.”

“If it isn’t?”

Good question. An English privateer, perhaps? Run, try to make it to Batavia? The men were exhausted; they’d had to row for days.

“If it isn’t, we avoid the ship. We owe it to the Company to reach Batavia,” said Pelsaert.

Jacobsz couldn’t make out the look on the Upper Merchant’s face, but he recognised the tone. Besides, on this occasion he agreed with Pelsaert. Being held for ransom by the English wasn’t a fate he relished.

The sun rose behind them, a huge misshapen blob on the horizon sending long shadows onto reddened waves. Before them, the tips of the tall masts of the ship they approached sparkled in the sunlight.

“There’s three ships, I’m sure of it,” called the sailor in the bow. “Yes, three.” A moment of hesitation. “Well, I’ll be keel-hauled. That’s the
Sardam
.”

An undercurrent of emotion spread around the longboat, hopeful but cautious.
Sardam
, one of the smaller ships in the fleet that sailed in company with
Batavia
from Table Bay.

Pelsaert sat up straight. “Are you sure?” he asked.

The sailor peered, his body hunched over the bow. “Yes, I’m sure. Huzzah. We’re saved!” He turned and slapped a hand against the gunwale as men hugged each other, thumped backs, whooped with joy. Jacobsz swept Zwaantie up and kissed her hard on the mouth as she clung to him.

The longboat rocked dangerously.

Pelsaert leaned forward, willing the longboat on before a slight breeze. At last; a ship from home, a chance to eat, to change his clothes. All around the mood was brighter, the women laughing.
Sardam
rode at anchor, sails furled, her bow towards them as they came. They’d been spotted; a number of people had gathered on the poop, fingers pointing. The clang of the bell rang across the water, a call to arms as the gunners manned the cannon. Pelsaert couldn’t blame them; it was a sensible precaution in these troubled times.

Closer they came and yet closer. Close enough to shout, for sailors on the longboat to identify mates on the
Sardam
. Pelsaert peered at the stern decks, looking for Merchant van Dommelen. There he stood, next to his ship’s captain. Pelsaert thought of shouting but decided it was unseemly. Besides, everyone else was noisy enough. The longboat drew alongside and was made fast. Willing hands helped Pelsaert up the ladder and onto the deck.

As the sailors helped the others, Pelsaert turned to van Dommelen, who stood round-eyed, jaw dropped.

“
Commandeur
. What happened?”

Pelsaert noticed the merchant’s nose twitch. Hardly surprising. It had been a long time since he last bathed or changed his clothes. He probably smelled worse than a common sailor.

“We were wrecked. I’ll gladly tell you all, but my people need food and water.”

“And—with respect, sir—a wash and clean clothes.” Van Dommelen made to reach out a hand and thought better of it. “Come with me. Food first and then I’ll see what I can find.”

Van Dommelen had water, wine and some ship’s bread brought to take the edge from Pelsaert’s hunger before he washed and changed into borrowed breeches and shirt. The ship’s barber was interrupted in his ministrations to the other survivors to cut his hair and shave his beard and then van Dommelen brought Pelsaert into the ship’s Great Cabin to eat at a table, with plates and pewter goblets. Jacobsz and his officers had elected to eat on deck with the others.

At other times, thought Pelsaert as he finished his meal, pulses and cured meat so far into a voyage would have been unappetising. But now it was a feast fit for a king. He talked as he ate, giving van Dommelen a brief outline of events. “And so, when we left, close on one hundred and eighty people remained there on that island. Pray the Good Lord kept them safe.” He pushed his plate away and sipped at his wine. “Who is the most senior official with this sailing group?”

“His Excellency the Heer Raembruch is on board the
Frederick Hendrick
,” van Dommelen said. “She lies at anchor to starboard.”

Raembruch, eh? That was a stroke of good fortune. He was a Councillor of India, a man with at least some influence with Governor Coen. “Well, then, I think it best that I should go over to his ship and advise him of events,” Pelsaert said.