To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (34 page)

“What? Seize the yacht? Who are you? What is this?” Ragged he may be, but fit and healthy.

“Wiebbe Hayes,
Commandeur
.” The fellow stood, panting. “Please, you must believe me. I am captain of forty-seven souls on the island over there.” He gestured over his shoulder at the second large island, behind him. “The scoundrels on Batavia’s Graveyard have murdered more than one hundred persons—men, women and children. The under merchant, Jeronimus Cornelisz was their leader.”

“Jeronimus?” Pelsaert stared at Hayes, trying to process words that told a tale beyond belief.

“Yes. Please, you must believe me.”

By now Hayes’s small yawl was dragged up on the beach and the three other occupants, as bearded and ragged as their leader, stood in a line behind him, nodding at his words.

“It’s true, m’lord,” said one. “Every word. Murdering savages they are, as if the Devil has taken their souls.”

“We have Jeronimus captive. He came to our island fourteen days ago to seek to win us over with honeyed words, but we took him prisoner and killed his main councillors—Coenraat van Huyssen, Gijsbert van Welderen and Davidt Zevanck. But they have a new leader, now. A soldier, Wouter Loos. He still has nearly thirty armed and dangerous men. And we know, for they have admitted it, that they seek to steal the yacht and go pirating. You must defend your ship.”

“Jeronimus, you say?”

“Yes. You will know who they are, these scoundrels. They all wear red coats decorated with golden passementerie taken from the ship’s goods and they all carry arms.”

Pelsaert stared from man to man. His years as a merchant had taught him the art of discerning deception. These men were telling the truth. No sign of a lie in any man’s words, or expressions. “I will go. But bring me Jeronimus, to the boat.”

“I thank you,
Commandeur
,” said Hayes, shoulders dropping with his sigh of relief. “We will bring news to my people and return with Jeronimus.”

Hayes’s men loaded Pelsaert’s supplies into their boat. They rowed south, towards the second island while Pelsaert returned to the
Sardam
. Thoughts chased through his mind. Over one hundred murdered, Hayes had said. Men, women and children. Unbelievable. Murdered. Not dead of thirst or starvation. He wondered who lived and who had died; what madness had overtaken the people here.

“M’lord?”

The sailor waited, respectful, for Pelsaert to climb the ladder onto the deck. He hadn’t even noticed when the boat bumped against
Sardam’s
side.

Jacopsz leaned against the rail, eager for news and with news of his own. “Another yawl is on its way to meet us,” he said.

“They are scoundrels, come to try and steal the yacht,” said Pelsaert. “Or so I am told. We must arm the crew”

The captain’s eyebrows shot up but he didn’t ask questions. “Where’s the provost?” he called, spinning on his heel. “All hands on deck. Gunners, to your stations.”

The bell clanged. The sailors poured up through the forward hatch, while officers opened the armoury and handed out swords and pikes. The word spread like a whisper.
Pirates, scoundrels, take the ship
. On the poop deck, crews readied the swivel guns.

Hardly had the sailors lined the rail when the yawl thudded against the
Sardam’s
hull. Pelsaert gazed down at them, a dozen men in red coats dripping with gold and silver braid and lace, all armed. So Hayes had been right. “Why do you wish to come aboard armed?” he called down to them.

Men shifted in their seats. “It’s Pelsaert,” someone muttered. “I thought it was supposed to be Captain Jacobsz.”

“Let us on board and we’ll explain,” said one of them. His coat fairly glittered in the sunlight.

“Throw your weapons into the sea and we will welcome you onboard,” said Pelsaert.

“Throw down the ladder,” said the man.

“Throw your weapons into the sea,” repeated Pelsaert. “Now. If you do not, we will sink your boat. Captain, be ready to fire your guns on my order. I give you a count of three.” A moment to let them think on it, then, “One… two…”

“It’s over, lads,” a voice mumbled. The speaker tossed his sword over the side.

One by one, the others followed suit. One by one they climbed the ladder to stand on the Sardam’s deck.

“Bind them and take them below,” said Pelsaert. “Then, Captain, you and I should start to examine these men.” He pointed at the man who had muttered that ‘it was supposed to be Captain Jacobsz.’ “We’ll start with that one.”

Two men brought the nominated scoundrel, hands bound, to the Great Cabin, where Captain Jacopsz sat beside Pelsaert.

The
commandeur
looked the prisoner up and down. Thin but quite well dressed, bearded and with downcast eyes. Like all of them, the red coat was decorated, but much less than some. “Your name?”

“Jan Hendricxsz, m’lord. From Bremen.”

“Your occupation?”

“I was a soldier.”

“The coat you wear. What is it? Where did you get it?” Pelsaert glared his disapproval. He had no doubt where the fine wool material came from;
laken
was an entry in the
Batavia‟s
bill of lading. Far too fine for a man of such common stock.

Hendricxsz shifted his shoulders. “We all have them. It’s to show we are part of the captain-general’s group.”

“Captain-general? What is this?”

“The Merchant, m’lord. Jeronimus. He was our captain-general. And then when he was captured, Wouter became captain.”

At least this man’s story fitted with what Hayes had told him. But what of murder?

“Many people have died here, have they not?”

A nod, nothing more.

“Of hunger, thirst, disease?”

“Some.”

Hendricxsz’s eyes shifted, looking over Pelsaert’s shoulder and he moistened his lips. Dreading the answer, Pelsaert asked his question. “Did you kill people, here on these islands?”

“I did, sir. But under orders.”

“How many?”

Hendricxsz shifted his feet, licked his lips. “Seventeen. Maybe… maybe twenty.”

Pelsaert stared at the man’s face and let the number percolate into his brain. Twenty people. But perhaps there was good reason, despite what Hayes had said. Some sort of battle? A fight over food or water?

“Why?”

“Because the captain-general… that is, Under Merchant Jeronimus… ordered us to.”

Pelsaert sucked in a breath. The whole thing was utterly unbelievable. Why, in God’s name, would Cornelisz order deaths? The man was an apothecary, an educated, urbane man; a merchant. His thought formed into words. “Why, in God’s name, would Jeronimus do such a thing?”

“It all stems from the ship, m’lord,” said Hendricxsz. “Jeronimus was plotting with Captain Jacobsz and the high boatswain to steal the ship.”

“The
Batavia
? They plotted to steal the
Batavia
?”

“That’s God’s truth as I stand here, m’lord,” said Hendricxsz, nodding.

And that he could believe, thought Pelsaert, swallowing his amazement. Almost. He could certainly believe that Adriaen Jacobsz would plot against him. He turned to the sailor standing next to the captive. “Get him a chair.”

Pelsaert leaned across the table at Hendricxsz, now shoved into a chair. “Now, tell me of this plot.”

“Jeronimus said they had it all planned. But then the wreck happened. He was sure the captain would make certain you wouldn’t reach Batavia, that he’d… he’d throw you over the side long before. And that he’d be back to fetch us. But then Jeronimus said there were too many people and that we’d all die before anybody could get back to rescue us. So Jeronimus said we had to get rid of people so’s there wasn’t more’n about forty of us.”

Pelsaert listened as Hendricxsz poured out his story, of how people were sent to three other islands. How people were murdered, at first in secret and later publicly. How Wiebbe Hayes and his folk sent up smoke signals to show water had been found.

“You expected Captain Jacobsz—Captain Adriaen Jacobsz—to return?”

“Yes, sir. That’s what we all believed. And later when people asked what we should do if it wasn’t Captain Jacobsz, Jeronimus said it wouldn’t matter. We’d steal the yacht.”

By God, it all made sense, thought Pelsaert. Jacobsz and his good friend Evertsz in league with Cornelisz. Yes, they had been friends. Jacobsz had taken the under merchant on his drunken binge in Table Bay. Jacobsz must have persuaded Cornelisz. And hadn’t Cornelisz been friends with van Huyssen and van Welderen? It was all making very good sense.

“Take him away,” said Pelsaert. He lifted a hand to summon a servant. “Wine for the captain and me.”

“Hard to believe such horrors,
Commandeur
,” said Jacopsz.

Pelsaert glanced at him, an honest man with the blue eyes and blond hair of the north. “We must speak with Jeronimus,” he said. He lifted his pewter goblet to his lips and drank.

*

Hayes stood in front of Cornelisz, a triumphant glitter in his eyes. “Get him up. Tie his hands.”

Two soldiers dragged Cornelisz to his feet, pulled his arms behind his back and bound him, none too gently. The cords cut into his wrists but at least he was still alive. And if they bothered to tie him, it seemed he would live a little longer.

“We’re taking you to see the
commandeur
,” said Hayes.

“
Commandeur
? Who?” said Cornelisz.

“Pelsaert. He has come himself, on
Sardam
. You’ve failed, Captain-General,” said Hayes. He spat the title, made the words into an insult. “Your men have been taken prisoner.”

Surely not. His men still outnumbered the
Sardam’s
crew and they had weapons. This was subterfuge. It had to be. “How can you know that?” said Cornelisz. “You were here, celebrating with your men.”

“I have spoken to
Commandeur
Pelsaert myself, on board his ship. And we watched from the shore as your men were defeated.” Hayes jerked one arm. “Bring him.”

Cornelisz did his best to straighten his shoulders as they marched him between men celebrating and jeering. More than one spat in his path. “
You’re for the noose‟; “Dance a jig for the hangman”; “No, he should be broken, broken on the wheel”; “Rot in Hell, Jeronimus”
.

All foolishness, thought Cornelisz. There is no Hell, there is no Devil. Cornelisz knew it to be true. God worked his will through him. He would survive.

They shoved him down to the water’s edge and into the waiting yawl. The yacht drifted at anchor, not two miles away across the shallows that connected the two islands. He must not lose his nerve. He still had his wits and his tongue. He could persuade; he always could.

His escort helped him clamber onto the ship’s sloping deck and delivered him to the Great Cabin, where Pelsaert sat beside a man Cornelisz did not know but assumed was the ship’s captain. He recognised Claas Gerritsz, who had been a steersman on
Batavia
. Three other men also sat there. A meeting, then, of the Ship’s Council.

Pelsaert stared at him eyes wide.

Cornelisz understood. He must look a sight. Hair lank and tangled around his unshaven face, his shirt covered in stains and filth and his feet and legs bare beneath his breeches. The captain wrinkled his nose. He must stink, as well. Pelsaert didn’t look too well himself, gaunt and tired, dark circles under his eyes. But at least he was clothed in a manner befitting a gentleman.

“Please excuse my appearance,
Commandeur
,” said Cornelisz, summoning a smile to his face. “There has been a terrible misunderstanding.”

Pelsaert sighed and smiled, shaking his head. “Do not bother with your lies, Jeronimus. We have spoken to a number of your followers. How could you let the Devil lead you so far from the path of Christian righteousness, to murder men and women, even children, only for the sake of bloodthirstiness?”

“I? I killed no one. Not one person as God be my witness,
Commandeur
,” said Cornelisz. “Yes, people died, but not at my hand, nor my orders. You must understand, sir, I was in fear of my very life. Davidt Zevanck, Coenraat van Huyssen, Gijsbert van Welderen; they ordered the killings. Had I not pretended to support what they did, I would have died myself. It was my duty to lessen the impact of their murderous intent as best I could.”

Pelsaert leaned across the desk at him, eyebrows lowered. “And you did not plot with Captain Adriaen Jacobsz and the high boatswain to steal the ship
Batavia
?”

Cornelisz schooled his features. So Pelsaert had heard that tale. Hope surged. “I swear to you I was never part of a plot. I heard of it only here, on the island after the wreck. I was told that the captain would never go to Batavia, that therefore no rescue vessel would come. But I agreed with Davidt’s plan to seize a rescue ship if one should come, intending to warn the crew and save them before anything could happen. As I would have done, had I been among those in the yawl.”

Cornelisz studied the men of the Council. At least they were listening.

“Ask the others,” he said. “Ask them who gave the orders, who led the groups. They have the blood of their victims on their hands; on their clothes. I—I am innocent. The only stains on my clothes are those of birds and fish that I was forced to clean for Wiebbe’s soldiers. And I did that gladly, pleased to be away from the murderers on Batavia’s Graveyard.”

Pelsaert ran a tired hand across his face. “It seems that as well as recovering the Company’s goods we must conduct a trial. It is late.” He glanced at the two men at each side of Jeronimus. “Take him to join his companions. Keep them guarded.”

35

The
Sardam’s
sailors loaded bread and wine into a boat for the brave defenders on Wiebbe’s Island. “Best if your people stay on your island for a little longer,” said Pelsaert. “Until we have learned the truth about what has happened.”

“The truth is what we all seek,” said Hayes. “We heard so much as people escaped and came to us. Such horrors they told. But who knows for certain what is truth and what is not?”