To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (40 page)

“He was evil,” said Judyck. “Now he is with the Devil in the pits of Hell. If he was not a demon, I hope he burns for all eternity, feeling the pain he visited on us. And if a demon inhabited his body, that the demon laughs at him.”

“I’m sure that was his fate,” replied Lucretia.

They walked together back to the tents, while Lucretia dwelt on Cornelisz’s last remarks. She almost heard him argue his case in her mind.
We had not enough supplies for all. Is it best that all must suffer and die? Should we not try to ensure that some will survive? Those strongest, fittest?

Well, God would be his judge.

*

“Still no sign?” asked Pelsaert.

“No,
Commandeur
. We should search for them. It’s been four days now. Yesterday’s storm could have finished them.” Claas Gerritsz’s tone was neutral but Pelsaert sensed disapproval.

“Captain Jacopsz is an experienced seaman and there are only five in the boat. We withstood as bad with forty-eight.”

“Captain
Adriaen
Jacobsz is one of the best,” said Gerritsz. “And we had an excellent crew. Five may not be enough to handle a boat in a storm such as that.”

“Then he should have taken more men,” snapped Pelsaert. Not fair, he knew. Five was all they could spare for that duty. “Well, prepare the yawl with provisions and send the under steersman to search.” He flapped a hand at the upper steersman. “Immediately.”

If it wasn’t enough that the divers couldn’t work on the wreck, now this. The men had found the eleventh chest but a cannon lay across it. With the larger, sturdier longboat, they might have been able to move the cannon aside. But the captain had taken the longboat on his errand. Ah, well. God grant that the boat returned soon.

“It has been ten days since Captain Jacopsz set out, six since we sighted the longboat. Truth be told, it was a dangerous venture from the outset.”

The upper steersman stood in front of Pelsaert, his hat in his hands, outwardly respectful yet Pelsaert saw his anger in the set of his brows. Let him be angry. He would not have to face the Lord Governor in Batavia.

“It is our duty as servants of the Company to recover as much of the assets as we can. Lost, may I remind you, because of the negligence of Captain
Adriaen
Jacobsz,” said Pelsaert.

“It’s as if the wind and the sea are against us,” said Gerritsz.

Yes, Pelsaert had felt that, too. Three weeks since Cornelisz had breathed his last and yet the winds blew, the sea raged and now five more men would have to be considered dead. Revenge, he had said. He would have revenge. A finger of ice slid down Pelsaert’s spine. It had been so rough that for a few days the ship hadn’t even been able to land victuals for those still on the islands.

“I think we must assume the captain and his comrades are lost,” said Pelsaert, his heart heavy. “I will ask the predikant to conduct a memorial service so that we might pray for their souls.”

41

“That’s it?” Pelsaert gazed down at the carpenters’ chest and the two silver dishes on the deck in front of the diver’s feet.

“On my honour, good sir. There is nothing more to be found.”

Pelsaert waved the man away. Two months, near on, they had spent here, battling the waves and the weather. And now the water in the wells of the Cats’ Island had failed. Excuse enough to leave here at last. And he should also address the matter of the remaining delinquents, still awaiting punishment. That, at least, could be considered as they sailed.

“Prepare to sail, Captain,” said Pelsaert to Joopszoon,
Sardam’s
high boatswain. “Send the boats out to collect the people on the islands and the last of the Company’s goods.”

“Aye, sir,” said Joopszoon. He hesitated. “Do you intend we should search for the smoke we saw a few weeks ago?”

“Oh, yes. We must go to the South Land to pass sentence on Loos and Pelgrom. We can but hope the captain and his crew have survived.”

Joopszoon stepped away to give his orders, Pelsaert’s eyes on his back. He’d almost detected relief; as if he’d thought Pelsaert would not have looked for the missing men. Foolishness. But surely he understood that as
commandeur
, Pelsaert’s first loyalty must always be to the Company?

He smiled as Lucretia, sad and distant but lovely as ever, stepped onto the deck, Judyck and her father close behind. “We sail for Batavia soon, my lady,” he said, bowing over her hand.

“I shall be glad to leave,
Commandeur
,” she said.

“Please, let me show you your quarters. You will understand that conditions are crowded, but I have done my best for you.” He led her to a curtained alcove. “The predikant and his daughter will stay here,” he indicated another section of the same cabin. Bastiaensz, who had followed with his daughter, nodded approval.

“I’m sure it will be comfortable enough. I thank you,” said Lucretia.

She smiled another frosty smile and Pelsaert sensed the invisible barrier between them, as he had since he arrived at the island. He wondered, not for the first time, if she thought he had abandoned the people when he left in the longboat. And yet again berated himself for lacking the courage to ask.

*

Lucretia stood at the stern, the wind on her right cheek as the
Sardam
sailed east. The High Islands lay behind, their hills mounds. The ship rolled a little as it sailed past the long spit that marked the end of the Seals’ Island and into the more turbulent water of the channel. Lucretia narrowed her eyes, striving for a last view of the scaffolds and thought perhaps she could see sticks in the distance. An eagle soared, wings spread. Surely now there would be little left, even for a bird.

And there, little more than a white line in the endless ocean, Batavia’s Graveyard, empty now but for bits and pieces—very few—not considered worthy of a place in
Sardam’s
hold. A graveyard indeed. Last resting place for how many souls? Ten? Twelve? Twenty? Would their ghosts rise on a moonlit night and perhaps cross the channel to the scaffolds? Or would they float to the distant reef where the
Batavia’s
corpse lay, protected by the surf?

Judyck leaned against the stern rail, Wiebbe Hayes beside her. Lucretia wished them joy.

*

“An inlet,
Commandeur
, I’m sure of it,” said Gerritsz. He shaded his eyes with his hand and pointed at the shore, where a cannon-shot away, the surf dashed against the fringing reef. “I reckon that’s the inlet we sought to enter when the storm hit us on the eighth of June. And see? Smoke.”

The smoke, a thin spiral, rose into a bright sky. Hope rose. Perhaps now at last, away from the cursed islands, they might have some good fortune.

“Take a boat. See if you can find our people.”

So long ago, thought Pelsaert, as the longboat pulled towards the coast. More than four months. He didn’t recognise the place himself—but then, he was no sailor.

He paced the deck, anxious and expectant as a new father, until the boat appeared. But no extra people sat inside.

Gerritsz’s face betrayed his disappointment. “No sign of our missing sailors, sir. I had such hope.” He shrugged. “The fires disappeared so I think it must have been blacks. We saw many footprints and paths going up into the hills, but no people.”

Pelsaert sighed. He had hoped, too.

“We found water, though,” added Gerritsz. “The river crosses a bar. On the sea side the water is brackish but we found it fresh on the other side. We can at least fill our barrels.”

“That we can do,” said Pelsaert. “And this will also be a good time to carry out sentence on Wouter Loos and Jan Pelgrom. You fetch the water barrels, Claas. I will have the quartermaster prepare a boat for the miscreants.”

*

“Bring the prisoners,” ordered Pelsaert.

Hayes jerked his head and two soldiers went down the forward companionway to the hold where the scoundrels were kept. To the east the South Land loomed, protected by its fringe of reef and cliff.

The rest of the ship’s company and the survivors lined the decks, solemn and expectant, as Pelgrom and Loos were pushed forward. The last leader of Cornelisz’s followers stood grim-faced and upright, looking neither left nor right. Pelgrom, thin and pale, stood beside him, eyes downcast, rubbing his wrist where the irons had left their mark. Both men wore shoes and coats.

“He killed my brother,” muttered Judyck, gaze fixed on Loos. “With an adze. I hope the savages kill him and eat him. And then he burns in Hell with Jeronimus.”

“Judyck!” her father admonished.

Her feelings were understandable, thought Lucretia. But whatever else Loos had done, the killings stopped when he took command. And he had protected both her and Judyck from any assault. A murderer he was, but not like Jan Hendricxsz or Matthijs Beer.

Pelgrom, now. That was another matter. He seemed a little more composed than he had been when he faced the noose but still he snivelled. She wondered how much help he would be to Loos.

Pelsaert finished reading the charges and the sentence.

“I have a letter here for you,” he said, handing the document to Loos. “These are your orders. In summary, we have prepared a boat for you which contains some basic supplies for a few days as well as gifts, toys, beads and small mirrors which you can use as trade goods. There are Blacks here on this land. Man’s luck is found in strange places. If God guards you, you will suffer no harm from them. They have never seen white men and may offer you friendship.

“Thank you for your mercy,” said Loos, low voiced, as he put the letter in his pocket.

Lucretia wondered if he meant the words. To be cast adrift on an unknown land that the
commandeur
himself had said was barren seemed to her to be harsh indeed. But then, the option was a death sentence, here or in Batavia.

Pelsaert’s voice interrupted. “Remember, too, that the Company’s ships pass along this coast from April to July. You may be able to attract the attention of a captain with smoke signals and thus obtain further goods to increase your trade with the local inhabitants. Above all, keep God in your hearts and pray to him for guidance and your safety.”

Lucretia clamped her lips tight shut. Did the man think of nothing but the Company? Here he consigned these two young men to the unknown and yet still he thought of commerce and profit. Always it was so. A month ago they’d seen smoke rising and hoped it was from the missing sailors. But he would not search until he’d collected all the bits of wood and iron he could find. Such things were more important than men’s lives.

“Over there you will find an inlet where there is a river. God’s grace be with you,” Pelsaert finished.

A boat—the smallest of the little yawls the carpenters had built on Batavia’s Graveyard—bobbed on the water beside the ship. Loos went first, over the side and down the rope ladder, where he waited for his companion. Lucretia caught one last glance of frightened eyes as Pelgrom clambered over the rail. She felt no sympathy; none at all, as the sailors threw down the rope that had tied the boat to the ship.

42

Rain, unrelenting, indomitable rain, poured down from a sullen sky into a leaden sea. Fresh water poured over the
Sardam’s
sides in miniature cascades. Heavy drops clattered from the sodden sails and rigging onto the deck. The umbrella the sailor held over Pelsaert’s head hardly made a difference. Ironic that this journey had begun, all those months ago, in a search for water. All Pelsaert could see of the city of Batavia was the looming walls of the fort, scarcely visible through a grey curtain. The locals didn’t call it the time of the rains for nothing.

“There’s no point in waiting. Let’s go,” he said to his two companions.

He climbed over the rail and down the rope ladder into the largest of the yawls, Claas Gerritsz and Simon Joopszoon close behind. A first trip to the Harbour Master to declare his arrival, then… Jan Pieterszoon Coen. Pelsaert wished he could check his cargo manifesto again. But the paper would be sodden in moments. Besides, how many times? His sea chest sat in the boat, water slopping gently around its sides as the sailors rowed. At least he could produce these precious things.

The harbour master greeted them solemnly. His drooping moustache and soft brown eyes reminded Pelsaert of a lady’s lap dog.

“
Commandeur
Francisco Pelsaert,
Sardam
,” he announced, producing the cargo manifesto. Joopszoon handed the man the crew list.

The harbour master’s eyes flicked over both documents. “Ah. The survivors from the
Batavia
, too.” The man’s lip curved up in a shadow of a smile. “You must be pleased, sir.”

Not a word he would have used, thought Pelsaert. “I will leave the captain to deal with questions,” he said. “I must attend the governor general as soon as possible.”

“Ah. You would not be aware that the Governor General is now His Honour Jacques Specx.”

“Why? What has happened to Coen?” asked Pelsaert, while his mind wondered if this development would be better, or worse.

“Jan Pieterszoon Coen, God rest his soul, died suddenly of fever in September, not long after His Honour Jacques Specx arrived.”

“God rest his soul, indeed,” Pelsaert managed to mumble.

*

Specx, balding but with a close-clipped beard and moustache, received Pelsaert in the office that had been Coen’s. A slave brought wine. Rain drummed on the flagstones outside, dripped from the eaves as Pelsaert told his story.

“I did my best,” said Pelsaert at last. “The examinations are all recorded there.” He pointed at the sheaf of papers already on Specx’s desk. “I have carried out sentence on the delinquents as best I could. That is also recorded.”

“It is a sad tale,” Specx said. “So many deaths, so much evil. Men talk of the Devil and demons. Easy to believe that this Jeronimus was consumed by the Devil.”

“Perhaps that is so, Your Excellency,” said Pelsaert. “But I have thought long and hard on the cause of these events. Maybe the Devil had a hand. But I think the blame rests with the ship’s captain, Adriaen Jacobsz.”