To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (9 page)

Clouds swept towards him, dark, tumbling shapes in the sky trailing a grey mist behind them on the water. A flash of lightning and hard on its heels a clap of thunder. Mesmerised, he watched the edge of rain approach across the darkening ocean. A wave swept towards the ship, the seventh wave of the set, a little higher than the others. A flickering line of white appeared along the top before the crest curled. He braced himself, ready for the tremor when it thudded into the wreck. The force knocked him to his knees as the left side of the deck, under the fallen mainmast, disappeared in a maelstrom. The tortured timbers groaned, their torment muffled by the water, and then whole sections of woodwork buckled and crumbled as they collapsed.

And with the tumult came the rain.

Panic gripped his throat. He had to get off. A vision flared in his head, a pale sun as if through dirty glass, up there above his head.

Himself as a child, in a Harlem canal, water in his mouth, his nose, his lungs. No. Not drowning. Please, God. He wasn’t destined to drown.

Hardly aware, his feet took him down the steps to the main deck, the right side where the water lapped knee-deep. He hesitated. Ropes, casks, pieces of sail, a shirt flapping like some strange sea creature. Timber creaked and settled. Desperate shouts drifted up from below, mingled with the rush of water. Driven by fear, Cornelisz reached out a hand along the rail and forced his legs forward. His shoes filled with water, icy as the canal. Focus. He stared at the bow, jutting out above the water, beyond the reach of the surf. Hand over hand he dragged himself along the rail, past the heaving flotsam on the deck until at last he stood, trembling and exhausted, near the prow.

Panting, he gazed around. A few men floundered in the water, some clutching barrels or pieces of timber. Others floated face-down, rocking endlessly with the motion of the waves. Soon the black fins would appear. That would have been interesting but he tore his eyes away. Good luck to the survivors; he had to save himself. Frantic fingers clamped on wood as the ship settled a little more into the arms of the sea. Above the reef, then. All that remained was the bowsprit. He clambered out, heart in mouth, above the shallow rock-pools until he sat astride the column of wood, knees clenched.

Gulls soared, exchanging harsh cries as if to congratulate him for his strength, his courage. Rain soaked his hair, ran down his neck. Not more than a mile away, the islet where the people had gathered disappeared in the storm.

Without warning the bowsprit broke away. The impact from the plunge dislodged him. Water rushed up and filled his mouth, stifling his cry. He tried to push himself up, back to the surface but something wrapped around his leg. Sobbing with fear he kicked.
Dear God, please, God. Don’t let me drown, don’t let me drown. I’ll do anything, don’t let me drown.
The grip on his leg disappeared. He groped upward, lungs bursting and his hand struck something solid. His fingers caught hold of wood just as his mouth opened to gulp. Air. He could still breathe. The bowsprit bobbed beside him. Weak with relief, he pulled himself up until he sat astride the floating timber. The water lapped around his thighs, the rain poured down but he was alive and beyond the pounding reef. His God had not deserted him. A barrel drifted nearby. Hope surged as he recognised a water cask. Cornelisz grabbed a piece of floating plank and paddled forward until he could reach out and touch the precious, bobbing prize. How to secure it? He gazed around, looking for rope. God knows he’d seen enough before, but now when he needed some… Ah. He caught a drifting line with his makeshift paddle and used it to secure his cask to the bowsprit.

An ominous crack disturbed the endless roar of the surf. Cornelisz watched from his perilous perch as
Batavia
sank a little deeper into the waves. The rear mast trembled and the ship slipped a little lower. Too late now for anyone still on the lower decks. He knew some had been below, sleeping it off. They’d have an eternity of rest.

*

“Lucretia, Lucretia, come and see.”

In response to Judyck’s urgent call, Lucretia pushed aside the canvas, remnants of a sail, that served as the entrance to the tent. The girl herself ran up, dark hair bobbing around her shoulders.

“They’ve brought in the under merchant—Master Cornelisz.” Judyck grabbed her arm and pulled her towards the shore.

Cornelisz staggered between two men, an arm around each shoulder. His hair hung wet and bedraggled around a face dark with stubble and his legs wobbled. They almost carried him to a tent, the barber walking by their side.

A surge of relief swept through Lucretia’s body. At last. An equal, someone with some authority. Oh, Frans Jansz the barber had done his best but no one really wanted to listen to him.

Judyck’s voice intruded. “He’s nice,” she said. “I like Master Cornelisz. He always spoke gently to me, and he was fun.”

Lucretia smiled. She’d liked Cornelisz, too, in the beginning. He spoke well, he was educated and knowledgeable, so different to the coarse, crude captain and his officers. She suppressed a shudder at the memory of calloused hands. And yet, something about Cornelisz had begun to rankle. She knew he lusted after her—so did many others—but some of the things the man said at the late night table seemed a little distasteful, a little less than virtuous. Even so, he had the authority of the Company behind him, the only senior officer in their midst. Pieter Jansz the provost might have had some say over the sailors on the ship but here they went their own way, more often than not. Gabriel Jacobsz who was supposed to be in charge of the soldiers fared little better. Even after the blessed rain the two groups fought. She feared that soon enough someone would be seriously injured, or die.

“Let’s hope he can keep the sailors and soldiers from each others’ throats,” she said.

A curious group of spectators had gathered around his tent when Frans Jansz appeared.

“He’ll recover,” said the barber, beaming. “Nothing that sleep and a little wine won’t cure.”

“Lord be praised,” said the predikant. He clutched his Bible in one hand, as always. “God has been merciful.”

Lucretia bit her tongue. If God had been merciful, she thought, why were they here, on this deserted scrap of dirt in the ocean, without enough food or water? The days since the wreck before the rain had come had been a nightmare. Without water, her tongue had swelled in her mouth, saliva no more than a thick paste. Speech was impossible and even breathing became a chore. And the little ones; soon they lacked the energy to even complain, just lay in listless heaps under the canvas awning—all the shelter they’d had.

Ten people had died in those first few days, the old and the sick, from lack of water. Even she had resorted to drinking her own urine. The very thought was enough to make her retch. When the rain came two days ago, they’d all grabbed at any container close to hand and let it fill and drank and let it fill again. The predikant’s older children had looked after their younger siblings and their parents. But as soon as the people recovered from lack of water, the fighting had started again.

Well, maybe Cornelisz would make the difference they so sorely needed. Certainly the barber’s relief was almost palpable, as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders. “I think Frans Jansz will be more than pleased to pass the reins of the council to Master Cornelisz,” Lucretia whispered to Judyck.

*

Cornelisz awoke on a bed of sorts. Saints be praised. Light glowed on canvas above his head. A tent. On land. God had protected him. He berated himself. Of course God had protected him. He should have realised. Destiny had called to him.

Bright light flared as the tent flap was opened. His eyes flicked around. Crude. No more than ragged-cut sail draped over a central span supported on angled pieces roped together. A number of rough mattresses arranged in neat rows lay on the ground, several with a box or chest at its head. He wondered who else slept here.

A head bent over him. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” said Cornelisz, struggling to sit up. He recognised the man. Frans Jansz, the barber. A good barber, too. He smiled and ran a hand over the stubble on his face.

Jansz grinned and pulled a stool over. “Yes, I can help you with that. I still have my razor and oil. I’ll have to use sea water to rinse, mind. We don’t have enough fresh for anything but drinking.”

“Have you found water?”

A shadow crossed the other man’s face. “No. There’s none here. Or on the other island—Traitors’ Island.” His expression brightened. “But it has rained. I expect you know that.”

“Traitors’ Island?”

“Yes. Oh. You wouldn’t know. They call this place Batavia’s Graveyard and Traitors’ Island is a tiny place, just over the water. I’ll show you. The
commandeur
and the captain stayed there before they went away.”

“Away?”

Jansz nodded, eyes troubled. “They’ve headed off to search for water. The other boat went, too, not long after. They never came back.” He stood and rummaged briefly in a chest, emerging with a piece of paper. “We’ve managed to get over to Traitors’ Island. The
commandeur
left a note.”

Cornelisz recognised Pelsaert’s cramped, laboured writing.

We go to search for water on the High Island to the north-west and if not found there, the South Land. I promise as the Lord is my witness that we will return with it. But if no water may be found we will journey on to Batavia and return as soon as can be to rescue you all. May God be with you and keep you safe. Franco Pelsaert, Commandeur 6th June.

Sixth June. Six days ago. Cornelisz stared up at the older man. “What is this High Island?”

“Can you walk? Are you well?” Jansz stood. “I can show you what we have done.”

Cornelisz eased himself to his feet and dressed. His clothes were dry, but stained and stiff with salt. “Who is in charge?” he asked as he tucked in his shirt.

Jansz waited, eager as a dog invited for a walk. “We have a council,” he said. “Me, Pieter Jansz the provost, Corporal Gabriel Jacobsz and Salomon Deschamps, Gerrit Haas for the sailors.”

That was the Council? Cornelisz stopped himself from raising his eyebrows. Not a single officer. Not one. Deschamps? A company clerk? “Are there no officers here? Claas Gerritsz, Jan Evertsz, Jacop Hollert?”

Jansz shook his head. “We did our best.”

“And a fine job it seems you’ve done, my good Jansz. I feel well rested. Why don’t you show me your island and your works?”

He followed Jansz through the tent flap. No officers? Then he, Cornelisz would easily be the most senior person here. He would be in charge. How right. How fitting.

Outside the sun rode high in a pale blue sky. Sea birds drifted on the air currents and a cool breeze blew from the south-west. Cornelisz stared around him at a veritable town of crude tents and lean-tos built from drift wood and canvas, close-packed as any village. The place was busy as a market day. The sharp crack of hammers punctuated the work of a few men building a small boat. Others seemed to be constructing a raft, roping together shaped driftwood. Further around the shore, several men—sailors by their clothing—fished. A few women, one noticeably pregnant, sat together, gossiping, no doubt, as women always do, while a number of children played nearby. By the shore, a few men collected casks and barrels drifting in from the wreck. Across the water, two drunken masts marked the spot where the
Batavia
continued to collapse into the ocean.

Beyond the tents, Batavia’s Graveyard was small, flat and bare, with nothing more than a few tough bushes punctuating rocks and coarse, gritty sand. Not a tree, not even a tall shrub. The island was even smaller than he’d thought and much more barren. Nothing green, nothing welcoming. Even the plants were grey.

“One thing about the wreck breaking up,” said Jansz, “lots of material has floated ashore. And as you can see, we’re using it as best we can.”

“Food? Water?”

“Ah. Well, we catch a few fish and birds. There’s one bird that nests in tunnels at night. We get the young lads to go out and catch them. And we’ve sometimes found eggs.” As he spoke, Jansz led Cornelisz to a tent separated from the others, where two soldiers lounged on their pikes. They straightened a little as the two men approached.

“This is our store tent,” said Jansz. He lifted the flap and Cornelisz slipped inside a simple, cone-shaped construction. Barrels, chests and boxes were stacked around the central pole. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light.

“We keep the bread and preserved meat salvaged from the wreck here,” said Jansz, indicating some boxes at the centre. “The food is here, and we store any extra we catch here, too. These are water barrels, wine and vinegar. And at the back there we’ve put any items of cargo that we’ve been able to salvage.”

“That’s all? For all those people?”

The barber sighed. “We ration, of course. That’s why the tent is guarded. We had the most awful trouble at first, people taking what they wanted. And it gives the soldiers something to do. Water’s our biggest problem. It was terrible, awful, the first few days. People went mad from hunger and thirst. Some drank seawater, or bird’s blood. Even their own urine.” He shuddered. “Ten people died. We thought we’d all die, expire here after surviving the wreck. But God was merciful and it rained. We put out containers, sails, anything we could to collect the water and stored it here. We filled all the casks we had.”

Cornelisz remembered the rain, two days ago. That was when the
Batavia
had finally succumbed to the sea. “You ration the water?”

“Oh, yes.” Jansz pulled out a jar. “Half one of these each, per day, per adult. A little less for children. We hand it out in the morning.”

A few pints, no more. God. They’d done better than that on the wreck. As much food and water—and wine—as they wanted. And now to survive on half a jar, hoping that Jacobsz and Pelsaert would return. One thing for sure—in their position, he wouldn’t. But then, perhaps they were on their way back now?

“We’ve had to introduce strict measures,” continued the barber. “Theft of supplies is a very serious offence and we’ve made sure the people know we’ll apply severe penalties—even death.”