To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck (3 page)

“Not the cargo?”

“The cargo if we must.” Jacobsz stared him out until Pelsaert’s eyes flickered.

“I am responsible for the cargo, for the Company’s goods.”

The Company’s goods. Did he really think that mattered now? This merchant with his upper-crust accent? “What’re you going to do with the ship? She’s Company goods, too.”

Pelsaert lifted his chin. “The ship is your responsibility, captain. I won’t forget that.”

Jacobsz’s lip curled in a sneer. No, the
commandeur
wouldn’t forget that. A pity the man recovered from his illness. If he’d died…

“What if the ship does not float free?” asked Pelsaert.

“I’ve had an anchor set aft. We’ll winch her free.” The ship lurched sideways as another wave struck. Jacobsz rode the movement but the smaller man staggered.

“If that doesn’t work,” Jacobsz added, “I’ll go and look for land.” He nodded forward, across the pink-flecked water. “There seem to be some islets up there.”

“See to it.”

Jacobsz snorted at the man’s retreating back. He’d already given the order. The longboat stood alongside, waiting for him. He turned back to the rail and watched another cannon topple ponderously from its port into the sea below. Droplets from the mighty splash hit his face. He prayed again that he could lighten the ship enough. Because he very much suspected that the tide was on the ebb, not rising. The wind blew chill, whipping his hair around his face.

Sailors held the longboat against the side on lines. Jacobsz scrambled on board and they pushed off into the dawn light to find a place of refuge.

2

Batavia
hung on an outer reef that surrounded a shallow underwater plain like a protective wall. The sun glittered for a few minutes between the horizon and the advancing cloud, casting long shadows on the sea. For a moment the shadow of
Batavia’s
mainmast fell on the longboat as the sailors pulled at the oars, battling into a six-foot swell. Like an accusing finger. If he was right about the tide, he’d have to find somewhere to get those people off. Quickly.

“It’s little more’n a reef, Cap’n,” said the man at the tiller.

Jacobsz could see that for himself. He’d already rejected the long, low, barren expanse to one side of a deep channel. The water was too rough, too deep for a crossing with panic-stricken people. Inside the reef, the sea was relatively calm and close by he saw an islet that looked high enough to be above the high tide. “Head over there.”

A few strokes of the oars brought the boat to the water’s edge. Jacobsz clambered ashore with a few sailors, strode the twenty paces to the centre of the island and stared around him. Parched, barren. No water here. He ran a hand over tough leaves on stunted bushes growing between bleached coral rocks. What a place. What a God-forsaken place. Even as he stood there rain fell, cold and sharp as needles on his skin, a brief foretaste of more to come.

“No room for everybody here,” somebody muttered.

“There’s another one. Over there.”

Jacobsz peered. Yes, not far away, across the shallow reef waters.

They clambered back aboard the longboat and crossed the distance, not more than half a mile.

The island was larger; much larger. Even so, it was less than four hundred yards long and maybe one hundred and thirty yards across at the widest point. Jacobsz gazed around, hands on hips. Just as barren, just as desolate, but at least the place had a little beach. Birds, startled from their shelter, wheeled in the air, shrieking defiance and the shallow water teemed with fish. He glanced up at the sullen sky. More rain was on the way, no doubt about it. And if the people caught the rainwater, at least they stood a chance. It would have to do.

The oars creaked as the men bent their backs, returning to
Batavia
with a rising wind behind them.

The longboat approached the stricken vessel from the west, surfing the waves. Jacobsz, in the prow, sighed. With every wave that struck the hull, the vessel juddered and bumped. There could be no doubt now. The tide had turned and the ship was beginning to settle on her keel, digging her even further into the reef. He stared up at the towering mainmast as he clambered back onto the deck. With each ocean blow the massive column thudded down through the decks into the keel.
Boom
. The whole ship quivered. At this rate, the ship’s own mast would shatter her where she wallowed. And maybe, just maybe, without that massive weight,
Batavia
could at least float free of the reef.

Sick at heart, Jacobsz forged his way back to the quarterdeck, where the passengers were gathered. The predikant, his wife and seven children and their maid; the steward, the butler, a few cadets and Lucretia van der Mijlen, upright and dignified, next to Pelsaert. At least they conducted themselves with a bit of dignity; not like the rabble on the main deck. Down there they seethed like rats. A few idiots had already thrown themselves over the side to swim for it.

Jacobsz motioned the
commandeur
to one side, away from the bedraggled passengers. “I’m going to have to fell the mainmast.”

Pelsaert stared up at him, eyes round. “Why?”

“Because for one, if I don’t the damn thing will break through the keel and for two, with the mainmast gone, the ship may be light enough to be free of the reef.”

“Can the ship still sail without a mainmast?”

God save him from idiots. “Of course she can. Not so well, with less canvas. But if she doesn’t float, she won’t sail at all.”

Boom
. The ship lurched again. Pelsaert’s fingers jerked convulsively against the timbers. “Do what you must.”

“Downhaul the mainsails, lads. Move,” Jacobsz shouted to waiting sailors.

They moved, gathered around the mast while the ship jolted and jibed around them, easing the furled canvas down onto the deck. With each piece, Jacobsz’s heart squeezed a little more. He had no choice. She couldn’t last, being bludgeoned to pieces. It was done; the mast stood bare. The course, topsail and topgallant lay on the deck.

“Cut the rigging and the stays.”

One team to port, another to starboard, the sailors hacked through the ropes until the rigging flapped like broken spiders webs around the mast.

Yelling for axes and a few stout lads, Jacobsz wove like a drunken man down the companionway and across the rolling deck. Still he hesitated. Without her mainmast, his ship would barely move. He stood, axe in hand, as once again the massive column of Baltic pine drove down through the decks.
Boom
. A rolling, echoing, death-knell. The timbers buckled under his feet. There must have been a hundred people—more—crowded together for’ard of the mast; a seething mass of terrified humanity. As well he couldn’t hear their shouts above the roar of the sea. His decision. According to regulations, the skipper had to land the first blow to emasculate his ship.

He had no choice. It had to be done.

Batavia
already listed to port. If the mast toppled that way, it should clear the deck, clear the ship. He took a huge breath, swung the axe and buried the head deep in the wood. Once… twice. Duty done, he handed the axe to a waiting man and watched as the sailors chopped until at last, like the ghost of the forest giant it had once been, the mighty column began to sway, creaking in protest. A squall hit the ship. Wind howled, cold rain beat a tattoo. And the mast shifted. Jacobsz groaned helplessly as it toppled at an angle, catching in the rigging of the mizzen mast as, slowly at first, then gathering speed, the shaft thundered down. Stays, clewlines and ratlines snapped and snaked in the air; the rail disintegrated into splinters. The dead weight hit the water amid a cacophony of sound and energy. The top spars and the crow’s nest disappeared in a miniature tidal wave that rocked the vessel.

When the fury of the impact had died away, Jacobsz gazed in mind-numbed horror at the tangled mess amidships. The mast lay across the deck to port, the newly cut wound bright and stark. Already the sea, strewn with a fresh array of flotsam, sloshed across the deck. She was finished. His ship was mortally wounded. She would expire here, far from her native shore.

“Jacobsz. Captain.”

As if from a distance, through a fog, somebody shouted his name. Pelsaert. He shook himself, forcing the languor from his body. If he couldn’t save his ship he must at least save the people on board. Or at least as many as he could. Some had drowned already, smashed by the surf onto the sharp wall of the reef as they tried to swim for shore. Their bodies floated face down among the timber and the barrels.

In short movements from one handhold to another, he clambered across the littered surface to where Pelsaert waited on the quarter deck, his white-knuckled hand gripping the rail. He stood a little apart from the others, who were sitting on the deck now, arms clutching each other for comfort.

“We must get everything off,” said Pelsaert. He swept his free hand to encompass the ship.

“There’s land,” said Jacobsz. His tongue was thick in his mouth. His ship was finished. “Two islands, not far away, within the reef. Not large, but above the reach of the high tide. There should be enough room for everyone.”

“And the valuables.” Pelsaert pointed to a cask at his feet.

“The valuables?” Words stuck in Jacobsz’s throat. His nostrils flared. “There are three hundred souls on this ship. They’ll die.”

Pelsaert frowned. His eyes flicked down to the deck then back up as the ship shuddered again. In the sudden silence Jacobsz thought he heard muffled cries and shouts above the crash of the surf and the whistle of the wind in the rigging.

“It is the Company’s ship. It is my duty as
commandeur
to keep safe as much of the valuables and trade goods as I can.”

He couldn’t be serious. Surely not. Anger surged.

“Get the people off first,” Pelsaert added quickly. “The sick and… and the frightened. Women, children…”

“Of course.”

3

Jacobsz sat in the centre of the pitching longboat and eyed
Batavia
’s battered, listing hull. The wind blustered, waves lashed the ship and the sea was a carpet of ropes, casks, timbers. He’d have to bring her in with a wave, hold her alongside and have the men load the people. Thank the Lord that at least his sailors worked in daylight. The boatswain waited on the deck with the first load of passengers. The captain’s gaze slid to a struggling mob, fighting to get past a rearguard of some of the more trustworthy lads that kept them at bay. Jacobsz hoped they’d hold. He couldn’t risk overloading the boats.

“Run her in with the next wave.”

A trough, the bow rose. “Now.”

The oarsmen pulled. A man in the bow cast a rope to a brawny sailor. Two men held the longboat alongside
Batavia.

“Hurry up,” shouted Jacobsz. “Get them off.”

One by one they came, clambering down rope ladders into a boat that leapt and pitched in the surging water. Zwaantie first, wide-eyed and frightened. She lunged towards him but he scowled at her and she sat down as told, hugging her shawl around her shoulders. The predikant followed, white-lipped and stolid, clutching his Bible; his wife, the maid and one by one the small children, handed from man to man like parcels, whimpering with fear. Even as a sailor accepted the last terrified child in his arms a man scrambled over the railing, risking his life for a place in the longboat. A wave sucked down and the boat dropped, scraping on floating debris. When the longboat rose again, the man was in the water, threshing, lips parted in a soundless scream.

Jacobsz reached out and grasped the sailor’s wrist. The swell tugged at him, intent on sweeping its victim away. Muscles burned in Jacobsz’s arm. The clutching fingers loosened as the wave sucked its victim back.

Jacobsz gritted his teeth. The lad was young; his terrified blue eyes met the captain’s. Not this one. Not yet. One mighty heave and willing hands pulled the soaking man into the longboat, where he lay, panting and shivering.

“Get him out of the way,” bellowed Jacobsz above the roar of the surf. “Two more, only two more.”

More than that and the overloaded boat would swamp. The sailors held a couple of frantic men off with their oars. Timing, timing was the thing. “Cast off.”

The longboat swept out with the next wave, drawn back along the line of the reef. “Row, lads.”

A few fools floundered in the water, foiled in their attempt to get into the boat.

“Throw out a line aft,” yelled Jacobsz. If they could catch a ride, God speed. But he couldn’t afford to stop and the boat was overloaded anyway. He caught sight of the yawl coming alongside the ship to pick up more people and prayed his sailors could keep control of the struggling mob on the deck.

“
Haai
!” somebody shrieked.

The boat wobbled as some passengers shrank away from the edges and others craned their necks to see.

“Yes, sharks,” said Jacobsz. “You get them in oceans. Stay calm or you’ll meet them up close.”

That was all he needed with an overloaded boat full of panicked people. He watched the triangular fins. Leisurely for now. Just nosing around the line astern where five men clung. Please, God, keep them safe. One of them let go and thrashed back towards the
Batavia
. He disappeared in a brief flurry of fins and grey backs and a tinge of red stained the water. On the longboat a child’s frightened crying joined the creak of oars, the grunts of labouring sailors.

No time to mourn, or even think about one man’s fate. “Come on, lads. Get your backs into it,” said Jacobsz. “Down the channel to the island.”

They beat into the wind and rain, while to starboard the reef formed a brief waterfall until the next wave struck. Jacobsz gazed at
Batavia
, lashed by waves. Her back was broken. Her stern—the poop deck and the quarter deck—still stood beyond the reach of even the highest wave. On the reef itself, a plume of foam spurted up around her crumpled prow, and hid the proud red lion’s snarl.

*

Startled from his cabin by a thundering roar, Jeronimus Cornelisz braced himself against the doorway to the quarterdeck as the ship shuddered. He’d kept himself out of the way, let the officers do their jobs. But now the mast, the central mast, lay across the deck and floundered in the water. The whole ship listed to the left, into the waves. The sea flooded across the shattered rail. The ship was sinking. It had to be. Fear clutched his chest as he sucked air into constricted lungs. As in a nightmare he remembered the ice on the canal collapsing beneath him all those years ago, the filthy water, cold as death, filling his mouth, the cruel laughter as he struggled… He couldn’t swim. He’d drown.