All that day, supplies and people were taken from the ship to the nearby islands. Jan was still on board, but most of the women and children and many of the male passengers had gone, together with some sailors and soldiers.
The next morning, the sea was more turbulent and the spray came right up over the deck. Jan could feel the Batavia lurching under his feet and there was a ripping noise of timbers being torn from the hull. But he was too busy to be frightened, running here and there, doing odd jobs for the carpenters who were fighting a losing battle to repair the damage, as more and more water poured into the stricken vessel.
The Captain had ordered the main mast to be cut down, and he himself struck the first blow with an axe. Everyone left on board watched intently as each blow sent a shudder through the whole ship. Now the huge mast lay across the deck of the crippled ship.
For two days, people were shuttled past the first island to the larger one beyond, together with whatever casks of food and water could be salvaged. On and on it went, the longboat and the yawl ploughing back and forth until some two hundred souls were marooned on the largest of the nearby islands.
And then everything came to a standstill.
Jan had expected to be one of the last to be taken over, and together with some seventy soldiers and sailors he waited on board the creaking vessel for the longboat and yawl to return. But the hours went by and the boats didn’t reappear.
As darkness fell, there were mutterings from those who were left.
‘What’s happened? Where are the boats?’
‘Perhaps they are searching the coastline. Perhaps they are looking for a better place to make camp – some place with a good water supply.’
‘Surely they won’t leave us here?’
Not only had the boats gone, but the Commander’s cabin was empty. He had disappeared, along with the Captain and several other officers and sailors.
Several days passed, and those on board stared out despairingly over the water, but there was no sign of the boats. Some still insisted that the Commander would never abandon them and that he must be searching for a water source, but others cried: ‘He has deserted us. He has left us to our fate, God damn him.’
On board, the men were getting unruly. Jan, too, was desperate – desperate with thirst – and he was thinking of braving the chaos below decks to check the water barrels, when one of the friendlier soldiers walked by him – a man called Weibbe Hayes, who always acknowledged Jan when he was sent to clean the orlop deck.
Timidly, Jan asked if there were still barrels of water in the hold.
Weibbe blew his nose on his hand and wiped it on his trousers. ‘Well, young Jan, you can go and take a look, if you dare, but those damned soldiers are running wild down below. I’ve tried to reason with them, but they’re past caring. They’ve cracked open some of the wine barrels and they’re all mad with drink. They’ve broken into the gun store and armed themselves, too.’
Then Weibbe took a leather water bottle from the wide belt which crossed over his shoulder. He held it out to Jan.
‘Drink, lad. Not too much, mind. This may be the last I can get.’
Jan stammered his thanks, and gulped down a few mouthfuls of the stale water.
Weibbe took the bottle back and put a hand on Jan’s shoulder, before moving off.
Jan watched him go. If even Weibbe couldn’t control the soldiers, then he certainly wasn’t going to venture below. In any case, he preferred to stay up on deck – even though up here it was a ghost ship, with all the sounds of daily life, the shouts of the sailors working the sails, the constant footsteps, the chatter of passengers, all nothing but an imagined echo coming through the sounds of the screaming gulls and the creaking of the ship’s timbers.
As far as Jan knew, the Commander and the Captain were out there in the sea somewhere in the ship’s boats. Batavia lay at a dangerous angle and Jan knew that they must abandon it soon. Despite the best efforts of the carpenters, she was breaking up.
But how could they get away without boats?
Some of the sailors and soldiers had made rafts from the loose timbers and launched them into the sea. Some had clung to driftwood and floated away. And some had simply leapt into the water, intending to swim to the island. But the coral was sharp and could tear your skin to ribbons. And the islands were a long way off; only the strongest swimmers would survive. Jan had already seen several men drown. The waters here were full of swirling currents that could spin a man round and suck him under.
Jan was bruised, hungry and thirsty. He could hear the water slurping underneath him in the belly of the ship and most of the drunk soldiers had come up higher, lurching about on the deck, swearing and lashing out at anyone in their path.
As the sun sank that night, Jan propped himself up on the coil of rope which, only a few days ago, the Commander had used as a platform from which to address the crowd. He had no idea of the time. There were no watches to tell the sailors where they should be.
‘Jan!’
His head jerked up, recognising in an instant the voice of Corneliez, and he started to struggle to his feet.
The Under Merchant approached him and Jan saw that he had one of the lengths of cloth from the hold flung over his shoulder.
‘Not many of us left now, Jan,’ said Corneliez, and when Jan didn’t reply, he went on, ‘There’s no hope for the ship, you know.’
Jan looked up. ‘What will happen to us, sir?’
Corneliez smiled, and Jan met his eyes briefly, but then he looked away. There was a glitter in them that alarmed Jan. Corneliez folded his arms and looked over Jan’s head towards the islands.
‘The Captain and the Commander will, no doubt, decide what will happen to us,’ he said. ‘I believe that they have made camp on one of the other islands with some of the soldiers and sailors.’
‘On one of the other islands? Not where all the passengers are?’
‘No.’
Jan frowned. ‘Then who is in command where all the people are?’
‘Who indeed?’ said Corneliez grimly.
‘Will you go there, sir?’ asked Jan.
‘Yes, Jan,’ said Corneliez, shifting his weight and moving closer. ‘I shall go there.’
‘When the boats return?’
‘Yes, when the boats return.’
Jan blushed. No one important had ever spoken to him like this before, as if he was worth something. Even at home in Holland, his mother had hardly bothered with him, and she had been delighted when he had found work as a cabin boy and she had one less mouth to feed.
Suddenly there was a shout from one of the sailors.
‘The Commander!’
Everyone on the deck stopped what they were doing and stared. The ship’s long boat and the yawl were heading past the reef.
‘He’ll be going to the island at last,’ said someone. ‘He’ll be taking command.’
‘Not before time,’ muttered another.
Corneliez said nothing. He shaded his eyes and watched carefully.
But the boat did not head for the opening in the reef. It headed north.
Someone was waving from the boat and shouting.
‘Pelsaert!’ said Corneliez, his face expressionless.
‘We can’t hear what he’s saying, sir,’ said one of the sailors.
‘No need for words,’ said Corneliez. Then he added, ‘The traitor.’
Only Jan, who was standing close beside him, heard those last two words.
Those left on deck continued to stare after the long boat.
‘The sides have been built up,’ said a sailor.
‘Aye,’ said Corneliez, ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’
The sailor nodded grimly. ‘It means the boat is set for a long journey.’
Corneliez stood absolutely still. Then he laughed, making Jan look up.
‘Well,’ said Corneliez, ‘He won’t get far in that boat, built-up sides or not.’
Addressing no one in particular, he went on, ‘He leaves us to our fate. So be it.’ And he rubbed his hands together, the knuckles cracking. He seemed in high good humour.
‘Carpenters!’ he yelled. ‘I need carpenters to make more rafts.’
For the next few days, there was banging and sawing and swearing as the carpenters tore out wooden planks from the ship and built rough rafts. They were racing against time. It would not be long before the sea claimed Batavia.
The next morning, one by one, the rafts were lowered down into the sea. Jan felt sick as he watched. The rafts bobbed about in the water, swept hither and thither like toys, sea spray soaking the sailors who clung on desperately to the sides.
At last it was his turn. He was pushed forward and told to lie flat on the raft as it was lowered.
But nothing could have prepared him for what was to follow. As the raft was let down, it bumped and scraped against the hull of the ship. The impact was so sudden that one of the sailors with Jan lost his grip and, after scrabbling wildly for moment, he fell off, screaming.
Jan didn’t dare look down. He needed all his concentration just to hold on.
And then, at last, the raft hit the water with a great splash – but it was still attached to the ropes and crashed into the side of the ship again, swamped by a wave. Once, Jan was under water for so long that he thought his lungs would burst, but the raft surfaced just in time for him to take great gasping breaths before the next wave hit it.
One of the men on the raft with him was Tweis, the carpenter.
‘Hold on for your lives!’ he yelled.
Tweis. Even in his terror, Jan remembered that the carpenter was one of those who had sworn allegience to Corneliez.
Aye. We’re with the Under Merchant. We’re with Corneliez.
Above them, Corneliez loosed the ropes on deck, and immediately the raft plunged into the sea and was swept away.
The swell pulled the flimsy raft this way and that, tossing it about until Jan felt sure it would break up before they reached the island. Some of the sailors had lashed themselves to the raft with ropes so that they could paddle using the rough oars made by the carpenters. They tried to steer the craft towards the narrow channel through the reef, cursing and shouting when they weren’t choking from the salt water they were swallowing.
On and on the journey continued, with the coral island still maddeningly distant. There were moments when the water was calm, when Jan raised his head to see what progress they had made, but then the swirling current would pick them up again and he had to lie flat, with closed eyes, and cling on until every limb screamed with pain and his hands lost any feeling.
All that day they drifted, tossed at the whim of the sea and wind. The man beside Jan moaned all the time and Jan became used to the monotonous sound, hour after hour. Then, as the sun was setting, the moaning stopped, and Jan risked a glance at his companion. The man’s grip on the raft had loosened; he was too weak to cling on any more. Gradually, he slipped off the raft into the sea, and no one tried to save him.
By dawn the next day they were in sight of the larger island, but when they came closer the sea grew wilder and the sailors, weakened by hunger and lack of sleep, couldn’t control the raft.
‘We can’t steer her!’ shouted one, and with numb, fumbling fingers he began to undo the ropes that lashed him to the planks. The other sailors did the same.
‘We’re going to be thrown on to the coral!’ they shouted. ‘We’ll have to swim for it.’
Swim? Jan couldn’t swim.
Suddenly the raft hit something under the water. It flipped over, sending Jan and his fellow passengers flying into the sea. He felt the water close over his head and he tried to strike out with his arms – but they were too stiff.
Down he went. Down and down, spluttering, his lungs bursting.
I am going to die, he thought. Drowned like a rat.
He couldn’t hold his breath a moment longer and he took a great gulp of sea water. His head felt light and everything slowed down…
All at once a sharp pain in his leg registered in his fuddled brain. He kicked out feebly and his foot struck something sharp and solid. He pushed on it, and gradually he started to float upwards again.
His head shot out of the water and he coughed up sea water. But, thank God, there was something underneath his feet now. He could stand up.
‘Crawl over the coral!’ shouted someone.
‘Keep the raft. We’ll need the wood.’
Jan couldn’t tell whether the sailors with him were shouting, or whether the yells came from the island. He was so stiff and cramped that he could hardly move, his ears were full of water and his eyes were blinded by the salt. And he had gulped down quantities of salt water which he was vomiting back into the sea.
He staggered forward, tripping and righting himself as the coral cut his feet, until at last, bleeding and exhausted, he reached the shore and joined his companions.
The raft had broken up, but Tweis had dragged some of the timbers out of the sea and he stood beside Jan, breathing hard from the effort. No one spoke. They were breathless and battered.
Jan rubbed his sore eyes and tried to open them, but they stung so much that it was a while before he could focus on the scene before him.
They were standing on a small beach of ground coral. Jan blinked, and through blurred vision he saw that the island was a poor sort of place, flat and unwelcoming, with a few scrubby, windswept bushes dotted here and there.
Then he looked further and saw, huddled back from the shore, a silent mass of people. There must have been well over a hundred in the crowd but no one shouted out or welcomed them. They just stared.
The others from Jan’s raft were staring, too.
Jan turned to Tweis. ‘They’re so quiet. Why are they not speaking?’ His voice was hoarse.
Tweis shrugged, and they all staggered forward on to the beach. Jan’s body was gripped by a spasm of shivering from shock and cold and he found it difficult to control his limbs.
Then he saw a figure break away from the crowd and come forward to greet them. Jan recognised the black clothes of the preacher.
One of the sailors spoke. ‘We need water, sir. Where are the water barrels?’
But the preacher shook his head and when he answered, his voice was no more than a whisper.
‘No water,’ he croaked. ‘We had but a few barrels and they are empty now. We are forced to drink our own urine. Pray God it rains soon, or we shall all die.’
Tweis had come up behind Jan. He stared at the preacher in disbelief. ‘No water?’ he repeated.
Jan and Tweis looked round them. There was a menace about the silent island – a silence broken only by whimpers from the children huddled together in the crowd watching the new arrivals come ashore. Jan spotted the rest of the preacher’s family and he was glad to see that the young boy – the toddler who had smiled at him – was still alive. Yet he looked listless; they all did.
Tweis questioned the preacher again. ‘Is there no food, sir? What of the peas and biscuits?’
‘We are trying to share those out,’ croaked the preacher. ‘And there are seals which the sailors and soldiers are killing for food, but we cannot survive without water.’ He let out a sigh.
‘Who is in charge, sir?’
The preacher made a sweep with his hand. ‘We have a Council,’ he whispered. ‘Myself, the surgeon, some of the officers…’ Then he stopped, the effort of speaking too much for him.
Jan looked back to the distant Batavia. The ship lay right over on the reef now, her severed mast pointing towards them accusingly.
Pray God that Corneliez will be saved, thought Jan. Pray God that he will come. He will know what to do. He will take charge.
As Jan walked among the crowd, he met only fear from the passengers and hostility from some of the sailors and soldiers, who had been drinking from a wine barrel. He heard whispers from the passengers. ‘Where’s the Commander when we need him? Where’s Pelsaert?’ And another: ‘And where’s the Captain?’
Jan noticed that Lucretia was sitting quietly in the shadow of a rock and some of the children were by her side. Not far away was the soldier who had helped her on deck. Jan had found out his name. It was Wouter Looes. There was something about Wouter which was different from the other rough soldiers. Jan moved nearer to him.
‘Any news of the Captain or the Commander?’ asked Wouter.
Jan nodded. ‘We saw them yesterday. They have taken the long boat and the yawl.’
Wouter looked up sharply. ‘They have taken the ship’s boats?’
Jan nodded. ‘The Under Merchant thinks they have set off for Java to seek help.’
Wouter’s eyes widened. ‘For Java? In the long boat? They’ll never make the journey in that.’ He hesitated, then went on. ‘And the Under Merchant? What of him? What of Corneliez ?’
‘He stayed on board,’ said Jan. But he promised he would come.’
Wouter looked across at Lucretia. ‘If we don’t get water, we shall all die,’ he said. ‘We need to salvage more water from the ship before it is too late but we have no boats, only some flimsy rafts.’
Jan glanced back towards the reef, and shuddered as he thought of how many had been drowned in that treacherous water. It would be a brave man who tried to make the journey back to Batavia on a raft.
Along the beach, Jan saw a group of soldiers and sailors. They had just slaughtered a seal and were hacking at the flesh and drinking the blood of the animal. But they were wild-eyed, and it was clear that they weren’t going to share any of their kill.
Jan stood uncertainly at the edge of the crowd. All his life he’d been subject to discipline and now, suddenly, there was none. The Captain had gone, and the Commander, and many of the officers.
‘Corneliez will come,’ he said firmly to Wouter Looes.
But Corneliez did not come. For two more days Jan stared at the wreck of Batavia, hoping to see some sign of life, some movement, but the stricken ship kept its silence.
The next evening, it rained. Great torrents fell from the sky and suddenly the whole island was alive with every able-bodied person collecting rainwater in whatever vessel they could find.
The preacher walked among the crowd, his face upturned.
‘Praise God, who has answered my prayers,’ he said to anyone who would listen.
One of the sailors shoved him hard. ‘Stop mumbling your prayers, preacher,’ he said, ‘and make yourself useful. Collect some water in that tall hat of yours.’
There were guffaws of laughter from his companions. Jan kept quiet. On board ship, the sailors would have been flogged for such impertinence.
That night, Jan slept on the damp sand surrounded by strangers. Families tried to keep together, mothers and fathers protecting their young like so many animals.
Some of the sailors and soldiers had found another barrel of wine which had floated ashore with countless pieces of driftwood and was – incredibly – undamaged. They had made quick work of emptying this down their throats and now were rampaging among the passengers, trying to force themselves on any woman who was unprotected. All night Wouter Looes stood sentinal near Lucretia.
Jan woke at first light, stiff with cold and still bruised and sore. The previous day, when the rain came, he and some others had found the bottom of a barrel and collected rainwater in it. A group of them were sleeping around it, guarding it jealously. As Jan crawled towards it, one of the others growled and pulled out a knife, but he relaxed when he saw Jan.
‘Oh, it’s you, cabin boy. Well, see that you only have a little. God knows when it will rain again.’
Despite the rain, water was still scarce and what food supplies were left were salted or dry, only serving to increase everyone’s thirst.
Not knowing what else to do, Jan wandered away to look over the island. It was a low-lying, barren place with only a few scrubby plants growing in the sand and shale. Again his thoughts went back to his home land, the verdant green of the grass and trees, the fields, the windmills, the solid houses – and clean water everywhere.
As he came over to the other side of the island, he saw the familiar, dark-clad figure of the preacher, holding a book and intent on his prayers. Jan was about to turn away when the preacher saw him.
‘No good looking for food or water over here, cabin boy,’ said the preacher. ‘We have already searched every nook and cranny of this island and there is naught to eat but seals and a few fish and birds. No fresh water anywhere.’
Jan trailed back down to the seashore and looked across again at the wreck. The sun was fully risen now and what was left of Batavia stood out starkly against the blue sky. The sea was calmer today and there was not a cloud to be seen – no hope of rain today.
Then he frowned and shaded his eyes with his hand. Was that someone moving on board? He stared so hard that his eyes ached, as he picked out a tiny figure and followed its progress as it clambered down over the gunwale, dangling on a rope.
Corneliez! It must be. He was the only man left on board.
Jan’s spirits soared. He was coming, just as he had promised. But would he survive? Pray God he would not drown!
He ran back to tell the others what he’d seen, and all those who could move hurried to the shore. Some of the sailors and soldiers who had behaved so badly started muttering among themselves. Jan thought they’d be nervous of any authority, but they seemed pleased that Cornieliez was coming.
They all watched as the tiny distant figure hit the water and then was lost to sight.
He will have to be strong, thought Jan. Only the strongest of men could battle with the treacherous rips in the water.
Jan knew that Corneliez would be out of sight for hours – for days. Maybe for ever. He might never reach the island alive.
But even so, he continued throughout that day to stare towards Batavia, straining his eyes in the hope of catching sight of the Under Merchant in the water. He had never been one for prayers, but he found himself asking God to save the Under Merchant’s life. Again and again, he muttered, ‘Please God, save him. Let him live.’
The light faded and darkness fell, and at last Jan curled up on the sand. But he slept little that night and at first light he was down on the shore again, watching, waiting.
The sun had already climbed high in the sky when Jan spotted him. He was closer now, and Jan saw that he was sitting astride the bowsprit, using another piece of driftwood as a paddle. He was making progress, but it was very slow. Again Jan prayed that he would not drown, that he would have enough strength to cling on.
A few people gathered to watch with Jan and the news spread round the island. Soon there was a crowd on the shoreline, but Corneliez had disappeared. They waited silently and people began to disperse, thinking he had drowned. Then suddenly a sharp-eyed sailor called out, ‘God be praised, he’s alive!’ And the crowd followed the direction of his pointing finger.
There were cries of encouragement from the onlookers.
‘Keep going, man!’
‘Have strength. You are nearly there.’
Then Corneliez lost his grip on the bowsprit and the crowd watched in horror as his body was pulled forward by the waves, tumbled and tossed and battered against the coral. But at last he lay spread-eagled, face down in the shallows. Several men rushed down to him and dragged him up on to the beach.
At first he lay as if dead and the crowd went silent. Then, slowly, he reached out a hand and a roar went up.
‘God be praised, he is alive!’
‘Give him water.’
Someone found a little water and took it to him.
Corneliez looked up at him. ‘I need more than this, sailor,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve swallowed half the ocean. Where are the barrels?’
No one answered.
A sailor helped Corneliez to his feet but he swayed and his knees buckled under him. The crowd started to back away. Only the preacher came forward.
Jan watched the two men talking – the preacher gesticulating helplessly, Corneliez, kneeling on the ground, listening in stony silence.
‘Help me to my feet,’ said Corneliez at last, and the preacher hauled him upright.
‘Listen to me, people,’ said Corneliez, and, even though his voice was cracked, Jan’s neck tingled at the authority in that voice. ‘The Captain and the Commander have taken off in the long boat, so I am the senior representative of the Company. I am taking charge here.’
‘We have already appointed a Council,’ said the preacher quickly.
‘A Council? Good. That is good. When I am recovered, we shall meet.’
There were mutterings of assent from the passengers.
Now that Corneliez had arrived, even the unruly soldiers and sailors were silent. Jan looked across at them. Had they all been part of the Captain’s plot? Had they all said those words: ‘Aye, we’re with the Under Merchant’?