To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck Read Online Free Page B

fragments to one of the soldiers, along with the captain’s log. “Go fling these over the side. And on the way back, bring more wine and schnapps.” He snapped his fingers at the cabin boy, leaning against the wall. They’d found him cowering in the pantry. What was his name again? Pelgrom, that was it. Jan Pelgrom. He’d remember that. “You lad, get me a silver cup, hmm? Schnapps tastes better that way.”
    They’d lit the lamps. Why not? The light gleamed on the silver goblet, accentuating the grapevines engraved around the bowl. The schnapps burned Cornelisz’s throat, hot and fiery. Lovely. The ship still lurched but that was too bad. The others slurred, slumped in the fancy chairs, their looted booty on the table before them or pinned to their shirts or hats, a brooch here, a jewelled pin there, ludicrous against grubby shirts or rough, knotted neck cloths.
    Lucretia, thought Cornelisz, cup in hand, the lovely Creesje. Beautiful as a portrait, distant as snow-capped mountains. He’d undressed her in his mind a thousand times. She had refused them, refused all three; the captain, the commandeur and himself. The captain he could understand. He’d befriended the man but Jacobsz was coarse, crude; and the commandeur was weak and effete, although both of them fancied themselves as ladies’ men. He snorted into his cup. When Pelsaert had been confined to his bunk three weeks ago, he thought he’d have a chance. But the attack had frightened her, made her even more distant. Cornelisz threw down another mouthful of liquor. Well, at least he knew now why Pelsaert hadn’t tried too hard to find out who the assailants were. He’d be hard pressed to keel-haul the captain.
    *
    Jacobsz had his sailors run the longboat up as close to the shore of the larger island as he could. He didn’t even have to tell the passengers to get out. The soldiers and sailors and three of their women scrambled past him onto the island. A few sagged, weeping, to their knees. “Thank God, thank God.”
    The captain snorted as the men unloaded the barrels. The predikant could help them with that. Maybe he could turn these meagre supplies into food for the multitude, like the loaves and fishes. A couple of butts of water and a few barrels of bread were all the quarter master had been able to salvage from the flooded hold before the drunks on the ship prevented any access at all. Three trips. Three trips the two boats had made and maybe one hundred and eighty people stood here on this barren shore, men, women and children, with another thirty on the smaller island. But at least those thirty—his officers and the best sailors—were hand-picked, shuttled from one to the other as the boats made their trips.
    He gazed around the press of people, pushing towards where the sailor had placed the water butts. One man shoved forward, then another.
    “Hey,” someone shouted, “I’m thirsty, too.”
    “Ration it,” bellowed Jacobsz as fevered hands broached the barrels, the food as well as the water. He tried again, louder, shoving people aside and they backed off. “That’s all there is,” he said. “You have to ration the water. Just a cupful for everybody until we can see what else we can get off the ship.”
    He grabbed one of the men by the arm and thrust him at the barrel. “You. Hand out water. No more than a cup each. Understand?”
    The man cast wary eyes at him and nodded. The crowd grumbled but they did as they were told. It wasn’t going to last. They stirred, reluctant, barely held in check. Jacobsz had seen it all before. The only way you could apply discipline to a rabble like this was to have an officer in charge—a good one—with well-trained enforcers to back him up. But his officers were busy and he couldn’t stay himself. There were still people on the ship.
    “Let’s go, lads,” he said to his crew. He watched from the longboat as the toiling sailors turned back towards the Batavia . He knew it. They’d barely