Batavia (13 page)

Added to that, the temperature is starting to soar as the
Batavia
crosses the torpid tropics. The clinging, sapping humidity is slowly suffocating them all, making every breath a conscious effort. From the dawn onwards, the sun
beats
down, scorching all in its way and resulting in serious cases of sunburn for all who are exposed to it. For the elite aft of the mast, it is a hard choice between the cloistered, insufferable stillness in their cabins and the direct sun but relatively fresh air of the deck. Little relief is afforded by the shape of the sails, for most of their shadows fall on the water, or from a rough canvas awning that has been set up on the quarterdeck. And no matter how much the wives still furiously flap their fans, it only succeeds in making them hotter. For the VOC officers, hot is the only condition they know, dressed as they are in the heavy black woollen coats designed to withstand an Amsterdam winter but still in use in the tropics! The only exception is Pelsaert, who, as
Commandeur
, is dressed in a beautiful red coat of far lighter material. And, of course, the crew are steaming, too.

Most of those not engaged in the actual sailing of the ship choose to lie listlessly below, willing the day to pass so that the relative cool of the evening will return once more.

Under such trying conditions, there is little to mark one day from the next, save, perhaps, for the spotting of whales or dolphins or, more frequently, the sad occasion of someone dying.

In the latter case, in accordance with the custom of the VOC, one of two things happens. If the deceased is high in the ship’s pecking order, an effort is made to preserve the body – sometimes by soaking it in
jenever
, gin – until such time as landfall is next made and it can be given a proper burial in consecrated ground. But, if it is a person of the lower orders, the process is swift. The shrunken, suppurating body of the deceased is taken with his sleeping mat to the main deck, where the horsehair padding of the mat is emptied and the body placed inside it, with perhaps a couple of ballast bricks or cannonballs to give it extra weight and ensure it will sink quickly out of range of the sharks that would otherwise tear it to pieces. Then it is sewn up, with the crucial last stitch being put through both the fabric of the mattress
and
the dead person’s nose. This is a precaution against throwing overboard one who is merely in a deep coma. If there is no reaction to the final stitch, the person is deemed to be properly dead, at which point he is carried to the deck and
taken three times around the mast
. Then the
Predikant
takes over, often looking inordinately pleased to be the centre of attention as he solemnly intones the funeral prayer over the unfortunate newly departed. After the
Predikant
reads from the Bible, and the ship bell tolls and the drummer drums, the body is rolled from a plank over the side and committed to the loving embrace of the ocean. It is important, however, that the whole thing be done properly, as there is a powerful superstition among the sailors that a badly conducted funeral will see a restless soul returning to them, perhaps in the form of a storm or a monstrous wave. It has to be done
right
.

There remains one more part of the ritual. All of the dead man’s personal effects, the contents of his sea chest and the chest itself, are immediately auctioned off right there on the deck to whosoever would like to buy them, with the proceeds collected and kept to be later given to the man’s family. Usually, before the body has hit the seabed, the man’s personal effects have been redistributed, and the ship sails on.

At first with these funerals, there is some commotion attending them as people express their grief. As the weeks pass and the funerals become more frequent – no fewer than ten of them occur in these first months of 1629 – there is less emotion all round, as they are ever more part of the routine, and others of the ship’s company have little energy to spare to cry out anyway. Everyone is beyond exhausted, though at least, as they proceed south and leave the southern tropics, the days are getting shorter, the nights a little cooler and the days a little less blisteringly hot.

CHAPTER TWO

Cry Mutiny!

He often showed his wrong-headedness by Godless proposals . . .

but I did not know he was Godless to such an extent . . .

The
Predikant
, much later, looking back upon the conversation of
Jeronimus aboard the
Batavia

Jan Evertsz came to them, saying, ‘Men, there is an assault on

our hands, will you help to give the prince a pleasant outing?’

Pelsaert’s Journal

14 April 1629, the approaches to
Tafelbaai
, on the southern tip of Africa

Finally, after five months at sea, Jacobsz first spots the white Cape gannet birds with their black-tipped wings, which indicates they are close to land. Not long afterwards, they round the Cape of Good Hope. A full month ahead of schedule,
they proceed towards
Tafelbaai
, a vast harbour at the northern end of the Cape Peninsula that has the Cape of Good Hope as its southern extremity.

Arriving here means that some two-thirds of their long, arduous journey is completed and that there should be at least a fortnight’s break from the sailing. In fact, however, it is not so much that they arrive at
Tafelbaai
as
Tafelbaai
comes out to them. As the ship blow-bobs forward, the gaping maws of the harbour reach out to swallow her whole.

Proceeding carefully, the
opperstuurman
, Claas Gerritsz, supervises a sailor on the side of the ship dropping a solid weight of lead attached to a line over the side to fathom the depth. It hits the water with a satisfying
kerplunk
and is rapidly consumed. ‘
Zes . . . zeven . . . acht . . .
six . . . seven . . . eight . . .’ the sailor calls as the leather marks run through his weathered hand, before the sounding line grows slack. ‘At the deep . . . eight fathoms,’ he shouts back to the ship’s officers on the quarterdeck, reassured that there is ample depth for the
Batavia
to continue cruising into the natural cove. As they carefully make their way past the several tiny islands dotted around the harbour, the first and most stunning object of their attention is the massive Table Mountain, looming over half a mile high with a flat, bare top and steep cliffs on each side. It towers over the whole bay, a brooding presence standing sentinel to the entire African continent, which stretches out for thousands of miles to their north.

And then there is the water. On this day, the wind is blowing hard from the north-west, making their entrance into the harbour difficult, and the water is a curious dirty red, almost as if a massive underwater beast is bleeding beneath them. By the time they make their way close to the shore and drop anchor, though, the wind has swung around to the south-west and the water has become so delightfully crystal clear that they can plainly see the anchor cable arrowing away to the seabed eight fathoms below.

It is wonderful to have finally arrived. Since early in the previous century, the bay has been a way station for European ships en route to the East. It is a place where supplies can be replenished after trading with the natives, the ship can be cleaned from top to bottom and basic repairs can be executed.

And now their attention is drawn to the shore, where they can see, for the first time, that some of the local tribe are gathered. These people – known to the Dutch as Hottentots – look to be very primitive. All but naked on the shore, gazing at the travellers, they look as small as children and as black as a coal mine at midnight. In the far distance, those on the
Batavia
can see what must be some of the huts the Hottentots live in, which appear to be a bunch of sloping long sticks angled so they come together at the top, bound by vines and covered in grass for protection from the wind and rain.

No matter. The most important thing is that these are a pastoral people, caring for flocks of goats, sheep and cattle, and it is possible to trade with them to get that livestock for the ship. The added benefit is that, as opposed to other possible bays and harbours within a few days’ sailing along either direction of the African coast, this port has a plentiful supply of water.

Within a few hours, all of the fleet that set out from Texel – less the unfortunate
retourschip Gravenhage
, which was damaged in the storm just after leaving – has made its way into
Tafelbaai
and dropped anchor. All of the ships then send longboats to the shore, loaded with the sickest of crew and passengers in the hope that a fortnight or so spent on land, resting in the tents that are quickly set up onshore, will help to restore their health.

Pelsaert, meanwhile, has a task that is even more pressing. As commercial
Commandeur
of the entire fleet, it is his role to go ashore and begin negotiations to secure from the Hottentots the animals they need for the lowest possible ‘price’ – as in, for
the fewest trinkets, fans, plates
, knives, small tools and pieces of metal they can get away with in return for the maximum amount of fresh food the fleet can carry. If the trading goes well over the next few days, the fleet will be able to take on board drinking water, meat slaughtered on the beach by their own butchers, a great deal of fish that the natives have caught and some fresh fruit.

To do the job properly – which is the only way Pelsaert does any job – it is necessary for him to be away from the ship for a couple of days, so as to travel a short way into the hinterland of this southern tip of Africa, where he can hopefully negotiate with some of the cattle herders living just back from the coast.

Though maintaining a relatively respectful expression the best he knows how, Jacobsz watches Pelsaert being rowed to the shore with no little satisfaction. While this particular excursion by the
Commandeur
is to be only a brief one to establish contact, before he goes on the major trading excursion, still the skipper cherishes it. Such sweet relief! He intends to make the most of Pelsaert’s absences and already has plans in mind. True, he is not getting any younger, and he isn’t quite sure just how much carousing he will be able to get through in just one big night . . . but he intends to find out.

But first things first . . .

Only a short time after the
Commandeur
leaves the
Batavia
, Jeronimus makes the mistake of entering the officers’ privy without first knocking, only to find that the skipper and Zwaantje are . . . extremely busy. Breathing a silken apology, Jeronimus
closes the door firmly and moves on
.

16 April 1629, South African hinterland

Dealing with the natives a couple of days later, Pelsaert does not even try a few words in the most basic form of the Hottentot language, as that is impossible. To the Dutch ear, their curious language sounds like nothing so much as a duck quacking, and he knows from his previous time spent there that, despite his own proficiency with such languages as Persian and Hindustani, even after weeks in these environs it is impossible to pick up a
single
word. Yet commerce has a spirit – if not a language – all its own, and somehow he manages. To indicate cows, Pelsaert makes a mooing sound; for sheep, he
baaaas
, and so on. Though the natives have no use for money of any description, they are particularly interested in all things metallic, which they refashion into their own implements, spears and body decoration.

16 April 1629,
Tafelbaai

Generally, ships moored in
Tafelbaai
lie quietly at anchor through the night, gently bobbing up and down on the limited swell as the exhausted crew and passengers get some well-earned rest, at last free from the sheer exhaustion of being out on the open ocean and perpetually battered by the elements. At midnight on a moonless night, a passing Hottentot on the shore usually would not know that any ships were there at all, if it were not for the enormous lanterns – each one nearly as big as a man, containing candles inside opaque Moscovian glass – that are still kept alight, hanging above each stern and looking like a bunch of giant fireflies hovering in the distance.

But on the occasion of the
Batavia
and her attendant fleet being there in the middle of April 1629, it is different. On this particular evening, someone on the shore would have heard first an enormous commotion coming from the
jacht
the
Sardam
, and then, a couple of hours later, a similar brouhaha exploding from the man-of-war, the
Buren
. On both occasions, the commotion is at first somewhat muffled, as if it came up from the bowels of the ships before rolling to them across the water, and then it is much, much louder, as if the source of the noise has suddenly moved out into the open air.

From a distance, it is hard to work out quite what the trouble is, but even for the Hottentots, who understand nothing of the language being used, the tone is clear enough: a combination of drunken exuberance and outrage pure. And to those on ships close to the source of the noise, the words are all too clear.

‘Get f—d, you lowly dog who dares speak to me thus!’

‘Cur! Rascal! You would remove from your tiny toy tub of a ship one whose own ship would swallow it whole?’

In short, in the prolonged absence of the
Commandeur
, Skipper Jacobsz is indeed making a good night of it, eager both to drink and to show off his latest conquest. With Zwaantje by his side, and taking his newfound friend Jeronimus along for the trip, he has first
gone ashore to promenade
and after that rowed out to the
Sardam
. There, he has proceeded to get drunk to the point of total inebriation with that
jacht’s
skipper, at which point, in his usual way, Jacobsz is just getting warmed up. When he becomes querulous, he is asked to leave by the
Sardam
’s skipper. With Zwaantje and Jeronimus still in tow, Jacobsz then goes on to the
Buren
, where the same thing happens and he is again thrown off – though not before engaging in an open brawl with some of the crew and generally behaving, as it is recorded, ‘
very beastly with words
as well as deeds’.