To Die a Dry Death: The True Story of the Batavia Shipwreck by Greta van Der Rol

Cornelisz ran his eyes along the line. Most of them were colourless nobodies; he knew that from the Batavia , when they sat along the table in the Great Cabin and carried out duties for Pelsaert. But Davidt Zevanck, now. Surly, dark eyes, curled lip. He’d always been a bit different, as though suppressing an inner fire. And Daniel Cornelissen, with his pinched face and shrewd, cold eyes. Nobody knew much about him; he’d joined late. But these two, in particular, had shown some interest when he’d talked of his mentor, Torrentius, when he’d told them, late at night, that Hell was just a notion to frighten children and old women; that the scriptures were nothing but a collection of fables; that life was meant for pleasure.
    “Now then, I want you all, as loyal servants of the Company, to assist the members of the Council as they require. At present, Mister Jansz has need of two of you—Gijsbert and Andries de Vries, please go to him now.”
    They almost brightened, pleased to have a job. Zevanck stirred restlessly as the two men left, pushing the tent flap aside.
    “Davidt and Daniel, you will come with me. The rest of you will be given other opportunities when they arise.” He rose, indicating the interview was over. The remaining clerks filed out, leaving him with the two young men. He smiled at them. “I’d like you to help me check the stores inventory.”
    They went through the list Jansz had drawn up, adding new items, checking existing stock. Cornelisz watched them work, Zevanck in particular. The young man’s scowl deepened and he trimmed his quill with ever-growing anger, the knife cutting hard and sharp.
    “You’re not happy, Davidt?”
    He looked up, startled. “Sir?”
    “You can still call me Jeronimus, just as on the ship. Are you thinking there’s not much here?”
    It was like opening a sluice. “It’ll be months before a rescue ship comes back—months. This… this isn’t going to last all those people. Kids and sick. Pregnant women. Not unless God himself works a miracle.”
    “And we know God doesn’t work those sorts of miracles, don’t we, Davidt?” Cornelisz said.
    “Not unless we work them for him,” said Cornelissen. His pale eyes glittered in the soft light under the canvas.
    “Indeed. In God’s eyes, the deserving will survive and thrive.”
    Cornelisz stroked his moustache. Now to see what support he could engender from the soldiers. He returned to the tent he’d woken up in, and now shared with many of his erstwhile companions on the ship. That would be a temporary arrangement. He’d soon have his own accommodation, befitting his position.
    Coenraat van Huyssen, slim and handsome, resentful that his father had sent him away; the two van Welderen brothers, Gijsbert and Olivier, who hadn’t a choice; Lenert van Os, medium height, medium colouring, biddable. They all looked up as he entered. His eyes flicked around the group, making contact with each one. “Well now gentlemen, perhaps you’d like to join me on a tour of inspection?”
    They walked through the untidy settlement, past playing children and men busy with retrieved casks and timber. A few were coiling rope and Cornelisz noticed a small boat nearing completion. Carpenters used adzes to shape driftwood, building simple furniture. A number of people called a greeting, which he acknowledged with a wave of his hand.
    A short walk and the four men reached the windswept end of the island, a narrow, rocky point. A mile away, a little east of south, the Batavia’s masts and the poop rose above the reef.
    “What now, Jeronimus?” said van Huyssen. “What did you want to talk about?”
    Cornelisz found a rock to sit on and the others did the same, curious, interested. A breeze stirred their hair and whispered among the stunted bushes, carrying with it the scent of seaweed. “Tell me, do you think the captain and the commandeur will come back with water?”
    Olivier, elder of the two van Welderen brothers, was