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

first to answer. “I think if they found any, they would have been back by now. And since it’s rained…” he shrugged. “Why come back?”
    The others all nodded. Lenert van Os pulled a piece of grass out between his feet and began to shred it. Cornelisz thought he’d lost weight. Olivier didn’t look too well, either.
    “You think they’ll make it to Batavia?”
    Another ripple of exchanged glances went between them.
    “Everybody seems to think so. They have enormous faith in Captain Jacobsz.” Van Os’s voice faltered.
    Cornelisz grinned. “But not in Commandeur Pelsaert?”
    “No. They feel he’s deserted them. Sure, Captain Jacobsz needed to go to Batavia. But not him,” said van Os. He related the story of Pelsaert’s abortive trip from Traitors’ Island, in the yawl. “The people were disgusted. He just abandoned them—us. Left and went away.”
    “And do they think he’ll come back?”
    “Captain Jacobsz?” said Van Huyssen. “Yes.”
    A cruising bird in the sky above them folded its wings and stabbed down into the sea, emerging a moment later with a struggling fish.
    “How long do you think such a journey would take?” asked Cornelisz, meeting each man’s eyes. “There and back here?”
    Again they exchanged looks. This time the younger van Welderen answered. “We’ve heard the sailors talk. They say months.” He sighed and his shoulders sagged.
    “And do they say how many of us will still be left alive when Captain Jacobsz comes back?”
    Van Os’s fingers stopped their shredding.
    “What did you think of last night’s dinner?” asked Cornelisz.
    Both van Welderens pulled an almost identical face, van Os snorted and van Huyssen frowned. A small bowl of preserved meat with a few pulses and a piece of weevil-infested bread, with a small glass of wine. That’s what they’d eaten; all of them. Cornelisz looked at each face.
    “This is what we talked about on the boat, isn’t it? Making a fortune, any woman you want, lovely maids to wait on you. That’s how it is in Batavia, so they tell me. Gold, jewels. Anything you want. Well, you heard the commandeur talk about Jahangir’s court in India?” He remembered well enough himself. Beautiful, dark-skinned women; silks, jewel-encrusted ornaments, goblets and platters of silver and gold and ivory.
    Greed glistened in van Huyssen’s eyes. “What do you have in mind, Jeronimus?”
    “Only to ensure we are alive to see the rescue ship.”
    The wind sighed through the bushes and the waves slapped on the rock below where they sat. They waited, expectant, interested. Cornelisz rose to his feet and slapped the dirt from his breeches. “Well. We'd best be going. We'll talk again soon. ”
    *
    Lucretia allowed Cornelisz to take her hand. Very briefly.
    “It’s delightful to see you, Lady,” he said.
    His hazel eyes glittered in the lamplight. He’d been shaved, his moustache trimmed and his light brown hair hung around his shoulders. Full lips curved into a smile. He was quite attractive really, exuding a sort of animal magnetism, even wearing salt-stained clothes.
    “It’s good to see you fully recovered, Master Jeronimus,” she murmured.
    The predikant’s maid brought wine—their ration for the day—served in wooden, hand-carved cups.
    “You’ve been busy already, Master Cornelisz,” said the predikant. “The work teams have started, I see.”
    “Ah, well, we have plenty of materials now.” Cornelisz swung around to Lucretia again. “I’ve arranged for a tent to be built for you, Lady. It’s not right that someone of your status should be forced to share.”
    “Predikant Bastiaensz has been most generous,” said Lucretia. And that was true. But the idea of her own tent was certainly attractive. The crowded tent with the two children had become tiresome, she had to admit. She missed her privacy. And Bastiaensz snored.
    “Of course. And I appreciate that at first you had no choice. But I think it’s important that