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

he conceded, that wasn’t much. A tiny, barren island on a wind-swept reef. As if in answer to his thoughts, the bushes rustled dry stems in the breeze and a sea bird mewed its lonely cry.
    “At least it isn’t raining anymore.”
    Hayes turned to Corporal Gabriel Jacobsz, standing beside him. “We might regret that, too,” he said. “The water barrels are empty.”
    Gabriel stared at him. “We’d better hope they come back with water. But meanwhile, we’d better set up a camp. Come help me organise the fellows. You speak a little French, don’t you?”
    “Yes, a little.”
    The corporal was already striding away. “Come on, fellows, form up. Let’s get some working parties together, build a camp. Over here. Come on, move it.”
    The Frenchmen stood in a group and Hayes joined them, thanking the Lord his family—in better times—had seen to it he learned French. His skill, limited as it was, had proved useful more than once on the Batavia , with its motley group of mercenaries.
    “ Qu’a-t-il dit ?” said one.
    Hayes grinned and explained what Gabriel had said. They followed him readily enough to where the corporal was ordering his troops. “You lot—search the island for any water. Dig wells, look under rocks. You—collect wood, sails, anything you can find in the water that we can use to build shelter. You others—food detail. There’s birds here. Look for birds, see what you can catch. Everybody clear?” He stood with his hands on his hips, staring around at the men, waiting while a few translated for colleagues.
    Hayes stayed with the Frenchmen, who’d been given food duty. He gestured to his French mates and they went off along the island, while Gabriel shouted a few more orders. At least they could feel they were doing something. Fights had already broken out between the sailors and the soldiers and most of the civilians milled around or lay about, despondent. Corporal Gabriel had never impressed him much and he knew many of his colleagues agreed with him. As for the officers on the ship—what officers? A few wet-behind-the-ears pups whose parents had bought them commissions.
    They walked past a group gathered around the predikant, heads bent in prayer.
    One of the Frenchmen snorted. “They pray. Do they think God will help them? God has dumped us here.” He flung out a hand, encompassing the horizon. Sea on every side.
    “It gives them hope,” Hayes said. The other raised the edge of his lip and Hayes added, “And in the meantime, maybe we can help God to help us. Find some food—birds, as the corporal said.”
    “Catch birds?” said Theroux. “Do you think we’ll be able to get close enough?”
    De Villiers laughed. “I used to bring down birds with stones in a slingshot back home.”
    “Well, let’s try that, then.”
    Three birds, they killed. Three, between ten of them. Hayes carried them, legs down, dead wings flopping.
    The island was too small for so many people. How many, Hayes wondered? Most of the soldiers, he thought. They kept bumping into them, everywhere they went. So fifty, sixty soldiers, as many sailors. And so many women. He hadn’t realised. He’d known a few soldiers had wives with them but he’d counted fifteen, twenty women. One of them was beautiful. He’d noticed her with the predikant’s prayer group. Everyone knew who she was: Lucretia van der Mijlen. The soldiers had heard what had happened to her, too, in that attack, but this was the first time any of them had actually set eyes on her. They’d talked about it for days, speculated about what the assailants had done to her. The stories became wilder by the hour. If Hayes believed everything he heard, every man on duty that night had had a turn with her. Huh. In their dreams.
    A child’s cry rose, a querulous, petulant whine. He hadn’t expected to see so many children, either. A few were babes in arms that must have been born on the ship. Poor little souls.
    Shouts interrupted his thought. Shouts