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

and the sound of fists hitting flesh. “Who are you ordering about, you klootzak ?”
    “ Klootzak ? Why, you…” The sailor snarled and thrust forward, swinging a right hook into the face of the soldier.
    Dazed, the man staggered backwards. The sailor advanced and drove his left fist into the man’s stomach. Another sailor cheered. It was enough. Hayes watched the melee grow as one, then another darted forward to join in.
    “Lads! Lads!” Pieter Jansz the provost waded in and grabbed a sailor’s shoulder. “Stop it. Stop it.” He took out a cudgel and began to rain blows.
    Gabriel came in from the other side. “Soldiers! Back off! Enough! Jacop,” he shouted for the lance corporal. True to his nickname, the Stone-cutter joined the fray, pulling men out by their collars.
    Two men were on the ground now, one astride the other, landing savage punches while the rest traded blows. Hayes put out a hand to stop de Villiers from joining in. “Save your energy.”
    The fight ended when the barber, Frans Jansz, arrived at a run. Hayes liked the man; so did everybody else. “Peace, lads,” he shouted, arms held high. “We’re in this together.”
    Some of the men held others back but at least they listened.
    “Well, I’m not taking no orders from no bloedpoepende maaghond sailor,” snarled the soldier who’d originally begun the brawl. Blood seeped out of his nose.
    “Come, friend. We’re all in this together,” answered the barber, his hand on the sailor’s chest. “We must work together if we’re to survive. Don’t you agree?”
    The man scowled.
    “On the ship we had a council,” said Jansz. “Maybe we should do that again.” He turned to the provost and the corporal. “What do you think? You for the soldiers and the sailors—”
    “He doesn’t represent me,” a sailor shouted.
    “Well, then,” said Frans. “Who would you have? The predikant?”
    Hayes stood silent as the onlookers shifted and exchanged glances. No, they didn’t want the predikant. He couldn’t blame them for that, either. He might be a Man of God but he seemed a bit colourless for a situation like this.
    “Gerrit,” someone shouted. “Gerrit can represent us.”
    Hayes craned his neck to see as a sailor stepped forward, an older man, leathery and wizened.
    “Fair enough. I’m probably the most senior sailor here, now,” Gerrit Haas said.
    “Good,” said Jansz, amid murmurs of agreement. “Well, then. Let’s work together to build shelter. Maybe the sailors can catch fish.”
    Hayes approved. The most sensible thing they’d done all day. Not that he thought the co-operative spirit would last. The barber was a nice man, respected by all but he didn’t have that flare that set a real leader apart.
    He passed his tongue over dry lips. What he’d give for a drink of water. He glanced up at the clouds, scudding rapidly to the east, leaving a clear sky in their wake.
    *
    Lucretia clutched a hand to her chest, holding her blouse closed tight. If she’d been frightened before, it was nothing to what she felt now. The only people she knew on this wind-swept spot in the ocean were the predikant and his wife and children. No maid, even. Zwaantie was gone. Not that she’d been much use since she’d taken up with the captain.
    She shifted, easing her position on the ground. At least she was in the shade, under a canvas lean-to the men had constructed for the predikant and his family from pieces of sail and driftwood. Many others didn’t even have that luxury. Judyck, the predikant’s eldest daughter, sat with the two youngest children. The boy, eight-year-old Roelant, lay on his side shuffling rocks into patterns.
    “Is there something to drink?” asked the little girl.
    “No, sweetheart. Not yet.”
    “Well, when, then? I’m thirsty.”
    Judyck sighed and stroked the child’s hair. “So am I, Agnete.”
    What do you say to an eleven-year-old, thought Lucretia? How could you make children understand?
    A couple of