The Golden Cross (28 page)

“Then take this down, and send the message straightaway to Heer Dempsey Jasper. Tell him that the old mouse is already in the trap and will not be returning to Batavia. I’ll expect his debt to be paid when I return.”

The man scratched the message over the parchment, then dipped his pen into the ink and offered it to Dekker. “Shall you sign it?”

Witt backed away, unwilling to advertise the fact that reading and writing were not among his many skills. “No,” he answered, patting the dog so the harbor master could see that Witt could not
be troubled with pens and paper at the moment. “Just send it right away, will you? I’m expected aboard my ship.”

With a grunt and a nod, the harbor master sprinkled blotting sand on the wet ink, then shook it off and neatly folded the parchment.

Witt smiled. His orders would be carried out. Dempsey Jasper would know that he was on the job. And both Van Dyck and the ketelbinkie would be well within his reach once they set sail.

Whistling, he moved toward the dock, where the
Zeehaen
bobbed at anchor. They might not discover gold on this voyage, but it nevertheless promised to be a trip that would make Witt Dekker a very wealthy man.

T
he sinking sun had not yet reached the tops of the masts when Sterling wearily made his way to the
Heemskerk
. Tasman would undoubtedly be angry that his surgeon and future son-in-law had disappeared for half a day, but tending to the girl’s burial had taken longer than Sterling had anticipated. At first the constable had glared at him with outright suspicion. Then once the man recognized the poor girl’s face, he had waved Sterling away as if he’d discovered a dead housefly. “Have no fear, we’ll bury her in the pauper’s grave.” The constable shrugged and moved away from the corpse, barely even glancing at the girl’s sweet face. “If nobody pays for the burial, that’s what she gets.”

“Surely she deserves more,” Sterling had answered. “Look at this gown! This is a fine lady, someone of consequence! You can’t just ignore her!”

“Look,” the constable said, running his hands over the paunch at his belly, “this is a port city. All kinds of people mingle down there at the wharf—pirates and their women, foreigners, and people who are running from trouble in Europe. Not every lady who wears a fine dress is rich, and not all of them matter, if you take my meaning.” He looked up and gave Sterling a conspiratorial wink. “Trust me, sir, if no one comes for her within a day or two, no one is missing her. But to please you, I’ll keep her in the dead house until sundown tomorrow. Then she goes to the pauper’s field.”

Frustrated at the constable’s impertinence, Sterling produced a gold florin from his own purse, and, lest it disappear into the
constable’s pocket, waited until the man grudgingly called the carpenter and commissioned a teakwood casket for the girl’s final resting place. Satisfied at last that the carpenter was an honorable man who would do his duty, Sterling left the girl’s body in the constable’s office and made his way to the docks.

The
Zeehaen
lay at anchor in a berth beside the
Heemskerk
, and Sterling caught sight of Witt Dekker on the deck of the smaller ship as he passed by. Instinctively he lowered his head, not wanting to enter into conversation with that man unless absolutely necessary. In that respect, at least, his acquaintance and new affiliation with Tasman was a blessing. He would sail on the commander’s flagship, the
Heemskerk
, under commander Tasman and skipper T’jercksen Holman while Dekker served as first mate on the
Zeehaen
under skipper Gerrit Janszoon.

He passed the
Zeehaen
and came upon the
Heemskerk
, a proud ship that heaved elegantly upon the swell of the tide, straining at her hawsers as if already eager to be under way. A horde of sea gulls dived and shrieked among her masts and rigging, their voices as raucous as the shouting of the seamen.

Sterling paused before a heavy man standing watch at the gangplank.
“Goedenavond,”
he murmured, offering the man a casual smile. “I am to report aboard.”

The man’s eyes raked over Sterling’s form, taking in his boots, his breeches, his worn shirt and frayed doublet. “Are you English?” His voice dripped with suspicion. “This is a Dutch ship, sir, commissioned by the V.O.C.—”

“I know,” Sterling interrupted. He drew a deep breath and shifted his bag from one hand to the other. “I am Sterling Thorne, lately employed by Commander Tasman to serve as surgeon on this ship.”

“Ah.” The man threw his head back, though a decidedly unpleasant look remained on his face. “You are the doctor.”

Sterling straightened and attempted to bow, not an easy feat when one stood at the end of a shifting plank.

“I am Francois Jacobsz Visscher, pilot major of the expedition as well as first mate of the
Heemskerk.”

Sterling pushed down his increasing irritation. “I’m honored, sir. Now, if I might pass, I believe the commander is expecting me. I was detained at the wharf this afternoon by a bit of unpleasant business.”

Visscher eased away from the plank and allowed Sterling room to pass. He hefted his bag and moved ahead, one hand clinging to the insubstantial rope that served as a railing, and prayed that they would soon be under way. Cuts, bruises, broken bones, and weak bowels he could handle, but he had neither the patience nor the skill for shipboard politics.

Organized chaos reigned on the deck. Bodies darted to and fro, popping up through hatchways and dropping suddenly out of the rigging like hanged men. The sails that would send them to parts unknown lay in ivory stacks upon the deck, their upper folds billowing in the breeze. At other points a steady stream of native loaders sidestepped sailors as they carried livestock, barrels, crates, and trunks of supplies for the voyage.

Sterling moved forward until he came to the mainmast at the center of the ship. There he paused, trying to stand out of the way until he could catch sight of Abel Tasman. He was astonished, however, when the first familiar face he saw was that of a distinguished older man who stepped out of a small cabin beneath the forecastle. Sterling paused, trying to fix the face in his memory. This man hadn’t been aboard the
Gloria Elizabeth
, this memory was fresher …

The man looked up and caught Sterling’s eye. For a moment confusion clouded his eyes as well, then a smile twitched into existence within the neat thicket of his beard. “My friend the defender!” he cried in careful English, opening his arms as if Sterling were a long-lost relative. “Are you sailing with us?”

“Yes.” The pieces fell into place, and the memory of their meeting brought a wry, twisted smile to Sterling’s face. “I am the ship’s surgeon. But you—”

“I am the voyage cartographer,” the old man supplied. “Francois Visscher is the pilot major and keeper of the charts, of course, but the Company has hired me to produce a map of the lands we will discover and explore.”

“Of course.” Sterling tipped his head back and looked at him. “Since we will be traveling together, we certainly should be properly introduced. I am Sterling Thorne, and I am pleased to be at your service.”

“I am very honored to meet you, sir,” the man chuckled, “and now I understand why you were so eager to preserve life and limb when you came to my ward’s defense. I am Schuyler Van Dyck, and I am most pleased that we shall be friends.”

“Your ward, sir?” Sterling tilted his head. “The young lady was your ward? I was not certain of the association between you, but it did appear odd that you should be teaching her to duel with fisticuffs.”

The older gentleman coughed and blushed crimson. “Ah, well, yes. The girl is most unusual, there’s no disputing that fact. And I must apologize for the way she, er, attacked you.” He gave Sterling a bemused glance. “I did not expect her to jump on your back. I hope you were not hurt.”

“Not at all.” Sterling shifted his shoulders, slightly embarrassed by the memory. “I can only assume that you were teaching her to fend for herself since you were going away. Though it is unconventional, still, it seems that there was no harm done.” He smiled at a distant memory. “I have two sisters who used to regularly pummel me and my brothers.”

“You are quite right; that is exactly what I was doing.” Van Dyck nodded in emphasis. “Teaching her to take care of herself. And she took to my teaching like a duck to water, I believe.” He cocked his head and looked at Sterling, his eyes glowing with pleasure. “She is a right pretty thing. Did you get a look at her?”

“No, I’m afraid I did not.” Sterling smiled and wondered if Heer Van Dyck was as eager to marry off his ward as Abel Tasman
was to betroth his daughter. “But I’ve discovered that the Dutch are great judges of beauty. If you say she is one, I will not doubt your word.”

“Beauty and morality,” Van Dyck answered, nodding. “You cannot have one without the other, though both are too often counterfeited. As a painter, I value beauty wherever I see it, and as a Christian man, I cherish morality and virtue. My late wife possessed both beauty and a pure heart … and I miss her dreadfully.” His eyes glazed as he stared out to sea. “Are you married, sir?”

“Not yet.” Sterling shifted his weight as the conversation grew burdensome. “Though I plan to be as soon as we return to Batavia.”

Van Dyck made a soft sound of agreement, though his eyes did not leave the watery horizon. “Marriage is a wonderful thing.”

“Heer Van Dyck!”

A youthful voice broke into the conversation, and Sterling and the old man turned together as a slender boy in breeches and a billowing shirt emerged from the cabin beneath the forecastle. He carried a painter’s palette in one hand and a brush in the other, and with a smile Sterling noted that a definite smear of blue paint adorned the tip of the boy’s pert chin.

“I can’t get the color right,” the boy said, not glancing up as he neared the older man. “The sky seems more azure than turquoise today, and yet I can’t get the colors to blend properly. What element am I missing?”

“Mind your manners, Aidan,” the gentleman remonstrated, clasping his hands at his waist. “We have a guest. I’d like you to meet Sterling Thorne, the ship’s surgeon.”

The boy looked up then, and the shock of recognition hit them both at the same instant. Sterling recognized the slender form, the delicate features, the wide green eyes—this was the boy from the alley!

“You!” he murmured, aware that the skittish boy might flee if he reacted too strongly.

The boy took a hasty half-step back, tipping the painter’s palette so that it fell forward onto his shirt.

“You know my assistant?” Van Dyck’s glance moved from the boy to Sterling and back to the boy again. His smile faded. “You recognize him?”

Sterling frowned in exasperation. “Well. I certainly never expected to see you again. I asked you to help me, and you were off like a shot—”

“My presence was required here,” the boy snapped, his chin lifting slightly in defiance.

“For one who was so concerned about the girl’s life and death, you managed to vanish most conveniently.”

“How could I be sure
you
didn’t kill her?” the boy answered, retreating another step before Sterling’s sharp gaze.

“I told you I could be trusted!”

“Ah, well, that settles it then.” The boy’s eyes darkened dangerously. “I’m sure someone told that girl the same thing right before they murdered her!”

“Aidan!” Van Dyck broke into the exchange with a sharp voice, then turned to face his charge, blocking Sterling’s view of the boy. In a lower voice, the gentleman spoke to his assistant. “Will you tell me what happened? And how this man knows you?”

“It’s all right, sir,” the lad answered, his tone softening in respect. “It has nothing to do with me. But this afternoon I found my friend in an alley. This man stood over her dead body, and I wasn’t certain he was not the one responsible for her most undeserved death.”

“For your information—” Sterling began, eager to relate how he had spent his afternoon and his last gold piece taking care of the murdered girl’s burial. But the gentleman turned toward him with marked reservation in his eyes, and Sterling’s urge to defend himself faded. These two, along with the entire ship’s crew, would have to learn what sort of man he was. He was an outsider, an Englishman, and they already mistrusted him. Very well. He
wouldn’t satisfy them with empty words. He’d prove himself by his deeds, and if they weren’t happy with his work, they could doctor themselves.

“I must find Captain Tasman,” he said abruptly. He hefted his bag and tugged on the brim of his hat. “I give you good day, sir.”