The Golden Cross (55 page)

A sudden gust of wind struck the ship, and the cabin heeled sideways, sending her crate sliding to the wall. The seamen outside
her door whooped in excitement, and Aidan braced herself. She could not tell Sterling anything. Witt Dekker, therefore, would be part of her life for weeks—perhaps years—to come. They were not far from Batavia now; and he’d want his money as soon as they landed. He’d follow her, ask about her, and he’d probably offer his congratulations when he learned that she expected a child. If she threatened him in any way he’d do something despicable, perhaps even going so far as to insinuate that the child was not legitimately Sterling’s.

She shuddered, thinking of other women at the wharf who had discovered themselves with child. None of them had a husband. In that respect, at least, she was fortunate, for even if Sterling discovered the truth, she’d have a home as long as he loved the child.

The noises outside her cabin changed, and Aidan lifted her head, wondering what had happened. The ship, always alive, now seemed to be stretching and sighing, creaking its timbers and squeaking its stairs. The rising wind began to moan, then burst into a hellish shriek.

Red sky at morning …

The floor slanted again, and Aidan scrambled for the door. Had Sterling managed to come up from below decks? She flung the door open and saw men racing to trim the sails. The low, hazy, mountainous shores of New Guinea passed silently off the port bow, separated from the
Heemskerk
by a hard, metallic sea.

The bosun clanged his bell, the lookouts scrambled down from their masts, and the first mate commanded the watch to man the pumps. The wind hummed through the rigging, strangely flat notes rising and falling as the ship rolled. Masts strained their shrouds and braces first to the port side, then to the starboard.

Aidan braced herself in the doorway as thick, dense raindrops began to splatter at her feet. The sea beyond the rail lunged up in white plumes, and the ship bucked and reared. The gale increased to a torrent, so laden with rain that the sailor at the wheel had to hold his head down and turn his head sideways to breathe.

Aidan lost her balance and fell, hard, to the deck, but she held tight to the doorframe and shielded her eyes from the drenching rain as she searched for Sterling. Meester Holman clung to a mast amidships, bawling orders she could not hear through the storm.

Stunned by the ferocity of the sudden squall, Aidan looked over at the
Zeehaen
. Driving sheets of rain nearly obscured her view, but she could see men on the smaller ship attempting to batten the hatches and secure the sails. A knot of sailors clustered around one of the cannons they’d used the day before for artillery practice, and Aidan guessed they were trying to carry the gun below decks before it broke loose and crashed through the railing.

Off the
Zeehaen’s
port bow a pair of seamen worked to free the fore staysail. Aidan gasped as the small ship pitched forward and a black wave swept aboard. When the ship righted itself and the wave retreated, one of the men who had been standing on the yardarm had vanished, borne away by the devouring wave.

Terror coursed through her, and Aidan scrambled back inside her cabin and slammed the door. Sterling wouldn’t want her outside in the rain. Always the doctor, he’d be furious that she’d gotten wet and cold while she looked for him. She wouldn’t tell him about the man swept overboard from the
Zeehaen
. There was nothing he could do, though his exaggerated sense of responsibility would probably lead him to blame himself for the accident.

The door opened a moment later, and Sterling rushed into the cabin, his eyes darting wildly about. “My bag, I need my bag,” he said, scarcely looking at her.

“Why?” she asked, frightened by the tone of his voice. “Is someone injured?”

He nodded abruptly, then spotted his bag beneath her chair. “Aboard the
Zeehaen,”
he said, stooping to retrieve it. “Holman saw the accident through his spyglass. A cannon got away from the men trying to secure it, and I’m afraid the first mate is in a bad way.”

“The first mate—” Aidan felt a sudden darkness behind her
eyes, and a chilly dew formed on her skin. “Witt Dekker? He is injured?”

Sterling lifted his bag, stood, and looked around the room as if trying to make sure he’d remembered everything.

“Dekker?” she asked again, feeling bands of tightness in her chest. “Is he hurt?”

“Yes.” Sterling looked at her, then leaned forward and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. “Poor darling, are you all right? I knew you’d be safe in the cabin, but Dekker needs help. Holman believes the man’s leg is shattered, at the very least. If I don’t get over there to set it, the carpenter will take it off within the hour.” His handsome face went grim. “And I don’t think even Dekker could survive a carpenter’s amputation.”

Aidan gasped as she reached out to clench Sterling’s shirt in her hands. By heaven above, was this what God had done to answer her prayers? Dekker might die, he
deserved
to die, but her husband intended to save him!

“Sterling,” she cried, spasms of alarm quaking through her body, “you can’t go to the
Zeehaen
in this storm! The waves are too high; the barge will be swamped!”

“Darling.” His free hand covered hers, and he gave her a confident and tender smile. “Of course I must go. I’m a doctor, and I’ve sworn to tend the sick and injured, wherever they may be. Besides, the seamen are setting up a guide rope between the two ships. The barge will be made as safe as possible.”

“But Witt Dekker—”

“—is a man like any other,” Sterling interrupted, “and in need of my help right now.” His eyes shown with determination and purpose as he dropped his medicine bag and took her head in his hands, pressing his lips to her forehead. “You ought to lie down, love. It wouldn’t be good for you or the baby if you should fall in this storm.”

“Sterling, don’t go!” The ship shifted as she spoke, and she clung more desperately to him. “Dekker is an evil man! How do
you know God does not intend for him to die? Sterling, he attacked me on that island, don’t you remember? And he lies!”

“You forgave him.” Sterling’s voice was soft as he took her hands and firmly pulled her toward the bunk. He pressed upon her shoulders, forcing her to sit, then took up his bag again. “And though it was difficult, I forgave him too. And now he needs a doctor. He might die if I don’t go.”

“Sterling, please!” She reached out, but he turned and walked to the door, then turned back and looked at her.

“I hate to leave you like this,” he said in a choked voice, “but I must go. And I promise I will return as soon as I can.”

“You promised you would never leave me again!”

She closed her eyes and prayed that his conscience would overpower this compulsion to serve, but when she opened her eyes again the door was closed and Sterling was gone. She lay back on the bed, and tears streamed into her hair, over her hand, and onto the pillow.

Her husband was resolved to save the man who would destroy their happiness. And if Witt Dekker thought himself at death’s door, he might say anything—truth or lie—to hurt her.

S
hall I get you a dry shirt, Doctor?” Gerrit Janszoon’s face was somber and dark in the torchlight.

“That would be nice, thank you.” Sterling sipped on the mug of broth the cook had provided. He’d been aboard the
Zeehaen
for nearly twelve hours, and he now believed Witt Dekker would live, though the leg was unsalvageable. Even under the best conditions Sterling would have been unable to save the leg and the patient too. The bosun and coxswain had forced Dekker to drink whiskey until he passed out. The carpenter then handed over his saw, and Sterling performed the neatest amputation he could, under the circumstances. The arteries were cauterized with a red-hot iron, the torn flesh mended with a needle and thread, and fine English leeches applied to the cut edges to lessen the swelling.

“Ja
, you did good, Doctor,” the carpenter was saying now, his only remaining front tooth gleaming in the dim light of the hold. “I don’t expect that I could have done better myself. I would not have thought to sear those wiggly worms under the skin—”

“Blood vessels,” Sterling corrected him absently. “And yes, you might have thought of it … if you wanted to prevent him from bleeding to death.”

Janszoon returned with a dry shirt, which Sterling took with an appreciative smile. “By the way, Skipper,” he said, shrugging out of his own soaked shirt, “is there any way we might flash a signal to the
Heemskerk?
My wife was quite worried about my passage during the storm.” He caught the knowing look that passed
between the skipper and the carpenter and hastened to correct the impression that he was a henpecked husband. “Women worry, you know. Especially when they are in a delicate condition.”

Janszoon’s brow lifted in surprise. “Really now! That’s quite a secret you’ve been hiding. We’ll lift a glass in your honor, Doctor, as soon as we find another jug. I think we poured everything available on this deck down Dekker’s gullet.”

“I’ll appreciate the thought.” Sterling fumbled to find the buttons on his shirt. “But as the storm’s stopped, I’ll be leaving you gentlemen. As you might suspect, I’ve reason to be getting back to the
Heemskerk
as soon as the oarsmen are ready.”

“I’ll order up two men for you directly,” Janszoon said, winking broadly at Sterling. “And give our regards to Captain Tasman—”

A low groan from the patient interrupted him. Sterling forgot about his shirt as he leaned over Dekker’s perspiring body. He lifted the man’s eyelid, then frowned. Dekker’s pupils were fixed and dilated—not a good sign—and his body simmered with impending fever.

“When the cannon struck Dekker,” he said, searching for a pulse in his patient’s neck, “did he hit his head on the deck?”

“No sir,” the bosun answered, fidgeting in the doorway. “He smacked it on the mizzenmast.”

Sterling opened his mouth to ask why in the world they hadn’t shared that bit of information, then thought better of it. No sense in upbraiding them for ignorance. He bent to examine his patient again. He’d spent all his time worrying about Dekker’s leg, when the blow to the head might be a far more serious injury.

“Cancel that order for the barge, Skipper,” Sterling told Tasman, his eyes focused on Dekker. “I may be here a while.”

Janszoon nodded soberly, then gestured toward the doorway. The bosun and carpenter exited immediately, and Sterling smiled grimly as he watched them go. No one wanted to linger around a dying man.

Sterling sat in a chair beside his patient and watched death bear down with a slow and steady deliberation. He could do nothing to stop it. Time passed, and though he knew the sun was rising and setting on the deck above him, he was trapped in the endless night of the lower deck, where the sick and dying were shunted aside.

He dozed when his patient slept, fretted when Dekker writhed in agony. Though Sterling blew white hellebore, pepper, and castery into his patient’s nostrils—the commonly prescribed cure for apoplexy—Dekker ranted and raved throughout his final hours. The storm outside had abated, yet another storm raged in the man’s soul, and Sterling was powerless to subdue or temper it. Indeed, Dekker seemed unaware of anyone else in the room.

Once when Sterling approached with a drink intended to calm the man’s nerves and ease his pain, Dekker struck out as if fighting an invisible enemy, sending both the cup and its liquid flying across the room. Another time Sterling thought to ask for the man’s little dog, thinking that the animal might snap Dekker out of his delirium, but Snuggerheid was nowhere to be found. A mournful seaman finally reported that the dog must have been lost in the storm after Dekker fell.

Sterling had seen unpleasant deaths, but none as desperate as this one. Dekker called for his missing leg; he screamed for someone to stop the burning; he cursed his mother, his father, and someone called Dempsey. Sterling stiffened, his temper soaring, when Dekker invoked Aidan’s name and called her the vilest names imaginable, but then he forced himself to remember that Dekker was lost in the ravings of madness. This was death, and this was how unredeemed, guilt-stricken men often died. Sterling let Dekker rave and storm, grateful that at least the man’s end would come quickly. A sputtering candle did not last long.