The Golden Cross (15 page)

Sterling smiled tentatively and tried to summon up a feeling of gratitude as Dekker stood up and took his leave of the captain. He hated being indebted to a man like Witt Dekker, but at the moment he had no other options. Returning to sea was a logical choice. He would have honest work that paid well, particularly if they discovered gold or took a prize on the journey, and he would be gone for some time, perhaps as long as a year.

“I would, ah—relish the opportunity to return to sea.” He forced the stubborn half-truth from his tongue, then added, quite truthfully, “Batavia has proved to be a difficult place in which to make a new start. And while Dr. Carstens has been most hospitable, he is not willing to take on an associate. Perhaps if I go to sea, I might find him more inclined to accept me upon my return.”

Tasman lifted an eyebrow at this, but he let the remark about Carstens pass. “Well then,” he said, idly scratching his neck as he shifted his gaze toward the window, “we are planning to sail sometime in mid-August. I trust you will have accommodations until then?”

Sterling hesitated. He might as well be honest, for he had no other options. “Actually, sir,” he said after a pause, “I fear I may have outworn my welcome in the good doctor’s house. If there is a barracks, or some place where you allow the seamen to sleep—”

“The sailors sleep on their ships or in the flophouses at the wharf,” Tasman answered, “but something tells me you would not be comfortable in a flophouse.” He lowered his hands, folded them, and looked at Sterling with a curious, self-satisfied gleam in his eye. “How old are you, Dr. Thorne?”

Sterling blinked at the unexpected question. “Thirty, sir. I’ve had experience, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Married?”

“Um, no.” What sort of interview was this? “And you’re English. Well, we can’t hold that against you, can we?” The captain’s expression grew suddenly animated. “Since you
have an honest face and King Charles’s physician to recommend you, sir, we will be pleased to take you aboard as ship’s surgeon and doctor. And you shall not have to worry about finding a place to sleep until we depart. I shall have my own dear wife make up the guest room, and you shall stay at my house.”

“Your house, sir?” Sterling looked up, surprised.

“Indeed, yes.” The captain stood, his hands jerking downward on his doublet to smooth the fabric. “We’ll expect you for dinner tonight. Six o’clock, please. You’ll meet my wife and my daughter, Lina.”

Sterling stood and bowed, wondering what he had done to deserve such generosity. “I thank you, sir. I will be prompt.”

“The honor, Doctor,” Tasman answered, a dark light sparkling in his brown eyes, “is all mine.”

Abel Tasman’s home, Sterling discovered, was located three blocks from Dr. Carstens’s house, secure within the prosperous area of town. After knocking and being greeted by the housekeeper, Sterling found himself in a square room, the
voorhuis
, or receiving lobby. Maps of the East Indian Dutch possessions hung on the east and west walls, advertising Tasman’s connection and illustrious position within the V.O.C. A large landscape and at least a dozen other paintings hung in the same small room, a density of visual decoration that indicated more art was to be found in the rest of the house.

The Dutch, Sterling had noticed, were fond of ornamentation, and paintings in particular. Every wall was apportioned to display as much artwork as possible, and a man of Tasman’s stature obviously felt compelled to display—in gilt frames—as many paintings as he could afford.

After leaving him alone for a few moments—the better for him to appreciate the vast collection of artwork, Sterling supposed—a serving maid led him into a room off to the right of the front lobby. Rich tapestries hung on two walls of this room, and in the center
twelve chairs stood around a massive ebony table. Just as Sterling caught sight of his own startled reflection in a gilt-framed mirror large enough to encompass the entire room, Abel Tasman entered from another doorway, his eyes alight with expectation, his hands raised in welcome. “Dr. Thorne! I am so glad you have come.”

With the grace of a man completely at ease in his own home, Tasman pulled out the chair at the head of the table and indicated that Sterling should take the chair at his right. “I hope you don’t mind the informality, but we are dining
en famille
tonight.” He gave Sterling a broad grin. “My wife and daughter are the only guests. Since I am literally placing my life and health in your hands on this upcoming voyage, I thought it only right that my loved ones should meet you.”

“I assure you, sir, this is quite formal enough to suit me.” His eyes drifted over the table, laid with silver tableware and fine porcelain. “After dining on hardtack and dried beef for so many weeks, I will find anything your cook prepares to be quite sumptuous.”

“Of course. But on the
Heemskerk
, you must dine with me in my cabin. And while I would never wish to disparage the English, I think I am safe in saying that we Dutch provide a great deal more for our sailors in the way of victuals. I am certain you will find the food aboard the
Heemskerk
much more enjoyable than hardtack and dried beef.”

“That would be a blessing,” Sterling admitted.

The rustle of silk and satins broke through the thread of their conversation, and Sterling looked up to see two women at the threshold of the room. The first woman, a tall, thin lady with her dark hair pulled tightly under her cap, looked out at him with the directness of a hawk.

“Ah!” Tasman jumped to his feet. “Dr. Thorne, meet my wife, Jannetje.” While Sterling murmured pleasantries, the woman stared at him like a cat sizing up a mouse for dinner. Without answering, she moved quickly to the seat at her husband’s left hand.

A bit bewildered, Sterling hesitated, wondering whether or
not he was truly welcome, but the reason for the lady’s stern appraisal became clear a moment later. The second lady, who was nearly obscured by the older woman’s formidable presence, approached the table and dipped in a formal curtsy. Abel Tasman introduced his daughter, Lina.

The young Miss Tasman was about twenty, Sterling supposed, with dark hair and darker eyes. She had dainty features and small wrists—a petite and flowerlike creature with a touch-me-not look about her. This girl, Sterling realized with a shock as he returned a bow for her curtsy, was the perfect age for marriage. And apparently the captain’s wife thought he had been invited to dinner as a possible suitor.

“Joffer Tasman, I am honored,” Sterling murmured as the girl approached the empty chair at his side. He pulled out the chair and held it for her, and she blushed prettily as she spread her dark skirts and sat down. He seated her and returned to his own seat, aware that Jannetje Tasman’s appraising eyes gauged his every move.

“Well, then,” Captain Tasman said, rubbing his hands together. “Shall we ring for dinner and give thanks?”

“So my dear,” Abel whispered to his wife as they lay in the darkness of their bedchamber, “what did you think of him?”

“Him who?” Jannetje murmured, feigning ignorance.

Abel rose up on one elbow and frowned at the barely discernible silhouette of his wife. “The good doctor, who else? Is he not a fine young man? Handsome, well-suited, and bright? He is ever so much more than that dullard our Lina moons for. He will make a far more suitable husband.”

“Abel!” Jannetje’s voice was dry and sharp. “When will you learn not to meddle? Our daughter loves Jan Van Oorschot.”

“Our daughter is a fool,” Abel snapped, lowering himself to the mattress again. He folded his arms across his chest and breathed heavily. “A foolish girl, but an obedient one. She will marry Sterling Thorne, and she will be happy with him.”

“What of the doctor?” Jannetje asked, her voice now unnaturally smooth. “How will you mold
him
to your will? He is not your son; he will not feel compelled to obey your wishes.”

“He will obey.” Abel twisted the end of his moustache. “He will be aboard my ship, and under my command. He will obey, and he will make our daughter happy—or he will rue the day he ever came to Batavia.”

H
eer Van Dyck?” Schuyler looked up. Gusta stood in the doorway, her brow set in an unconscious furrow. “Captain Tasman and Meester Visscher are here to see you.”

“Of course, Gusta, show them in.” Quickly he shuffled his correspondence from his desk, then stood and smoothed his doublet. Within a moment the two men entered the library. Schuyler bowed deeply as they approached. “Captain Tasman! And Meester Visscher. You honor my home with your presence.”

“You honor us with your time,” Tasman answered. The captain waved his hat. “May we sit and discuss the upcoming voyage? We thought to settle a few things with you before our meeting with Governor Van Diemen.”

“But of course!” Schuyler gestured toward two chairs near the window. “Have a seat gentlemen, and take your ease.” He looked up at Gusta, who hovered in the doorway, and lowered his voice. “Gusta, some tea and biscuits, if you please. I’m sure our guests could use some refreshment.”

“Cool water, for me, if you have any,” Visscher said, glancing over his shoulder as he sat beside Tasman. He sent Schuyler an apologetic smile. “This heat is stifling. I don’t know how the natives stand it in those huts.” The heavyset Visscher was perspiring profusely, a line of sweat across his brow and upper lip. Schuyler rubbed his finger over his mouth, suppressing a smile. Obviously the man had not lived in Batavia very long.

In time, a body became accustomed to the heat.

Schuyler pulled over the small stool that stood beside his easel. “Perhaps the natives don’t suffer because they’ve known nothing but warm weather.”

“I suppose you realize our plans are well under way,” Tasman rubbed his hands over his trousers as he assumed control of the conversation. “We are planning to sail before the month is out. The ships are now fully manned. We’ve been given two excellent ships, the
jacht de Heemskerk
and the
flute de Zeehaen
. Yde T’jercksen Holman will skipper the
Heemskerk
, and Gerrit Janszoon will serve as skipper of the smaller
Zeehaen
. You, of course, my friend, will sail upon the
Heemskerk
with me. I will command the voyage from that ship.”

“And you?” Schuyler lifted a brow in Visscher’s direction. “Surely you will sail with us?”

“Ja.”
Visscher’s serious face split into a wide grin. “I am first mate of the
Heemskerk
. You’ll see a great deal of me, Heer Van Dyck. We are to share a cabin.”

Schuyler’s smile broadened in approval. “Already, gentlemen, my heart beats in anticipation. Being chosen for this opportunity is perhaps the greatest honor of my life.”

“Word of your skill precedes you, or Heer Van Diemen would not have chosen you as official cartographer.” Tasman nodded in respect. “The governor general, a great admirer of your art, is quite determined that we map out this area while we have predominance in this part of the world.”

“We know there is a great south land somewhere out there,” Visscher inserted, reaching under his spectacles to pinch the bridge of his nose. “But two previous expeditions have been unable to find it. Pool died before he could thoroughly explore the area, and Tasman’s last voyage was cut short by disease—”