The Golden Cross (39 page)

“They are expecting us!” Heer Van Dyck cried, reaching for his sketch board even as he stared out the window. Aidan placed a pencil in his fumbling fingers, then sat back and watched in fascination as he began to sketch the long, narrow wooden boats each
filled with a dozen warriors with shaved heads, wearing grass skirts and animal skins. Ten native boats bobbed in the waters between the Dutch ships and the shore. Aidan made a quick count: The Dutch were already outnumbered by at least ten men.

“Will the captain still want us to go ashore?” she asked, searching anxiously for the meaning behind this strange welcoming committee.

“Of course.” Van Dyck tossed one half-finished sketch aside and slid another parchment onto his board. “Look, my dear, at the one lifting his hand to us! Surely such men are hospitable.”

“I hope so.” She opened the door and looked out. Abel Tasman and Francois Visscher were already on the deck; in fact Aidan was certain Visscher had spent the night watching the dark shoreline. Both men wore looks of weary resignation.

“I think we’d better go out, sir,” she called to Heer Van Dyck. “The captain is speaking to Visscher now.”

By the time Aidan and Van Dyck reached the knot of officers, Tasman was reporting that Janszoon of the
Zeehaen
had decided not to send his contingent ashore until after the
Heemskerk’s
men had made a safe landing.

“Someone has to make the first approach.” Tasman tightened his arms across his chest. “And so we shall do it. Heer Van Dyck, I am honored that you and your ward are present to record this moment in images. Now, where is my confounded son-in-law? Oh, here he is.”

Aidan turned, startled to see Dr. Thorne standing behind her. He gave the captain a sharp salute, then bowed slightly to Heer Van Dyck. “I trust you are well, my friend,” he said, smoothing the points of his doublet, “and I hope you are up for a grand adventure.” He looked around the deck and smiled. “Does anyone here have a knack for languages? We shall have to attempt to speak to these folk in the boats.”

“Aidan is as good as anyone aboard ship,” Heer Van Dyck suggested, prodding Aidan forward. She felt the back of her neck begin
to burn as a dozen pairs of eyes fell upon her. “My ward speaks English, a bit of Dutch, as well as a smattering of Irish Gaelic.”

“What a clever boy.” Tasman’s tone was dry. “Well then, shall we send you off? I can think of nothing to be gained by waiting, and we need a full day to gather supplies. By the well-fed look of these heathens, I’d say there is fresh food and water aplenty upon yonder shores.”

“Let us not wait a moment longer,” Heer Van Dyck agreed, moving with stiff dignity toward the rope netting that dangled over the side of the ship. Aidan followed, gathering up Heer Van Dyck’s bag of art supplies and her own slippery courage. She peered over the railing at the barge riding the crystal blue water below. The two oarsmen were already in place—one frowned at the natives, the other grinned like this was the lark of a lifetime.

Gently rebuffing her helping hand, Heer Van Dyck moved slowly over the rail, clinging to the ropes as he gingerly made his way down. Aidan followed, careful not to step on the elderly man’s fingers, and finally dropped to his side in the front of the boat. Dr. Thorne entered next, then came the ship’s carpenter with the necessary coat of arms, and Francois Visscher. Finally, Jan, the chaplain, stood on deck, recited a prayer for the safety of those involved in the journey, and climbed into the barge as well.

Abel Tasman lifted his hand in a stiff salute as the oarsmen braced their oars against the
Heemskerk’s
hull and pushed toward the shore. Gripping the side of the barge with one hand and the bench with the other, Aidan gritted her teeth and prayed that her master had not made the most foolish mistake of his life.

Like moths to light, the native boats drew near the Dutch barge. Jabbering in a tongue only they could understand, the warriors called to each other in high, excited voices while the Dutch explorers nodded with careful, pleasing smiles on their faces.

“Just keep calm and keep your expression friendly,” Visscher advised in a low voice as the barge rowed smoothly through the
quiet waters of the bay. “Keep your hands on the side of the boat—they must see that we carry no weapons.”

Aidan was only too happy to obey. Twisting, she placed both hands on the rim of the barge, gripping it so tightly that her knuckles went white. She smiled and nodded and smiled again at the natives in a canoe that raced alongside. The tallest warrior, who was as bald as an egg and about as expressive, pointed at her, then at the
Heemskerk
in the bay.

Aidan nodded at him and smiled.

“Skipper, look over here,” Dr. Thorne called from the other side of the boat, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “I do believe this fellow intends to ram us.”

Visscher’s head jerked around, and every occupant in the barge turned to look. One heavily loaded canoe came on with great speed, its sharp prow pointed directly toward the barge’s midsection.

“Oarsmen, reverse!” Visscher hissed, his round face going pale. “Full reverse, now!”

The order came too late. The canoe rammed the Dutchmen’s boat, cutting the slower vessel nearly in half. Aidan threw up her hand as the water rose to meet her. Visions of drowning, of cannibals, of bloody heathen sacrifices flashed through her imagination. Then gray water engulfed her, and the world disappeared.

I
n an instinctive grasp for stability, Sterling clutched the edges of the barge as the canoe cracked the boards like an eggshell. The chaplain and carpenter, who sat in front of the boat, pitched forward into the surging sea, and several of the natives jumped in after them.

Aidan, who sat just in front of Sterling, turned slightly, her eyes wide with fear. Just as she opened her mouth to scream, onrushing water filled the broken vessel and tipped the stern into the ocean. Sterling felt himself sliding backward. The last thing he saw before he went into the sea was the terrified look on Aidan O’Connor’s face.

The salt water stung his eyes, blurring his vision, but still he searched for any sign of movement.
It may be hopeless
, he thought,
but as long as God gives me breath, I will not lose her
.

Silvery bubbles shot out of his doublet and rushed past his face, then his vision cleared. Muffled sounds reached his ears—frenzied shouting, crashing, pounding from the surface above. He cast to the left and right, then caught a glimpse of white. There! Just a few feet away. If he could only get to her—

His air was almost gone, but Sterling was determined not to give up. At last his hand grabbed onto her shirt and held tight. She resisted in an initial impulse of panic, then he felt her submit. With Aidan in tow, he broke the surface and turned her to face him as she drank in deep gulps of air.

“Breathe deeply,” he said firmly, holding her securely about
the waist. “When I count three, you must take the deepest breath you can. We have to go under the water again.”

She stubbornly shook her head, and he pressed his forehead to hers, mindful of the sounds of fighting around them. “It is the only way,” he whispered, his voice taut with urgency. “If you want to live, breathe. One, two, three!”

He gave her no opportunity to argue, but pulled her under, then pushed away from the fighting, toward the shore and a quiet little cove he’d noticed from the ship. If they could escape notice for the next few moments, they could hide in the undergrowth until evening, then swim back out to the
Heemskerk
.

He swam until he felt his own lungs tingle, and knew that Aidan needed air. Quickly he brought her up again, grimacing as she yelped in terror when their heads broke the surface.

“Quiet, I tell you,” he said, shaking the water from his own eyes. He could touch the bottom here, and quickly found his footing. He turned to see how far they stood from the
Heemskerk
, then jerked back in surprise when Aidan released a blood-curdling scream.

A dripping savage, bedecked with seaweed, had surfaced not two feet in front of her. The warrior lifted a stout wooden club and shouted something Sterling couldn’t understand. Aidan fainted dead away in the water, collapsing against the native’s bare chest.

Sterling instinctively reached for her, then pulled back. The warrior was gazing at Aidan with a mixture of reverence and fear. If Sterling attacked, the native would undoubtedly crush his head without a moment’s hesitation, and Aidan might well be drowned in the rescue attempt. But something in the warrior’s eyes told Sterling that if he withdrew, Aidan might not be harmed.

Torn between responsibility and rationality, Sterling hesitated, then dove underwater and swam in a diagonal line toward the shore. The natives would probably assume he had fled to the ship. If all went well they wouldn’t find him … and they wouldn’t harm Aidan until he could get to her.

Standing amidships aboard the
Zeehaen
with Snuggerheid at his side, Witt Dekker saw the attack and leaned forward, his heart pounding in anticipation. What luck! He had not had a chance to question the ketelbinkie about that day in the alley, but he had decided that it didn’t matter anyway. The first chance he got, he intended to get the boy and the old man alone on the island and quietly kill them there. Now it appeared that these natives might effectively do his work for him.

“Sakerloot!”
Gerrit Janszoon muttered, his hand moving swiftly to the sword at his belt. “What can we do, Dekker?”

“Nothing,” Witt answered. He sidestepped the dog as his eyes searched the churning water. The barge bearing the cartographer, his ketelbinkie, and the doctor had gone down. But when the doctor resurfaced with the ketelbinkie in tow, Witt Dekker saw something else—something he couldn’t believe he had overlooked.