The Golden Cross (51 page)

Most of all, Sterling loved her, and Aidan’s heart leaped each time he called her name. She was Mistress Thorne—Mejoffer Thorne to the Dutch—and the name lent her a respectability and dignity she could not have earned in a dozen years of painting.

Her gratitude spilled out in an overflowing love for her husband. His voice filled her days, dreams of him filled her nights, and if she awakened in the dark she found comfort, security, and freedom in his arms.
Let the officers argue, let the men grumble about all the gold they haven’t found
, she told herself one February afternoon as the ship steamed toward the western sea.
It matters not. I have Sterling, and he is happy with me. In that lies my respectability
.

T
o Aidan’s dismay, once the two ships cleared the treacherous shoals, Tasman summoned the officers of the
Zeehaen
to the
Heemskerk
for a consultation. She sat in the cabin, worried and unable to paint, as Sterling was called away to participate in the meeting. Her fears did not abate until he returned two hours later with nothing more serious than expedition matters on his mind.

“What did you talk about?” she asked, sinking beside him on his narrow bunk. She pressed her hand to his wrist and felt for the steady beat of a calm heart. If Dekker had told him anything, Sterling would not be so composed. He’d be furious with Dekker—or with her, depending upon which one he believed to be a liar. When she could not refute Dekker’s story, he’d abandon her, leaving her without hope or help.

“The captain wanted to gather our opinions about the future,” Sterling answered, giving her a wicked grin. His pulse beat steadily as he pulled off his boot and dropped it. “Should he sail west and south of the known coastline of New Guinea or travel back to Batavia along the route he already knows?”

“And?” Aidan released his wrist and folded her hands demurely, like a schoolgirl. “What did the others say?”

“Well—” Sterling let the other boot fall. “Dekker and Visscher are still eager to find gold. They voted for sailing southwest into the unknown. But Holman always thinks of his family, and he was quick to mention the possibility that we’d be blown against a shore from which it might be difficult to retreat.”

Aidan fidgeted impatiently, eager to hear the entire story. “How did Janszoon vote?”

Sterling shrugged. “He would have sailed east from the Friendly Islands; he’s still bent upon finding a route to Chile. But Tasman has given up on that; he thinks only of returning home. Holman is of like mind.” He chuckled. “So am I.”

“Are you in such a hurry then?” She pressed her hand to her throat in mock horror. “Am I such a trial that you cannot bear to be cooped up in this wee cabin with me for as long as it takes to explore the wide world?”

“I am in no hurry at all.” He pulled her into his arms, then leaned back and kicked at the bar on the door until it fell into its supports, effectively closing the way to any who would interrupt.

Aidan pressed her hands to his chest and smiled into his startlingly blue eyes. “So, Doctor, what did Captain Tasman decide? Are we to venture into the unknown or take the safe way home?”

“We’re going home, my love,” he whispered. He cupped her face between his hands, and Aidan felt her heart skip a beat as his kiss sang through her veins.

“Wherever you are,” she whispered, “is home enough for me.”

The crews of the
Heemskerk
and
Zeehaen
had made up their minds to go home, but for the next two weeks overcast skies and gloomy weather made it impossible for Tasman to determine his position. He needed a clear sight of the stars or the sun to judge his latitude, and the ceiling of oppressive low clouds made navigation difficult. Pytheas of Massalia, an ancient sailor who journeyed upon the seas in 333 B.C., had reported that beyond Britain there was neither earth, air, or sea, but a mixture of all three—something like the element that held the universe together. “It has the consistency of jellyfish,” Tasman recalled Pytheas writing, “and renders navigation impossible.” Modern navigation had proven Pytheas wrong, of course, but Tasman could easily understand why the ancient mariner had felt he sailed in a sluggish and soupy sea.

Afraid they might sail unaware into deadly shallows and break apart upon razor-sharp shoals, Tasman ordered the sails reefed on both ships. The furled sails fluttered wildly in the occasional winds, rattling against the spars with a chattering noise that set the men’s teeth on edge. Oppressed by the gloom, men walked the decks like phantoms, appearing out of the murk with an abruptness that startled one another.

For the remainder of February and most of March they drifted in the thick haze, saying little, watching the food and water rations gradually disappear. But as the days of March ticked off on the captain’s calendar, the wind freshened. On April 1, the rising breeze tore great windows in the fog, and gazing over to port Tasman caught a sudden vision of land crouching on the horizon.

“Meester Visscher,” Tasman called to his pilot, “take us closer. Unless I miss my guess, that is Cape Santa Maria, and we are on our way home.”

The tensions of the past few weeks vanished as the men on deck erupted in cheering, and Tasman stood silently, accepting their thanks and congratulations … for accidentally stumbling upon an already charted passage. This was no great discovery; they would find no gold as they sailed home along this coastline. But after the tension and oppression of the silent sea, Tasman no longer cared.

The coxswain of the
Zeehaen
turned the ship to follow the
Heemskerk’s
lead, and Witt Dekker peered through his spyglass at the land mass appearing off the port bow. This was New Guinea, without a doubt; these shores had been charted for years. This, then, was the beginning of the end of their expedition, and Tasman had not accomplished a single one of his goals. He had not found a route to Chile or the fabled Southern continent. More important, he had discovered neither gold nor silver, only mountainous lands, treacherous harbors, and tribes of nearly naked savages, half of whom would kill an intruder before welcoming him.

Time was running out. They had been instructed to sail along the northern coast of New Guinea, searching for a passage south to Cape Keerweer, but if no passage existed, they’d likely reach Batavia before the end of summer. Tasman would have to stand before the officers of the V.O.C and explain his empty hands and empty cargo holds.

Dekker leaned back upon the foremast and scratched at his stiff beard, his eyes roving over the busy decks of the
Zeehaen’s
sister ship. As first mate, Dekker would not have to cringe before the officers of the V.O.C., but he’d face his own peers—the sailors who loitered at the taverns of the wharf district when not at sea. They would expect him to come back a rich man, and he would have nothing but a few tall tales to account for this journey.

The dog at Dekker’s feet lifted his head with a sudden low woof, his ears pricked to attention.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Dekker glanced down, annoyed at the youthful voice that interrupted his thoughts. The cook’s ketelbinkie stood there, the accident-prone Tiy. The boy had just returned from the
Heemskerk
, where the doctor had to bandage yet another of his fingers. The youth was as clumsy as an ox and about as bright.

“What do you want?”

“The doctor sent this for you,” the boy said, holding up a small pouch. “I told him one of our officers was complaining of aching teeth, and he said you should mix this with your pottage or drink it down with water.” The boy handed over the bag and clasped his hands behind his back. “I believe it’s lemon rind, sir.”

Witt sniffed the pouch and shrugged. “So it would seem.”

The boy bobbed his head and was about to leave, but Witt reached out and caught his shoulder. “Ketelbinkie—did you see the doctor’s wife while you were aboard the
Heemskerk?
”

The lad’s mouth curved into an unconscious smile.
“Ja
, sir, I did.”

Witt dipped his head slightly. “Is the lady well?”

A worried, thoughtful expression flitted across the boy’s face, and Witt reached out to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Do not worry on her account, my lad. She and I are old friends. I knew her in Batavia.”

“Oh.” The boy’s features relaxed. “She is well, sir, and painting so much that there is little room to move in the doctor’s cabin. But her pictures are marvelous! I am certain she will be a rich and famous artist when we return. She is a very great lady.”

“Her—a great lady?” Dekker scoffed. “Have you forgotten that a few weeks ago she was a ketelbinkie like you?”

The boy stiffened in dignified outrage. “She wore a disguise, sir.” He glanced quickly left and right, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The doctor explained it to me. His wife is descended from an Irish king and had to masquerade as a boy to escape some bit of trouble in her family’s past. But after they return to Batavia, the doctor and his wife are planning to sail to Europe, where she can sell her art.”

Dekker rubbed his hand over his mouth, hiding his smile of amusement. What sort of story had the wench fed her doting husband? Irish Annie, a princess? This was too rich, too ridiculous to be believed!

“Thank you, boy.” Witt turned toward the railing and lifted his spyglass, searching the
Heemskerk
for any sign of that Titian-haired royalty. “I cannot wait to congratulate the lady on her bright future.”

One week later, Dekker was on deck when a sudden, cold, lucid thought struck him: He was approaching his problem from the wrong direction. With the old man and the girl dead, he stood to receive ten thousand pounds, payable as soon as he returned to Batavia. But the remaining ten thousand pounds of the girl’s inheritance would undoubtedly find its way into Dempsey Jasper’s purse. Why should that scoundrel profit? He had done nothing, while Dekker had been scorned by the wench, insulted
by her husband, and kept from sleep by fretful thoughts of how and when he would kill her. Most trying of all, ever since he’d seen her kissing Sterling Thorne, Dekker had burned for her with an obsessive attraction he could not afford to indulge.