Just two months more of this, boredom and stink their biggest enemies. The roof was so low he couldn't even stand upright, nothing to do but sleep in his hammock or squat on the deck playing chess and checkers and try to keep from going mad.
“You awake?” Gilles said.
Michiel grunted, hands behind his head, his eyes closed. He was thinking about Cornelia Noorstrandt, not a bad dream, not this time, he was just imagining what it would be like to talk to her. He wondered why he tormented himself over it. Woman like that, high born, she wouldn't ever be bothered with a common soldier like him.
“You heard what happened in the Cape, the skipper and that piece of poesje the Noorstrandt woman brought with her?” Gilles said.
“I never listen to talk like that,” Michiel grunted.
“What if it's true?”
“Then good luck to him. At least one of us is enjoying this voyage.”
“They say he went over to the Beschermer, stinking drunk, got in a game of dice there on the main deck with the constable and high boatswain. They said he was calling the commandeur all kinds of names, pansy bastard and such, told the crew Secor has been fucking Sara’s mistress. Then he got in a fight over a dice game and he put three men down before their captain called the provost. The bosun had to drag him away, back to the boat.”
“What do you want, Gilles?”
“It’s just what I heard.”
“He’s a bastard of a man but he’s a good skipper. That’s all I need to know.”
“They say he’s giving it to that Sara de Ruyter, has her bent over the tiller when the weather’s rough.”
“Good for him.”
“What I wouldn't give for a woman right now,” Gilles said.
“We all feel like that. But there's nothing to be done, so you might as well forget about it.”
“I wouldn't mind being a commandeur,” he said.
“Then go to sleep and dream about it,” Michiel said. Don't like this boy, Michiel thought. You couldn't trust him. He cheated at chess; if you lent him money, you never saw it again. A country boy's face and manners, he would cozy up to the lance corporal, Steenhower, then laugh at him behind his back.
Michiel closed his eyes and listened to the snores, the children fussing among the passengers on the upper deck. One of the women had had a baby last night and now the infant was mewing like a hungry cat. The stink down here was getting worse. Gilles was right. Must be nice to be President of the Fleet, have a cabin to yourself, and the company of Cornelia Noorstrandt instead of Gerrit van Hoeck's farts and Steenhower's snoring.
***
Ambroise and Cornelia were alone on the poop. He knew that their conversation could not be overheard; anything they said would be carried away on the wind. A sadness overwhelmed him as he watched her, another man’s wife. He felt a pang in his belly, not for something he had lost, but for something he could never have.
“There is something I have to say to you,” he said.
She looked around and smiled. He caught his breath. She was so lovely she made him utterly miserable.
“François?”
He took a deep breath. “This is the last moment we can share like this. As friends.”
Her face creased in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“You should know, vrouwe, that I cannot stop thinking about you at any hour of the day or night. It doesn’t give me any pleasure at all. Although I have heard you speak not one kind word for your husband, you are yet another man’s wife, and the way I feel is an offence before the Church and before God. I know I should not be saying any of this and that it makes me a fool.”
She shut her eyes. “I cannot believe your impertinence.”
“Neither can I. But there, it is said now.”
The wind took the hood of her cape, blew it around her face. She set it back and crossed her arms in front of her. “You take me for a trollop,” she said.
“I would never think that.”
“I have tried to love my husband,” she said, and there were tears in her eyes.
“You have neither dishonoured him or yourself. But I must take leave to end this fragile friendship. We have always been proper. But it is making my heart ache.”
She gave him a look as if trying to fix his face in her memory, a memento to take with her to Batavia and measure against future disappointments. “Very well,” she said, and then she turned and hurried below.
***
They kept the soldiers separate from the sailors on a long voyage, there was always trouble otherwise. The sailors slept on the gun deck above, Michiel and his platoon on the orlop, crammed in with their hammocks and their seabags. Even a trip to the heads - a pair of plank seats with a hole cut in them, just over the bow of the ship - was allocated to set times, and the men went in groups under Michiel’s watchful eye.
Gerrit van Hoeck returned from one such trip, and rejoined a game of dobbelsteen with Luyster the trumpeter, the corporal, Gerrit Westerveld, and one the Frenchies, du Trieux.
“All right for some,” he said, throwing some coins on the deck and eyeing the pot, which had grown considerably while he had been away. “While we squat down here the commandeur is strolling around on deck with Miss High and Mighty.”
“You saw him?” Luyster said.
“The two of them up on the poop, cosy as lovebirds in a nest.”
“I'd show him how to keep her entertained,” Gilles Clement said.
“Sinjeur Secor doesn't need instruction from you,” Gerrit said. “I reckon he's given her a good seeing to already.”
Luyser shook his head. “You've been dreaming again,” he said.
“Heard it from old Lardbucket himself,” van Hoeck said, using the name they had given the Constable. “He got it from the skipper. Said he saw them himself, going at it in the private gallery.”
“You talk too much,” Westerveld said.
“I bet she fucks like a whore with an itchy cunt.”
“Enough, soldier,” Michiel growled and they all fell silent.
Michiel didn't like this kind of talk. Why did men always imagine beautiful women to be whores? Said more about them than it did about the women, in his opinion. Besides, who else was a lady of refinement going to talk to?
***
Christiaan sat at his desk and brooded. It was tiny, his cabin, but he shared it with no one and privacy on board even a great ship like the Utrecht was a rare luxury. It underlined his status as an important man of affairs. Still right above him the commandeur had a stateroom the breadth and width of the poop, not cramped up like this.
He tried to console himself by admiring his own luxuries; the tapestries on the walls and the fancy gymbel lamp that hung from the ceiling. He had arranged little bottles on a shelf, his potions and secret herbs, as well as his books of apothecary, all carefully transported from his shop in Haarlem. It was fine, but it wasn’t enough.
He thought about Cornelia Noorstrandt. He took his pen and idly drew a picture of her, naked. He imagined large breasts under that tight bodice, just as he liked them. He drew her on her knees, a man’s penis in her mouth. He added some little details to the man’s appearance, to make him look more like an undermerchant.
There was a knock at the door. He quickly held the paper to the flame of the lamp on his desk and watched it burn. Then he took it to the porthole and let the wind take the burning scraps.
He picked up his Bible and opened it at a page, so he could pretend to be reading it. “Come in.”
It was Cornelia’s maid, all curls and pouting lips. She stood in the doorway and looked around wide-eyed at the little glass vials and bottles. Sly, this one, Christiaan thought; sly and cunning and a heart as black as the insides of a bear.
He had grown quite fond of her.
He shut the Bible with a noise like a musket shot. It startled her and made her jump.
He smiled. “Sara. What can I do for you?”
She gave him one of her sluttis
h smiles. “Never been in here before.”
“Of course not.”
“Not as grand as my mistress’s.”
“Well she’s a paying passenger. I’m just the humble undermerchant.”
“They say before you joined the Company you was an apothecary,” she said.
He wondered what it was she wanted. “If that’s what they say, then they’re right.”
She stared at his books, only a few of them in Dutch and he doubted she could read anyway. She ran a finger down one of his earthenware Bellarmine jugs. They were common enough in the taverns and alehouses, a bearded face engraved on the neck, a caricature of Cardinal Bellarmine. You drank your beer or your wine out of them and when they were empty you smashed them in the hearth, cursing the cardinal's name.
“What’s this for?”
“You know what that is.”
“Some people call them witch bottles. I hear you can put twists of human hair or nail parings inside, use them to ward off evil spells.”
“People say a lot of nonsense.”
“Been a lot of talk about you on the ship.”
“Has there?”
“About the way you dress. So fancy. The skipper told me he thought you most likely preferred boys but I thought, no, not this one, I can see it in his eyes, I know what this one likes, and it isn’t a tight little bottom, well, not a boy's anyway.”
“Very astute.”
“Whatever that means.”
Her eyes were drawn to his brass chemist's mortar: the words AMOR VINCIT OMNIA was inscribed on it in Latin. He saw her staring at it. “Do you know what this means?”
She shook her head.
“It means “Love Conquers All.” Do you think so, Sara?”
“I hope it does.”
“Why so?”
“The skipper sent me,” she said. “He said you have something to stop a woman from getting with child.”
He smiled. The voyage was becoming more intriguing by the day. He opened his medicine chest, the glass bottles and vials neatly arranged. He took out one of the bottles and handed it to her. “One draught should be enough. You must take it within a day of conjugation or it will not work.”
“What’s contubation?”
“Conjugation. Swallow it as soon as you can after you’ve fucked him.”
“I don't have any money,” she said.
He waved a hand dismissively. “It is a favour for the skipper. Tell him I said so.”
She nodded, pleased.
She was about to leave, when he said: “Does your mistress know what you are doing when you are not at her bidding?”
“It's no business of hers.”
“Oh, she'll make it her business.”
“She told me I wasn't even to talk to the skipper for the rest of the voyage.”
“She said that to you, did she? And what does the skipper say to that?”
“He told me to defy her.”
“He’s right. Haven't you got tired of being her maid?” he said.
She shrugged, looked at the door as if she thought her mistress might be bending her eye to it.
“Think about it. You make up her hair, but who makes up yours? You help her put on her dresses and put on her jewels, but how many dresses do you have? Who gives you jewels, Sara?”
“I'm not a great lady, like her.”
“What's a lady, Sara? Just an accident of birth, of fate. Your mistress was just a cloth merchant's daughter once. It's money that makes a lady, and chance.”
“The skipper says I'm more beautiful than she is.”
“And you are. He's told me he'll make you a great lady too, one day. Did you know that, Sara?”
“Men say all kinds of things when they want you to open your legs.”
He got up and opened the cabin door. “There are better things ahead for you,” he whispered, and gave her a little squeeze as she went out the door.
Chapter 16
CORNELIA was surprised to see Salomon du Chesne on deck. He came out of the Great Cabin, blinking owlishly in the light of the afternoon. A pale creature, he spent all his time below decks, copying letters in his careful, pains-taking script. It was Company regulations, every document written under VOC seal must be reproduced in eight copies. It made plenty of work for young clerks like him.
She realised he was looking for someone and was surprised to discover that it was her.
“Vrouwe,” he murmured, his eyes on the deck, ‘may I speak with you?”
The look on his face! Perhaps that loudmouth Krueger was riding him again.
“What is it, Salomon?”
His lips worked silently. Whatever was troubling him, he looked as if he was choking on it.
“Come on, Salomon, I don't bite.”
“I don't know how to say it, vrouwe.”
“You have a problem I can help you with, Salomon?”
He shook his head no. “You'll be angry with me.”
“What could be so bad?”
“There is talk going about the ship. I thought you should know.”
“Talk. About me?”
He nodded.
“What are they saying?”
He blushed, his cheeks redder than a tulip. “It's about you and the commandeur,” he mumbled.
“Sinjeur Secor?”
“They say you spend too much time together,” he mumbled.
She caught her breath. She had not behaved improperly; she had been careful to avoid him since his improper declaration to her. How dare they talk about her! Her dealings with the commandeur had been entirely innocent.
Then outrage gave way to shame; like all lies, she supposed there was a kernel of truth in it. Could she truthfully say she had not harboured thoughts of an affair? Perhaps not purposeful thoughts, but daydreams, if you will. And now her dreams had come to haunt her, laid bare among the clerks and hoi polloi. They were all gossiping about her now.
Everyone likes to talk, and on a long journey like this, with so many people crowded together, every word, every small action, was magnified in its importance a hundred times.
She She had been indiscrete and that was enough; married women of good standing did not have conversations with other men alone, no matter how innocent and no matter the standing of the gentleman.
“Who is saying these things?” she snapped.
“I heard it from David Krueger. I told him he should mind his tongue, he said he just repeated what he heard from the jonkers.”
She blushed to the roots of her hair.
“I'm sorry, vrouwe. Forgive me for saying such things. I think such talk is scandalous, and I have said as much. But I thought you should know.”
“Thank you, Salomon. I am grateful you came to tell me. I shall not forget it.”
He nodded, mumbled something else she did not catch and then went back down the companionway to the Great Cabin.
She turned around and saw the skipper staring at her from high on the poop. She had no doubt who had spread the gossip. Sara de Ruyter! Spiteful little minx. As soon as she reached Batavia, she would see to it she had her reward for her service.
Chapter 17
SARA stood there with a pouty expression on that bruise of a mouth, no shame in her, insolent little minx. Cornelia was shaking with rage and gripped the hard edge of the bed to try and conceal it. Impossible to stand upright in this cramped little cabin, and impossible to chastise a servant when you were sitting down.
“You defied me!’
Sara rolled her eyes.
“I told you not to go near Jacob Schellinger or any man on this ship for the rest of our voyage, and last night you were seen going in the skipper's cabin!’
No answer.
“Well? Do you have nothing to say for yourself?”
A shrug.
“I shall take this matter to Sinjeur Secor and ask him to bring your conduct to the attention of the provost.”
That provoked a response at least. Sara knew the provost could have
her whipped at the main mast, in front of everyone. “I don't see why...” She stopped.
“Well?”
“I am not the only woman who brings scandal to this ship.”
“What do you mean by that, Sara de Ruyter?”
“Everyone is talking about you and the commandeur!’
“My conduct has been nothing less than proper! We are friends, nothing else.”
“That is not what the sailors say.” Cornelia was shocked - not that there had been gossip - she knew about that from Salomon du Chesne - but that Sara had the gall to repeat it.
“You are not to talk to the skipper of this ship again. Do you understand me?”
“But mistress...”
“I forbid it!’
Sara fled the cabin, without waiting for leave.
Cornelia now understood what a terrible mistake she had made when she had hired the girl as her maid for the voyage. There was no controlling her now. She would have to speak to François, as she had threatened to. This had to be stopped.
***
Christiaan considered it an epicurean delight to watch a man stew in his own juices. He was tempted to approach the skipper with his plan out of Table Bay, but judged the time not right. Let him simmer a while in his own profound sense of injustice. For some men time was a balm to rage. For Jacob Schellinger, it only made the taste of his humiliation more bitter.
Tonight he prowled the poop in his cloak and high boots, his face dark, growling orders to the uppersteersman and ordering ten lashes for one of the sailors over some trivial offence. Christiaan was never such a tyrant when the commandeur was there to rebuke him, but tonight Sinjeur Secor was in his bunk, thrashing around and moaning in delirium. The barber, Maistre Arentson, said it was the fevers, a malady he had brought back from the hot lands of Surat. It was getting worse, he said, and he feared he would die in the next few days unless the fever broke.
From his lips to God’s ear.
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