Above them the mast head swung through the heavens, and the wake rippled phosphor in the light of the moon. The long swells of the ocean retreated towards the African coast.
“A fine night,” Christiaan said.
The skipper shook his head. “There’s a storm waiting out there somewhere. I can feel it in my water.”
Someone came up the companionway, at first he thought it was her, wrapped in her long black cloak, the hood hiding her face. Then he realised it was Sara de Ruyter..
“What's the matter with you?” the skipper snapped.
“I've just had words with the mistress. I shouldn't be up here. The bitch told me I couldn't talk to you anymore.”
“You don't want to take notice of that one.”
“She treats me like I'm her slave.”
“You never mind her.”
“She's threatened to have me whipped. She's going to make a complaint to the commandeur.”
“She can complain all she wants. The pansy bastard's sick, lying in his bunk whimpering like a girl. So don’t you worry about Miss High and Mighty, no one lays a hand on you while I'm master of this ship.” He searched the dark horizon. “Storm coming for sure,” he said, as the breeze luffed in the topsail.
He was right. Even Christiaan could smell rain on the wind and he was no sailor.
***
Cornelia made her way to the Council Room. The oil lamps had been lit and Salomon du Chesne, Christiaan and Maistre Arentson the barber stood outside the door to the Great Cabin, talking in whispers. By the looks on their faces she knew something was very wrong.
“Vrouwe,” Christiaan said.
“I wish to speak to the commandeur,” she said. “It is a matter of some urgency.”
“I'm afraid that won't be possible.”
“What has happened?”
Christiaan looked to Maistre Arentson to answer. “It is the fever, vrouwe. He brought it with him from Surat, I have seen it before. It is the kind of malady that lies sleeping in a man and can strike again at any time.”
“Is it serious?”
Maistre Arentson did not answer. Clearly, it was.
It is my fault, she decided. I have encouraged him in his infatuations and God has punished us both.
“Can I see him?” she said.
“Vrouwe, there is nothing you can do.”
“I would still like to see him,” she said, and as soon as the words were out of her mouth she realized that Sara was right about her, in a way. She would never have felt this same grief for her husband, if it was him with the fever.
Maistre Arentson looked at Christiaan, who gave his silent assent and led the way inside the Great Cabin.
The cabin was the finest on the ship, of course, the most luxurious of the whole Indian fleet, or so it was said. There was room in here to stand tall, it was ten paces across at its widest point and the great window looked out over the stern. The walls were panelled; the dark wood glowed in the golden light of the gymbel lamps that hung from the roof beams. There was a gilt-framed mirror and a large Indian carpet. In one corner was an immense carved chest that held the commandeur's personal belongings.
A Bible lay open on a small writing table beside a pen and ink set and a ceramic seal. Set behind it was the Great Chair, more like a throne really, with smooth rounded arms and a cushion of purple velvet on the seat. On the shelf by the stern window were some linen towels, a Beardman jug, and a pewter cup.
Ambroise lay in his bunk, under an embroidered coverlet. His face was wreathed in sweat, but he was shivering as if he were freezing to death.
“I shall bleed him,” Maistre Arentson said over her shoulder. “Perhaps it will be as well to drain away some of the foul humours.”
It was all these butchers knew how to do, she thought, with their foul leeches and their bleeding bowls.
“Then an infusion of herbs perhaps. After that, all we can do is pray for him.”
A sudden squall shook the boat and they were all thrown staggering across the cabin. Christiaan saved her from pitching headlong onto the bed. His hand lingered a little longer on her than it should but she thanked him and backed away.
“The skipper tells me there is a storm on the way,” he said to the others.
On cue, another huge swell passed beneath the hull and Salomon put a hand across his mouth and ran for the companionway.
Maistre Arentson shook his head. “You would have thought the boy would have found his sea legs by now,” he said.
Chapter 18
THE winds had strengthened to gale force and waves broke in fountains of spray over the bows. No one went up on deck unless they had cause. The passengers huddled in their bunks, seasick, while the crew scampered up the ratlines to the yards, hauling in the shrouds and running out the forecastle sail, battling to keep the Utrecht on course. Cornelia heard the skipper bellowing commands to the men at the whipstaff, three of them to steady the huge rudder tonight.
She was thrown from one side of the passageway to the other as she made her way to Christiaan's cabin. With the commandeur sick, the chief undermerchant was now in charge of the ship's affairs.
It was the first time she had seen him unkempt. There was sweat on his upper lip, his skin was grey. He did not rise from his bunk while she clung to the rafters, the ship heaving violently in the running seas.
“What can I do for you, vrouwe?”
“It is about my maid,” she said.
“Sara de Ruyter?”
“I need you to speak with her.”
A wave hammered into the bow and made the Utrecht lurch violently. She felt the shudder of it even back here at the stern and Christiaan grasped at the bulkhead in fear. “Is this the right time to speak of this?” he said.
“Something needs be done about the little trollop.”
“What would you have me do?”
“She is causing a scandal about the ship by her behaviour, as you know, Heer Undermerchant.”
“You wish to have her disciplined by the provost?”
“It may not come to that if you can talk some sense into her.”
“You have spoken of this with the commandeur before he fell sick? You were on intimate terms.”
She bridled at the use of the word 'intimate' but let it pass. “This matter came to my attention after his sickness.”
“Very well, vrouwe, I will see what I can do.” Another shudder as the ship broke another swell, and Christiaan gasped and whispered a prayer.
Our commandeur sickly, our undermerchant a coward and our skipper a brute. What a ship I have come to. Pray God it is over soon.
Chapter 19
THE skipper reeked of raw gin and Sara de Ruyter. The sky was clear tonight and a quarter moon hung over the horizon, the Cabo de Bono Esperanza five days to stern.
“No sign of the Beschermer, then?” Christiaan said.
“We lost sight of her in the storm,” the skipper snapped.
An interesting accident. No sign of the Zandaam or the Groningen either, or any of the fleet. A man might wonder how an experienced skipper could allow such a thing to happen. Without the Beschermer's cannon trained on him, a man might more easily find his own destiny.
“You have been below?”
“How is that pansy bastard?”
“The barber says his condition worsens.”
A long silence between them, measured by the rhythmic beating of the swell against the hull as they beat sou' east with the trades.
“If he dies, I suppose you shall be commandeur of the vessel until we reach Batavia.”
“I fancy I should,” Christiaan said.
“A great honour for you, Heer Undermerchant. This ship must be the finest retour ever to leave Holland.”
“Both of us have been entrusted with a great deal.”
“Indeed, we have.”
“How much do they pay you to bear such great responsibilities? Thirty guilders a month?” He spat into the sea. Not expertly done, to be sure, fo
r spitting was sailor's work.
“I get by.”
“A little private trade on the side?
Wasn't that the cause of the argument between you and Secor in Surat harbour?”
“The bastard does more under the table trading than I ever did.”
“And still at it, too. Did you know he has in his trunk a cameo that once belonged to the Emperor Constantine himself, twelve hundred years old they say and worth eight thousand guilders? Can you imagine?”
“How do you know all this?”
“You’d be surprised what I know. The cameo belongs to Paul Rubens, given to the commandeur to trade under the lap, but the Company knows about it and will take a commission, though smaller than they are accustomed. A bauble fit for some Eastern prince, and what will you see out of the business, skipper?”
“Well it's one rule for them and one for us, isn't it?”
“It doesn't have to be that way,” Christiaan said.
There, it was said. They were alone on the poop; it was the night watch, no one around to hear them. Still, the skipper lowered his voice, a wise precaution when even a whiff of mutiny could condemn a man to agonies that eclipsed the imagination.
“What did you have in mind?”
“If the commandeur dies, it occurs to me that we shall be masters of a rare prize.”
“These are dangerous thoughts, Heer Undermerchant.”
“These same thoughts have never occurred to you?”
“What exactly do you propose?”
“First I have to know if we are of a mind.”
“How can I know that unless you speak freely?”
“Speaking freely costs men their lives.”
“You really think I would report this conversation to that pansy Secor?”
Christiaan stepped closer. “Should we not arrive in Batavia, we should be thought lost, along with the twelve chests of cash in her hold. The Utrecht has a bank of guns; we could use her to add considerably to our fortunes, picking off stragglers on the way to the Indies. It would be a year, perhaps two, before the Governor learns that he has competition from our own...Dishonourable Company...and is able to get news to Amsterdam. Enough time to earn our own weight in gold and live like sultans in Coromandel.”
“You fancy yourself as a pirate then, do you, undermerchant?”
“What are these fat porkers who call themselves the Honourable Company but pirates? They have the sanction of the stadtholder is all, and do it from the safety of a big table in Amsterdam. But they kill Englanders and Matarams and whoever else gets in their way and they do it all in the name of profit. All trade is done with the sword in the end, is it not? It is only a matter of scale.”
“You are persuasive. I shall have to think on this.”
“You have two days at the most, according to Maistre Arentson. By then Sinjeur Secor will be bait for the fish and I shall be sitting in the Great Cabin. When he goes over the side with the preacher’s prayers, our futures are in your hands.”
***
The fever had wasted him; she could make out the shape of his skull through his skin. His nightshirt was soaked with sweat. Cornelia sat with him all that morning; at times he shivered so violently with cold that his teeth rattled in his head; the next moment his face would turn red as beet and he sweated as if he was in a steam bath.
He tossed in his bunk, fighting off invisible demons. The barber said the day would be his last.
While Maistre Arentson bled him she went up to get some air on deck. The women sat under the awning put up for them on the quarterdeck, a square of sailcloth that sheltered them against sun and wind. Spray from the bows pattered on the canvas with each plunge of the beak.
They had not seen her come up and she could hear everything they said.
“I heard the commandeur is very sick,” Neeltje Groot said.
“He has the upper barber to take care of him,” the widow Grietje said. “So why does Vrouwe Noorstrandt spend all her time in there? She is a married woman. It's disgraceful.”
“If he is sick what harm can it do?” Hendrika said.
“Listen to her,” Neeltje laughed. “If he's sick, what harm can it do? You obviously don't know about men!’
All the married women laughed.
Then they looked up and saw her and the laughter stopped. Cornelia glared at them, each in turn, until they dropped their eyes. Then she walked to the starboard rail and stared at the waves and prayed that the commandeur would somehow recover.
He was the only friend she had on this cursed boat.
***
The next morning she came to the Great Cabin expecting to find the commandeur dead. But though his condition had not improved, he was yet still alive. She put cold towels on his head and read to him from her Bible, though she was not sure that he could hear her. It was a kindness, that was all. She was a Christian lady, doing Christian acts.
No one should read more into it than that.
Chapter 20
THE Groot brat was annoying everyone. While the other children were content to sit on the deck and play with their knucklebones, Maria ran around screaming and crying and never a cross word from her mother. Her onnozele schaapjes, her little lambkins, could do no wrong in her eyes. Maria's antics irritated him more every day.
Christiaan watched Joost and the other handsome jonkers strut about the deck, amusing themselves with secret glances at the women sitting under the awning. The pastor’s daughter knew what was happening and she didn’t seem to mind it either.
Maria ran into Joost's legs, winding him. The other jonkers laughed, but Joost did not share the joke; he clutched at his groin, furious.
Maria had dropped her toy, a spinning top, her favourite; she had played with it endlessly during the voyage, it was the only thing that kept her quiet. Joost picked it up and when the little girl tried to grab it back, he held it out of her reach.
“What have we got here?” he said.
“Give it to me!’ Maria leaped into the air, hand outstretched.”You little brat.”
“Give it to me!’
“It's the Groot brat,” Joost said to his friends, taunting the little girl with her toy, holding it out to her then moving it away out of reach again.
“Give it back!’
“Perhaps I should toss it to the fishes!’
He looked over at Neeltje Groot. She was clutching her baby, afraid to speak up against one of the jonkers.
“Just give it to her,” Christiaan heard Hendrika murmur under her breath.
He watched to see if the pastor would intervene but even he held back, sensing the mood the young men were in.
Joost’s friends seemed to be enjoying the sport, especially the two van der Beeck brothers. Joost pretended to toss the toy into the sea and each time he did it, Maria howled. When she saw it was a trick, her efforts to retrieve her toy became even more desperate.
After a while the other jonkers grew tired of the game. “Give it back to her,” one of them said.
But he kept going with it.
“Give it back to her,” someone else said.
It was not one of the jonkers, and Christiaan looked around to see who had spoken. It was the corn-haired soldier, Michiel Van Texel. Where had he come from?
“Damn you for your insolence,” Joost said. “Do you want twenty lashes?”
“You want the commandeur to know you have been tormenting a little child on the main deck?”
“Sinjeur Secor is dead,” Joost said.
They stared at each other. The child took this opportunity to leap up and get a hand on the toy. Joost shouted angrily and wrenched it back from her. With one movement he tossed the top into the ocean.
She screamed in anguish.
Joost and Michiel Van Texel stared at each other. Joost smiled; a sneer really. Then he turned his back, his friends crowing with laughter. Michiel Van Texel shook his head and turned away as well, white-lipped.
The top was made of wood so it fl
oated for a while on the surface and little Maria watched it until it was a speck on the horizon. Her mother tried to console her but she was having none of it.
Uneasiness settled over the ship the rest of that day. There were no more jokes among the women after that, and the only laughter from the main deck came from Joost and his companions. Maria sat curled upon the deck under the awning, and wouldn’t let anyone go near her.
***
Cornelia wiped the commandeur’s face with a cloth. His eyes were unfocused, and stared right through her. “Satan,” he murmured.
“Shhh,” she murmured.
“You have brought the Devil here!’ He sat up and gripped her by the shoulders and looked right into her face. “You have brought the Devil on my ship!’
She eased him back onto his pillow. He seemed to fall sleep but a little while later the fever came back and he writhed and foamed, screaming at phantoms till her blood ran cold.
When she finally left him and returned, exhausted, to her own cabin she found Sara waiting for her. The little minx was reading her journal.
“What are you doing in here?” she snapped.
“Waiting for you, mistress.”
“Have you been reading my journal?”
A saucy smile.
“How dare you! Who do think you are? I shall speak to the undermerchant about this. Did you hear what I said?”
“As if he's going to pay any attention to you.”
“Then I’ll have the provost deal with you.”
“He's not going to do anything either.”
Something in the way she said it, Cornelia felt a thrill of alarm.
“How is the commandeur?” Sara said.
“The poor man is dying.”
“Dying for it!’
Cornelia slapped her across her face. The maid put a hand to her cheek, which quickly turned bright red. The smile had not slipped. “You shouldn't have done that,” she said.
“Get out of here!’
“I'll get out all right, and I won't be coming back.”
Sara shoved past her.
This was a nightmare. Was it really happening? Cornelia sat down hard on her bunk. What was going on? Everyone was going crazy. She thought about Ambroise raving in his fever and she shuddered.
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