She couldn’t stop thinking about what the Englander had said: if only you were not rich, you would be the kind of woman he would like to marry. If I were a farm girl, he would be the kind of man I would marry, too. He was right about money and freedom. It was what everyone craved, but they didn’t really get anyone what they wanted.
***
They found Joost van der Linde dicing and drinking with the other fine boys, even though it was still morning. She thought the wine was supposed to be rationed.
“May I talk with you?” Hendrika said to him.
He stood up and made an elaborate bow with a sweep of his hat, for the benefit of his fancy friends, no doubt. Look at that smirk on his face. “At your service,” he said.
“I need your help.”
“Of course, anything for such a beautiful lady. What is it you want? Food? More water?”
“Maistre Arentson needs more bandages for the sick.”
He stared at her. “But they're all going to die anyway.”
“A few strips of cloth is all I need.”
He feigned shock. “You wish me to steal from the Company? Christiaan would not hear of it.”
“Please,” she said.
He looked at his fellows and made a face and they laughed along with him. “Some silk to wrap the pus in? Is that what you want?”
“Christiaan has acres of cloth in the chests in his tent.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw it with my own eyes,” Cornelia said.
“Please,” Hendrika repeated.
He had the impudence to stretch out a hand and stroke Hendrika’s hair; not affection, exactly, but a proprietorial gesture. “I'll see what I can do,” he said.
“And brandy.”
“What?”
“Just a little. To help them sleep and clean the wounds.”
An astonished laugh. “I might have to take it out of my own ration.”
“You’ll just have to drink more wine!’ ten Broek said and the others laughed again.
“Thank you,” Hendrika said, with as much dignity as she could muster and they went back to the sick tent. The air was better there.
Chapter 55
EVER since the soldiers had left, a stillness had settled over their little colony. The weapons the soldiers had surrendered before their departure had not been placed under guard, as Christiaan had promised, but had instead been redistributed among the jonkers and Steenhower's favourites.
The two men who had been found guilty of stealing the wine had mysteriously vanished, like Ryckert, and no one knew what had happened to them. People spoke in nervous whispers and started at the cries of gulls.
With half the people now on the seal island their little cay seemed almost deserted. She watched the smoke rising from the long island, but no one set out on the rafts to fetch Michiel and his men. Instead the jonkers and Steenhower's bully boys practised with their new weapons on the beach and paid the smoke no mind.
Cornelia had not noticed the one they called Little Bean while she was on the Utrecht. He was unremarkable looking; only his size set him apart from his fellows. Ever since Michiel and the other soldiers had left for the long island, she had felt him watching her. It made her nervous. She prayed that Michiel would get back soon.
***
It happened one evening, right at dusk. She wandered down to the beach to fetch a bowl of cool seawater for the fever rags. She looked up and was surprised to see no one else in view. Hard pressed to find yourself alone for even a moment on such a tiny island, she thought. Then she saw Little Bean, there at the water's edge, guessed he must have followed her.
She took a deep breath, ready to scream if he took one more step.
“Don't be alarmed,” he said, speaking so low she could hardly hear him over the wind. “I don't want any of those jonkers and their bumflies to see me over here.”
She stared at him, wondering what to make of this. He looked grim and nervous. She noticed for the first time the tattoo on his forearm, an ill-drawn picture of a naked woman beneath a palm tree, perhaps inked into his skin in some drunken debauch in Amsterdam.
He produced a knife from under his cloak.
“One more step and I’ll scream for the soldiers,” she said.
“No, it’s for you,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“There's things going on here you don't know about. I've tried to tell the pastor, but he won't listen to me.”
“What things?”
Some men appeared on the beach; well, you were never alone very long on this windswept acre. It was the big lance corporal, Steenhower, with his shadow, Gerrit van Hoeck, and the gunner Hermanus Schenck. Little Bean left the knife among the rocks. “Take it,” he hissed. “Don’t let them see it.” Then he turned and walked away, without another word.
The sun dipped below a grey sea. The wind was colder tonight, and from somewhere she heard a piper scream plaintively in the shallows.
Chapter 56
The Houtman Rocks
ELISABETH Post was shivering in the corner of the women’s tent; Alida had her arms around her, trying to comfort her. Neeltje Groot was rocking her baby, who was fussing, had perhaps sensed her mother's agitation, in the way infants do. Grietje and Marretje were hugging their knees, murmuring to each other. A single guttering candle was the only light.
“What was that?”
They all fell silent.
“Did you hear it?” Cornelia whispered.
They listened.
“Just a gull or a mutton bird,” Marretje said.
“There it is again!’
They all heard it this time, a human cry quickly carried away on the wind. It came from the other side of the island. But then it stopped, and the only sound was the rush of the wind and the whipping of the loose sail canvas.
Elisabeth reached for her hand and Cornelia squeezed it hard.
“It's all right,” Cornelia said.
Heavy boots crunched on the coral, close to their tent. Cornelia held her breath. Someone walked right past their tent, and there was silence again.
“What was it?” Elisabeth whispered.
“Marretje was right, it was just a bird,” Cornelia said. It was true, sometimes the night birds' calls sounded like a human cry. She put her arm around her and held her close, and she nuzzled against her like a child. “Shh,” Cornelia murmured, ‘it will be all right.”
She lay awake for a long time, staring into the darkness, listening for every little sound. But there was only the scuttling of crabs and the endless drone of the wind.
***
The pastor was once again on his knees, asking the Lord to intervene in their rescue. Cornelia wished that he would take the authority the Lord had given him and make something of it, instead of waiting for God to do everything Himself.
But she stood by until he had finished his prayers and was dusting the grey sand from his breeches before she spoke.
“What is it, vrouwe?”
“Did you sleep well?”
She knew from the moment's hesitation that he knew what she was talking about. “As a man does when he is blessed in the Lord.”
“You did not hear the scream then?”
“What scream?,” he said but would not meet her eyes. “You heard a gull perhaps.”
“It wasn't a gull, father.”
“A bad dream.”
“All of us women heard it.”
“You were mistaken,” he said. “I have things to do.” He walked away.
Cornelia tallied the faces that morning with the list of survivors that she kept in her head; Salomon was there, and the cabin boy, Strootman. But where was Little Bean? She asked for him among the soldiers, but her questions were met with indifference or with hard, cold stares.
She looked all over the island for him but he had disappeared. He was not among the carpenters working on the beach, or the men fishing in the shallows, and certainly not with the Underme
rchant and his council, smoking their clay pipes and passing around the wine bottle outside Joost’s tent.
She walked to the far end of the island, saw something on the coral and bent down to examine it. It was blood, thick gobs of it, congealed like rich brown pudding on the stone. There were fresh marks in the scrub, as if something had been dragged through the bushes to the water.
She knew she was right then--it was not a mutton bird they had heard.
A shadow fell across the sun. She looked up: Steenhower. She shuddered. He was as ugly a man as she had ever set eyes on, inside and out.
“What are you doing here, vrouwe?”
“I was looking for Little Bean.”
“What do you want with him? He's gone over to the traitor’s island with the provost and the rest.” He took a step closer, and she backed away from him. “You shouldn’t be out here on your own, this far from the women’s tent, not a lady in your position.”
“What have you done with him?”
“Go on, get away from here.”
She turned and walked away. There was something bad going on, but who could she tell? Not the pastor, who had his head in the sand or in the Bible. The soldiers had still not returned, and the provost was on the seal island.
What could she do?
***
It was the first time Cornelia had stepped inside the Undermerchant's tent since she had come to warn him about Ryckert. The rumours were true: it seemed Christiaan fancied himself something of a lord among them now. Besides their colony of hovels and lean-to's, his quarters were as grand as a palace. There was a Persian rug laid on the ground, stiff with salt, but as arresting here as if it was in a Mogul’s seraglio. There were silver candlesticks on the driftwood table, which was laid with a cloth of Italian lace, and pewter dishes filled with painted lobster. One of the commandeur's fine tapestries kept out the winds.
Christiaan's bed was covered with purple brocade.
He seemed delighted to see her, as if this was an unexpected social call from an old friend. He sent Joost scurrying out and invited Cornelia to sit on the stool the carpenters had made for him. It was covered with red velvet.
“Some wine,” he said taking a silver ewer from the table.
She shook her head.
He looked disappointed, but poured a cup for himself. She noticed there was a new ruby ring sparkling on his finger where before there had been garnet. Shipwreck suited him well.
“What is wrong, vrouwe? You look pale. You are not sick?”
She shook her head.
“You slept well?”
“What is going on, Heer Undermerchant?”
He seemed puzzled.
“What happened to Little Bean?”
“Who?”
“He was one of Michiel Van Texel’s soldiers.”
“Ah, that one.” His face took on a pained expression. “Such unpleasantness. I am sorry you had to learn of it. I don't know why men behave the way they do.”
She waited for his explanation, perhaps one without all this beard tugging and sorry looks. “What happened to him?” she repeated.
“I am sorry to inform you that we discovered him to be a thief. He has been stealing Company goods. As commandeur here, in Sinjeur Secor's absence, I was forced to deal with him for the safety of all. Don't worry,” he added and astonishingly, put a hand on hers, “I won't let anything happen to you.”
She jerked her hand away. “I asked what you did to him?”
“I was forced to discipline him.”
“Did you murder him?”
“It would not be murder, should I order it. You forget, I am the Company here on this island, and I have the power to punish men with their lives should it be necessary. But to answer your question, Little Bean is yet alive.”
“But I found blood.”
“I sent Willem Groot and Lance Corporal Jansen to search his possessions and retrieve what he had stolen. He drew his sword on them.” He took a sip of wine, studied her over the rim of the pewter cup; they were hazel eyes, flecked with green; his gaze unsettled her and she was forced to look away. “After he was subdued, I sent him bound to the traitor’s island, to the care of the provost.”
“Why were we not told of this?”
He stopped smiling. “I did not know there was a woman on the Council. When did you need to be informed of these affairs?”
“I am not speaking of myself. The pastor also knows nothing of it.”
“I am commandeur here, not the pastor, nor any of these other shopkeepers.” The smile insinuated itself once more on his face. “It is for the best of all,” he said.
“Tell me the truth. Did Steenhower murder him?”
“Steenhower? You mean Joris Jansen? He is a soldier in the employ of the Honourable Company,” he said evenly, as if she were a madwoman. “I told you, this Little Bean you seem so worried about is on Traitor’s Island.”
He could be persuasive, and for a moment she imagined this terrible allegation unfounded. Perhaps she was going mad. Since that night on the Utrecht she could not trust her own thoughts any more, she imagined violators everywhere. But the blood on the coral was real enough.
“There is no need to be afraid,” Christiaan said. “You can trust me, Cornelia. No one will harm you.”
Trust, she thought. How can I trust anyone again?
He sat down beside her.
She got up and fled the tent.
***
Krueger was waiting for her outside. He grinned when he saw her. “He has his eyes on you, that one,” he said.
“I am a married woman!’
“Tell that to the commandeur!’
“What do you mean?”
“We know what you got up to on the Utrecht, Miss High and Mighty. Don't act that way with me.”
“Remember your place!’
Krueger thrust his face close to hers. He had breath like a bear's, the smell of him was more intimidating even than his physical size. “None of us have a place anymore. We are all just sandbirds now.”
He’s right, she thought. Rank and position belonged to the other world. Here, they were in Christiaan's kingdom. Here, he was king.
She hurried away.
***
She found Salomon du Chesne, asked him who had been sent to the seal island. the provost and his family, he told her, just as Christiaan had said, he had been told to keep order there. The rest were mainly passengers, Salomon said, though Christiaan had kept the coopers and carpenters here with him. No, he had not seen Little Bean. All the soldiers were here, or on the long island with Michiel Van Texel.
Later that day all Cornelia's possessions were brought from the women’s' tent, without her knowledge or consent, and carried to the provost's shelter. When she saw what was happening and protested, she was pushed aside and told it was the Heer Undermerchant's orders.
***
She looked around her new quarters in bewilderment. There was a driftwood table and even a bed of salvaged timber, made by the carpenters on the beach. The bed was adorned with fine silks and velvet cushions, plundered from Company goods. Christiaan had even had one of the tailors make her a new dress, royal blue velvet bordered with gold passementerie, and this had been laid out on the bed. There was a silver ewer filled with fresh water; a commonplace thing in Leleistraat, but here, on this parched little island, it might as well have been a rare wine in a cup of beaten gold.
“Do you approve?”
She spun around; Christiaan stood in the doorway of the lean-to, smiling with great satisfaction.
“What is this?” she said.
“You are a fine lady, accustomed to a certain degree of comfort. Those other women, what would they know?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“For your own protection. Did I not tell you so? A beautiful woman such as yourself, alone among so many men. I would be failing in my duty if I did not do all I could to ensure your personal safety.”
She closed he
r eyes, remembered that night on the ship, the calloused hand clamped around her mouth. If Heer Undermechant thought he could do what he wanted, well, she would show him. She still had Little Bean’s knife, if it came to it.
Chapter 57
NEELTJE Groot was huddled in a corner of the tent with her head in her hands. She hadn't spoken for days. Maria had gone missing, Christiaan said she must have drowned, but no one had seen or heard anything. Even her husband Willem didn't seem to care.
That evening she went out with the other women searching for food. Marretje found an apronful of tern eggs in an unguarded nest; Elisabeth turned over rocks in the shallows, looking for crabs. Alida had her skirts up around her knees and was picking oysters off the rocks.
Elisabeth gave a squeal of horror, and pointed.
Cornelia thought it was a piece of driftwood come away from the wreck. It was floating on the current, fat as a maggot and bloated with seawater. She made to grab it, then drew her hands away when she saw what it was.
It was a man's body; the eyes were gone, eaten away by the crabs and the sea lice, most of the ears and lips as well. The intestines floated beside it, grey-green, like some awful gunny sack. Cornelia did not recognise his face, or what was left of it, but she knew him by his uniform and the tattoo on his forearm. His wrists had been fastened behind his back with rope.
It was Little Bean.
The body drifted past with the current. It must have lain on the bottom of the ocean, perhaps caught under some rock, and had just now floated to the surface. They stood crowded together for comfort, and watched it bob on the sea-bright water, the current dragging it towards the channel where it would make a fine meal for the shark fish.
Chapter 58
Batavia Fort
AMBROISE stood on the poop of the Zandaam, staring at the green slopes of Gunung Gedeh. He felt his gorge rise, swallowed back the acid taste of his own fear. All that day he had rehearsed his speech before the Governor, but now, as he stared at the grim walls of the fort his throat went dry and he had to lean on the rail to keep his legs from collapsing under him.
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