by Debbie Rix
‘Progress, progress,’ said his father, handing Hans a glass of wine on the news that his wife would be joining them.
‘It’s good to see you here, Clara, my dear,’ he beamed as she entered the room.
But his wife would not eat.
Saskia did her best to tempt Clara with imaginatively planned meals: ‘Madam, I have a little salad to start – of nice leaves from the garden. It has a little oil on it, but is very fresh. Then we have a nice pair of pheasants, lightly cooked, very tasty.’
The men tucked in with gusto, but Clara simply manoeuvred her food around her plate, scarcely tasting it.
In the following weeks, the atmosphere became increasingly claustrophobic and depressing. Over a glass of port one evening, Hans suggested to his father that it might be time for him to return to the East. Fortuitously, the Governor-General of the VOC was soon to make a voyage to Jayakarta (as it was then known), where he intended to set up a permanent trading post. Johan agreed his son should be allowed to join him.
On hearing the news, Clara retreated once more to the nursery.
* * *
Hans left Amsterdam on the 7th of March 1619 – nearly a year after Katje’s death. As his ship glided out of Amsterdam harbour, he felt the pressures of his family lifting from his shoulders. Hans stood on deck watching Amsterdam receding until the church spires and domes of the city were just tiny specks on the skyline. He breathed in the salty air as the seagulls free-wheeled around his head. He was free at last.
Hans enjoyed ship life. It was cramped of course, and he suffered terribly with seasickness if the weather was rough. As the assistant merchant, he lived a relatively comfortable life on board, behind the mast. This part of the ship contained the quarters of the senior officers, including the surgeon and the Reverend, together with any guests who were travelling on board. Hans had his own private cabin, but it was cramped, with a bed, a chest for his clothes, and a very small desk. He had a personal servant who would clean his uniform and tidy his cabin. Life on board was necessarily disciplined. The senior officers always dined together, with the evening meal served in the captain’s saloon. Hans enjoyed the banter and chatter with the other officers. The wine and port flowed and the food was good, certainly at the start of each leg of the journey when the supplies were fresh. Before the mast, however, life was very different. These were the quarters of the lowlier ranks: seamen, artisans and soldiers, who had to endure cramped and often insanitary conditions.
In all, Hans was away for over four years. Towards the end of his tour of duty, he was promoted to ship’s captain and put in charge of a large shipment that would be taken from the island of Manila back to Amsterdam. He brought with him a young girl named Mori whom he had rescued from a Portuguese slave trader. The trader had bought her from pirates, who had kidnapped her when she was just eight years old from her home village in the province of Goa. She was now fifteen and a Catholic. The trader made use of her and intended to sell her on when he was bored with her to the brothels of Batavia or possibly even Lisbon. She worked for him in every capacity – serving at his table, preparing food, doing his laundry and sharing his bed.
The merchant was named Carlos Fernandes. The Portuguese and the Dutch were at loggerheads over trade, but there was always a deal to be done if you were prepared to dine with the devil. Carlos invited Hans to dinner to discuss a shipment of pepper. Hans had been reluctant, but the price was good. His first sight of the girl had been as they sat before dinner on the large veranda overlooking the lush garden. Carlos called out, ‘Mori, Mori, come here, you stupid girl. A man could die of thirst here.’
The girl materialised almost silently at his side. ‘Sorry, master.’
‘Well, bring the rum then!’ he barked at her.
She returned with a bottle and two crystal glasses on a silver tray. Hans observed her fine long fingers trembling slightly as she laid the tray on the table between the two men. She was tall and slender. She wore a simple cotton dress and her hair was wrapped in a brightly coloured turban. She kept her eyes lowered and winced almost imperceptibly when Carlos the trader spoke to her.
‘More rum, girl. Hurry with it. And where is our dinner? Serve it now.’
The large dining table had been laid meticulously with silver and linen; Carlos barracked Mori, finding fault with everything. ‘Don’t put the dish there, put it here! What is the matter with you? You are an imbecile. I should have left you with the pirates. You are not fit to live in a house. Are you stupid?’
The tirade continued. The girl was powerless and could do nothing but submit. She laid the dishes on the table with great care and only raised her eyes once as she served Hans with a dish of chicken. He was watching her intently, hoping some kindness would flow, unobserved, towards her. Her dark lashes flicked up momentarily, revealing large dark brown eyes filled with tears. She caught his gaze for a second before blinking; the tears spilled down her smooth brown cheeks. Hans resisted the urge to wipe them away with his finger.
Once the men were served, she withdrew and hovered in an ante-room. Clearly she had been instructed to remain, out of sight, in case Carlos needed anything. He drank heavily and soon after one o’clock he fell asleep, his head lolling on his chest, snoring loudly. Hans walked as silently as possible from the dining room and up the stairs to his own room. The girl was still lingering in the hallway. As he shut his door, he heard Carlos’ rough voice, then a sharp slap. He heard her crying and had to fight the urge to rush downstairs and rescue her there and then. But he resolved to wait. He must not jeopardise his cargo, or her life.
The following day, he rose early. As he left his room, he noticed the girl slipping silently and meekly from her master’s bedchamber. Her eyes were downcast as she passed Hans in the corridor. She appeared mute and yet he had heard her cry the previous night. She had a voice; she was simply unable to use it.
Over breakfast, he and Carlos made final arrangements for the shipment of pepper. Hans’ ship was leaving that day and the shipment would be delivered within the hour to the port. He shook hands with Carlos and made to leave. But as he walked down the drive of the merchant’s house, he cut back and hurried through the gardens of the estate. He found the girl hanging up washing in the kitchen garden. She pulled back in fear as he approached her.
He held his fingers to his lips: ‘Shh… Please, I wish you no harm. But I cannot stand by and watch you being so abused by Carlos. He told me last night that when he is done with you he intends to sell you on.’
The girl’s large, dark eyes widened in fear.
‘Let me help you. I am leaving today and returning to my country in Europe – far from here and far from Carlos. You can have work in my house. I am a merchant, and wealthy. I will find suitable work for you – washing and cleaning. But you will not have to degrade yourself. Do you understand me? I am a good Christian. I will care for you.’
The girl said nothing, clearly assessing the situation.
‘Mori, Mori! Where the hell are you, girl?’ Carlos’ voice carried through the house and out into the garden.
A look of panic spread across her face. ‘Yes, I will come with you,’ she finally whispered. ‘When?’
‘Meet me at the harbour this afternoon. We set sail on the evening tide. Do you think you can get away?’
‘I will pretend to run an errand for him. I will get there somehow. Thank you.’
She turned to go back into the large plantation house. Hans heard a sharp slap as Carlos hit her once again.
The loading of the pepper took most of the day. When it was finished, the ship’s Captain Jacob stood at the prow, ready to cast off and leave. There was no sign of Mori.
‘We must make sail, Hans. The tide is with us.’
‘Just a few minutes more,’ begged Hans. ‘I know she will be here.’
A quarter of an hour passed. ‘We cannot stay any longer,’ said Jacob at last. ‘We risk losing the tide.’
‘Go then,’ said Hans, his eyes scan
ning the dockside.
As Jacob ordered the lines to be released from the harbour, Hans saw Mori running down the gangway. Her turban unravelled as she ran, revealing her long dark hair flying out behind her. She had a tiny bag clutched to her breast, as if in fear of losing it. She called up to Hans and waved at him.
‘Wait, please…’
The ship’s ropes had already been loosed and the gangplank pulled back on board; the vessel had begun to move away from the dockside. Hans rushed to the side of the ship and called to her.
‘Jump, quick!’
The girl sized up the situation and the ever-widening gap between the dockside and the ship; the emerald sea gurgling below. She ran back a few paces, tucking the small bag inside her cotton blouse. She rushed towards the edge of the dock and took a leap into the air, her legs pedalling as she did so, as if willing herself to reach the side of the ship.
Hans leant out as far as he could from the side of the ship and their hands connected in mid-air. He tightened his grip and she hung for a few perilous seconds over the dark, boiling sea before he could pull her to safety.
Finally, in front of him on the deck, she held her face in her hands and sobbed. ‘Thank you… Thank you.’
‘Thank God,’ said Hans. ‘Another few minutes and we’d have been away. Come with me. I’ll find you a little corner, somewhere safe.’
As the master of the ship, Hans had a larger cabin than usual. It stood on one side of a sitting room that he shared with the captain. Next to his cabin was a small space that was intended as an office. It had a desk and a chair, nothing more. He ordered the desk and chair moved to the sitting room and had a small cot bed brought in for Mori.
‘You will sleep here, all right? That way I shall be nearby and will make sure no one does you any harm.’
She was the only woman on board ship on that journey and the seamen noted the pretty girl with the long dark hair and slender figure. But Hans made it clear that anyone caught touching her would be flogged and left at the next port. The men muttered amongst themselves. They were jealous of the young man, for they were sure he was sleeping with her throughout the journey.
But Hans did not touch her. She was beautiful, certainly, and appeared willing and appreciative. But he knew he would be no better than Carlos if he made her his own.
When the ship finally landed in Amsterdam, Mori expressed her fears. ‘What will people make of me here? You won’t let them take me, will you, Hans?’
‘No, I will not. I’ve told you. You will have work in our house. Good work. You are not a slave, Mori. You are a free person. Many of my contemporaries are involved in slavery, I know. But I do not believe it is right. I will pay you and you will be free to leave at any time. There are other people of colour here. Not many, but some of have found work in houses in this city. You’ll see.’
His mother was in her bedroom when Hans arrived back home. She heard the clatter of horse’s hooves on the cobbles outside; she heard Mitze call down to Saskia in the kitchens below. ‘He’s here!’ She stood and looked out of the window. The bootboy, Michaela, was unloading chests and bags onto the steps of the large house. Hans climbed down from the carriage. He breathed deeply and looked around – at the house, the canal, up at the pale blue sky. He looked up towards his mother’s bedroom and waved. He appeared thin, tired, but otherwise well enough, she thought. Clara waved back and her heart gave a little leap. He turned away from her towards the carriage and put his arms out to an unseen object within. He brought out a girl. She wore a black cloak with a hood. As he lifted her to the ground, the hood fell back, revealing dark hair, dark skin. The girl smiled up at him with an unwavering gaze. Clara heard him speak.
‘Let’s go inside and get something to eat. Saskia will have something wonderful. She always does.’
Clara walked uncertainly onto the large landing of the house. She leant over the oak banisters.
‘Hans…’
He stood below her in the black and white tiled hall. He removed his hat, his cloak and gloves, handing them to Mitze. He looked up at his mother.
‘Mama, I am here at last. I must eat something, then I shall come up.’
The girl looked up at the older woman – small, thin, erect and dressed entirely in black; she was an intimidating sight.
‘Is that your mother?’ she whispered, thinking of her own soft, round mother, lost so long ago.
‘Yes, you’ll meet her later. Let’s go down to the kitchens and eat.’
They ate a pheasant pie that Saskia had just baked. Mori found the pastry heavy and difficult to chew; she had never eaten a pie before. But the meat was tasty and she was hungry. Mitze boiled up water to fill the large bath in Hans’ room. Hans introduced Mori to the rest of the household.
‘This is Mori. She will be helping us here in the house from now on. Make her welcome. Mitze, perhaps when you have filled my bath, you would show Mori to her room. She can have the little room in the attic I thought – next to yours. And could you let her have a little hot water too? There is a jug and basin in her room, I think. Put some soap in there for her, will you? We’ve had a long journey.’
Saskia and Mitze looked at each other over the Mori’s head.
‘What are you doing bringing that heathen here?’ Clara demanded crossly when Hans finally went to see her. Any pleasure she might have felt at seeing her son once again after so many years had been spoilt by the sight of the dark-skinned girl.
‘She is not a heathen, Mother. She is a good Christian – a Catholic, in fact. I know we are Protestant here, but she will be discreet. Besides, what would you have me do? Leave her with a man who abused her and used her? You are a good Christian, Mother, and have brought me up to be the same. How could I leave the girl to such a terrible future? She is kind and sweet and works hard. I’m sure Saskia and Mitze will soon have her trained up.’
Down in the basement, Saskia was also discomforted by the ‘new arrival’, as she persisted in calling Mori.
‘Sir,’ she asked Hans the next morning as she served up breakfast, ‘what do you expect me to teach the new arrival?’
‘She is called Mori, Saskia. In our language she would be called Maria. I expect you to teach her the routines of this house. But you might be surprised. She is also a good cook and could teach you a thing or two.’
At this, Saskia became alarmed. The thought that her place in the household might be challenged by this foreigner distressed her. ‘But Sir, I have been here for nearly thirty years,’ she protested.
‘And will be here for the next thirty, I sincerely hope. Just be kind, Saskia. She can start with the laundry perhaps.’
The girl began to settle into the household routines. She helped Mitze with the laundry and became adept with the laundry press; she was meticulous about pressing Clara’s garments; her sewing was quick and neat, so Mitze set her to work mending hems of petticoats and sewing on buttons. She was sent on small errands for Saskia and soon learned the layout of Amsterdam’s streets and canals. As she wandered the cobbled lanes she would stop to watch a flock of geese flying overhead, and as she crossed over the canals, she would lean over the bridges as swans floated by in a stately fashion. Her room in the attic overlooked the canal, and if she woke early she loved nothing better than to sit on her windowsill watching the activities in the street below – the canal boats with their cargo travelling towards the market, laundry women carrying great bundles of linen from the large houses on the Herengracht. They reminded her of the women in her village in Goa taking laundry to the river each day. The room itself was small but cosy and she felt safe for the first time in her life. She had a bed, and a small chest in which she kept the clothes Hans had bought for her – two black day dresses to wear in the house, three aprons, three muslin caps, a selection of underwear that Saskia had helped her to buy and one dark blue day dress Hans bought for her that she was to wear on Sundays when she went to church with the family. She was very grateful for Hans’ kindness.
&
nbsp; ‘This is for me?’ she asked when he brought the dress home.
‘Yes, Mori. I wanted you to have something pretty to wear.’
‘You are a very kind man,’ she said, blushing.
Hidden amongst the new undergarments was her own tiny bag of personal possessions. These included a little rag doll that her mother Isabel had made for her. She had given the doll to Mori on her sixth birthday. It had been in the pocket of her skirt when the pirates invaded her village. She remembered how they had rampaged through the small settlement, killing old men and women, kidnapping anyone young enough to work. Pregnant women were slaughtered, some in front of their children’s eyes. Most women were raped, some then taken, others killed – Mori’s mother amongst them. Mori had been hiding under the bed when the men attacked her mother. She still felt shame that she had been unable to save her, but what could a tiny girl do against three violent grown men? When they had finished, they set fire to the house. She had run to her mother to try to save her and drag her outside, but Isabel was already dead; her throat had been cut. Mori, shocked and terrified, had run into the vegetable garden that her mother tended so carefully. She had been hanging up some washing as the men arrived; Mori noticed the chemise hanging on the line. She grabbed it and stuffed into her blouse. She had run then, as fast as her legs could carry her. She thought she had escaped, but as she ran into the forest surrounding the village, she stopped to look back. Behind her was a plume of smoke rising into the blue sky and on her heels a large bearded man, who grabbed her by her long dark hair and swung her round, calling out, ‘I’ve got a live one here – looks in good condition. Think we’ll take her.’
Somehow she had managed to protect the chemise and the doll throughout her long captivity. She took it out from time to time and inhaled the scent of her mother. In reality the scent had long gone, but it comforted her to have it and she was determined never to be parted from it.