The Golden Cross

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Fascinated, Aidan watched as the loaders carried the huge crates and barrels aboard. The ship carried few goods for repair or trading, only supplies for the crew’s survival. “And we carry barely enough of that,” Van Dyck told her one afternoon as they sat in the cabin and sketched the rigging that appeared through the open doorway.

  “I’ll never eat my share,” she moaned, her stomach already cramping with the thought of so much food. Several of the other seamen had teased her about picking at her food; how could she tell them that one plate contained more than she usually ate in a week while working at the tavern? Sailors needed the fuel so they would have the energy to run and lift and climb and carry. But on most days Aidan only had to roll with the waves and learn to hold a pencil steady as she sketched.

  Before long they had settled into a workable routine. Each day when she awoke to the clanging of a bell, Aidan would sit up and immediately thrust her frizzed hair into her cap. Once Visscher had left the room (he spent very little time in it, preferring to spend his time in the captain’s cabin with the charts), Van Dyck would step outside while she performed her personal ministrations. Then she would go up on deck and watch in amazement at the crew’s industrious activity. Aidan had thought Gusta a fastidious cleaner, but the deck-swabbing, brass-polishing crewmen of the Heemskerk and Zeehaen would have put poor Gusta to shame.

  She had been aboard five days when the captain announced that on the morrow, the fourteenth of August, they would set forth on their journey. A cheer rose from the men, and Aidan felt her own heart leap with excitement. Despite her sorrow over losing Orabel and her nervousness over her audacious disguise, something in her yearned to begin this adventure.

  Elated with the prospect, she walked back to the cabin to seek out Heer Van Dyck’s company. But he wasn’t alone. A man in a dark doublet and trousers sat on the bunk across from her master. Aidan backed up, intending to slip out again, but the stranger turned, and Aidan’s heart leaped into her throat. Henrick Van Dyck! For an instant he did not recognize her, but then a tiny flicker of shock widened his eyes.

  “Sakerloot!” Henrick turned to face his father, the corners of his mouth tight. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing untoward, I assure you,” Heer Van Dyck answered. He stood over his son, his face a mask of stone. “Aidan is an artist, and I need her to help me complete my map. It cries out for one who can paint flora and fauna, and no one can paint them like Aidan can.”

  “But this!” Henrick turned toward Aidan again, his face dark with disapproval. “This is wrong! This is against the rules! Surely Tasman would object if he knew he carried an imposter aboard.”

  “Tasman does not need to know, and you will say nothing to anyone.” Van Dyck lifted his hand, gesturing for Aidan to come inside and close the door. When she had done so, he sat on his bunk and looked directly at his son. “Henrick, I cannot expect you to understand, but I pray you will listen and try to comprehend what I am feeling.”

  “What you are feeling?” Disappointment and frustration emanated from Henrick’s face, and his voice betrayed the edge of anger. “What you are feeling is lunacy! Dempsey warned me that you had taken leave of your senses, but I did not want to believe him!”

  “I am as sane as you are.” Van Dyck said, his eyes glittering with restless passion. “And you will listen to me, Henrick, and you will say nothing. This is my wish. As my son, you will obey it.”

  Henrick did not answer, but his face had gone pale and a drop of sweat ran down his jaw.

  “When your mother died,” Van Dyck began, lowering his gaze to his hands, “I thought my heart had died as well. We had raised you children, we had made a home, we had found success in the new colony. And when she left me alone, I wondered why God would allow me to go on living.”

  Aidan sank to a low stool near the door, entranced by his words. She had never heard her mentor speak of his own past, and her heart squeezed in pity for the pain that marked his face even now. So this sorrow was the root of his suffering, the source of his empathy. What then was the source of his joy?

  “Father, you must return home with me.” Henrick placed his hand on his father’s knee. “This is foolish. Look at you! You are old, you ought to go home where Gusta can take care of you.”

  “No, son.” Heer Van Dyck slowly patted his son’s hand. “There is the risk you cannot afford to take, and there is the risk you cannot afford not to take. This is my risk. If I am to make something of what’s left of my life, I must go on this voyage. God left me here for a reason, and I believe this is it.”

  “But Father, you don’t know what difficulties lie ahead out there in the unknown!” Honest concern and fear laced Henrick’s voice. “What if it’s true what they say about giant squid and fierce whales? And there are islands inhabited solely by cannibals; I’ve heard the natives talk about ferocious people who live on the sea islands.”

  “Henrick—” Van Dyck looked up at his son. “Life is not being sure, not knowing what will come next or how it will come. We guess at everything we do. We take leap after leap in the dark, and that’s the joy of living and the beauty of faith. When we grow tired, when we sit still, that’s when we begin to die.”

  He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was soft and tremulous. “You are young; you are following a young man’s dreams. But the old must dream as well! I have not stopped dreaming, Henrick. I dream of stepping on the soil of a land untouched by another European. I dream of meeting people who have not yet heard of the saving grace of God. I want to be an instrument, Henrick. I want to discover the full breadth of God’s creation and use my talents to enlighten others! This is my dream, and I will follow it until I draw my dying breath.”

  Henrick did not answer, but took his father’s hand and squeezed it for a long moment. Heer Van Dyck leaned forward and embraced his son, then stood back and nodded in satisfaction. “Go with my blessing, Henrick, and know that your father loves you well. Thank you for coming to see me off. Thank you for being concerned. But know this: One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.”

  The older man looked up and gave Aidan a smile. “I’m going out now to watch my last sunset over Batavia for a long while. When you are ready, Henrick, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to share it with you.”

  Henrick did not answer, and after a poignant pause, Heer Van Dyck moved silently through the doorway and out onto the deck.

  Aidan stood from her place, about to follow her teacher, but Henrick’s voice stopped her in midstride.

  “He’s a foolish old man. You know that, don’t you?”

  She turned slowly to face him. “I don’t think he’s foolish. And he’s not so terribly old. He’s young, very young, on the inside.”

  “And I suppose all that drivel makes perfect sense to you? All that nonsense about losing sight of the shore and such?”

  Aidan lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It makes sense to him. And I have never met a more certain and honorable man.” She moved closer and sank to the bunk her master had just vacated. “You won’t say anything, will you? I could still be set ashore if anyone found out about my disguise.”

  “I will say nothing,” he said, his voice low and resentful. His eyes ran over her garments, taking in the breeches, the paint-splattered shirt, the braid, and the cap. “Though I cannot agree with what you are doing, this may be God’s work. This ship may be the safest place for you now.”

  Aidan felt her heart leap into her throat. There must be trouble at the wharf—had other girls been found murdered? “What has happened, Henrick?”

  “My sister and Dempsey Jasper hate you.”

  “That’s no great revelation.” Aidan shrugged dismissively. “Why should that matter?”

  Henrick leaned toward her, his eyes cold. “Because Father respects you. Because he wants to make your name great. Rozamond is afraid of what people will think when your relationship with Father is revea
led.”

  Aidan took a deep, quivering breath to silence the pounding beneath her ribs. “But why would he care so much for me? I am not one of his children!”

  Henrick shook his head. “Because he is a foolish old man. Because we were never able to please him. He has been searching for a fellow artist all his life, and I believe he was disappointed when he never found one in his own children.” His gaze rested upon Aidan’s face for a moment, and in those brown eyes she saw no anger, only sorrow.

  “Do you hate me too?” She pressed her hand to her throat. “Have I reason to fear you?”

  Setting his jaw, he shook his head, then looked out the porthole. “Not me,” he said, resignation heavy in his voice. “But I cannot say what Rozamond and her husband have conspired to do. Dempsey Jasper is careful and cunning, and I fear he has set some dark plan in motion. That is why I say the sea is probably the safest place for you … for some months to come.”

  Aidan looked away, her mind reeling. Thoughts she dared not form came welling up, an ugly swarm of them. Had Dempsey Jasper anything to do with Orabel’s death? The idea seemed farfetched. Sofie had seen Orabel alive and well the morning of her death. As a gentleman, Dempsey would not be likely to venture to the taverns during daylight hours, and most married men would sooner die than be seen entering an alley with one of Lili’s girls. But someone had killed Orabel in the revealing light of day—while she was wearing Aidan’s dress. And whoever had killed Orabel in an effort to find Aidan might not hesitate to harm Lili or the other women in exchange for information.

  “Have there been any other murders at the wharf?” she asked softly, a score of unasked questions buzzing in her brain. “Other than the girl who died the day we came aboard?”

  Annoyance struggled with embarrassment on Henrick’s aristocratic face as he looked at Aidan. “How would I know? Such things are not published to law-abiding citizens.”

  Aidan flinched, hearing the unspoken rebuke in his voice. She was from the underclass; he a gentleman’s son. Why should he know or care anything about what happened in her world?

  Henrick stood and bowed formally from the waist. “If you will excuse me, I would like a final word alone with my father.” His voice resonated through the small cabin and echoed into silence. And then, as he paused by the door, he added one whispered thought: “I wish you well.”

  Abel Tasman called a meeting that night. The men of the smaller Zeehaen crowded aboard the Heemskerk, filling the upper deck while Aidan’s shipmates hung from the yardarms and peered from hatchways that led below decks. Tasman stood on the high forecastle and looked down at his men … and one woman.

  “Most honorable and courageous men,” Tasman began, his eagle eye roving over the assorted crew assembled below and around him. “Anthony Van Diemen, governor general of Batavia, commands us to go forth into the unknown to make a complete picture of lands north and west of the continent of Nova Hollandia. Tomorrow at high tide we shall sail first to Mauritius. From that point we will sail eastward at the southern latitude of fifty-two or fifty-four degrees until land is sighted.” The corner of his mouth quirked as he glanced at Francois Visscher, who stood next to him. “Though we are not expressly commanded to search for silver and gold, should we find it, we are not to dissuade any man from bringing aboard as much as he can carry.”

  A great cheer rose from the men, and Aidan clung to a cable as the particularly robust sailor next to her thumped her enthusiastically on the back.

  Tasman held up his hand and waited until the cheering died down. When the only sounds were the slapping, sucking noises of the tide beneath the dock, he pressed his hand to his chest. “Sleep well when your watch is relieved,” the captain went on, his gaze sweeping the crowd. “Work hard at your duties. We are well-provisioned and well-commanded. Let me introduce the officers of the command, so that every man, whether he sails aboard the Heemskerk or the Zeehaen, will know his officers.”

  Tasman turned behind him to Francois Visscher, and introduced him as first mate of the flagship. In a surge of loyalty, the men of the Heemskerk, who had worked under Visscher’s strict discipline for the last week, gave a rousing cheer. Next Tasman introduced T’jercksen Holman, skipper of the Heemskerk, and Aidan rose on tiptoe to see him. A trim, self-confident presence, the skipper had spent most of the past week in Tasman’s cabin, doubtless planning the voyage. Aidan had passed the captain’s cabin several times and glanced through the portal, only to see the two men bent over charts spread out on the captain’s table.

  Next Tasman introduced two men Aidan had not seen before. The first, Gerrit Janszoon, served as skipper of the Zeehaen. The skipper was tall, rawboned, and beardless, and looked about with an ingenuously appealing face. A small spattering of light applause sounded among the men, and Aidan marveled that the men of the Zeehaen showed so little enthusiasm for their skipper. When the weak applause ceased, Tasman gestured to a man who stood in the shadows of the foremast. The officer stepped forward, moving with nonchalant grace toward the forecastle railing. Towering over Tasman by a full eight inches, he wore no coat or uniform, only dark breeches and a full-cut shirt with the sleeves cut off at the elbow. Something gold winked at his neck, and Aidan lifted her brow, for few of the men could afford the luxury of jewelry.

  “May I present Witt Dekker.” Tasman extended a hand toward this officer. “First mate aboard the Zeehaen.” Aidan immediately lowered her gaze, not wanting to attract this man’s attention. Dekker had been a frequent patron of Bram’s tavern, and though it wasn’t likely he would recognize her, she could not take a chance now.

  Dekker crossed his arms and thrust his jaw forward, his slanting black brows lifting in acknowledgment of the captain’s introduction. Aidan found herself surreptitiously studying his face. His profile spoke of power and strength, his lips were firm and sensual. But the set of his chin suggested a stubborn streak, and Aidan did not think she would enjoy sailing under him.

  “Finally,” Tasman said, gripping the forecastle rail as he leaned forward, “I have procured the services of an excellent English surgeon, who will attend to any man sick or injured aboard either ship.” Aidan caught her breath as Sterling Thorne, caught off guard, began to move toward the rungs he must climb in order to reach the forecastle. Tasman waited, an impatient frown on his face, as Thorne climbed the ladder and moved with vigor and grace toward the captain’s side.

  Tasman’s rigid stance softened as he lifted one hand and clapped it to Sterling’s shoulder. “You will know how much I value this man when you hear what I am prepared to give him when we return,” Tasman announced. “When we have safely returned to Batavia, Sterling Thorne will be honored with my daughter’s hand—and you are all invited to the wedding.”

  On cue, the men responded with more cheering, then someone called for a pint of ale to toast the happy couple. Aidan watched, bemused and bewildered, as Tasman stepped aside, leaving the limelight to Thorne.

  The doctor held up his hand for silence, then bowed in the direction of his captain and future father-in-law. “I hope to serve you all to the best of my ability no matter what I am promised upon our return,” he said simply. “For I am sworn to aid any man who needs a healing touch, and I promise that my touch shall be as gentle as possible.” His eyes twinkled and his mouth twisted in a wry smile. “If not, I have the key to the liquor stores and will make certain you are too insensible to feel your pain.”

  The assembled crew rocked with laughter, and Sterling paused, smiling indulgently, like a parent amused by the mischief of his children. When the laughter died down, Aidan saw a change come over his features, a somber inward look. “I know that you, like me, must dream of a future life with roots deep in the soil.” A touch of sadness lined his faint smile. “I came to the East Indies to make a life for myself, to put down roots so that my younger brother could follow. And if we are successful in this venture, we will find more lands to colonize, more opportunities for men and women to find the freedom for which God design
ed us.”

  Aidan glanced at the men around her. She doubted if any of them had longings for roots in the soil. Her experiences in the tavern and aboard ship had taught her that seamen were a breed apart. They walked with the rolling gait of the sea, they climbed rigging as easily as a spider crawled through its web, and they drank like fish in the sea.

  But something in the doctor’s impassioned speech tugged at their hearts, for they applauded him wildly. Aidan relaxed. It probably wouldn’t be wise to talk too much about loving land with men who felt themselves born and bred to the sea, but it was obvious that Sterling Thorne had won the hearts of the men for whom he was responsible.

  “He is quite nice, isn’t he?” A light, feminine voice spoke near her elbow, and Aidan choked back a frightened cry, nearly convinced that her own shadow had spoken. She turned, looked, and saw a young boy standing beside her, a lad scarcely up to her shoulder, with eyes dark and bright like the stars. No beard yet adorned that cheek, and his voice was still cast in girlish tones.

  He looked up at her with an open expression, as if he had found a friend. Aidan swallowed hard, then jerked her head toward the surgeon. “He’s all right, I suppose. But I hope I’m never sick enough to need a doctor.”

  “Me too.” The boy thrust his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches, then tilted his head and gave Aidan a quizzical glance.

  “Are you aboard the Heemskerk? I haven’t seen you before.”

  “Yes,” Aidan muttered, hoping his questions would soon stop. “I’m Heer Van Dyck’s ketelbinkie.”

  The boy’s brows rose in silent respect. “Good for you. I’m a ketelbinkie aboard the Zeehaen. The job’s not so bad, but today I worked for the cook and nearly cut off my thumb while I was chopping the heads off pickled herring.” He pulled his thumb from his trousers and held it up, a grotesquely swollen digit swathed in white bandaging.

  “Goodness!” Aidan gasped in honest admiration. “I hope it’s not as bad as it looks!”