The Golden Cross

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “I see a gathering of shells on the shore here,” Tasman remarked, still scanning the beach with his spyglass. He turned and snapped an order to the coxswain at the wheel. “Bring us into this harbor, sir, and drop anchor. I will dispatch a patrol to make a brief survey.”

  Heer Van Dyck stepped out of his cabin with his sketch board under his arm. “And who will the captain be sending ashore, sir?” he asked.

  Tasman’s expression was tight with strain, but he managed a brief smile. “The doctor, of course. Holman and Visscher, and four of the stoutest men we have.” He turned and nodded to Visscher. “Send them fully armed, with muskets loaded. And make sure each man carries a blade.”

  As if in response to the command, the wild wind hooted through the rigging. Tasman paused to scan the swirling sky, then amended his orders. “But we will do nothing for the present, gentlemen, except batten down the hatches and reef the sails. I fear we are about to endure a storm unlike any we have yet experienced.” His mouth quirked in a faint smile as he looked at Van Dyck. “On your map, sir, mark this as Storm Bay.”

  “And the island?” Heer Van Dyck asked, bowing slightly as the rain began to splatter on the deck.

  Tasman hesitated for only a moment. “In honor of our governor general at Batavia, call it Van Diemen’s Land.”

  For days continuous rain and wind pounded and imprisoned the crew. How cruel, Aidan thought, for God to bring Heer Van Dyck within a few feet of his dreams and then hold the unknown land at arm’s length. But the map-maker worked as best he could, rolling with the steadily pitching ship as he consulted with Visscher about the island’s probable length and breadth as well as its exact longitude and latitude. When the rain eased somewhat, he risked his health going out to the ship’s master and asking for a reading of the harbor’s depth. This he dutifully noted on his chart, wheezing and coughing as he fretted over the vast empty space that still existed between Batavia and the charted coast of South America.

  Finally, on December first, the rains eased. Tasman’s heavily armed shore party climbed into a barge and began rowing toward land. The men of the Heemskerk and Zeehaen watched from the decks and portholes, each man’s heart thumping in anxiety and anticipation. During the nights, some had reported hearing the sound of drums from the island, and one or two seamen even claimed to have seen the ruddy light of a fire. Aidan wondered how could anyone build a fire in the midst of a drenching storm, but she kept silent and lingered inside her cabin doorway, out of the way. Soon, if the island was safe, she’d be traversing it on foot, collecting the flowers and specimens she would need to complete her book. And then she would sketch and paint her way to a new identity; she would return to Batavia and begin a new life.

  Now, overcome by curiosity, Aidan slipped out of her cabin and climbed the ladder to the high forecastle deck, where Heer Van Dyck watched with Captain Tasman. As she inched closer to the rail, she noticed that a deathly stillness had fallen over the group. Dr. Thorne had been one of those chosen to go ashore, and she could see his blond hair spilling out from beneath his hat as the barge moved slowly through the waves. Now they were nearing the breakers, and the sight of the crashing surf made her cheeks burn with the memory of their last encounter.

  Since that day on Mauritius he’d kept a polite distance between them, never speaking more than a casual word to her, treating her with no more familiarity than any other seaman. But sometimes, as she ate in the galley or worked in her tiny cabin, she looked up and found his gaze upon her. He was always quick to avert his eyes and move on, but the realization that he watched made her feel a bit uncomfortable … and more than a little pleased.

  There was no sound save that of the wind and the waves as the barge neared the shoreline. Aidan held her breath as one of the officers leaped out to guide the boat through the breakers, then a riotous clamor of noise erupted from the jungle that bordered the beach. High shrieking sounds pierced the heavy silence, accompanied by the babble of confused voices and screams unlike anything Aidan had ever heard. The men in the boat froze in their positions, and the officer in the surf stumbled to his knees in confusion.

  The forest seemed alive with menace, and judging from the sound of things, the natives weren’t happy with the Dutchmen’s approach. Panic welled up in Aidan’s throat, and she clutched the railing, searching the trees for the telltale gleam of weapons.

  “Get out of there!” Aidan whispered under her breath, her eyes fastened on Sterling’s broad form. “For heaven’s sake, row for your lives! They are waiting for you!”

  As if he had heard her whispered plea, the lead man—she thought it was Holman, skipper of the Heemskerk, lunged back into the barge. The oars flashed like the wings of a dragonfly as the boat retreated; within the space of a few moments the men were scrambling up the netting, nervously looking over their shoulders toward the shore.

  “Sakerloot, what a noise!”

  “Did you ever hear the like? It curdled my blood!”

  “Goejehelp! We must be away from this place!”

  Dr. Thorne came aboard quietly, with a relieved expression on his face. “I’m only glad no one was hurt,” he called up to the captain as he passed. “’Tis obvious they had set an ambush. I would imagine that our presence in the harbor spooked them as much as they disturbed us.”

  The sight of smoke rising from the treetops convinced the captain that a landing should be attempted elsewhere. At the moment, he urgently needed fresh water, not an armed confrontation with savages. He’d been commissioned to find new lands, gold, and silver, not native peoples. The Dutch had dealings with more than enough tribes already.

  “Let us move away from here,” Tasman called, his voice ringing out over the now quiet sea. “Helmsman! Signal the Zeehaen, and indicate that we will move north in search of an uninhabited shore where we can refill the water casks.”

  The helmsman ran to obey, and Aidan turned to Heer Van Dyck, who had watched the entire episode with an agonized expression on his distinguished face. “I had hoped they would be friendly,” he said sadly. “I had such high hopes.”

  He had left his walking stick in the cabin, so Aidan gave him her arm and led him back to their quarters.

  Quieter water and calmer weather allowed the two ships to anchor at a smaller, uninhabited island near “Van Diemen’s Land” and finally put ashore for supplies. When Sterling Thorne pointed out that no Dutchman had actually set foot on Van Diemen’s Land to officially claim it, Tasman considered his options. Rather than send another attention-attracting barge filled with seamen, he decided to send the ship’s carpenter overboard. The poor man, encumbered by a burden on his back and so frightened he could barely swim, bobbed between the ship and shore for what seemed an eternity, then scrambled to the beach and hastily erected a wooden marker emblazoned with the arms of the House of Orange. With Dutch possession thus officially established, the hapless man dove back into the surf and swam like a fiend to rejoin his comrades.

  By December 4, Tasman had navigated three-quarters of the island and convinced himself of its size and breadth. With bad weather looming in the north, he decided to quit Van Diemen’s Land and continue on his eastward tack.

  Aidan knew Heer Van Dyck was bitterly disappointed that he was not able to explore the newly discovered land, but the elder gentleman shouldered his disappointment with a touching attempt at indifference. He pretended not to mind that one-quarter of Van Diemen’s Land remained uncharted. After the episode at Storm Bay, a measure of light dimmed in his eyes, and for the first time since she’d known him she felt his spirits begin to flag.

  She knew he strongly disagreed with Tasman’s decision to quit the island before completely circumnavigating it. “He is a sailor, though, not a cartographer,” he explained to her in the privacy of their cabin, “so I must be patient and excuse him.” His lids drooped over the crescents of flesh beneath his eyes, and the hands upon his knees trembled. “But as an explorer, I would have thought the desire to know would have held hi
m to his task. If a thing is only half done, it is not done at all, no?”

  Aidan spoke in soothing tones, urging him to bed, to rest. During the journey she had come to play the part of confidante, daughter, and apprentice to her mentor. Apart from her, the old gentleman had no one in whom he could confide. His status as a gentleman automatically set him apart from the rough seamen, and his aspect as an artist effectively separated him even from the other officers.

  Aidan alone understood. Like him, she was an outcast, but life on the fringe of shipboard society did not bother her. Occasionally she looked toward the Zeehaen for a glance of Tiy, thinking that it might be fun to play a hand or two of cards with the other ketelbinkie, but more often her eyes and ears were attuned for the sight and sound of Dr. Sterling Thorne. He had begun to call at their cabin before settling into his own cabin at night, for Heer Van Dyck’s failing health had also attracted the doctor’s attention. The old gentleman had developed a cough that would probably not become serious, the doctor told Aidan, unless he allowed himself to dwell in a state of melancholy. He would have to lift his spirits, and the sooner the better.

  On December 13, blessedly few days after their last sight of land, the lookout again gave a cry. The captain immediately stepped out of his cabin and was rapidly flanked by his officers. Aidan and Heer Van Dyck joined the crowd at the railing for a look at the majestic land that rose like a treasure from the sea.

  A mountain range topped by pure white clouds towered on the horizon. The image struck Aidan with breathtaking intensity, and for the first time in weeks she felt an irresistible urge to paint.

  “Surely this vast elevated land is the edge of the fabled continent,” Tasman called, too overcome by the grandeur of the scene even to reach for his spyglass. Absently he gestured toward the coxswain at the helm. “Take her northward along the shore, sir, until we find a suitable harbor. God did not will that we explore that miserable land we found earlier. This must be the haven we seek.”

  For the next four days the two ships slowly followed the shoreline of the promising land, and on the evening of December 17 Tasman gave the order to drop anchor. Convinced that he had found the uncharted continent he set out to discover, the sight of inland fires and smoke did not deter him. “God brought us here without losing the life of a single man,” he told the crew of the Heemskerk as they gathered on the deck at sunset. The officers of the Zeehaen had arrived by barge a few moments earlier. “Tomorrow morning we shall disembark and send a party ashore. We will not go bearing arms this time—no muskets, no swords, no weapons of any kind. The natives here will see our peaceable intentions, and God will honor us.”

  “Captain.” Francois Visscher stepped forward and smiled briefly, the white of his teeth flickering in the torchlight. “If I might urge caution, would it not be wise to aim our cannon toward land in case of an attack? These natives, no matter what sort they are, have never seen a cannon. They cannot know that we have aimed a weapon toward them, but our men will have the security of knowing we stand at their backs, ready to defend them.”

  “God will know too.” Tasman pressed his hand to his chest. “And he will know the true intentions of our hearts. No, we will proceed as I have said.” He paused, hearing the murmur of discontent that rippled through the crowd, then lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I cannot, however, send a man ashore without his dagger, for men are armed with a blade even in church. No visible weapons, then, though each man may carry his blade hidden behind his back or in his boot. But no muskets, no swords, no torches, and—” He looked pointedly at Visscher. “—no cannon. How can we be sure the Spanish have not found this place? We do not know these people; we do not know what they have seen.”

  Visscher responded with a stiff salute, then stepped back into his place.

  “One more question.”

  Aidan jerked her head around as Dr. Thorne stepped forward, his countenance shining with resolve. The men shifted their positions to see him, respect and admiration on their faces. He’d set at least a half-dozen broken bones and applied poultices to two dozen bruises, so they had come to trust him completely.

  “Who will go ashore?” he asked, his eyes snapping with curiosity. “I’m sure those who are going would like to spend the night with such knowledge before they depart in the morning.”

  Tasman pressed his lips together, considering the question, then nodded.

  “A good point,” he said. He gestured toward Gerrit Janszoon, skipper of the Zeehaen, who had come aboard for this meeting. “The Zeehaen will send her own barge, and Gerrit can make his own choice of men. As for us of the Heemskerk, you, doctor, shall surely be needed. Francois Visscher shall go, of course. We must send the chaplain to consecrate the shore, a carpenter, a pair of rowers—”

  “Captain Tasman.”

  Aidan’s heart froze in her throat when she realized that Heer Van Dyck had spoken.

  “Please, sir.” The old gentleman stepped forward and gave the captain a gallant smile. “It would be a very great honor for me to venture aboard with your men. It is a story I would rejoice to tell my grandchildren when we return home. And,” he inclined his head toward Aidan, “my young apprentice would like to search for unusual flora and fauna. The V.O.C. would be very pleased if we were to bring back a pictorial record.”

  Tasman’s gaze seemed distracted for a moment, then he shook his head. “You may go, Heer Van Dyck,” he said, frowning. “But not the ketelbinkie. A boy that scrawny can serve no practical purpose and is only likely to get in the way.”

  “Pray reconsider, Captain.” Aidan flinched as a heavy voice broke into the conversation. Glancing behind her, she saw that the first mate of the Zeehaen, Witt Dekker, had stepped forward. With a thin smile on his lips, the Zeehaen’s first mate gestured toward Aidan. “Captain Tasman, the ketelbinkie would undoubtedly be of service to the old man. What’s the harm in letting him go ashore?”

  Anxiety shot through her at the thought that Dekker had even noticed her existence, but the Zeehaen’s first mate barely glanced at her as he made his suggestion.

  Tasman frowned for an instant, then nodded impatiently. “Very well, with the cartographer and his boy, the barge is filled. Once these seven are safely ashore, the boat may return for another party.”

  “Dank u wel, mijn vriend,” Heer Van Dyck answered, bowing again. Aidan watched, amazed, as the entire gathering silently watched him return to his cabin, almost as if they stood in awe of this regal man. Would she ever command that kind of respect as a great lady? Perhaps. If she was successful in this venture.

  Tasman tweaked the end of his moustache, gave the foreign shore a last appraising look, then nodded with an abrupt jerk of his head. “Sleep well,” he called, as a dull rumble echoed from the mountains in the distance. The meeting ended, and the men retreated to either their posts or their hammocks.

  Aidan paused at the threshold of the cabin and studied the dark horizon. Stars gleamed like crystal diamonds in the cloudless black canopy. Why, then, did she hear thunder?

  She shivered as the truth slammed into her—the rumbling sound was not thunder, but the rapid, staccato sounds of drums. For no reason she could name, the sound raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  Her master’s insistent voice urged her forward. “Aidan! Get you to bed! We begin our work tomorrow!”

  She stepped into the cabin and saw that the fire of passion burned again in Heer Van Dyck’s eye.

  “Help me pack my little bag, will you?” he called, rocking on his hips as he looked around the cabin. “Where are my pencils? And the board with my Not paper?”

  “Here, sir.” Aidan batted away the recurrent gnat of worry and stooped to help her master.

  “Sakerloot, Aidan! Rise and look!”

  Startled by the urgent tone of her master’s voice, Aidan rose from her bunk and padded in her bare feet to the porthole. What she saw in the water froze her blood.

  Sometime during the night, while the winds blew and the drums poun
ded, native warriors had entered their boats and pushed off from shore. Pods of natives rode the waves now, only a few yards away from the Heemskerk and Zeehaen, awaiting the strange visitors who had arrived with the evening tide.

  “They are expecting us!” Heer Van Dyck cried, reaching for his sketch board even as he stared out the window. Aidan placed a pencil in his fumbling fingers, then sat back and watched in fascination as he began to sketch the long, narrow wooden boats each filled with a dozen warriors with shaved heads, wearing grass skirts and animal skins. Ten native boats bobbed in the waters between the Dutch ships and the shore. Aidan made a quick count: The Dutch were already outnumbered by at least ten men.

  “Will the captain still want us to go ashore?” she asked, searching anxiously for the meaning behind this strange welcoming committee.

  “Of course.” Van Dyck tossed one half-finished sketch aside and slid another parchment onto his board. “Look, my dear, at the one lifting his hand to us! Surely such men are hospitable.”

  “I hope so.” She opened the door and looked out. Abel Tasman and Francois Visscher were already on the deck; in fact Aidan was certain Visscher had spent the night watching the dark shoreline. Both men wore looks of weary resignation.

  “I think we’d better go out, sir,” she called to Heer Van Dyck. “The captain is speaking to Visscher now.”

  By the time Aidan and Van Dyck reached the knot of officers, Tasman was reporting that Janszoon of the Zeehaen had decided not to send his contingent ashore until after the Heemskerk’s men had made a safe landing.

  “Someone has to make the first approach.” Tasman tightened his arms across his chest. “And so we shall do it. Heer Van Dyck, I am honored that you and your ward are present to record this moment in images. Now, where is my confounded son-in-law? Oh, here he is.”

  Aidan turned, startled to see Dr. Thorne standing behind her. He gave the captain a sharp salute, then bowed slightly to Heer Van Dyck. “I trust you are well, my friend,” he said, smoothing the points of his doublet, “and I hope you are up for a grand adventure.” He looked around the deck and smiled. “Does anyone here have a knack for languages? We shall have to attempt to speak to these folk in the boats.”