Cast Off (25 page)

I tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear and straightened the cap I'd stolen from Louis Cheval all those months ago. I'd laundered my clothes in seawater and they chafed my skin, but at least they no longer stank. I'd cleaned my hands, face, and teeth and tied on my belt of medical supplies—my belly had shrunk a good inch during my illness. I wore shoes but no stockings. I didn't own any.

None of it mattered. Not what I wore or how I smelled. Or how tired I felt. What mattered was my sex and the lies I'd told to cover it up. What mattered was the captain. He could protect me or execute me, as he saw fit.

I crossed the quarterdeck, fighting the urge to flee to the foulest corner of the hold. The day was warm and a light breeze filled the sails. But in spite of the easy weather and the promise of dry land and better food, I felt only dread.

Slippert showed me in to the captain's quarters.

“Albert Jochims, sir,” he said with an elegant, if shaky, sweep of his arm.

“Thank you, Slippert,” said De Ridder.

The great cabin was as I remembered it. There were the portraits and the crooked sampler on the wall and the ambergris on the desk. The captain stood at the window sipping tea from a delicate china cup with Oak by his side.

“Sit,” De Ridder said.

Oak sat.

“You too,” he said to me.

I followed his orders. The captain did not offer me tea.

“Who are you?”

“Petra De Winter, sir. Of Amsterdam.” I folded my hands in my lap so De Ridder wouldn't see them tremble.

“De Winter? You're not a relation of—”

“Yes, sir. He's my father.”

De Ridder slammed his cup onto the saucer. The fragile china shattered, splattering tea on the floor.
“Duivel!”

Oak snorted and leaped to his feet. I whipped off my handkerchief and tried to blot up the spill.

“Leave it!” he commanded.

I went back to my chair. De Ridder squeezed the bridge of his nose until he regained his calm. “Miss De Winter, you have put me in a damnable position. The VOC forbids Dutch women from entering Batavia and yet duty demands that I bring you there until I can secure you safe passage back to Holland.”

“But I can't go back to Holland!” I blurted out. “Please, sir, I'll go anywhere else, anywhere in the world.”

“You shall return to Holland on the next available ship.” De Ridder held up a hand to stop me from speaking. He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “And in the meantime, you shall do nothing to give away your true identity. Do I make myself plain? The men will not take kindly to you when they find out that a girl has played them for fools all these months. Lived in their cabins, nay, tended their sick bodies. You shall go on pretending to be Albert Jochims or it will go very poorly for you, indeed.”

“Sir—”

“That will be all.”

Lead feet carried me to the door, where old Slippert appeared to show me out. It may have been an accident when his elbow hit my spine and sent me sprawling, but I soon learned Slippert had wasted no time spreading the news. There was no mistaking the murderous faces of the men I passed on my way to the sick bay. And when Gos slammed me against a wall with his forearm lodged against my throat and whispered, “Only God can help you now, missy,” I knew I had more immediate problems than avoiding the next ship back to Holland.

Alas, there are no secrets on a ship with two hundred men.

Clockert allowed me to bunk in the sick bay and I rarely left it. It'd taken all of an afternoon for the whole ship to know who and what I was. It turned out that being a lone girl on a ship of men was more perilous than being a one-legged chicken in a cockfight—especially when that unlucky girl has made fools of those men. The irony was that after all the months of pretending, I felt more boy than girl.

Bram insisted on bringing my meals after I returned from breakfast one morning with a swollen lip. When I tried to visit the head, Louis Cheval barred my way. “They're waiting for you there,
mademoiselle,
” he whispered. Krause took up his duties as Clockert's first assistant again—a development none of us liked, but the men wouldn't accept the services of a girl. Once, they'd been more than happy to let me bleed them, delouse them, read to them, dose them, clean their soiled sheets and bodies. But none of that mattered now.

Revolting as it was, I missed the work. I missed the company, the easy laughter of mates who considered me one of them. And so I did my best to keep busy. I kept the workroom immaculate, every supply in order. I tried to read Clockert's books, but sleeplessness made the letters swim on the page, and so I spent many desperate hours inventing impossible schemes to avoid a return to Amsterdam.

With only a few weeks left before the captain expected us to reach the Indies, Van Plaes presented himself in the infirmary with a sore tooth. Clockert had stepped away and Krause was off duty. It was a rare moment with no sick men and no one in need of a shave. I was alone.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I'm here to see Clockert. Will he be back soon?”

Could this be an ambush? Was Van Plaes here to hurt me? But no, he was pressing his palm against his swollen cheek, in genuine pain and utterly uninterested in me.

“I believe so.”

“I'll wait, then.” Van Plaes sat down in Clockert's desk chair. He closed his eyes and leaned back, his head lolling over his lacy collar. “Can you give me something for the pain?”

His question took me by surprise. It was the first time anyone had asked me for help since my meeting with De Ridder.

“I'm sorry, sir. I think Master Clockert will want to look at you himself before prescribing treatment.”

“I was afraid you'd say that,” he slurred.

In the silence that followed, an idea began to take shape. Van Plaes was De Ridder's number one man. I didn't think I was imagining the captain's respect for him. What if I sent a warning to De Ridder through Van Plaes? If I helped the captain stave off a mutiny, would he allow me a favor in return?

As soon as the thought occurred to me, I felt ashamed. What lower form of life was there than an informer? But if the mutineers carried out their scheme, lives would be lost. As would my own, should I return to Holland. Perhaps there was a way to alert Van Plaes without informing on the mutineers outright.

“Do you not think, sir, that the ship has seemed out of sorts of late?”

Van Plaes groaned.

“It's almost as if the crew were preoccupied somehow.”

Silence.

“Or at odds with each other.”

Van Plaes swung his feet from Clockert's desk and sat up. “Whatever do you mean, Jochims?”

“Nothing, really.” I kept my tone light. “Only that it seems like there may be some kind of disagreement among the men, and perhaps”—I gave Van Plaes what I hoped was a knowing look—“the captain ought to be made aware of it.”

In two swift steps, Van Plaes was out of his chair and inches from me. He was a tall man. He towered over me. “And
perhaps,
” he said, “the captain
ought not to be bothered
.” He grabbed my chin. “
Perhaps
little girls should be seen and not heard.”

God's teeth, the first mate was a mutineer!

I backed away until I hit the wall, and Van Plaes stalked after me, black sunken eyes burning. This time he grabbed me by the throat. “You're a little rat, Miss De Winter—yes, I know who you are. And I know who sired you. You crawled onto this ship through some dark hole and hid yourself in corners, stealing our food, sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. And now the little rat is scurrying around going
squeak squeak squeak
. I'll show you what I do to pesky vermin who can't keep quiet.” He tightened his grip. I clawed at his fingers, but he only grabbed harder, lifting me off the ground. My feet scrabbled against the wall. The light spilling through the porthole grew dim.

“Best not dirty your hands, Van Plaes.”

Barometer Piet filled the doorway.

“This rat thinks I should tell the captain that the men are unhappy about something. What do you think, Piet?” Van Plaes spoke without turning around.

“I think you should leave the rat to me.”

Van Plaes loosened his hold enough so that my feet touched the floor. I wheezed a trickle of air through my swollen windpipe. Barometer Piet gazed at Van Plaes with dead eyes.

“She knows too much,” Van Plaes said. “Get rid of her. She'll talk.”

“It won't do to have her go missing. We don't want the captain asking questions. But don't you worry. She won't talk. Not after I finish with her.”

I looked for a sign that Piet was putting on a show for Van Plaes, but he didn't spare me a glance.

Van Plaes let go of my neck and straightened his immaculate clothes. Once again, he was first mate of the
Golden Lion
. “You're quite right, Mister Pietersen. This work is no business of mine. Kindly leave word for Master Clockert that I should like to see him in my cabin for a tooth extraction at his earliest convenience.”

He strode out of the sick bay.

“Piet—” I rasped, but Barometer Piet held up his hand.

“I ain't gonna touch you, Albert.”

I sagged with relief.

“Please, let me explain,” I said, unable to raise my voice above a whisper.

Piet poured water from a jug into a pewter cup and offered it to me. I drank it in one gulp. It burned.

“It don't matter,” he said, his soft gravelly voice sounding almost kind. Almost like his usual self. “It don't matter what your reasons were for nearly sending me and my mates to swing from the mast for mutiny. All that's behind us. You saved my life once, and I told you we wouldn't be square 'til I saved yours.”

The cup slipped from my hands and clattered on the floor.

“We're square now, girlie.
And you ain't gonna say
one word to anyone about anything
.” He pressed his calloused thumb against my lips. “'Cause the next time around, Barometer Piet won't be saving you. You got that?”

I parted my lips to speak, but Piet pressed his thumb harder. “Not. One. Word.”

He left and I raced to lock the door behind him. I leaned my forehead against the rough wood and felt as though my heart would beat its way out of my chest. How long would it take for word to spread among the mutineers? How many men were waiting to take my life if I stepped outside this cabin?

Footsteps approached. The latch rattled.

“Jochims. The door, if you wouldn't mind troubling yourself.”

Clockert.

Did he know? If the first mate could be part of the treachery, could the surgeon as well?

I opened the door just enough for Clockert to enter. He looked at me quizzically and then narrowed his eyes at the marks I knew must be on my neck.

“What has gone on here?” he demanded.

“Nothing, sir,” I said, nearly gagging on the lie. “Absolutely nothing.”