The Golden Cross (37 page)

The dull rumble of thunder broke into her thoughts. “Rain,” Sterling said, loosening his grip slightly as he glanced out toward the sea. She looked and saw sullen masses of clouds on the horizon, briefly veined with lightning, bringing in an afternoon storm.

She pressed her hands to his chest, reluctant to have the moment end. “You know how to swim,” she said matter-of-factly, desperate to continue the conversation. “How did you learn?”

“My brothers and I swam in a lake near our farm.” Gently, he took her hands in his own and led her through the water. “And now we must get ashore, and you must dry off.” A reluctant grin tugged at his mouth. “Though I know you fancy yourself invincible, I am of the opinion that a cool wind and wet clothing bring on the ague, and I’d hate to see you get sick.”

He released her hands as they passed the breakers and stumbled up onto the sand, but she pulled at his wet sleeves, unwilling to let the magic moment pass. He had accused her of obeying her
slightest inclinations, and a particularly strong one now gripped her imagination.

“Doctor,” she said, digging her heels into the sand.

“Yes?” He bent to pick up his cloak from where he’d dropped it on the beach, then looked at her with patient amusement. “Are you cold? Here, let me put this around you.”

Expertly, he snapped the sand from his cloak, then unfurled the garment around her shoulders, tying it below her quivering chin. Aidan studied his face as he worked; then, without thinking, she laced her hands behind his neck and searched his warm eyes. They stood together for a long moment, breathing each other’s breath, then Aidan closed her eyes as Sterling Thorne gently bent his head and kissed her. His tender lips were warm and salty, and his mouth moved across hers with a hunger that belied his outward calm. For a long moment they stood there, two souls joined by the sea, then his lips left hers and moved across her cheek. He pressed her head to his shoulder, his fingers entwined among the loose hair above her braid.

“Forgive me,” he said, his voice trembling. He would not look at her, but placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her away. “You are a fine lady, and I have forgotten myself.” He looked past her toward the looming clouds in the distance. “Please, let us forget this ever happened. This will be a long voyage, and I am betrothed to another woman.”

She listened with rising dismay, then turned away and staggered up the beach. She had seen enough of the real world to know how men acted when they desired a woman. The men she knew from Bram’s tavern would not have hesitated to take her body, heart, and soul in the instant she put her arms around them, yet she had never offered herself to anyone else. She was fool enough to yearn for
this
man, and he did not want her. He could make all the excuses in the world about treating her like a lady, but the fact was he didn’t want her.

The rejection stung Aidan’s soul, and she shivered, suddenly
chilled as the sun disappeared behind the encroaching clouds. The heavy sand pulled at her knees and ankles, slowing her down. But she could not delay, for Sterling Thorne’s faint shadow stretched behind her.

“Do not fear my attentions, Doctor,” she snapped, not looking back over her shoulder. “I doubt that I will have cause to be in your company again. ’Tis certain I will not choose it.”

Humiliation coursed through her, and she tugged at the string of his cloak, loosening it until it fell from her shoulders. Without its weight, she moved more quickly. As she hurried away, she pulled her heavy braid over her shoulder and squeezed it, hard. She’d like to squeeze Sterling Thorne’s heart right now. But she’d get more seawater from her clothes and hair than she could get blood from his heart.

O
n October 8, 1642, the
Heemskerk
and the
Zeehaen
sailed from Mauritius, heading for the fifty-second parallel. Adhering to Van Diemen’s plan, Tasman intended to sail south until he reached fifty-two or fifty-four degrees south latitude, searching for the rumored southern continent. The ships encountered masses of seaweed and drifting logs, a certain sign of land, but a cold and dense fog soon convinced Tasman to change course. After checking the position of the southern constellations, Tasman ordered his pilot, Visscher, to plot an eastern course on the fortieth parallel. He returned to his cabin in morose silence.

For three weeks Aidan had sat in her own cabin and struggled to paint several insect specimens Heer Van Dyck had collected upon Mauritius. He was eager for her to perfect her watercolor techniques, for he was firm in his belief that they would soon discover an important unexplored continent. His own map lay spread on the table, with penciled grid lines marking latitude and longitude, awaiting only the actual coordinates of the unsighted land. But day after day passed with only bitterly cold winds, obscuring fog, and temperamental storms to mark their advance.

On November 24, after weeks of difficult sailing along the fortieth parallel, a lookout in the crow’s nest cried out, “Land ho!” Aidan, along with every man aboard the two ships, spilled out to the deck, straining to see through the turbid mist that brooded over the waters like a vengeful spirit. The land rising in the distance appeared to be another mountainous island, of definite
shape and a goodly size. Heer Van Dyck assured her it was uncharted. This was no unknown continent, but it was a sizeable piece of property, and now a Dutch possession.

The old gentleman fairly glowed with the prospect of exploration and darted back into the cabin to prepare his supplies. “Hurry, Aidan,” he called through the doorway. “Make yourself ready! Captain Tasman will want to send a party ashore!”

But Abel Tasman was not as intrepid as Heer Van Dyck imagined. Aidan watched as the captain stood on deck and surveyed his discovery. He stood motionless, one arm crossed defensively across his chest, the other holding his finger to his lips, restraining the order to lower the barges for a landing party. The weather had worsened since they moved closer to shore, and the heavy clouds overhead now churned in the pulsing breaths of the wind.

Aidan moved to the rail, shivering as a tremor of fear and anticipation shot through her. The cold wind needled her flesh through her stockings and stirred the fog over the water.

This was the moment she had waited for. If she were to rise in the world, she’d have to do the work she’d been gifted to do. But how could she step out into this hostile environment? She had dreamed of exploring a quiet, sunny beach where friendly natives waved welcomes and roasted wild boars in honor of their arrival—not this alien stillness.

The densely forested mountains of the unknown island could be hiding a great many
unfriendly
natives. Aidan scanned the shore as the ships turned and sailed slowly down the coast. Ostensibly searching for a safe harbor, each man aboard the two ships also searched for any sign of life.

“There!” One sailor gestured to a group of trees near a shallow stretch of beach. “Look, Captain! See the marks on the trunk of that tree!”

“How high up would you say those marks are?” Tasman pulled his spyglass from his pocket, pressed it to his eye, and squinted toward the shoreline. “Six, eight feet?”

“At least twice the height of a man, Captain,” Visscher answered. His seamed face lengthened in a scowl as he pointed to another clearing. “Look at that palm. There are notches at least five feet apart. Such markings could only have been made by a race of giants.”

“Or a band of monkeys,” Aidan murmured to herself. She didn’t believe in giants, but she’d heard that the natives near Batavia could shimmy up tall coconut palms with remarkable ease. What was to prevent these island dwellers from doing the same thing?

“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.