The Golden Cross (40 page)

Heer Van Dyck’s ketelbinkie was no boy.

The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. He punched Janszoon with his elbow. “The cartographer’s assistant—do you know his name?”

Janszoon stared at him as if he’d gone mad. “What?”

“The ketelbinkie’s name!” Witt demanded.

“Something Irish, I think. Erin—no, Aidan. What difference does it make?”

“No difference,” Dekker muttered. But it did make a difference—all the difference in the world. How could he have missed the truth? The girl he had sought—Aidan O’Connor—had been on board the
Heemskerk
all along. Practically under his nose, enjoying the protection of the old man and, evidently, the doctor as well.

Witt suppressed a smile and turned back to view the carnage. The natives swam like fish, and two of them had already stumbled from the waves to the shore, dragging a bewildered captive onto the sand. With merciless efficiency they lifted their clubs, beating
the man senseless, while their comrades pulled another stunned Dutchman from the surf.

Dekker looked to the
Heemskerk
—Tasman stood on the deck, his hands on the railing, his mouth closed. The man was either in shock or quite willing to let his men perish.

“This might be a good time to take action, Tasman,” Witt drawled under his breath. “None of your men will survive unless you do
something
.”

Almost as if Tasman had heard Witt’s mocking suggestion, a cannon unexpectedly thundered from the other ship. The
Zeehaen
resonated like a sounding-box to the crash of the
Heemskerk’s
sixteen-pounders, and the mountains echoed the sound—a curious dead thump, as low as thunder but surely more menacing to the natives’ ears. Tasman had undoubtedly hoped to frighten the natives away, but the struggles in the water grew more frenzied and agitated as the fearful savages attacked the invaders.

Witt leaned forward, bending to tweak Snuggerheid’s ear as yet another Dutchman was fished from the sea and pulled onto the beach. He resisted the urge to cheer. A sure bounty awaited him in Batavia—a rich reward for the deaths of the girl and the old man. And he hadn’t had to lift a finger.

One particularly burly savage dragged a fourth man onto the beach. Witt squinted through his spyglass and smiled to himself when he recognized the tall, bearded figure of Schuyler Van Dyck. That noble forehead was already cracked, his elegant beard and face marked with trails of blood. Now, where was the girl? He couldn’t see her on the beach. Maybe she had already drowned by the time the doctor got to her.

“Look there!” He felt a tug at his sleeve, and lowered his spyglass.

“Where?”

“A survivor.” Janszoon pointed to the water near the
Heemskerk
. A dark head bobbed through the gentle waves, and a dozen hands reached out from the railing.

Irritation raked up Dekker’s spine, and he jerked the spyglass up to his eye. “Can you tell who it is?”

Water streamed off the portly figure that struggled up the netting. The survivor had lost his hat, but wore an officer’s dark coat. “Visscher.” Dekker sighed and lowered the glass in relief. “How fortunate that the
Heemskerk
will not lose her pilot and first mate.”

“But what of the others?” Janszoon’s eyes swept the troubled waters. Nothing much remained of the barge—only a few broken pieces of wood floating forlornly over the breakers. A hat bobbed gently upon the tide, tossed from wave to wave as it steadily approached the shore.

“Time will tell if any survived,” Witt answered, glancing across to the
Heemskerk
. “But I do not think Tasman will want to remain in this inhospitable place for very long.”

Four hours after the attack, Sterling crawled steadily through the undergrowth toward Van Dyck’s body. The old gentleman had not stirred since the natives brought him ashore, but Sterling felt a physician’s obligation to make certain nothing could be done for his patient.

He’d been playing cat and mouse all afternoon. After the massacre in the water, the natives had returned to shore. The majority had left the beach, probably to return to their village, but a half-dozen lookouts remained, and Sterling doubted they would relax their vigilance until the two Dutch ships had departed from the harbor. And so he had crept through the brush all afternoon, trying to examine the bodies of men for whom he felt an acute responsibility, but for whom nothing could be done. The natives patrolled the beach in a random pattern, and Sterling had to wait until they had moved on before he could advance and inspect his fallen comrades.

Cautiously, lest any sound or movement attract the natives’ attention, Sterling furtively crept through the thinning brush,
then darted forward to the beach. When he ripped open Van Dyck’s doublet and pressed his cheek to the man’s cold, wet chest, his ear confirmed what his eye had already told him: the gentleman was undoubtedly dead, apparently killed by one crushing blow to the head. One arm lay at an unnatural angle, doubtless ripped from its socket in the frenzy of destruction, and one of the artist’s hands was missing—Sterling didn’t even want to suppose why.

Van Dyck, then, was the fourth murdered man. Also dead were the rowers, the carpenter, and the chaplain, each of whom Sterling had found, examined, and quietly moved to a less exposed location. Still missing were Van Dyck’s ward and Visscher, the first mate, though Sterling hoped the seaman had the good sense to swim back to the ship. The officer would most certainly be among the dead if the natives had found him. They had not hesitated to kill the men … he could only hope they would be less brutal with Aidan, who in a wet shirt and breeches was obviously female.

Sterling lifted Van Dyck’s arms and crossed them in a dignified posture of rest. He did not have time to bury any of the bodies, but since their souls had long since flown to their eternal resting places, proper burial was certainly not a priority at the moment. Only Aidan mattered now—and her speedy return to the
Heemskerk
. Sterling wasn’t certain how long Tasman would remain in these waters, or what he might do in reprisal for the attack. Indeed, Sterling would not be surprised if the cannons began to fire again to avenge the lost Dutchmen. The warning shot Tasman discharged during the attack had only agitated the incensed savages. What might they do to Aidan if Tasman began to bombard this beach with cannon fire?

Crouching low in shadows, Sterling turned from the water and studied the winding wisps of smoke that rose from a stand of trees beyond the beach. If Aidan was alive, she must be there. He closed his eyes and prayed for darkness to descend.

He never intended to sleep, but anxiety and exhaustion had drained his strength, and he fell into a shallow doze. When he abruptly awoke, the sunset had spread itself like a peacock’s tail, luminous and brilliant, across the western horizon. In a flurry of panic he looked toward the sea—the two ships still rode the tide like silent sentinels, their sails reefed and anchors set, waiting for—what? He fervently hoped they were waiting for him and Aidan.

Sterling licked his lips, tasting dried salt, sand, and the coppery tang of blood. Thirst burned his throat, but he could not take precious time to search for fresh water. If God was merciful, he could locate Van Dyck’s heiress and escort her back to the ship within an hour or two, then they could eat and drink their fill.

He stepped out from behind the leafy screen that had sheltered him and took his bearings. The ships filled the horizon at his left hand, the distant sound of drums came from the forest at his right. The native lookouts had moved closer together in a show of solidarity, and now sat as motionless as statues in the center of the beach, their eyes intent upon the dark blue bay.

Sterling moved carefully behind them, prowling like an alley cat, watching his shadow lengthen and finally disappear. He smiled in quiet relief when the rising moonlight revealed a worn footpath through the brush. Moving with the same silent tread he had used to evade his siblings in their games of hide-and-seek, Sterling followed the trail, fretting lest a single footfall snap a twig or rustle a leaf and expose his presence.

He wasn’t certain how long he walked—the interval felt like an eternity—but at length he reached a village of thatched huts. A series of black stone boulders had been set up as some sort of totem or monument, and Sterling moved silently up the rock formation and flattened himself against the rock at the top, studying the village from this elevated vantage point. A dozen large huts encircled a roaring fire, and over two hundred people danced,
sang, and chanted around the huge fire pit. Sterling could see no sign of Aidan in the surging crowd.

He climbed down from the rocks and raced in a low crouch to a dark and quiet spot between two of the huts. Some sort of cage, probably an animal trap, had been stashed there, and Sterling coiled into the flickering shadows behind it and peered out between the bamboo bars.

In the center of the village, a nearly naked warrior threw a bough on the fire, sending an eruption of sparks into the velvet sky. Huge tongues of flame leaped into the air, followed by a boiling cloud of dust and ash. Then Sterling saw Aidan, her pale complexion stark against the fire-tinted darkness.

Still clad in her white shirt and breeches, the heiress sat in a bamboo chair, her bare feet tied together at the ankles, her wrists bound in her lap. Her long braid had been loosened, and waves of red hair spilled over her shoulders in a coppery tide, fluttering in the heat and motion of the dancers. A wreath of spotless white flowers hung about her neck; others spilled from her lap onto the hard-packed earth at her feet. Her complexion had gone pale under her tan—pale as the flower petals that brushed her throat. But beneath that copper crown, her green eyes blazed like emeralds.

Sterling felt a reluctant grin tug at the corners of his mouth. These were fiercely savage people, but they still had sense enough to recognize a beautiful woman when they saw one. And, thank God, apparently they had not harmed her.

Judging by the dancers’ enthusiasm, this celebration—or whatever it was—had just begun. After eating, drinking, and making merry, the natives would certainly tire and fall asleep. Then, perhaps, he could free the girl.

He settled back, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible. “In purity and in holiness I will guard my life and my art,” he murmured. “Into whatsoever houses I enter, I will do so to help the sick, keeping myself free from all intentional wrongdoing and harm, especially from fornication with woman or man, bond or free …”

Aidan wasn’t exactly sick, but she certainly needed help, and long ago Sterling had sworn never to withhold assistance when it was within his power to give it. “Yet for her,” he whispered, entranced by the resolute and fearless expression on her face, “I would offer aid and support even if I had not sworn to do so.”

The memory of another promise—his betrothal—passed through him like an unwelcome chill, and the thought of substituting Lina Tasman’s lukewarm indifference for Aidan’s fiery passions made his throat ache with regret.

Sighing heavily, he rested his head on his crossed arms and tried to ignore the heavenly scent of roasting meat. His stomach churned, but he willed it to remain silent with the same strength of purpose that made him suppress his longings for the girl who now needed him. Later there would be time enough to eat and time enough for regrets—as long as a company of warring Dutchmen did not burst in upon this scene and disturb the tenuous peace.

Holy God
, he prayed, closing his eyes to block the unearthly scene before him,
give me wisdom. And prevent Abel Tasman from doing anything we would all regret
.