The Golden Cross

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Sterling looked back over his shoulder at the terraced rice fields that rose in the distance. After fruitlessly trying to win Carstens’s approval, he had gone to the nearest native village, reasoning that all people needed a doctor. But after encircling his neck with fragrant flowers and leading him to the chief’s hut, the smiling Javanese assured him that they preferred their own form of medicine. The chief, an affable fellow with piercing dark eyes and long brown hair, pointed to the Banyan tree that grew in the center of the village. “The spirits of health and life live dere,” he said, his English as weak as Sterling’s Dutch. “We have no need of white man’s medicine.”

  Sterling sipped from the aromatic punch someone had given him and pondered whether life in Batavia was worth trying to win the chief over. Undoubtedly it would take time before the natives could be convinced to trust Europeans, but time was something he did not have. He had arrived nearly penniless in this foreign place with only his wits, brains, and strength to sustain him. Winning the confidence of the Javanese might take years. He needed a position now.

  He had smiled his thanks to the chief, bowed, and distributed a few cookies—courtesy of Dr. Carstens’s housekeeper, who seemed to fancy Sterling a bit too much for his comfort—among some children playing in the sand.

  Sterling walked slowly back to the city, mulling over his limited options. Dr. Carstens wasn’t about to share his practice among the Dutch settlers with anyone. The natives clearly didn’t want a European physician. Only one other group in Batavia might benefit from his services—the sailors, barmaids, and drunks down at the wharf. They needed a doctor, probably more urgently than most of the folks who lived in the neat houses west of Market Street. But his chances of earning a living among them were about as remote as his odds with the natives.

  Pensively, Sterling gazed out across a land studded with coconut palms and palmettos. Myths and glorious legends about the riches of these islands had reached every country in Europe, and men had flocked to the ports to try their hand at establishing their own wealth. Sterling’s teachers had warned him that the Spice Islands were a virtual cesspool of humanity, and according to all he had seen thus far, the description seemed to aptly describe the wharf district. But why not treat those people? Lang Carstens wasn’t eager to offer his services to those folk. They were uprooted people, with no homes of their own, no sense of permanence—just like Sterling.

  Then the undeniable and dreadful fact struck him. He had no home, no office, no means of support. How could he treat anyone? Unless he stood on the corner like the strumpets of Broad Street, he had no way to even advertise his willingness to serve them.

  He paused beside a rice field and leaned against a palm tree. Two worlds—one high, one low—converged here: the prosperous and tidy merchants west of Market Street, the misfits of humanity on the east side. And Sterling, born into one group and thrust into the other, could think of no way to bridge the gap.

  His thoughts drifted back to the day he had arrived here. He’d been so eager to explore new horizons, to make a place of his own. In England, a single letter of recommendation from a friend’s friend might have opened the door to a lifelong association, but apparently such conventions were unknown, or at least unobserved, here in Batavia. So what was he to do?

  “You could sit down in a tavern and drink yourself senseless,” he muttered, watching a pair of sea gulls quarrel over some bit of food they’d plucked from the ground. “Or you could take yourself to a merchantman and give yourself over to a life of rope and sails.”

  A dark voice rippled through his memory—Witt Dekker bragging about his contacts. I know all the sea captains, and they all know me. And I can usually be found at the Broad Street Tavern or thereabouts.

  Sterling chewed on the inside of his lip and considered it. Why not go back to sea as a surgeon? Surely some captain would appreciate a man with the ability to do more than amputate limbs whenever the need arose. The Dutch East India Company was a vast enterprise, sending out merchant ships and expeditions nearly every month.

  Sterling allowed the idea to germinate within him. If he returned to the sea, he would have to steel himself against men like Witt Dekker. Unscrupulous and coarse they might be, but they would be his future patients. And unless he found a position as a doctor, he might very well be forced to become a common sailor, surrendering his scalpel for a needle and a pack of canvas thread.

  He sighed, then straightened his shoulders and pressed his hat more firmly upon his head. The Almighty had brought him this far. Wherever Sterling was to go, God would lead.

  “Like you always said, Papa,” he murmured, fixing his eyes on the rooftops of the city ahead, “what lies behind us and before us are insignificant matters compared to what lies within us. I believe there’s a lot in me—but we shall see, shan’t we?”

  The only answer from the quiet jungle around him was the continuous omnipresent buzz of the island mosquitoes.

  “Will you have a drink, lovey?” Lili asked, pulling a jug from behind the bar. The young sailor before her was already three sheets to the wind; he would not notice that this time his twenty stuivers bought more water than ale. “Shall I pour us both a drink?”

  Cocking his head to one side, the inebriated customer woodenly thrust his mug toward her, then gave her a sodden smile. “You’re beautiful, do you know that?”

  “Faith, and you’re a sweet lad for saying so,” Lili replied smoothly, sloshing liquid into two pewter mugs. She slid one toward the young sailor, then lifted the other and winked at him. “To you and me, love. To the joy of living.” As the peach-cheeked sailor lifted his mug and guzzled, Lili’s mind drifted to her daughter. There had been no word from Aidan since she left for Van Dyck’s house, and Lili feared that at any moment her daughter would come dragging back through the doorway, her exuberant hopes dashed forever.

  The drunken boy extended a hand toward the ruffle at Lili’s neck, his head falling down upon his arm as if it were suddenly too heavy for him to hold upright. “Can we go somewhere … together?” he croaked in a hoarse whisper. Lili smiled down at him and shook her head. The poor dear was scarcely a day over sixteen; what on earth had driven him to sea at such a tender age?

  Whatever his reasons, he would not have to fear her tonight. He was moments away from passing out. As soon as he closed his eyes Lili would have Bram carry the boy to the women’s room where he could sleep off his ale in peace. She’d make certain his pockets remained unmolested too. He could pay for his liquor; that was enough.

  “My wee love,” Lili murmured, running her hand through his sandy hair. At her touch his eyes rolled back in his head; he sighed as his head lolled blissfully, dully to the wooden bar. Lili looked up and waved for Bram’s attention, then pointed toward the unconscious boy. Bram grinned and came toward her, wiping his hands on the apron at his waist.

  Lili moved away from the bar, pressing her hands to the small of her back as she stretched and looked around for a new mark. She didn’t like being a procuress, but she had come to terms with her situation years ago. It was a degrading existence, and often brutal, but her life at the Broad Street Tavern was a far sight better than that of many women who worked for less understanding men than Bram.

  At least Bram’s establishment had a reputation for fair gaming, pretty women, and fine liquor. Bram had engaged the services of a group of Polish Jewish fiddlers who played from four in the afternoon to eleven at night. Pausing only to take an occasional drink, the musicians were kept busy by the seamen who demanded to hear “The East Indies Rose Tree,” “A Parsley Posey,” and the foot-stomping “Cabbage Salad” dance. On Fridays and Saturdays, when the Jews observed the Sabbath, a small harmonium kept the music flowing and the atmosphere cheerful.

  The door swung open, spilling a horde of seamen into the tavern on a tide of chatter and shouting. Lili turned to examine the newcomers. Most were Dutch sailors, tall, robust, and stout, dressed in white shirts and navy trousers, with the whiff of sea salt u
pon them and the mark of the sun upon their reddish-brown faces and forearms. They flowed through the room toward the bar, one or two pausing on the way to finger Orabel’s silky hair or catch a fleeting glimpse of her smile.

  Lili pressed her fingers to her own hair, checking to be sure her curls remained in place, then froze as a tall, elegant male figure filled the doorway.

  Now this was a man—and as luck would have it, Aidan was not here to meet him. The man standing on the threshold was dressed in a fine embroidered doublet and breeches, worn but of good quality. Still, his manner caught Lili’s eye even more than his fine clothing. His well-groomed appearance was incongruous with his suntanned skin, for gentlemen did not sun themselves … unless they had just come over aboard a ship. Like a moth to a flame, Lili found herself drawn to him. But Orabel was faster.

  Orabel had already slipped her hand through the stranger’s arm by the time Lili reached him. “Can Sweet Kate be helping you at all, sir?” the girl asked, her voice sweet and high above the noise of the tavern. “Spreekt u Engels?”

  “Yes, I speak English,” the man answered, a wave of blond hair falling casually across his forehead as he removed his hat. Good looks and manners too! Lili reached out for the man’s other arm just as Orabel opened her mouth to speak again.

  “Good evening, sir,” Lili said firmly, with a warning look in Orabel’s direction. “I am Lady Lili, mistress of the Broad Street Tavern. What is your pleasure this fine night? Bram has music, food, and gaming to offer, if you’re of a mind to play and have a few pennies to wager.” She looked up into his dark blue eyes and smiled. “And if you’re new in town and lonely, there are girls aplenty who’d keep you company for a drink or two. You have only to tell me what sort of girl you like.”

  The man looked down, and Lili saw that the tops of his ears had begun to redden. “Actually, I am looking for a man called Witt Dekker. We sailed together aboard the Gloria Elizabeth.”

  “I know Witt,” Orabel chimed in, tightening her grip upon the man’s arm. “He’s playing cards in yonder corner. Let me take you to him.”

  She caught Lili’s eye with a questioning glance. Lili nodded slightly and released the handsome stranger. She might as well let Orabel have him. Though he was handsome and well bred, any man who blushed to find himself in the company of women like Orabel and Lili wouldn’t want to marry one.

  Sighing, Lili patted her hair, checking her curls again, then smoothed the bodice of her gown and looked about for another easy mark.

  You are a surgeon.” Abel Tasman, the man behind the desk, folded his hands across his stomach and looked at Sterling through a small pair of spectacles. The sea captain was still a young man, not yet forty. He was a small-sized fellow, but solid through the torso and shoulder, and the sea captain’s uniform became him. He wore his brown hair in a simple style, parted in the center and falling without curl or ribbons to brush the top of his wide collar. Wide brown eyes dominated his face, balanced by a thin brown moustache that rode his upper lip like an afterthought.

  “Yes, I am.” Sterling lowered his hat to his lap and tapped it, trying to make his point. “I came here to set up a medical practice, but Dr. Carstens will not—well, he does not think it practical for two physicians to work in Batavia. He believes there is not enough sickness to keep two men occupied.”

  A flash of humor crossed Tasman’s face. “Well, you have sailed once, so you know there is plenty aboard ship to keep a physician busy.” Leaning forward in his chair, the sea captain glanced at Dekker, who sat beside Sterling, and inclined his head in a small gesture of acknowledgment. “Dekker says you worked very well aboard the Gloria Elizabeth. And I have read the letter of recommendation from King Charles’s personal physician.” He turned back to Sterling, regarding him with a speculative gaze. “Dekker is not a man easily impressed, nor am I. But I must admit, Dr. Thorne, that I am inclined to believe you a good surgeon and an honest gentleman.”

  Sterling smiled tentatively and tried to summon up a feeling of gratitude as Dekker stood up and took his leave of the captain. He hated being indebted to a man like Witt Dekker, but at the moment he had no other options. Returning to sea was a logical choice. He would have honest work that paid well, particularly if they discovered gold or took a prize on the journey, and he would be gone for some time, perhaps as long as a year.

  “I would, ah—relish the opportunity to return to sea.” He forced the stubborn half-truth from his tongue, then added, quite truthfully, “Batavia has proved to be a difficult place in which to make a new start. And while Dr. Carstens has been most hospitable, he is not willing to take on an associate. Perhaps if I go to sea, I might find him more inclined to accept me upon my return.”

  Tasman lifted an eyebrow at this, but he let the remark about Carstens pass. “Well then,” he said, idly scratching his neck as he shifted his gaze toward the window, “we are planning to sail sometime in mid-August. I trust you will have accommodations until then?”

  Sterling hesitated. He might as well be honest, for he had no other options. “Actually, sir,” he said after a pause, “I fear I may have outworn my welcome in the good doctor’s house. If there is a barracks, or some place where you allow the seamen to sleep—”

  “The sailors sleep on their ships or in the flophouses at the wharf,” Tasman answered, “but something tells me you would not be comfortable in a flophouse.” He lowered his hands, folded them, and looked at Sterling with a curious, self-satisfied gleam in his eye. “How old are you, Dr. Thorne?”

  Sterling blinked at the unexpected question. “Thirty, sir. I’ve had experience, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Married?”

  “Um, no.” What sort of interview was this? “And you’re English. Well, we can’t hold that against you, can we?” The captain’s expression grew suddenly animated. “Since you have an honest face and King Charles’s physician to recommend you, sir, we will be pleased to take you aboard as ship’s surgeon and doctor. And you shall not have to worry about finding a place to sleep until we depart. I shall have my own dear wife make up the guest room, and you shall stay at my house.”

  “Your house, sir?” Sterling looked up, surprised.

  “Indeed, yes.” The captain stood, his hands jerking downward on his doublet to smooth the fabric. “We’ll expect you for dinner tonight. Six o’clock, please. You’ll meet my wife and my daughter, Lina.”

  Sterling stood and bowed, wondering what he had done to deserve such generosity. “I thank you, sir. I will be prompt.”

  “The honor, Doctor,” Tasman answered, a dark light sparkling in his brown eyes, “is all mine.”

  Abel Tasman’s home, Sterling discovered, was located three blocks from Dr. Carstens’s house, secure within the prosperous area of town. After knocking and being greeted by the housekeeper, Sterling found himself in a square room, the voorhuis, or receiving lobby. Maps of the East Indian Dutch possessions hung on the east and west walls, advertising Tasman’s connection and illustrious position within the V.O.C. A large landscape and at least a dozen other paintings hung in the same small room, a density of visual decoration that indicated more art was to be found in the rest of the house.

  The Dutch, Sterling had noticed, were fond of ornamentation, and paintings in particular. Every wall was apportioned to display as much artwork as possible, and a man of Tasman’s stature obviously felt compelled to display—in gilt frames—as many paintings as he could afford.

  After leaving him alone for a few moments—the better for him to appreciate the vast collection of artwork, Sterling supposed—a serving maid led him into a room off to the right of the front lobby. Rich tapestries hung on two walls of this room, and in the center twelve chairs stood around a massive ebony table. Just as Sterling caught sight of his own startled reflection in a gilt-framed mirror large enough to encompass the entire room, Abel Tasman entered from another doorway, his eyes alight with expectation, his hands raised in welcome. “Dr. Thorne! I am so glad y
ou have come.”

  With the grace of a man completely at ease in his own home, Tasman pulled out the chair at the head of the table and indicated that Sterling should take the chair at his right. “I hope you don’t mind the informality, but we are dining en famille tonight.” He gave Sterling a broad grin. “My wife and daughter are the only guests. Since I am literally placing my life and health in your hands on this upcoming voyage, I thought it only right that my loved ones should meet you.”

  “I assure you, sir, this is quite formal enough to suit me.” His eyes drifted over the table, laid with silver tableware and fine porcelain. “After dining on hardtack and dried beef for so many weeks, I will find anything your cook prepares to be quite sumptuous.”

  “Of course. But on the Heemskerk, you must dine with me in my cabin. And while I would never wish to disparage the English, I think I am safe in saying that we Dutch provide a great deal more for our sailors in the way of victuals. I am certain you will find the food aboard the Heemskerk much more enjoyable than hardtack and dried beef.”

  “That would be a blessing,” Sterling admitted.

  The rustle of silk and satins broke through the thread of their conversation, and Sterling looked up to see two women at the threshold of the room. The first woman, a tall, thin lady with her dark hair pulled tightly under her cap, looked out at him with the directness of a hawk.

  “Ah!” Tasman jumped to his feet. “Dr. Thorne, meet my wife, Jannetje.” While Sterling murmured pleasantries, the woman stared at him like a cat sizing up a mouse for dinner. Without answering, she moved quickly to the seat at her husband’s left hand.