The Golden Cross

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “A punch?” Aidan burst out, shocked. She straightened and lifted her chin. “Whatever for? I’ve never hit anyone in my life!”

  “Women don’t generally fight.” Van Dyck rubbed his bearded chin. “Though I’ve heard that some of those poor souls down at the workhouse get into it now and again. But you most certainly will have to prove yourself. And though it will be over quickly, the important thing is that you do not run away. Stand there like a man, take the punch or two that’s thrown, and throw one back if you can. I thought I could show you a thing or two, that’s why I brought you out to the barn. The hay is soft; it will cushion your fall.”

  As Aidan watched in amazement, Van Dyck dropped his cane and lifted his fists, holding them in front of his face like a back-alley brawler. When she did not move, he jerked his head abruptly and shook his fists at her. “Come now, dear, I won’t hurt you. But this is important. Please consider it just another lesson.” He circled slowly in the barn, raring to go. “Please. Come.”

  The artist Van Dyck was an ever-changing mystery. Shaking her head, Aidan slowly left the wall and moved to the open space before her master.

  “Bend your knees a little,” he said, frowning at her skirt. He bobbed his head in satisfaction when she bent her knees and the material creased. “That’s good. Now—drat those skirts, I can’t see a thing—spread your feet apart enough that you have a wide base. Think of yourself as a statue, a solid sculpture. You must have a good base upon which to balance yourself.”

  “All right.” Aidan spread her feet shoulder-width apart, then moved in tiny, shifting steps, mirroring her master.

  “That’s good.” His voice rang with approval as she bobbed and shuffled in the hay. “Of course it will be easier when you’re wearing trousers. You’ll feel as light as a bird then, and you’ll likely be quicker than any sailor. The heavy ones tend to be slow and clumsy—remember that.” With a distracted nod, he returned her smile. “Now. Put your hands up like mine.”

  Laughing, she did as he ordered, mimicking his positions exactly, even as he moved over the straw in a hopping motion. She’d seen lots of fights in the bar between drunks, but those sloshing fools did little but smash each other over the head with chairs and clubs. This light footwork was quick and lively, almost like a dance. This she could learn to enjoy!

  “Drat these skirts!” she mumbled. “You’ll forgive me, sir, if I can’t keep up with you—”

  “Don’t mind your feet now, look at my hands,” he instructed. “Use your feet to sidestep your opponent, to keep him off his guard. But when you intend to land a blow, plant your feet firmly on the floor and keep your eyes locked upon your opponent’s. Anything is legal, my dear—stomping kicks to the feet, a straight punch to the nose—the bigger the nose, the better the target—and, if you’re really in danger, remember to poke a finger in your foe’s eye. But to quickly rid yourself of a noisome pest—” He paused and lowered his voice to a secretive whisper. “Nothing defeats a swift kick to the groin.”

  Aidan stopped suddenly, resisting the urge to throw her head back in a great peal of laughter. He had just told her what every tavern maid knew by instinct.

  “All right now, no time for dallying.” Van Dyck lifted his fists again. “Use one hand to punch, keep the other high to protect your lovely little face. There—that’s good. Now let’s pretend. I’ll take a jab at you, slowly, and you bring your arm up to block it. There—no, too slow. Try again. You see, I’m coming in with my right hand, so you must lift your left arm to block me.”

  Biting her lip, Aidan whirled slowly and played along. After a moment or two she discovered that she had a gift for this sort of thing. “You know, sir,” she called, dodging his blow with her arm, then playfully tapping the end of his nose with her fist, “I think I’ve got it!”

  “Right,” he answered, tossing another blow and checking it just as it landed short of her ear. “You’ll have no problem if you face a sixty-two-year-old tormentor who fights in slow motion.”

  He ducked suddenly as her arm came from out of nowhere, but his reflexes were not what they had been in younger days. Her fist struck his cheek, and her squeal of dismay filled the air as the blow sent him reeling in the straw.

  Sterling walked slowly over the cobblestones, his thoughts wrapped around the difficult situation into which he had blundered. He hadn’t meant to propose to Lina Tasman; in retrospect he seemed to recall that the idea had been suggested, approved, and voted on before he could even voice his opinion of it. Abel Tasman, of course, had been the one to broach the topic of a union between his daughter and his new surgeon, and Jannetje Tasman, to Sterling’s complete surprise, had enthusiastically endorsed the idea. She and Lina would plan the wedding while the men were at sea, the lady said, and as soon as the Heemskerk returned, Lina and Sterling would be married and establish a household in Batavia.

  Tasman’s suggestion had swiftly progressed from idea to confirmed betrothal, but Sterling had not objected. Lina Tasman was not a great beauty, but she was certainly quiet and pleasant. She did not speak unless spoken to, and her answers were well-formulated and voiced in a pleasant tone. She was slender, with brown hair that sparkled in the lamplight and large brown eyes like a doe’s. She would undoubtedly bear him many children with eyes as dark as hers, and they would have a pleasant life as Doctor and Mistress Thorne in Batavia.

  The marriage certainly seemed to answer his current problems. With Tasman’s sponsorship and his new bride’s dowry, he would have the means to establish a practice in Batavia, Dr. Carstens be hanged. Within a year he’d be able to send for one of his brothers—whichever one had managed to elude the matrimonial plotting of Ernestina Martin. His grand plans, doomed to failure only a few days ago, vibrated now with new life and hope.

  The cost? Several months of his life on a voyage and marriage to this shy girl. At least Lina Tasman was not the simpering fool that Ernestina Martin had been; he was certain he could endure and perhaps even enjoy marriage to the captain’s daughter. Of all the girls in Batavia he could consider for a wife, surely there were dozens less pleasing than Miss Tasman.

  And he would enter this marriage with his eyes open. Immediately after dismissing his wife and daughter after dinner on the night of their first meeting, Abel Tasman had made it clear why he wanted Sterling for a son-in-law. “You may think it strange that I should offer you my daughter’s hand on such short notice,” he said, swirling his goblet as he regarded Sterling over the dining table. “After all, though Witt Dekker spoke well of you, I scarcely know you. But I know you are no simpleton; you are too well-spoken. You are obviously ambitious, else you would not have journeyed across the ocean to establish a place in this colony.”

  “The question did occur to me,” Sterling answered, running his hands over the fine damask tablecloth. “You should know, sir, that I am not a man of great means. I have come here to make my fortune, not to transport it.”

  “I like you primarily because you are not Jan Van Oorschot,” Tasman answered abruptly, slamming his hand upon the table. “That youth has been calling upon my daughter for many months now, and I will not allow that union. If you are betrothed to my Lina while we are at sea, honor will keep her safely inside the house, and decency will keep young Jan away. I can leave safely, knowing that rascal will not steal my daughter from beneath my nose.”

  “Does she love this man?” Sterling frowned, confused. “She is a child; she knows nothing of love.” Tasman smiled, but his smile held only a shadow of its former warmth. “She will marry whomever her mother and I tell her to marry. And you, Doctor, are a fine and ambitious young man. Someday—” He spread his hands to indicate the room in which they sat.—“all this will be yours and Lina’s. But I could never rest in my eternal peace thinking of that worthless youth sitting in this house.”

  Sterling shrugged to hide his confusion. “I think I understand, sir.”

  Tasman lifted his glass as if to make a toast. “So—to you and Lina, who will mak
e a fine couple.”

  And then he had tilted back his glass and drunk deeply, while Sterling sipped from his goblet, weighing this new development.

  A week ago he had nothing but hope and experience; now he had prospects, a betrothed bride, and a future. God, give me the courage to face whatever lies ahead. Thrusting his hands behind his back, he lifted his eyes from the cobblestone road to the mountainous beauty beyond the rooftops of the tidy town. This place was like heaven; he could think of nothing like it in all of Europe. Gauzy clouds drifted before the face of the mountains while birds sang in the trees and insects hummed. If all went according to Tasman’s plan, this tropical paradise would soon be his permanent home.

  But was the price too dear? Could he marry this young girl, suspecting that she had feelings for another? Love took time to grow, his mother had once told him, and you could love anyone if you committed your will to it. Jesus, after all, had loved us, while we were the most unlovely sinners ….

  But love, he argued with himself, lowering his eyes to the cobbled road again, shouldn’t have to be forced. Surely affection could grow into love, just as liking grew into affection, but he wasn’t certain that he even liked Lina Tasman. Still, one day he would take her hand and lead her into a bridal chamber where they would become one for the rest of their earthly lives.

  At least Lina had a brain and the will to use it, he reminded himself. Though quiet, she was nothing at all like Ernestina, who prattled endlessly about nothing. Lina was thoughtful, at least.

  He stopped again, shocked by a sudden elusive thought he could not quite catch. Something moved at the corner of his eye, and ringing shouts filled the silence of the afternoon. Turning slightly, he looked across a well-kept garden to a barn, where an old man and young woman grappled in the sunlight, the man repeatedly reaching out as if to strike the young woman in the face.

  “You there! Stop at once!” Without thinking, Sterling vaulted the low stone fence and sprinted across the expanse of garden grass, lowering his shoulder until he hit the old man squarely in the gut. Amid a great screaming and screeching the old man went down, then the tussling began in earnest as some sort of harridan landed upon his back, small fists pummeling his neck in a frantic sort of rhythm.

  “Get off him! Stop it!” the woman shouted, and Sterling pulled himself upright long enough to see an expression of absolute horror upon the old man’s bearded face. Sterling turned sideways to see what sort of witch rode his shoulders, but a stern command from the older gentleman halted the girl’s tirade.

  “Stop! At once!” the old man wheezed. “Get away and leave this to me!”

  From behind his ear, Sterling heard the girl gasp, then she flew off his shoulders as swiftly as a bird. Sterling would have followed her, but the older man firmly grasped his doublet and hung on with the tenacity of a terrier.

  “Leave her be!” the old man demanded. Streams of sweat ran from his forehead. “And let me up, will you? Hand me my cane; it lies on the ground behind you.”

  Stunned, Sterling rose and extended his hand, helping the old man to his feet, then retrieved the man’s cane. From the quality of the man’s clothing and manner Sterling knew immediately that this was not a fight between a groom and a maid, as he had first thought. This man wore the clothing and dignity of a gentleman, while the woman—where had she gone?

  Sterling turned and looked around, but the sprite had vanished. All he had managed to see in the midst of the brouhaha was a slender figure and a flash of red hair beneath a cap.

  “I apologize, sir, if I have injured you,” Sterling forced a note of iron into his voice, “but you must understand that I felt it my duty to come to the aid of a young woman. Although ’tis obvious she was not much hurt—”

  “She is not hurt at all; I am the one with a bruised cheek and a swollen nose,” the old man croaked, tenderly brushing his red nose with trembling fingers. He looked up, then gripped his cane and gave Sterling a forced smile and a tense nod of dismissal. “We thank you for your attention, sir, and wish you good day.”

  “Sir—” Sterling paused. What eccentric old men did to while away their afternoons was really none of his business, but engaging in fisticuffs with a young woman, no matter how adept she was, was not a fitting entertainment for any gentleman. “Sir, if you would pardon my curiosity, what just happened here?” Sterling crossed his arms and widened his stance, making it clear that he would not leave without a word of explanation.

  The older gentleman frowned, then pursed his lips. “What happened here?” He brought his hand to his neat white beard, then lifted his eyes to the sky, as if the answer might appear there. “That’s a good question,” he murmured in Dutch, probably assuming that Sterling did not speak the language. He mumbled softly, as if speaking to himself. “How do I explain it? The truth won’t do, and a lie would seem false no matter carefully stated.”

  After a moment he lowered his gaze, gave Sterling a broad smile, and responded in English: “There is no explanation, sir, that I can give.” He shifted his heels together and bowed with formal grace. “I thank you for your noble intentions, but you can be certain I never intended to hurt the young lady.”

  “Then pray have a care for yourself, sir,” Sterling answered, not moving. “I seem to recall the young lady punching at you.”

  “Did you now?” The old man tilted his head and chuckled slightly, wheezing as he drew a deep breath. “That’s good,” he mumbled in Dutch. “Oh, that’s very good. Very credible, I must say, and after only one lesson. Of course one never knows how a situation will go in the heat of the moment, but still, that’s very good.”

  Ignoring Sterling, the old man turned to walk toward the house.

  “Sir!” Sterling called, more bewildered than ever. “I must have your word that you will not engage in this sort of thing again! I cannot leave the young lady if she will be in danger here.”

  “She’s in no danger, sir.” The old gentleman rocked slowly on his hips as if they were stiff. “No more than I am, at least. Now good day.”

  Sterling waited without moving until the old man disappeared into the house, then scratched his head and looked into the open barn. Nothing moved inside but four horses, their tails moving in rhythm, swatting horseflies away. He could see nothing of the young woman.

  With a heavy sigh Sterling turned and moved back toward the garden wall. He’d stumbled onto a pair of eccentrics, maybe even lunatics. Perhaps the heat of this place got to everyone eventually.

  He stepped over the garden wall and thought of supper waiting at Tasman’s house, where his silent bride-to-be would watch him eat and drink and say nothing. Lately her watchful dark eyes made him as nervous as a cat.

  Perhaps it was good that he’d soon be sailing away on an extended voyage.

  From her hiding place behind the hibiscus hedge, Aidan watched the stranger move away. When he had climbed back over the garden wall and moved down the street, she stood and crept back toward the barn. Her heart stirred with emotions she had thought long dead, and she needed a moment of quiet to sort through them all.

  She recognized him almost instantly. He was the handsome man she’d spotted walking along the wharf weeks ago with his gunnysack over his shoulder, the one who walked with the peculiar heavy gait of one who’d just come ashore. His striking face had remained in her mind, and this was the stranger she’d sketched for Heer Van Dyck that day in the tavern. He was still a stranger, but what a man!

  How heroic he was! Supposing her in danger, he had leaped the wall and come to her rescue without a moment’s thought, nearly imperiling Schuyler’s plan. Of course her master could have truthfully explained their situation, but the upper crust of Batavia was a close-knit community. If even one person learned of Aidan’s intended disguise, it was a sure bet the entire colony would buzz of it before the expedition set sail.

  Who was he? Aidan was quite sure she’d never seen him at the tavern. He’d seemed quite gallant, really, the way he hurled himself at He
er Van Dyck and forced the older man to the ground. He was an Englishman, judging by his voice, and educated, for his manners and speech hinted at a genteel background. He was too down-to-earth for an aristocrat, but he was no ruffian either.

  One of the horses whinnied softly, and Aidan reached into a bin for a handful of oats and lifted her cupped hand to the horse’s soft mouth. As the gelding’s lips tickled her palm, she smiled at the thought of her handsome rescuer. How Lili would love this story! She’d have the stranger pegged as a possible husband for Aidan within five minutes of meeting him, but Aidan had never needed a husband less than she did at this moment.

  The horse ran his velvety mouth over Aidan’s arm, searching for more oats, and she scolded him gently as she wiped her hand on her skirt. From this point forward, she would have to put away all thoughts of Lili, the other girls, and the tavern. She was about to become a boy in order that she might become a lady, and she couldn’t afford to be distracted by romantic notions of heroes who leaped over garden walls. She had a plan, and she would have to see it through no matter what happened.

  “If you are ever going to become respectable,” she told herself, leaning against the stall as blue-veiled twilight began to creep into the barn, “you can’t think of anything else.”

  Schuyler Van Dyck

  What is there that confers the noblest delight?

  What is that which swells a man’s breast with pride above that which

  any other experience can bring to him?

  Discovery!

  To know that you are walking where none others have walked;

  That you are beholding what human eye has not seen before;

  That you are breathing a virgin atmosphere…