by Rosa Jordan
Once Mary’s hair was in braids, Mira wound them round and round her head and pinned them in place. Then she held up a looking glass. Mary had never seen herself in a glass before, although of course she had some idea of her image from having, on a few occasions, gazed into a reflecting pool. The face in the mirror interested her as might the face in a painting, for it possessed many details which she would not have attributed to herself; most notably, the deep clear blue of the eyes and, thanks to constant exposure to the sun, skin quite as dark as that of the Indonesian girl. By contrast, the hair, bleached by that same sun, was much lighter than she imagined hers to be.
The image was, in fact, that of a beautiful woman—more beautiful than Mary had ever been in her life or would likely ever be again. But this above all she failed to register. As a child she had been attended and pampered, much as Charlotte had been on their voyage, but no one had ever spoken of her appearance, at least not in her hearing. Nor had it been a topic of conversation between her and her parents as she grew older. At home as on shipboard, it was her quickness to learn that they remarked on, or her skill in performing a given task. She had never been courted or even had girlfriends during her youth, so the comparisons and competitions that permeate those circles were unknown to her. Physical attentions foisted on her after her arrest seemed a factor of male lust, unrelated to physical charms. In the colony, with so few women about, even hags like Cass and others much more worn out were constantly in demand, suggesting that the only attribute that mattered was the fact that they were female. Will himself had never offered Mary a single compliment beyond one on the crossing, when he had told her her Cornwall accent helped assuage his loneliness.
Certainly Mary’s self-esteem had grown in the past two months, fostered by James’s open expressions of admiration, by the respect of the others, and by her own assessment of an escape well-planned and executed. But in no instance had any of that to do with her appearance. Thus it was hardly surprising that Mary neither registered the mirrored image as that of a lovely woman nor would have given it any importance if she had.
However, she had no time to reflect on her reflection, for yet another servant arrived with a garment which appeared to be a simple tube of light cotton fabric. The dominant colour was burnt umber, with intricate designs woven or dyed into it.
“This kain panjang; you wear now,” Mira announced.
Mira helped her don the long sarong which, when firmly tied above her breasts, left her shoulders bare. Back in England Mary might have felt immodest to have so much of her upper body exposed, but after three years of wearing skimpy shifts made from burlap bags in which rice or flour had been transported to the colony, a gown of simple design and so well-suited to the heat of the tropics felt perfectly natural. Still, recalling the frown of the man who had stared down from the upper balcony as they waited in the courtyard, Mary wondered if the costume covered enough for European sensibilities.
As if reading her mind, Mira draped a gaily printed length of light cotton fabric around Mary’s shoulders. “Seledang,” she called the garment. “This you wear for meet the gouverneur.”
“What about . . .?” Mary pointed to her feet. Her only pair of shoes had fallen apart at least two years ago. Although her small feet had not widened as a result of going barefoot, the soles had grown as tough as leather.
“Ah, I forget!” Mira clapped a hand to her forehead. Then, sizing up Mary’s feet and judging them to be about the same as her own, she stepped out of her slippers. Giggling like a schoolgirl, she placed them on Mary’s feet. Mary herself began to laugh, partly from pent-up tension at being in such strange surroundings and confronted with so many unfamiliar customs, but also because she sensed in Mira something of what Colleen had been to her: a fellow female conspirator; a sister.
Mary had some misgivings about leaving the children, but Mira insisted that they remain with the servants, which they seemed happy enough to do. Mary followed the girl back along the corridor, up a broad stairway, and out to a balconied veranda. A tall black-suited man stood with his back to her, watching the sun drop toward the horizon. Mira slipped away, leaving Mary alone, wondering how she should announce herself.
Perhaps the governor sensed her presence, for he turned and, giving a slight start, said, “Mevrouw Bryant. I am Gouverneur Wanjon. Velcom to Kupang.”
The words were kind although the face above the tight collar was not particularly so. He had the pallor of a man who spends little time out of doors, with skin stretched so tight over his cheekbones as to suggest a struggle with ill health. His eyes and the lines around them put Mary in mind of Governor Phillip’s back in Botany Bay. They were those of a man for whom there is no end of worry, and rarely a reason to smile.
Having had no training whatever in formal behaviour, and too few contacts with those from classes above her own to know what might be expected of her, Mary simply spoke her heart. “Oh, Governor Wanjon! How kind you are to welcome us so. My children went to your Siti straightaway, and ate everything she gave them.”
“I am glad you approve, Mevrouw. Some say the natives cannot be trained, but my babus are as fine as any servants to be found in Amsterdam. They speak Dutch, and vhen castaways from the Bounty were mit us two years ago, Mira even learned English. Goot vhen ve have visitors from the British Empire such as yourselves,” he said stiffly.
“And how often is that, Governor? That British ships call in?”
“Vell now, many Dutch vessels stop in Kupang, but not so many from your country.”
A servant approached with a tray of drinks. Wanjon motioned toward them and asked, “Vill you take refreshment, Mevrouw Bryant?
Mary smiled up at him. “I do not drink liquor, Sir, and your Mira served me tea but an hour ago. I am content to drink my fill of sweet evening air, if this would not offend you.”
Something close to approval softened the governor’s judgmental gaze. “Indeed, Mevrouw, the drink you speak of is my own favourite at this hour—.” He broke off and turned his attention to the doorway as Bruger led the men from Botany Bay onto the veranda. “But perhaps the men in your party vill prefer something stronger.”
Mary stared at the men, or more particularly, at her husband. Will stared back at her with equal amazement. Neither had ever seen the other so well-dressed, barbered, and combed. Will moved quickly, possessively, to Mary’s side. Bruger followed and made the introductions.
“Gouverneur Wanjon, this is Master’s Mate Bryant. Mr. Cox, Mr. Morton, Mr. Lucas, Mr. Butcher, Master Pippin, and,” motioning to Bados, who remained in the background, “Baxter Walker from the West Indies. All were members of the Dunkirk’s crew. Mr. Brown here is the only civilian.”
Wanjon’s eyes moved down the line of men as Bruger spoke, and settled on James. “How came you to be on this ill-fated vessel, Meneer Brown?”
“As an accountant with the firm, Governor, sailing for the first time on one of our company’s ships,” James replied. “It was only by God’s grace that I fell into the sea in reach of a boat.”
Wanjon gave what might have been a sympathetic nod, and addressed his next question to no one in particular. “And your companions, did they go down mit the ship?”
Matey stepped forward. Bowing his head in a way meant to convey both sadness and respect, he spoke in a broken voice. “I ‘spect they did, Sir. Quick as she sank, there wasn’t no time to lower the boats. Our’n had scarcely touched the water ‘fore the deck tilted and I meself was flung into the sea.”
“Vhat a tragedy! Do you think your captain vas to blame, Meneer Bryant?”
“Oh, no, Governor,” Will said with a fine show of loyalty. “‘Twas the heavy seas, with nothing more to be done than what he’d done. When lightning hit the mast, well, that was that. Master Pippin here was cabin boy, and the last in our bunch to see the captain.”
Thus cued, Pip spoke with trembling emo
tion. “He gave a compass, chart, and quadrant into me hand and said to me, go into the boat with the Bryants and their children. I barely had time to do as I was bid ‘fore the ship slid sideways and them not already in the boat went falling every which way.”
“These worthy seamen,” Will cut in, motioning to Luke, Cox, Matey, Scrapper and Bados, “got washed from the deck close at hand so we fished them out. What with the wildness of the sea and the night so black, ‘twere no more we could do.”
Wanjon nodded, seemingly satisfied with the recitation, and motioned to the servant to come forward and serve the glasses of cognac. Mary darted a quick glance at James and saw that he was pleased with the way the men had delivered the lines he had taught them.
“Tell me, Meneer Bryant,” the governor addressed Will. “Are you villing to vork vhile you vait for a ship to England?”
“Yes, indeed, Governor,” Will assured him. “Cox here was ship’s carpenter, and a fine one he is. I’m a seafaring man myself, but I know fishing. If you could supply us with nets and such, I’ll take these other boys and we’ll bring in a right good catch.”
“I vill do it,” the governor said, looking sternly pleased. And to James, “The accountant of the Dutch East India Company took sick three months ago, and is not yet himself. Perhaps you vould care to assist in his office?”
“With great pleasure, Governor. I would be most grateful for the opportunity.”
Wanjon’s gaze moved to Bados. Apparently seeing nothing amiss in the fact that Bados had not been served a drink, he asked, “Vhat about you, boy?”
“I fish, Sir,” Bados replied in his deep, rich voice.
“Our men are never idle when there is work to do,” Mary attested quickly.
“Indeed, Mevrouw. No one is idle in this colony,” Wanjon said coldly.
Although a simple statement of fact, Mary took it as a rebuke. Wanjon had conversed with her readily enough when they were alone, but she sensed his displeasure at her speaking up now that there were other men present, and so she said nothing more.
Wanjon spent barely half an hour with them, his grey-blue gaze falling first on one and then another. Mary noticed that when a comment or gesture satisfied him, the stern look was often accompanied by a slight nod of approval, and when it did not, the eyes narrowed with skepticism or displeasure.
“On the morrow,” he said to the group at large, “Meneer Bruger will accompany First Mate Bryant to acquire the supplies needed to outfit your boat for fishing. And you, Meneer Cox, if you are so inclined, might go with him to a carpentry shop where you will be offered work.”
Apparently satisfied by the nods and murmurs of agreement, Wanjon ordered a servant to have the cart brought around to take the men back to the barracks where, he informed them, dinner would be served in due time, to supplement the hastily-prepared meal they had been given upon arrival.
As James started for the door with the others, Wanjon said, “Perhaps, Meneer Brown, you vould care to join First Mate Bryant and his good vife at my table tonight, that ve might have an opportunity to discuss your interim employment with the Dutch East India Company.”
It was not put as a question, any more than his instructions to the others had been. James understood as much, and responded diffidently, “It would be an honour, Governor.”
After Wanjon left the room, Bruger further clarified what was expected of James by adding, “Dinner will be at eight o’clock, making it not worthwhile to return to the barracks. Perhaps you would care to visit with the Bryants in their quarters until the appointed hour.”
So James went with Will and Mary along the corridor leading back to their bedroom. Mira greeted them at the door with a finger to her lips, and pointed to the children, curled up like kittens and fast asleep in one of the great beds. Then she slipped out, saying she would return to let them know when dinner was served. Mary motioned to the men to pass through the room and out onto the veranda, so as to not disturb the children.
“Ain’t we done well!” Will gloated, as he flopped into a chair at the small table on the veranda. “The governor’s a sour old puss, but that’s the way with all them high mucky-mucks. Amazing generous he is for a Hollander.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to spend much time in his company,” James said in a worried voice. “Did you notice how he judged our men by the way they handled their liquor?”
“How’s that?” Will asked in surprise. “Why, wasn’t nothing served but them wee glasses filled one time over. My Emanuel could handle that much!”
“It was not how much they drank, but how,” James explained carefully. “A well-brought up person would sip slowly, savouring the smell as well as the taste, and smiling a little, to show some appreciation. The lower classes, and heavy boozers of any class, gulp it down the way Matey did. Chances are the governor will not mix with them socially again, but you might warn them to not guzzle in public, even if they are given the chance.”
“Aye, I better do that,” Will agreed.
Mary said nothing, but she recalled how Will, while not downing his drink in a single gulp like Matey, had polished it off in a couple of swallows, and that had caused a narrowing of the governor’s eyes. Thus she understood James’s warning to be not for the men but for Will, who would shortly be dining with the governor.
Talk then turned to conditions where the men were quartered. They had been fed immediately, Will told Mary, then taken to a large room in the barracks. There were cots covered in clean linen, with a small chest along side for each man’s belongings—not that any of them had much to call his own.
“I left the musket and ammunition, and some other stuff in the boat for safe-keeping,” Will informed Mary. “I was afeared that if I brought it out, Bruger might take a mind to confiscate it. As it stands, he promised the cutter will be well-watched, and none allowed to set foot on her without my leave.”
“That was a wise decision,” Mary agreed, although she knew, perhaps even before the thought occurred to her husband, that he might one day decide to sell or trade the gun for rum.
A similarly wise decision she herself had made for, in the small bundle she had brought with her, which contained her own and the children’s rags, she had concealed the quadrant, chart, and compass. Unbeknownst to Will, they were now hidden under the bed, and would remain there until she had an opportunity to slip them to Bados.
It was full dark when Mira appeared, announcing dinner and saying she would sit with the children until Mary’s return. As they walked along the corridor behind the servant sent to guide them, James murmured to Will, “Don’t forget, when we are to be seated, to pull out the chair for your wife.”
“What?” Will chortled. “These fine clothes made it so she can’t do for herself?”
James gave a good-natured laugh. “You didn’t notice how heavy the furniture is around here? No three-legged stools will we find at the governor’s table. Sure any woman can pull out her own chair, making a horrible racket and gouging the floor in the process. Weak old men do the same. But a man with good muscle under his sleeves makes that known to other men present by lifting the chair and moving it out quietly for any lady standing nearby.”
This was as much news to Mary as to Will, and caused in her a mounting tension. If they did not know the rules for so much as how to swallow a drink or sit down at the table, how much more had life’s experiences not taught them, which might inform the governor of things about their origins that they needed to conceal?
Mary was spared the strain of making conversation during much of the meal, for Wanjon was more interested in the men. From Will he elicited a credible description of the captain of the ship presumed to have been lost, it having been previously decided that the fictional captain would be modelled on Captain Phillip, whom they had had plenty of time to observe on the crossing. Then Wanjon turned his attention to James, with
a discussion clearly meant to determine just how accomplished an accountant James was. It was not until the end of dinner that the governor directed a question to Mary.
“What part of England do you hail from, Mevrouw Bryant?”
“Cornwall, Sir. As does my husband. We are both of us from seafaring families.”
“No doubt they will be overjoyed to hear of your survival of this recent disaster.”
The comment caused such a rush of emotions in Mary that she blanched, and for a second or two could not speak. Then she gathered herself together and said, “My father was lost at sea some seven years ago, and my mother passed away five years back.”
“I am so sorry to hear that.” Wanjon frowned as if something about her statement puzzled him, and asked, “Your father was lost at sea, and yet you did not fear coming abroad with your children on a voyage of long duration?”
Mary laid down the spoon with which she had been stirring sugar into her coffee, and said, carefully, “My father died at sea, and my mother fell ill on land. I did not take it to be the sea or the land that killed them, but rather, that their time had come.” She paused, and when the others remained silent, she added, “A few weeks ago I thought our time had come, but” she smiled across the table at the governor, “here we are.”
As with their earlier meeting, when the governor was ready to conclude the dinner, he said a stiff goodnight and left it to the servants to show them out. One went to bring up a cart to take James back to the barracks. Mary and Will lingered with him, discussing the evening in low tones.
