1636: Seas of Fortune (7 page)

Maria shook her head. “Adolph came home in 1623, and, the next year, he was appointed professor extraordinary of medicine, with a salary of six hundred guilders a year. In 1625, when Father died, he became curator of the Hortus Botanicus. Did he continue to recruit departing ship captains to bring home exotic plants, as Papa did? No, he was content to administer potions to rich merchants, and flirt with their daughters.”

“Catarina was the last of those daughters, I hope.”

Maria nodded. “Then the curators of Leiden University told him he needed to . . . what is the American term? ‘Publish or Perish.’ So he produced a catalog of the plants in the garden.”

“That’s the one you illustrated, is it not?”

“Yes. Elzevier will be publishing it. Next year, I hope. Anyway, that was his big chance to honor our father’s work. But Adolph did the minimum work possible, contenting himself with the garden inventory.
I
prepared the list of 289 wild plants. Limited to the vicinity of Leiden, of course, because
I
didn’t get to travel to anyplace exotic, unlike Adolph.”

Prudentia gave Maria a quick hug. “None of what you have told me would have seemed at all surprising before we came to Grantville,”

“That’s true.”

“So what’s in the letter?”

“Complaints. The students are complaining that he doesn’t spend enough time with them, don’t they realize he is a busy man? Catarina has extravagant tastes, doesn’t she realize he is just a scholar, not a wealthy merchant like her father? Why am
I
lingering in Grantville, when I should be home in Leiden, seeing to the cataloging and description of all the seeds I have sent him? And planting them. The gardener quit and so he must do it himself.”

“Poor baby.”

Grantville, Fall 1632

Maria was standing in front of an easel, a canvas in front of her. On it was a half-finished rendition of one of the “Painted Ladies” of Grantville. This one had a covered porch, a turret, and an attic with a rayed window. It was colored blue and green, and a tall sugar maple, the official tree of West Virginia, stood beside it. At least in Maria’s painting. Maria had exercised artistic license and moved the tree to stand beside her favorite Victorian. The tree itself was a brilliant mass of scarlet, its leaves having already turned.

“Hi, Maria. What are you drawing?”

“This is—” Her voice faltered. Looking up, she realized that she didn’t recognize the woman addressing her. She was an elderly up-timer, dressed conservatively, but without any concessions to down-time practice.

“You don’t know me, but I am one of Lolly’s colleagues, Elva Dreeson. I teach art at the middle school.” She offered her hand; Maria took it.

Maria smiled apologetically. “I am sorry, she introduced me to so many people, so quickly, when I first came to stay with her.”

“Actually, you didn’t meet me at that time. I heard about your visit, but I was out sick that day. Another of our colleagues pointed you out to me, when you and Lolly were out paddling in the Great Buffalo Canoe Race. And when I heard that you were an artist, I resolved to look you up. So here I am. Belatedly.”

“Well, I’m not really an artist.”

“Oh? That looks like art to me.” She pointed at Maria’s canvas.

“I mean, I’m not a professional artist. For a woman to be a master in the painters’ guild, she pretty much has to be born to it. Like Artemisia Gentileschi. Or Giovanna Garzoni.”

“And you weren’t?”

“Why, no. My late father, Aelius Everhardus Vorstius, was a great scholar. At the University of Leiden, he was Professor Extaordinarius in Natural Philosophy, Professor of Medicine, and Curator of the Botanical Gardens.”

“So how did you learn to paint?”

“I attended an academy. They cater to amateurs, especially high-born women who see it as an elegant pastime, like playing the harpsichord.”

“And is that how you see it, as a hobby?”

“While I find it relaxing, it isn’t just a hobby. When I was young, it was a way to help my father. I could draw specimens that had been loaned to us for study. And my brother, who is the present curator, has written a
Catalogus plantarum
, a description of our entire collection, and I illustrated it.”

“You know, I have a book you might like to read. It’s about women artists throughout history.”

“That sounds fascinating. But I don’t know when I am going to find the time. I need to finish my paintings of the West Virginia trees before they all lose their leaves. I have to complete my thirty hours of volunteer work to get my Master Gardener’s certificate. And I have so much homework for Lori Fleming’s biology class. And the geology class Lolly roped me into.”

“Tell you what. I’ll give it to Lolly just before winter break. You’ll have some time to spare then.”

* * *

Maria bent down to study a wildflower by the side of Route 250, near the high school. Phil Jenkins came up behind her, and watched her for a few moments. Finally, he coughed. “I hear you’ve been looking at people’s houseplants.”

She looked up, and gave him a smile. “Yes, that’s right. I am making drawings of them, and sending seeds and cuttings to Adolph.”

“Who’s Adolph?” he asked sharply.

“My brother.”

“Oh. . . . You know, lots of people here in Grantville have houseplants, but I am something of a specialist.”

“How so?”

“I grow trees.”

“Your house must have very high ceilings.”

Phil laughed. “No, that’s not necessary. Although it would be nice. The trees just don’t grow as tall as they would in the wild.”

“So what trees do you grow? Sugar maple? Sassafras? Pitch pine?”

“Hmm, you’ve been studying West Virginia trees. But there isn’t much point in growing those indoors. I mostly grow tropical trees. Would you like to see them?”

Maria considered the invitation. He was so much younger than she was, he couldn’t possibly be courting her, but still, what would people think?

“May I bring a girlfriend?”

* * *

Maria and Prudentia arrived at the Jenkins house the next day, arm in arm.

Laurel Jenkins opened the door. “Oh, I recognize you,” she said. “You were the star of the canoe race in May.”

“You are kind to say so. We are here to see your ‘house trees.’”

Laurel turned and yelled upstairs. “Phil, turn off your stupid CD! You have company.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Brothers.”

* * *

“Hi, Maria! Hi, Prudentia. You came at a good time, my Angel’s Trumpet’s in bloom. Come along, I’ll show you. There, you can see how it gets its name.”

Maria admired the plant. The gracefully arching branches were festooned with long white trumpet-shaped flowers. “What lovely curves.”

“That’s from Brazil. Now, can you guess what this is?” The plant had nondescript green leaves, perhaps six inches long, and many flowers, each a five-pointed white star. There were also a few green cherries. The girls shook their heads. Maria actually recognized the tree—the Leiden Botanical Garden had gotten one from Aden years ago—but Phil was so obviously proud of his specimen that she didn’t have the heart to say so.

“This is
Coffea arabica—
the coffee tree. From Ethiopia, originally.”

Prudentia pointed to one of the cherries. “I have seen coffee beans here in Grantville. This doesn’t look like one.”

“It isn’t. There are two beans, seeds really, inside each cherry. You wait until the cherries turn red—that means they’re ripe—and then you take out the beans, and roast them.”

“So, do you supply coffee to Grantville?” asked Maria.

“I wish. You can’t get a lot of coffee beans out of one tree, I don’t have room for a whole bunch of trees, and it’s too cold in Thuringia to grow them outside. The coffee comes from the Turks. When they feel like selling it to us.”

“I don’t care for the taste myself,” said Maria. “Too bitter.”

“Okay, here’s another tree. Any guesses?”

Maria looked it over closely. “Some kind of fig?”

“Yep.” He favored her with a big smile. “This is
Ficus elastica
, the Indian Rubber Tree. East Indian, that is. Cut it, and it bleeds a sap, latex, that hardens into a kind of rubber.”

Maria fingered the stem. “So that is where you Americans get the rubber you use in your tires?”

“Uh, uh. Some of that’s made from the latex of a different rubber tree,
Hevea brasiliensis
, and the rest is synthesized from chemicals. But if you want to know more about that, you’ll have to check the encyclopedias.”

“Perhaps I will.”

Fort Zwaanandael (modern Lewes, Delaware), Early December, 1632

Bones. They gleamed in the winter sunlight, amid the white sparkling sand, and the chill that Captain David Pieterszoon de Vries felt was not entirely due to the coldness of the air. Here was a femur, there, a skull. David reached down and picked up an arrowhead. It was easy enough to visualize how this particular colonist had met his Maker. David didn’t know if he had been fleeing, or had bravely faced his attacker. Certainly, he had not escaped from this beach to the dubious haven of the waters of the Zuidt River Bay.

The dismal find had not been a surprise. In May, the
Kamer Amsterdam
of the West India Company had heard, from its agents in Nieuw Amsterdam, that the Zwaanandael settlement had been wiped out, save for one survivor. David had been about to leave, with two ships, to go a-privateering in the Caribbean. Since the easiest return route to Europe was to go partway up the American coast before heading east, he logically had planned to stop at Zwaanandael along the way. Sell them European manufactures in return for tobacco, grain, and fresh meat. And perhaps do a bit of whaling as well.

The news of the massacre, of course, had been devastating to David and his fellow patroons. And surprising, because the Lenape had been friendly the previous year. But David had hoped that either the ill tidings would prove to have been exaggerated, or that the breach with the natives could somehow be remedied. At the least, that he could trade for furs.

Briefly, David had toyed with the idea of making a quick trip to Grantville, the mysterious town from the future, to see if its fabulous library could tell him whether Zwaanandael had indeed survived. But he couldn’t afford the time; it would have delayed him enough so that he would have been sailing in the Caribbean at the height of the hurricane season.

David’s longboat was beached just behind him. One sailor had stayed behind, to guard the boat and man its swivel gun. The small cannon was loaded with grapeshot. The yacht
Eikhoorn
stood just offshore, ready to lay down covering fire if need be. David’s own ship, the
Walvis
, was anchored in deeper water, closer to Cape Hinlopen. It was a four-hundred-ton fluyt, with eighteen cannon, which likewise were in range.

Still, David couldn’t help but feel a little anxious about how exposed he and his landing party were. The dark forest could conceal ten Indians, or a thousand.

The sailors spread out in a ragged line abreast. Ahead of them was Fort Zwaanandael.

David’s cousin, Heyndrick de Liefde, put his hand on David’s shoulder. “Where are the walls of stone? The moat and drawbridge? The portcullis?” He had been shown the settlement plans.

“Just what I was wondering,” David replied. “Especially since we went to such expense to provide them with everything they needed. And I checked the equipment myself, before it was loaded onto the
Walvis
.”

Instead of a granite wall, the settlement had merely a palisade. There was no portcullis, just a wooden gate, now hanging askew from a single hinge. The only part of the fort which was more or less as David expected was the great brick blockhouse, the warehouse and strong point of the colony. Although it was ash-black now.

“They should have given me command of the
Walvis
back then, not that idiot Heyes.”

Heyndrick nodded. “Even back home in Rotterdam, people were talking about him. He sent the
Salm
ahead, and lost it?” The
Salm
was a yacht, like the
Eikhoorn
, used for inshore work.

“That’s right. Taken by a Dunkirker, with all our harpooners, and their equipment. And he brought the
Walvis
back, nine months later, without a cargo.” That was sacrilege, to a Dutch merchant. “We lost a mint.”

Despite Heyes’ blundering, David and his fellow investors had been confident that the colonists could grow wheat, tobacco and cotton, and hunt the whales that frequented the bay from December to March. Now that seemed a forlorn hope indeed.

David poked around in the debris at the foot of the gate, and found the bones of a large dog. A spiked collar and several more arrowheads lay nearby. David detailed two men to stand guard at the gate, and the rest of his party followed David inside.

All was chaos, both inside the blockhouse and without. The fort, quite clearly, had been looted. All that was left were the items that the savages had no use for. And the skeletons. David had hoped to find a diary, which might reveal the reasons for the attack. If one had once existed, it had burned, along with the furnishings, when the invaders had overturned lamps in their pursuit of the settlers inside. Or in their haste to find loot.

They then checked the fields. There was no sign, there, of any organized resistance. The skeletons of the Dutchmen and their livestock were scattered over the weed-infested fields. If they had been carrying arms, these were now in the hands of the Indians. The Lenape, David assumed, although it was possible that some other tribe, perhaps the Minquas, had been the enemy.

By now the sun was low in the horizon. This was no time to linger in hostile territory. “Back to the ship,” David ordered. David and his search party returned to the longboat, and rowed over to the
Eikhoorn
.

Jan Tiepkeszoon Schellinger, the yacht’s captain, greeted him. “What news?”

“The colony of Zwaanandael was wiped out, as we were told.”
Some thirty men had sought a new life at Zwaanendael
, David mused,
where there was land for the taking. And their lives, all save one, had been taken instead.
He wondered why this had been God’s will.