The Golden Cross (56 page)

Finally, after many hours, Dekker grew quiet. Sterling pulled his stool nearer to the man’s bunk and held a looking glass to the
man’s nostrils to check for signs of breath. The glass misted slightly; the man still lived.

He was about to remove the mirror when Dekker’s hand rose and gripped Sterling’s wrist. His eyes, so fevered and wild only a few moments before, opened and stared at Sterling with complete lucidity.

“Doctor,” he said simply, his face devoid of any emotion. “Yes, Mr. Dekker,” Sterling answered, allowing the man to hold his arm. “Do not be afraid. I am with you.”

“I am dying?”

Sterling nodded slowly, feeling the stir of compassion within him. “Yes, you are. I am sorry.”

“You won’t be.” Dekker shifted his eyes, then released Sterling’s arm. His hand moved, spiderlike, toward the kerchief at his neck.

“Do you want me to remove it?” Sterling set the looking glass aside. “Is it too tight?”

“The cross,” Dekker said, his eyes like obsidian as he looked at Sterling again. “Give it to your wife. Ask her … what it means.”

“What the cross means, Mr. Dekker,” Sterling whispered, “is that you can have eternal life and peace through Jesus Christ our Lord. It is not too late. If you would confess your sins and beg forgiveness, Christ is always willing to forgive. The things that trouble your soul will be washed away in the flood of God’s mercy and love.”

Silence. Sterling leaned forward and looked more closely at his patient.

“Mr. Dekker?”

The man’s eyes had gone wide and blank. Witt Dekker was dead.

Sterling stroked his fingertips over the officer’s eyes, not bothering to hold the glass to his nostrils again. He knew the narrow, pinched face of death; he’d seen it a dozen times.

Impulsively he pressed his fingers under the kerchief at
Dekker’s neck and felt a thin gold chain. Pulling it from beneath the kerchief and the man’s shirt, Sterling found a handsome gold cross at the end of the chain.

Odd that a reprobate like Witt Dekker would wear a symbol of Christ. Odder still that he should refer to Aidan when he mentioned it.

Sterling flipped the cross over on his palm, and his mind went numb with shock when he read the inscription:
My love is yours forever, Aidan
.

Sterling climbed the companionway ladder in a daze, his thoughts traveling in a hundred different directions. The golden cross hung now about his own neck, and his mind reeled with unanswered questions. Why would Witt Dekker wear a cross inscribed with Aidan’s name? How had he received it? Was it something he meant to give her or something she had given him? Had he stolen or bought it from Aidan—and had it been given to her by another man?

Ask her what it means
, Dekker had said, and Sterling fully intended to. There had to be a reasonable response, an answer that would put the pieces of the puzzle into their proper places.

“I’ll have that barge now, Skipper,” Sterling called to Janszoon as he walked out into the bright sunlight on the deck. He ran his hand over the three-day growth of beard on his face. Aidan wouldn’t appreciate his scruffy appearance. “If you’d call the oarsmen for me—”

Janszoon turned and laughed.
“Goejehelp
you, Doctor, you have been too long below deck! Look up, we are home!”

Sterling straightened, surprised and more confused than ever. A coastline stretched along the port bow, and a harbor loomed in the distance. The
Heemskerk
sailed ahead of them, her sails already lowering.

“Batavia?” Sterling asked, dumbfounded.

“Ja
, Doctor.” Janszoon grinned, then turned toward his cabin.
“Wait but a moment,” he called over his shoulder, “and we’ll drop anchor, then you can take the first barge going ashore.”

“But I don’t want to go ashore!” Sterling lengthened his stride to keep up with the skipper. “I want to go to the
Heemskerk
. My wife waits aboard that ship.”

“Doctor.” The skipper paused in the doorway of his cabin, a look of pained tolerance crossing his face. “We have two barges aboard this vessel. Do you think I can tell this land-hungry crew that one of the boats must take you to the
Heemskerk
before it can carry them ashore to wives and sweethearts?” He frowned and folded his arms. “I think not. I would have a mutiny on my hands.”

“But, Skipper—”

Janszoon disappeared into his cabin, and the resolute slam of the door made it clear that the discussion had ended. Sterling went to the rail, watching as the outskirts of Batavia, the pride of the Netherlands, slid slowly by. This colony and her people had not welcomed him on his first arrival, but this time things would be different. His wife was a gentlewoman and an heiress, and their child would be born here. He lifted his face to the caressing breeze and the warmth of the sun, enjoying the idea of his own neat little house in the fine part of town.

“Excuseert u mij.”
He put out a hand to stop a passing seaman. “What day is it, sir? I’ve been below for so long I lost all track of time.”

“May fourteenth,” the man answered, grinning as he heaved his gunnysack onto his shoulder. “And a fine day for coming home, heh, Doctor?”

“Yes, it is.” Sterling planted his hands on the railing and breathed deeply. It was a fine day for making a new start and—he frowned suddenly, remembering the golden cross hanging above his heart—for settling unfinished business.

A
fter promising one of the oarsman that he would name his child after him, four hours later Sterling climbed the rigging and boarded the
Heemskerk
. The flagship had reached port at least two hours before the
Zeehaen
, and the vessel had a desolate, almost ghostly feel as he hurried over the deck. Poor Aidan might be frightened in this solitude, and he couldn’t forget that she hadn’t wanted him to go to the
Zeehaen
.

He hurdled several coils of rope and piles of canvas, then burst into their cabin. “Aidan?”

Her paintings rested in a neat stack upon the bunk, and a sheaf of parchments lay next to the paintings, alongside the crate with her brushes, palette, and paint boxes. Her brown silk skirt and bodice lay neatly folded at the edge of her crate, and her men’s clothes lay under the brown silk.

His eyes fell upon one painting he’d never seen before. It was the large canvas she’d been saving for home—the one she said she’d paint when they neared Batavia. He lifted it and sat down on the bunk, his eyes blurring with hot tears as he studied the picture.

“Oh, Aidan,” he murmured, caught up in the dark hues, the restless and haunting images on the canvas. “I wanted your homecoming to be happy.”

The painting was fresh, for the back of the canvas still felt damp from the oils. The dominant figure, shining against the background of night sky and sea, was a man in iridescent robes whose starlit hands appeared to create three creatures on a beam
of light traversing the sky. The first creature was a mist-colored caterpillar munching on a leaf that dangled from a beam of starlight. The second was a silvery chrysalis, and the third, a vibrant butterfly that seemed to unfurl his lustrous wings before Sterling’s eyes. It was a painting of life and renewal and hope, but the eyes of the Creator were dark with sadness, as if he regretted working his magic at all.

Sterling pressed his lips together as the painting’s message struck his heart with the force of a physical blow. Aidan saw the beauty in her life, in their love, and yet she was sorry for it. Why? Did her sadness have anything to do with Witt Dekker?

“Mondejuu!”

Sterling whirled around, surprised by an unfamiliar voice. A stout, bearded man in a heavily ornamented doublet stood behind him, his eyes intent upon the painting, his mouth gaping in admiration. He murmured something in Dutch that Sterling could not understand.

“I’m sorry.” Sterling frowned in confusion. “But I am Sterling Thorne, the ship’s doctor. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”

The gentleman snapped to attention and answered in clipped English. “Of course, Dr. Thorne; I have heard nothing but good about you.” His round eyes darted again to the painting in Sterling’s hand. “But I had no idea you were an artist!”

“I’m not. My wife painted this.” Sterling lifted the painting, then carefully lowered it back to the chair where he’d found it. “And if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’d like to find her.”

“Your wife?” The man’s nose quivered for a moment, then he swelled his chest and abruptly inclined his head. “Allow me to introduce myself—I am Anthony Van Diemen, governor general of the Colony. Let me be the first to welcome you home, Doctor, and to congratulate you on your choice of a talented wife. I have never seen anything like that picture. Though I expected great things when I asked Heer Van Dyck to accompany this expedition,
I never dreamed that treasures like this would result.” His fat finger pointed toward the metamorphosis painting. “That work is quite exceptional.”

“My
wife
is exceptional.” Sterling shifted and glanced toward the door, eager to be rid of his pompous visitor.

“Could I interest you in selling one or two of her works?” The governor’s eye wandered greedily toward the stack of canvases on the bunk. “I would love to look through this treasure trove before her work reaches the gallery.”

“I think she would be very pleased,” Sterling muttered, sidling toward the doorway. “But if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll leave you to look through them at your leisure. I really am late, and I must find her.”

Without waiting for a response, Sterling rushed out, his eyes searching every exposed deck, the rigging, the piles of canvas where she might be hiding in some sort of teasing game. “Aidan!”

“Ahoy, Doctor,” came a voice cracked with age and disuse. “Are you looking for your wife?” One of the seamen, a grizzled veteran, grinned down at him from the rigging.

“Have you seen her?” Sterling called. “Is she below in the galley?”

“The lady went ashore in the first boat,” the sailor answered. “Meester Holman escorted her. He was very eager to see his family.”

Sterling’s mind reeled. Aidan left the ship! But where would she go? Where did she live? He suddenly realized that he knew very little about the woman who bore his name and carried his child.

He dashed forward and sprinted across the deck. The barge that had brought him from the
Zeehaen
was now halfway across the bay, nearly to the docks.

“Won’t be another barge for a while,” the old sailor called from his perch. “So you might as well sit and wait. Those of us who are left are in no hurry.”

Biting back his impatience, Sterling settled himself atop a mountain of coiled rope and stared at the dock, willing a boat to come back for him.

The first stars had appeared in the vault of the heavens by the time Sterling reached Schuyler Van Dyck’s house. An elderly woman with red-rimmed eyes opened the door to his knock, but when Sterling inquired about Aidan, she forcibly slammed the door without a word of explanation.

“Wait,” he shouted, pounding on the door. “I must know what has happened to her! She is my wife!”