The Map of Bones, page 5
Florence laughed. ‘Though it is better than that foul bumboo on the ship.’
Suzanne shuddered at the memory of the sickly mixture of rum, sugar, water and nutmeg the crew drank from dusk until dawn.
‘Alis and Cornelia only discovered that Louise was still alive when the Old Moon arrived back in Amsterdam two years later, bringing her diary with it.’
‘But there is no explanation for why she stayed behind and sent her ship back to Amsterdam under the command of her lieutenant?’
‘None, nor why Louise asked him to take her diary back with him.’
Florence frowned. ‘I imagine Louise wanted to entrust it to Alis’s safekeeping, and for her family to know what had happened to her. Though why she did not write a letter, I cannot say.’
‘Nor I.’
‘And what of the Tarot card?’ Suzanne said, drawing the shabby square of white cloth from her satchel. ‘It always seemed to me out of character for Louise to have such a thing.’ She unfolded it. The Justice card, though worn from its travels, nonetheless lit the room with its bright colours: red, yellow, white and blue. ‘Nothing I read suggested that Louise was a superstitious woman. It’s possible that the card wasn’t even hers. But it clearly meant something, otherwise she wouldn’t have concealed it inside the diary and sent it back to Amsterdam, too.’
Florence carefully turned the card over in her hands. ‘You have found no hidden message, no alterations?’
‘I cannot discern that it has been tampered with in any way.’
They fell silent. Outside, Suzanne could hear the sounds of the Colony. Out at sea, a faint rumble of dry thunder could be heard. She supposed the storm had passed them by. She felt oddly at home, though she wondered if she would ever get used to the way the world was upside down here – that August was midwinter and December the height of summer. Or that the sun at midday was in the north.
Suzanne sat back in her chair. ‘What I think is this: that Phillipe, by saving her from the gallows, considered he had some claims of ownership over her. Louise acknowledged that debt and would not have wanted to offend him. But, increasingly, she writes of how she and Gilles both resented Phillipe’s demands. There was clearly bad blood between the two men.’
Florence considered. ‘Would that not mean he would turn his anger against Gilles, or vice versa, rather than against Louise herself?’
Suzanne’s face darkened. ‘There’s many a man who destroys what he cannot have rather than let another enjoy what he might not. It is a matter of possession, not affection.’ She paused, collecting herself. ‘Louise also notes that, as a way of persuading her to permit him to sail with them, he claimed he had letters of interest to show her—’
‘Between whom?’
‘I surmise – though she never says so directly – between her mother, Marta, and their common father, Louis Vidal. The more I think about that, the more I wonder if that was a ruse. Certainly, Louise writes about how, whenever she asks to see the letters, Phillipe bids her to be patient.’
‘You don’t think they existed?’
Suzanne shrugged. ‘I don’t know, perhaps? Whatever the reason, Louise goes from wanting to attribute honourable motives to Phillipe’s accompanying them to questioning his true purpose. The Old Moon had been a happy ship under her command. His presence appears to have set everyone at one another’s throats.’ She paused. ‘But it is her final entry that preys on my mind. Once I had read it, I could not but reinterpret the entries that had gone before. I think Phillipe’s presence became less of an inconvenience and more of a problem to be solved. A threat, even.’
She turned the diary around so Florence could read the entry for herself.
I think he means me harm.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Judith Verbeek checked the window and the door once again. She had done everything she could to secure their lodgings, but she still did not feel safe. It was a low-lying clay house with a straw roof, a single door without a lock or bolt, a narrow window with wooden shutters and no latch.
Once she was sure the other girls were sleeping, curled up together on the platform like kittens high above the gusty floor, she dragged the heavy wooden chest across the door to serve as a barricade, then sat to keep watch. Eight young women with no chaperone or protection – she knew word had spread like smoke through the Colony. The winks and leers of men in the street, as the VOC official had accompanied them to the lodgings, were evidence of that. Everyone knew they were here. She felt like a woodcock in a trap, waiting for the fox to come.
Judith hoped she was wrong. Perhaps things were different here in the Colony? Still, her experiences in the orphanage had led her never to let down her guard.
On board the China, despite the sickness and the stench below deck, she had felt secure. She had slept, confident that there was always a pair of eyes upon them. The sailors and soldiers, though foul-mouthed and vulgar when the officers were not in earshot, did not bother them. And she had been in the company of other women, many of them mothers, whose quiet but watchful attention made her feel safe. Now she was on her own and it was many hours until daybreak.
Judith pulled the candle closer, and prayed for the light to come.
Driek Holsteen stumbled along in the wake of his new drinking companions. The slight feeling of uneasiness he pushed to one side. He had promised to show them where the Dutch girls were staying – just to have a look, just to liven up the evening – but he was no longer sure where he was. It was four years since he had last come on shore in the Colony and everything had changed. A white moon, the same red earth, but so many more buildings, paths leading this way and that.
He blinked and tried to reorientate himself. They were still somewhere in the narrow alleyways between the harbour and the town, heading towards the main square but, in the dark, every street looked the same. It was oddly reminiscent of the streets around the Oude Kerk in Amsterdam and the canal-side dwellings low in the water. Here, in the Colony, the mood was the same: desperation, inebriation, loneliness, menace. He wished he was in his bed.
Then he realised that they were near the Slave Lodge, a windowless brick structure. A little further ahead, a door opened and a rectangle of light painted the ground. A woman came out, glanced over to them, pulled her headscarf over her face then started to walk quickly away in the direction of the water.
‘Hoi!’
One of his companions, sallow of complexion and with a weeping eye, stopped dead in front of him, causing Driek to barrel into him. ‘Hey you,’ the man yelled again. ‘Lady.’ There was a guffaw of laughter from another, quickly silenced by a jab to the ribs. ‘Am I not addressing you?’
The woman had reached the junction ahead of them. Even in his ale-soaked state, Driek could see she was respectable. Not a woman to be bought. She pretended not to hear.
‘Why do you pay me no heed, lady? My money not good enough?’
‘It’s not your money that’s the problem,’ one of the other men jeered.
Driek wheezed with laugher. ‘That’s good,’ he slurred, ‘very good.’
The first man lurched forward. ‘I have reales enough. Look.’ He thrust out his hand, sending the silver coins scattering on the earth. Falling to his knees, he began to scrabble in the dirt.
‘Get up,’ Eltorp hissed.
Instantly, the mood in the group changed. Driek had been in their company for long enough to know that whatever Eltorp said was law. If he laughed, they laughed. If he raised his fist, they cowered.
‘Hoer!’ Eltorp shouted, clicking his fingers. Whore.
The woman turned, enough for Driek to see a spark of terror in her eyes, then she started to run.
Eltorp picked up his pace. ‘You should be grateful you have caught my friend’s attention. Or is a white man not good enough for you?’
Driek found himself looking at his feet. He didn’t want any trouble. It was only high spirits, letting off steam after four months at sea. He knew nothing about the standing of his drinking companions in the Colony, only that he couldn’t afford to be arrested and thrown in the brig.
‘Do not turn your back on me,’ Eltorp shouted again, picking up one of the spilt coins and throwing it at her back.
‘My friend, I don’t think the lady is for—’ Driek began, but events overtook him.
Eltorp grabbed at the woman’s arm. She gave a sharp cry, and tried to shake herself free. His three other companions lumbered behind him, nervous and uncertain. Lars spun the woman round and grabbed her chin between pinched fingers.
‘My friend only wanted to talk to you, but you have offended him.’ His grip tightened. ‘Do whores have no manners in the Colony?’
Driek heard the sound of Eltorp’s belt buckle loosen and he felt a stab of alarm. Shame, too. Surely he wouldn’t make an attempt upon the woman here? He was suddenly aware of the stink of stale wine on his own breath, and was repulsed. Without meaning to, he heard himself speak.
‘There are others more willing,’ he stammered, pointing ineffectually towards the harbour. ‘This way. I’ll show you.’
Eltorp’s arm moved so fast, Driek did not see it coming. The blow of knuckle on bone, the explosion of blood in his mouth.
‘Stay out of this, Dutchie.’
Someone gave a nervous laugh as Eltorp took a fistful of the woman’s hair and pushed her back against the wall.
‘Someone needs to teach you a lesson.’
Driek’s ears were ringing. He didn’t know what to do. A good man would not walk away. But then, he wasn’t a good man. He turned and hurried away in the direction they had come. He hammered on the door of the house the woman had come out of, hoping to alert someone to the mischief, then slunk away into the shadows.
Once he was out of sight, he rested his hand against the wall to catch his breath. Then, he heard the woman scream – a single, desperate sound that pierced the night, followed by the sound of shutters snapping open, like the retort of a gun, then other voices shouting. Men’s voices, yelling in the language of the spice island they called Madagasikara, a pirate stronghold now. At least, he thought that was right. Not Dutch, certainly.
The street behind him suddenly filled. He heard the rasp of a blade being drawn and all Driek wanted was to be as far away from the fracas as possible. He stumbled forward, unaware of the thud of running feet at his back, until he felt his arm grasped.
‘Show me where they are?’ Eltorp demanded. ‘I will not have this entire evening wasted.’
Driek tried to pretend he didn’t know what he meant, but now there was the tip of a knife at his neck. ‘I can’t remember—’
‘You lie,’ Eltorp sneered. ‘Besides, white meat is more palatable.’
The point of the blade jabbed harder. Driek felt a drop of blood trickle down his neck to the collar of his jerkin.
‘This way,’ he mumbled, staggering forward and wondering how he could lead Eltorp away from the orphan girls and yet still save his own skin.
Judith heard the shouting from the Malagasy quarter, only a few streets away.
Quickly, she pulled the candle close and blew, extinguishing the flame, then sat in the darkness with her heart thudding. She prayed that none of the girls would wake up, or cry out. That this trouble would pass them by.
She started to pray, though, in all her nineteen years on this earth, God had never listened to her nor shown her any kindness. Her life had been hard, and full of sorrow. But she kept reciting the words, praying desperately that this time He was watching over her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Did you hear something?’ Suzanne said, bolting upright in the bed, her heart thudding. For an instant, she forgot where she was. Then she turned to her grandmother lying beside her, and remembered: they were in the merchant’s house on the main square in the Colony at the Cape of Good Hope.
She was safe.
Florence was sleeping. She looked so defenceless in repose, so small and vulnerable. Their evening’s conversation had been stimulating, but Suzanne’s sense of guilt at having dragged her grandmother halfway across the known world was no less sharp.
Then she heard another sound outside and her chest tightened: men’s voices, near at hand. Lying in her bedchamber in La Rochelle, listening to the taverns empty around the port, it had often been hard to tell the difference between good companionship and something uglier. In the end, it turned out that the greatest threat could come from inside one’s own home. As always, she pushed the memory to the back of her mind. She could not survive otherwise.
Now wide awake, Suzanne swung her feet down to the ground, threw a shawl around her shoulders and tiptoed from the bedchamber into the parlour. She checked the bolt to the front door was shot, then crept back to the window and carefully pushed the shutter open a little until she could see out. Horizontal shafts of moonlight flooded the room.
She could see nothing amiss. Then, from a little further along the street, she heard footsteps hurrying in their direction. Quickly, Suzanne pulled the shutter back into place to leave no more than a crack, then pressed her eye to the gap.
There were two men, walking close together: one with an untamed black beard, a rough-looking fellow, she did not recognise; the other was a sailor she remembered from the ship, seeming the worse for wear. What was his name? As they drew level, she saw the bigger man had pinned the sailor’s arm up behind his back. Suzanne gasped. With his other hand, he was pressing a knife to Driek’s neck. Yes, Driek, that was his name.
‘How much further?’ the man hissed.
‘In truth, I kn-know not,’ Driek stammered. ‘It was tittle-tattle, I mi-might have misheard, I might have—’
‘You were the one who traded information about the girls for the price of a jug of brandy. You will deliver on our bargain or . . . Do I make myself clear, Dutchie?’
The answering whimper from Driek suggested the knife was earning its keep.
Suzanne shrank further back into the shadows, waiting until their steps echoed into silence. Then the night was once again quiet. Relieved, she turned to go back to bed, then stopped.
‘The girls . . .’
Cold fear trickled down her spine – the man couldn’t have meant Judith and the Rotterdam orphans, could he? Suzanne shook her head, as if to dislodge the thought. She was making something of nothing. But then she remembered how the sailors and soldiers had whispered about where the girls would be lodging, and how long it would be before each was allocated to a husband. Nudges and winks, crude gestures.
Suzanne poured herself a half-measure of the rough Cape brandy, swallowing it down in one gulp. No reason for ‘the girls’ to be ‘her’ girls. Like any harbour city, there would be flophouses and doxies. Wasn’t it more likely that Driek’s companion meant that? Except Driek had only just come ashore. Even if he was a seasoned traveller to the Colony, what information would he possess that a local man wouldn’t have already? Whereas new arrivals . . .
The longer she paced, the more her thoughts spiralled. And if her fears were justified, Judith would be no match for a drunken and violent man – the knife against Driek’s neck spoke to that.
She looked through into the bedchamber. Gentle snores spoke to the fact that her grandmother was still sleeping soundly. Suzanne took quill and ink from her travelling chest, penned a brief note and propped it against the jug on the table where Florence could not fail to see it should she awaken. Then, quickly dressing and tightening her stays, she put on her cloak and boots, and slipped out into the hallway. She knew what she was doing was unwise, but she saw no alternative. She stepped out into the street, locked the door and posted the key back under the gap.
‘C’est dans le besoin qu’on reconnaît ses vrais amis,’ a phrase her grandmother often used. It is when in need that one recognises one’s true friends.
She would be that friend to Judith, for better or worse.
‘Onze Vader die in de hemelen zijt,’ Judith murmured, saying the words of the Lord’s Prayer over and again. ‘Hallowèd be Thy name . . .’
Someone was hammering at the door. Heavy, single blows like the tolling of a funeral bell. Petronella, a pretty girl with yellow ringlets, lifted her sleepy head from her mat on the platform and looked down.
‘What’s happening? Is the ship sinking?’
Judith leant up and patted her shoulder. ‘It’s just a bad dream, we’re not at sea any more. Go back to sleep.’
The hammering was getting louder. Catrina also woke and began to cry. Now, the latch was being rattled. Wilhelmina put her arms around the younger girl and tried to soothe her.
‘They must have mistaken the house,’ Judith said, struggling to steady her voice. ‘The noise will stop in a moment when they realise their error.’
But she watched in horror as the bar began to lift. The chest would not hold whoever it was at bay for long. All seven girls were sitting up now, staring wide-eyed at the door. Steeling herself with a courage she did not feel, Judith spoke calmly: ‘Move to the very back of the platform, put your blankets over your heads and don’t say a word. Whatever happens, don’t come down until I say. None of you, do you understand? Quickly, now. Not a sound.’
She put her finger to her lips and tried to smile, hoping to reassure them. Used to obeying the orders of the matron of the orphanage, and then the officers of the ship, the girls did as they were told without question.
Judith smoothed down her skirts, made sure her cap was covering her hair, then stepped to the barricaded door. ‘Wie is daar?’ Who is it?
The only answer was a guffaw of laughter then, to her horror, the door opened a crack as the chest began to move inexorably into the room.
