“Barrister Smythe, join me won’t you?” a voice shouted. Barent Witbeck quickened his pace to match Smythe’s.
“Barent, I would love to join you this evening. Are you amenable to an immediate change of venue?” Barrister Smythe asked.
Barent looked about nervously. A tavern door opened and a woman, whose face bore a striking resemblance to a potato, heaved a bucket of urine out onto the rutted street.
“We are far from our natural environ aren’t we?” Barent asked rhetorically. “Let’s adjourn to VOC Members Club.” Barent hooked his arm in Smythe’s and the two headed that way.
The VOC Members Club was, as a rule, for VOC employees only. It allowed for the lowliest clerk to associate with directors of the company. In a strange and ironic twist, due to the company’s decline in recent years, the number of patrons had increased. Almost every person within the town and along the coast had a stake in the company and a tankard at the Member’s Club was the fastest way to get the latest news.
Memorials for the dead had been held within the hall as well as Groom’s Rites celebrating the groom’s final evening of bachelorhood. Although there were rumors of less acceptable things happening within these walls, decorum had prevented word from reaching the papers.
They entered the hall and immediately found a table. It was early yet and most of the more important members of the VOC would be going to their homes to change into suitable evening attire before heading back out.
“So, Barent what business had you dockside today?” Smythe asked.
“Snatching at what little crumbs remain of the construction and carpentry business. Putting in the gallows for a couple of ship thieves,” Barent said, turning to a newly arrived platter of sweet meats. The multiple rings on his hands glistened like the sauce soaked gobbets of beef and chicken he gingerly rooted through.
“Ship thieves,” Said Smythe.
“Yes, apparently not one but two dock rats, not only stole a ship but scuttled it and then they had the nerve to return to port claiming hardship. Worst plea I ever heard of,” Barent said. “Not being a licensed barrister, what I’ve heard and haven’t doesn’t mean much but nonetheless,”
“Yes I am familiar with the case,” Smythe said.
Barents eyes flew open, “You don’t say?”
“Oh but I do old friend,” Smythe said.
Barent burst into laughter. Barent was a member of the bewindhebbers. His stake in the Dutch East India Trading Company was the repair and building of ships along with any housing and commercial structures. He managed a profitable part of the company but sought higher position for himself.
Barent’s father had passed away in his prime and Barent had come into his own at the age of nineteen. Beekman Smythe, Goodson Smythe’s father, had taken the young Barent Witbeck under his wing. Barent and Goodson had become brothers of ‘another sort’ due to circumstances beyond either of their control and the two had remained close these past twelve years.
“This is truly rich!” Barent said as he continued to laugh. He had a laugh that was loud and infectious. Smythe found himself uncharacteristically close to a full-fledged chuckle.
“We should have thought of this a decade ago!” Barent wheezed between laughs. “You tank their defense and I build the gallows,”
Barent brought himself under control as he noticed Smythe’s change in posture.
“You know of course that I find it funny because of its impossibility,” Barent said in a somber tone.
“Yes of course,” Smythe said with a smile. He was always uncomfortable whenever people jested about unscrupulous behavior.
“Good evening gentlemen,” said Judge Wittstruck as he approached the table.
“Good evening your honor,” said Smythe.
“Judge Wittstruck,” said Barent.
“I see the bonds of youth are ever as strong. Good to see the two of you,” said Judge Wittstruck as he moved on.
“He knows I’m on his docket. Why would he risk even a hint impropriety by speaking to me in a public venue without the prosecution present?” Smythe asked aloud.
He only got a puzzled reaction from Barent.
“Your calling has more rules and regulations than I can follow my friend. Is a greeting some sort of violation of them?” Barent asked sincerely.
“There are the rules of law and there are the rules of…well, it’s another sort of rules that we all live by whether we want to or not,” Smythe said.
“Yes. That I understand,” Barent said.
Smythe signed for the meal and excused himself citing an early morning as an explanation.
The next day Smythe arrived at the jail just after dawn. The night had given him ample time to consider a number of possibilities. Upon arriving he summoned Straat by himself.
The big man walked with a swagger despite being chained at wrist and ankle.
“Well barrister, this is intimate,” Straat said as he took the chair opposite Smythe. The table between them was positioned so that the light from the high narrow window shown directly on it. The practicality of its placement was offset by the fact that both parties’ faces were hidden in shadow. It made reading one’s client difficult but the ability to take notes and have a client make his mark on required documents was invaluable.
“I want to get past the emotional storytelling and simply hear your side of things,” Smythe said.
“Are you considering we might be innocent counselor?” Straat asked.
“I’m considering your defense and how to make it effective. So tell your tale as simply and clearly as possible so that I may help you get through this,” Smythe said.
“Where did we leave off? Oh, yes. We had just escaped those bearded savages waving their scimitars in the air. We made good time, and for a while everything was going smoothly…” Straat was interrupted.
“So you were on your way to Singapore. A trip of approximately two thousand nautical miles?” Smythe said while making notes.
“What people don’t realize – well people who ain’t ne’er been to sea – don’t realize is that weather permitting no matter what you may be doing on a ship, the ship keeps moving. It moves while you sleep it moves while you eat. A ship in good winds is possibly the least taxing mode of transportation – minus a few course corrections and keeping the ship in working order of course,” Straat concluded.
“So how did this relatively easy task go awry?” Smythe asked.
“Doldrums,” Straat responded.
Smythe of course knew of doldrums. He had often heard his father refer to them as the biggest threat there was to company profits apart from pirates. A ship may drift into an area where there was no wind and be stranded for days, months even. Worse than that, a freak storm or miscalculation as to the schedule of the trade winds and a ship may find itself going the opposite direction of its intended destination. That would be an extreme circumstance but there were always stories of ships that arrived with no cargo of value because it had either spoiled or the crew had eaten it to survive.
“How long were you stranded?” Smythe asked.
“Not long enough for everyone to go lunatic but that’s what happened. When the ship came to a halt we were somewhere between Cochin and Sri Lanka…” Straat said.
“That’s not even four-hundred nautical miles from your starting point. That makes no sense,” Smythe said.
“So you do know something of navigation then?” Straat said with a knowing smile.
“I know how to read a map and I know that the trade winds should have had you past the southern tip of India in just a matter of days,“ Smythe said.
“Yes but the captain began to act, well, he was under some pressure. You see he had promised the men a large sum of money for completion of this route. Now don’t be thinking the captain was weak or unfit for his duty. Why I’ve seen that man navigate through storms, tavern brawls and two duels – sword and pistol – without pause but something happened to him when he subdued the cargo,” Straat said.
“You are referring to when he shot the child?” Smythe said.
“Yes, after he shot the child he was different,” Straat admitted.
“Perhaps he suffered from guilt?” Smythe asked.
“Maybe but the issue was once we was on board and under way…we left but we didn’t leave,” Straat said.
“What do you mean you left but you didn’t leave?” Smythe asked.
“We left and we were about three days out and the Captain…well he…the Captain didn’t really take to the ships navigator and there was some fog. So the Captain who was able to read a map and use a sexton as well as the next man assumed those duties,” Straat explained.
“I gather the Captain wasn’t the navigator he claimed to be?” Smythe asked.
“We thought we made good time. When you’re aboard ship you learn to time the rise and fall of the ship as it relates to speed. We could feel the wind on our faces! We were making headway but...” Straat stopped himself.
“Yes?” Smythe asked.
“We hadn’t really moved you see?” Straat said as he studied the table top between them.
“No, I do not see. What was all that about cresting waves then?” Smythe asked beginning to lose his patients with Straat. He wasn’t sure whether he would have been better off discussing this with Masten.
“Damn you man. We felt it. We were moving for three days and nights but when we marked our position, we hadn't been,” Straat explained.
“Had any of you consumed alcohol or narcotics?” Smythe asked.
“I don’t know from narcotics but if you’re asking about them’s that might chase the dragon then yeah, we had some. However because the lower decks were full all of the men slept on deck at night and there would have been no way to go unnoticed doing so. We did have some rum on board but it was only a few bottles and nowhere near enough to hystericalize the whole crew,” Straat said.
“So the entire crew was under the impression that they were well on their way to untold fortune and abruptly learned that they had not left port. What was their reaction?” Smythe asked.
“What do you think it was? It was nearly a mutiny! It would have been one too had the captain not reminded everyone that he knew who the buyers were and how to contact them once we reached our destination,” Straat said.
“What happened to the navigator?” Smythe asked.
It was now nearing ten a.m. Straat’s stomach growled and he looked pitifully at Smythe. Smythe called Jailer Mohren and had Straat taken away then Masten brought in. Once Masten was seated, Smythe began the interview without the pleasantries.
“Tell me what happened to the navigator?” Smythe asked.
“Oh no, I will not discuss that. I was nearly killed by the captain, Straat and several others when I tried to tell what I had seen,” Masten said.
“As you are about to hang and Straat isn’t present…” Smythe left the sentence.
“It was an act of buggery but it wasn’t intentional!” Masten stated too loudly.
“Dear God! What?” Smythe asked.
“It didn’t start that way but, we had violated a sacred place, captured loyal and devout worshipers, of one of the most violent gods and we had done it for the worst of purposes. I can’t imagine the fate of those poor women had we made it to Singapore,” Masten said.
“I don’t give a damn about your precious tangerines! I am asking about the captain and the navigator,” Smythe said.
Masten sighed and drew up his courage. “It was night, I was walking the deck looking for a place to sleep because the crew had taken all of the places fit for a man when I saw one of the captured women walking the deck,”
“One of the captives?” Smythe asked hopefully.
“Yes, she walked right by me as if I wasn’t there and made her way to the captains quarters,” Masten said.
“So they escaped? This could explain everything. If your cargo got free and burned or sabotaged the ship…” Smythe said excitedly.
“No. They didn’t escape. She escaped and I don’t know if we ever really had her as a captive. I can tell you of all the women she was the most beautiful though, elegant and confident, black hair that flowed like oil. She was a bit taller than me, maybe as tall as you are counselor and as I said, I don’t recall her being among them that were taken,” Masten said.
“Are you suggesting this woman boarded the ship while you were at sea?” Smythe asked.
“I assure you sir that is completely within the realm of possibility and the least queer thing to happen on that ship,” Straat said.
“Please go on then,” Smythe asked with renewed interest.
“As I said, she walked past as if I weren’t there, then quiet as a cat she winds her way through the sleeping men and right into the captain’s quarters. I assumed it was to parlay for their release in exchange for favors. She goes in, and closes the door behind her. I’m standing there awestruck and the next thing I know Straat is standing in front of me. He was a bit sloppy from rum but not falling down and he asks me what I’m doing. Before I can get an explanation out we hear someone screaming as if they’re kissing the gunners daughter,” Masten paused to study his hands for a moment.
Smythe knew that corporal punishment aboard ship was one way to maintain order and discipline. However he hadn’t heard of a case of flogging in several years and the company frowned on the practice of making men kiss the gunners daughter. However, the stories of those that had been tied spread eagle and flogged into unconsciousness still popped up now and again.
“I gather the parlay went off route?” Smythe asked.
“There was no parlay. When we heard that mournful scream Straat ran for the Captains quarters, dirk in hand. The men on deck leapt to attention startled by the scream and began to scurry about looking for the source. Straat threw the door open and I followed close enough to give me a full view and…” Masten stopped again.
The midday bell tolled outside. Followed by a second set of bells announcing how many ships were in port. It kept the public aware of the goings on at the port and was good for morale. It also alerted the seven gunners on top of the jail to stand at the ready. More bells meant more ships, which meant more work and more money. There were only three new ships in today. They now had four days until the hearing.
“What did you see?” Smythe asked.
“It was the navigator sir. He was trussed up like a bail of cloth. His trousers were down around his ankles and so were the Captains…” Masten stopped because there was nothing to add.
“Are you accusing Captain Rynhaut of sodomy?” Smythe asked. Of course, Smythe knew it happened. It happened all the time. Men who had families waiting for them at home frequently took on ‘ship wives’ from among the men. It was another practice frowned upon by the company but again the captains were given free reign when it came to dealing with the problem.
“Sir this was rape if ever there were a case of it. The man had slipped his gag and managed to get out a distress call,” Masten said.
“What did Straat do?” Smythe asked.
“He is, was, insanely loyal to the Captain. I think he would have stepped in front of a musket ball for the man. So Straat being who he is and believing violence is the solution to most problems grabbed the navigator and pinned him against the wall. I don’t know what he told him, I wasn’t close enough to hear, but he was holding his dirk inches from the man’s eye. Shortly thereafter the navigator came stumbling out of the cabin trying to untie himself and pull up his breeches at the same time,” Masten said.
“What about the woman?” Smythe asked.
“Well you see that’s the thing, she wasn’t there,” Masten said.
“Did she leave through another exit?” Smythe asked.
“Only one door,” Masten said.
“So can you explain what happened?” Smythe asked.
“No,” Masten responded. “And neither could the Captain. You see he wasn’t drunk at all and he swore on calm seas and good winds that he had been fucking one of the tangerines. He claimed he didn’t even know how the navigator got into his quarters,”
Smythe studied Masten. He wasn’t a small man and he wasn’t overgrown either. What was most notable about him was his delicacy. Smythe knew that had he been the sole survivor he would probably have been hailed as some sort of hero. The man could have told any story he wanted to. No one would have believed he was remotely capable of the crime of which he was now accused.
“So the Captain denied having any knowledge of the rape of his navigator that both you and Straat witnessed?” Smythe asked.
“Well Straat wasn’t about to betray the captain and leave him to the will of the men who were already upset about being lost, the navigator was too ashamed to speak up, and I certainly wasn’t going to say anything,” Masten explained.
Food arrived and Masten looked at Smythe for permission. Smythe found a folded letter sealed with wax tucked between the dried fish and watery beer.
“Take some of the food to Straat, I’ll return later today if I can,” Smythe said collecting his papers and quill while scanning the letter.
It was an invitation to a meeting of the participanten, the non-managing partners of the Company, but partners nonetheless. They numbered in the hundreds and had twice as many complaints about the company. Many of them had employed Smythe in the past and would again. It would have been a poor business decision not to go. He dashed out of the jail and took a carriage to the Square.
One of the jailers brought Straat into the room and left. Jailer Mohren eyed the two men. He searched the loop of keys on his belt until he found the one he wanted.
“Come with me,” Mohren said.
“Have we given offense?” Straat asked.
Straat and Masten were aware that the penalties for misbehavior within the jail were severe. They had both seen other captives taken away for disciplinary action only to return beaten unconscious.
“Quiet now,” Mohren said.
The men complied as Mohren led them along a different route than the one toward the communal cell they were accustomed to. The three went up a flight of stairs to the upper level of the jail. Three other jailers awaited them. Each had the dreaded hardwood truncheons hanging from their belt and they eyed Masten and Straat with anticipation.
Straat looked toward Masten for a sign of what was to come. Masten made the slightest gesture reassuring Straat that all would be well. It was a signaling system the two had developed over years while playing games of chance. The two had perfected this form of communication and the sign went unnoticed by the jailers.
Mohren opened a side door and entered. Masten and Straat followed him in and the other three jailers followed them.
Inside the room a large table was covered end to end with sweet meats, fresh breads, fish, and fruit. Tankards of beer and bottles of wine sat in the center. Straat and Masten had not seen this much food in one place in all their lives.
Mohren gestured at the table.
“Sit, eat, drink,” Mohren said.
Straat once again looked at Masten for a sign and Masten’s entire posture changed. In an instant he transformed from a meek artist into a man accustomed to being in command.
Masten walked toward the table and sat at one end. He gestured for Straat to sit on his right side and poured himself a glass of wine. He took a sip and savored the taste it was a quality vintage. Masten sat down and poured himself some beer.
Mohren took his place at the other end of the table and poured himself a glass of wine as well. The other jailers took seats and began to eat and pour beer for themselves.
An hour went by and the jailers and Straat feasted in silence. Masten and Mohren nursed their respective glasses of wine in silence while each man sizing up the other. The alcohol kept the tension at bay but the room was thick with it nonetheless.
Finally Masten leaned back in his chair and put his glass on the table. Straat and the jailers stopped eating and looked from him to Mohren and back at Masten again.
“I gather you have a ship then?” Masten asked.
“Yes, we do,” Jailer Mohren said. “And you have a route?”
“I most assuredly do,” Masten said.
In the past Jailer Mohren had frequented the same bawdy houses his two captives did and he had recognized them both the day they had been taken into custody.
Mohren had opted to remain silent on the subject of their identities and now he was glad that he had.
When he first heard their tale he had dismissed it outright, but after some inquiry he had learned that one, there were purveyors of exotic beauties in Singapore willing to pay extravagant prices and two, the route was short if captained properly and with an experienced crew.
Mohren had discussed the idea with the other jailers and facing the demise of the company, his three accomplices leapt at the chance. The jailers had then discreetly recruited a crew of thirty from among the other incarcerated men.
Once that was accomplished the ship would need to be supplied which would be expensive but Mohren had already taken care of that.
From there it was simply a matter of securing a ship and freeing the captives.
The Square was bustling with the disgruntled, the terrified and the naïve. Smythe removed his watch and fob placing both in a pocket inside the waistband of his breeches designed for just such an occasion.
“Counselor!” shouted one of the men. Smythe recognized him as a former client who had a land dispute case some years ago. Smythe had gotten him a favorable ruling and the man had called him friend ever since.
“Hello, good to see you again,” Smythe lied. He had no idea what the man’s name was.
The man forced a stein of beer at Smythe who accepted but didn’t partake.
“Have you heard about the payroll?” the man asked.
“No,” Smythe said with dread. “What’s happened to payroll?”
“Someone absconded with it. Hundreds of thousands of duits and personal mail gone!” The man said. He was getting louder and the free-flowing beer increased the urgency of the situation.
To Smythe’s relief, the man went to relieve himself by forcing his way through several equally outraged members of the participanten. Smythe found a place to sit and contemplate in one of the alcoves surrounding the square. The crowd numbered in the hundreds now. All of the men were in various states of dress, ranging from proper evening attire to the distinctive dress of their trade. What they all had in common was that they were merchants and stakeholders and they each had their own payroll to meet. Each of them could afford to skip a month, perhaps two without receiving their salaries because they had company dividends to rely on. Their respective employees on the other part had an entirely different economic outlook; for the most part the laborers, apprentices, and unskilled labor employees barely eked by when they had steady work. The idea of having to face an angry desperate group of subordinates, who outnumbered their employers seven to one, was terrifying.
Their outrage about the loss of the payroll had begun to lose momentum about the time the second wagonof beer arrived. Smythe looked up from his thoughts to count at least five of the heavy wooden barrels upended or partially destroyed and decided it was time to retire to his home.
Smythe made it safely back to his housing before midnight. He had seen two fights, and the destruction of the very wagon carrying the beer. The irony was not lost on him as he tried to sleep that night.
The world he knew was on the brink of change. He wondered what would happen if the company didn’t get the contract renewed. He considered the future of his practice. Smythe had three clerks and two junior partners in his employ. Unlike the men who brawled in the street last night or drank themselves into a stupor, neither he nor his practice was at risk. In truth, although he detested the reality of it, a law practice could benefit from economic chaos. His clients either paid or he didn’t take their case. Granted on occasion he had handled some clients that found themselves without means but as a rule, people paid for his services. Criminal activity increased at the same rate as new enterprises. Land was purchased and sold at the same rate as theft and murder. No matter what happened, he profited and he was uncomfortable with this. He was realistic enough to understand that this was the nature of his chosen career but he still grappled with the moral implications of his personal stability resulting from riding the tide of human nature to his personal advantage. After his mind settled, he slept.
The following morning Smythe made his way to the Square seeking breakfast. His housekeeper had taken the day due to her husband having been caught up in the previous night’s activities. She was making sure he got medical attention and Smythe was on his own for sustenance. He made his way through the square, avoiding the scavenging dogs and birds that were taking advantage of the nights leavings. Apparently the street vendors had seized the opportunity offering up baked goods, sausages, and of course, more beer.
“Counselor, how goes your morning?” a voice shouted. It was Jeroen Saxe, another member of the tribunal adjudicating his case.
“Well, and good day to you sir,” Smythe responded curtly. He was again made uncomfortable by the familiarity of someone adjudicating his case. He knew of colleagues who went out of their way to build relationships with tribunal members but that smacked of impropriety to Goodson’s way of thinking. Smythe made a deliberate effort to appear interested in what appeared to be human vomit on the street. He found this a palatable alternative to engaging the juris in polite chatter. The one advantage was that he wasn’t hungry anymore and hailed a carriage to the jail.
When Smythe arrived, Jailer Mohren informed him that Straat had been assigned to manual labor this morning but Masten was available. Smythe had no desire to listen to the ravings of a man that was clearly desperate and past his breaking point but having no other options, he requested Masten be brought to the interview area.
Masten entered the interview room with trepidation and curiosity. Smythe decided at that moment that Masten acted out of weakness and fear. Perhaps he could get this man a reduced sentence, perhaps not. So far the members of the tribunal were behaving in a friendly manner, but perhaps they were looking toward the future; a future where former judges become partners in a successful law practice. It was a repulsive theory and Smythe had a client to address.
“…I asked if you had any ideas on how to get us out of this.” Masten repeated.
“I’m certainly not going to destroy my reputation by spinning a tale of men adrift at sea with an angry god am I?” Smythe asked.
“Well what pray tell are you planning to say?” Masten asked.
“Your best chance lies in claiming mentale falen…” Smythe started.
“No! By God I will not be locked up as a man who’s taken leave of his senses. Do you know what sort of animals they keep in those places?” Masten asked.
“If you’re fortunate, the ship stealing sort, unless you have a better idea,” Smythe said.