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.

‘It is late,’ she cried. ‘You cannot come in.’

At this, she heard a savage kick, and the chest slid further into the chamber. One of the girls screamed, quickly hushed by another.

‘You cannot come in!’

A figure was standing in the open doorway. Judith could see little in the darkness, but she could hear his ragged breathing and make out that he was tall and broad, and holding a knife. He dragged another man into the room beside him, smaller and rocking slightly on his feet. A sailor she recognised from the ship.

‘Sirs, please leave.’

Judith took a step back, but the bearded man came further into the room. She could smell his ale-soaked breath.

‘Look at you, your colour is high. Under your drab exterior, you’re all the same.’

To Judith’s horror, he reached out and fumbled at the buttons on her bodice.

‘We all know what you Dutch bitches get up to behind closed doors.’

Judith pushed him away, but far from quelling his attack, her sudden resistance heated his blood.

‘You may be plain, and still as ripe with the stink of the ship as Driek here, but your skin is unpocked,’ he muttered, his dark eyes lit with the thrill of the chase. ‘And he says you’re clean.’

Without warning, he thrust his hand between her legs. Judith was torn between fighting back and not wanting to terrify the girls by screaming. She tried to push him off.

‘Please, no,’ she whispered. ‘There are children sleeping.’

Inflamed by lust, he let the knife drop from Driek’s neck. The sailor saw a chance to escape and tried to slip past, but tripped over the corner of the chest and, instead, stumbled into his companion.

The big man roared and spun round, snatching up the knife again. Judith saw the blade flash in the gloom.

Driek threw up his hands. ‘Lars, no! It was a mistake. I slipped.’

But the man was in no mood to listen. He struck. The blade missed. Judith smothered a cry, praying the girls would have the sense to stay hidden. Driek was backing away, holding up his hands in apology. Lars lashed out again. This time he hit his mark. For a moment, the seafarer stood with a look of bewilderment on his face. Then his hands went to a jagged wound at his throat. He seemed to register the burgeoning splash of blood on his stained shirt and then, as if in slow motion, fell forward over the chest.

Lars stood stock still, as if surprised by what he had done, suddenly sober. He stared at Judith, then spat in her face, shoved past the chest and disappeared out into the night.

Shaking, Judith slammed the door shut behind him and dropped the latch. Then she forced herself to look at Driek. What was she going to do? He was not a kind man, but he had left them alone on the ship and occasionally stepped in when other sailors were bawdy. Even though he had brought Lars to their door, she couldn’t bring herself to bear him ill will. Nor could she let him die without prayer.

‘For Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.’

Her hands trembling, Judith put a cloth over his face, then wrapped her arms around herself to try to stop the shaking. She heard a creak on the ladder, then felt birdlike arms go round her waist and looked down. Petronella’s sweet face was looking up at her.

‘Never mind,’ the young girl said, with a wisdom belying her years. ‘He can’t hurt anyone now.’

Judith gave a wild laugh, then clamped her hand over her mouth. If she gave way to hysteria now, she would never stop.