Van Oosterhout could also concentrate on the puzzle of why so honest a man as himself had become — de facto — a pirate, serving the cause of a villain? After all, the Indian warriors were gone, there was nobody holding a pistol to his head, and he could have taken his ship anywhere he wanted, telling the crew some suitable tale, and bidding goodbye for ever to Captain Flint.
Being an analytical man, he'd carefully considered all this and come to the conclusion that he was here, first and foremost, because he wanted his share of Flint's treasure. And since he wasn't being asked to do anything actually wicked — not robbery or murder, for instance — he was happy to go along with Flint's plans. Besides that, he was well content with so large and fine a ship as Lord Stanley — vastly superior to the poor little Christiaan Huygens. And finally… finally… there were certain other possibilities of this present voyage, which he did not wish to spoil.
So he stood tall as he advanced to the quarterdeck rail, taking the quadrant his servant offered him, and acknowledging the salutes of Captain York and the rest. As ever, the Indian women and girls looked on from the fo'c'sle where they habitually gathered, and they chattered and pointed. They giggled and smiled at him, for he was the chief man aboard and they knew it.
It was a surprising pleasure to have women and children aboard ship. Van Oosterhout had never been to sea in a ship teeming with children. There were all ages on board, from babes in arms, to toddlers who must constantly be watched, to little boys who swarmed in the rigging and screamed in their incessant games. They were fine little fellows, bright eyed and brown-skinned, utterly unlike their hard-faced fathers, and they smiled and played and seemed endlessly happy.
And as for the young women…
Hmm, thought Van Oosterhout, and unconsciously glanced at Captain York, who looked pleased with himself — as well he might, for he'd got a favourite among the Indian girls. Sally, he called her, and he was taking her to bed every night, and making a great deal of noise in the doing of it… an intoxicating thought… But there was duty to be done, and Van Oosterhout completed his noon observation, then turned his telescope on the rest of the fleet.
They were a wallowing, lumpish collection of rigs and gear, lumbering along, anxiously keeping together for the miserable reason that they feared getting lost. This amazing fact he'd learned the first time he took his observations aboard Lord Stanley and York did the same. Van Oosterhout discovered that where he thought in terms of placing a precise cross on the chart, York had more modest aims.
"It's lead, log and latitude for me, Mr Van!" he said. "I was bred up to the coastal trade from Whitby to London, the which is in sight of land, or close by, and is sailed by learning from your dad, as I did! I can find me latitude at a pinch, but mainly I sails by finding them places again the which I has already been to, and has the knowledge of."
"Oh?" said Van Oosterhout. "Then how did you cross the Atlantic?"
"Why," said York, "I came out years ago, in company with other ships of the West India convoy for fear of war with the Dons. And there was plenty on board of the other ships as knew the deep waters and had sailed the West Indies afore." He shrugged. "So I followed them, mostly."
"I see," said Van Oosterhout, realising he'd been mistaken in his assumption that others knew what he knew. "What about the other shipmasters of our fleet? Are they lead, log and latitude?"
York grinned. "God bless you, sir! Some o' them buggers couldn't find St Paul's if they was anchored at the Tower!"
Van Oosterhout was brought back to the present by the sound of singing. It was coming from the fo'c'sle. He looked up. The Indian girls were playing some sort of game, in a ring, holding the little children in their arms so they could pass a ball around. They laughed and sang. They were a pretty sight, and the seamen looked on and smiled.
Just casually, and telling himself he'd no particular thought in mind, Van Oosterhout wandered down the deck, past the mainmast, past the belfry and the capstan, just idly wandering towards the singing, and the laughing. The women saw him coming and laughed all the louder. Then three young women broke away from the crowd and made a great business of chanting some sort of song, and clapping their hands and looking at him.
Van Oosterhout stared. Patanq women were tall and slender. Their clothes — by the standards of a Protestant Dutchman — were saucy in the extreme, with skirts that showed their fine legs and tunics that didn't hide the bounce of their breasts. They wore many bright beads, and had smooth skins and wonderful slanted eyes. Van Oosterhout gulped. He didn't wish to be a libertine like Captain Foster of Lucy May with his dirty hand up a skirt. But still…
The three girls advanced upon him, clapping and singing and stepping out some sort of dance. Those on the fo'c'sle joined in the song, and the girl in the middle smiled at Van Oosterhout, and looked him straight in the eye, and pressed something into his hands. Then the three of them ended the song with a stamp and a clap of the hands and ran off.
Van Oosterhout looked at what she'd given him. It was a little wooden doll, neatly carved, brightly painted, very much male and very much aroused.
"Oof!" said Van Oosterhout, and blushed bright red. But the girl smiled at him. And that night, he made as much noise as Mr York as she knelt upright on his loins in his narrow bed, pressing her buttocks on to his thighs to drive all well home, and digging her nails into his chest and biting his ears and laughing and laughing and laughing.
And as he gazed at the long black hair swirling over naked brown shoulders, in the lantern-light, and the lovely breasts… even intoxicated with pleasure as he was, the calculating part of Cornelius Van Oosterhout's mind congratulated itself for keeping faith with Flint, because that meant keeping faith with Dreamer — and Van Oosterhout knew he wouldn't now be enjoying the favours of this delectable girl if he hadn't. He even wondered whether she was giving herself to him for precisely that reason? Doubtless they had their own forms of marriage and chastity? But who cared…
"Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" said Van Oosterhout.
So… a fine merry voyage it was too, until late February of the new year, when Van Oosterhout's calculations told him that the fleet would soon be running on to the northern archipelago as shown in his copy of Flint's chart. His orders from Flint were that he must on no account approach the island from any other direction, and that he must sail with utmost care, and only in daylight, and with a careful lookout for the perils ahead.
"There, Mr York!" cried Van Oosterhout, pointing.
"Aye!" said York, shouting in his ear. "Damned easy to run on to it!"
Indeed," said Van Oosterhout, "but we have Flint's chart!"
The two were swaying in Lord Stanley's fore-top with the lookouts beside them and the wind blowing so strong it was hard to speak. Behind them the whole fleet was hove to, for the deadly rocks and quicksands of the archipelago were but a few miles off, and Lord Stanley was ahead and seeking the entrance to Flint's Passage, the safe route southwards through the archipelago. Even such a navigator as Van Oosterhout couldn't pinpoint the entrance without going in to look for it.
It took two days of hard work before Van Oosterhout was satisfied that he'd found the entrance. Meanwhile he had the fleet come to anchor in the lee of a vast sandbank that broke the force of the prevailing winds. It was no harbour, but it was better than the open seas. Then he took Lord Stanley's longboat, rigged for sail with a small crew, and with the chart on his knees, and with Captain York left in command of the fleet, Van Oosterhout entered Flint's Passage, and headed for the island.