The Shallow Seas Read Free Page A

years, for his eyes were full of a restless energy, and his body retained its youthful vigour. Dark-eyed, he wore his long black hair pirate fashion, half-braided and beaded. Although the Manouks were Armenian Christians, brother and sister had been raised by native women, and many of Java’s ancient customs clung to them.
    Tigran reflected on his desire for Charlotte, so vulnerable now, so beautiful though that every moment he was with her he wanted to bury his face and hands in her hair, kiss her lips until she could hardly breathe. He subdued the effect these thoughts invariably brought upon his body, gripped the shroud rigging and stared into the moiling waves.
    He had intended to ask Charlotte to marry him on his last visit to Singapore, but Meda’s illness had forced his rapid return to Batavia. Now he was angry at himself for not coming back immediately, though it had been impossible whilst Meda was so deathly sick. That was forgotten now in his ardour, and he cursed and punched the wood of the rail hard, wincing as his skin broke from the blow. He would have taken her to Java, and this damn mess with the other man would not have happened.
    He watched the blood well from his skinned knuckles and hung his hand over the rail, gazing as a stream of scarlet coursed down his fingers, feeling the sting of the salt spray. Regret, regret! Well, he would not regret again. He was determined to have her promise before they landed. This enforced departure of hers would be his good fortune. Time would heal her, she would forget the other man, and he would make her the happiest woman in the world.
    He ordered the wind sail to be rigged to send fresh air to the cabins under deck and went below.

1
    Charlotte’s first impression of Batavia was of a ghost town. It was not just the oppressive thoughts in her mind at leaving Singapore, Zhen and Robert. Nothing could have stood in starker contrast to the harbour at Singapore, with its low red-roofed buildings, its wide and busy harbour of sapphire blue, the gentleness of its island sands and the low green hills beyond. The Queen of the South had threaded its way through the thousand islands which lay before the port of Batavia and dropped anchor near the mouth of the Haven Kanaal, the stone-walled channel which projected far out into the shallow sea like a long grey tongue. The sky, overcast and hazy, turned the water of the roadstead to slate.
    It had been two hundred years since ships had sailed up this canal to the shipyards and docks beyond, Tigran explained. A combination of bigger ships, the narrowness of the channel and the constant sand banks which built up at the mouth meant that ships must anchor far from shore and await the arrival of the slow, flat-bottomed lighters. If the waters were choppy, this could be treacherous. The weather that day was calm, however, and while she waited for the boat, Charlotte took a long look at this place which was to be her home.
    The approach was deceptively pretty: islets scattered amongst the diamond glints of the blue sea like jewels from a broken necklace; a hundred white-rimmed emeralds, distant amethysts, hued agate, rugged grey quartz and far-flung, filmy amber. But as the ship drew closer to the mainland, the illusion dropped away. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but a low, muddy morass dotted with palms. The high mountains beyond the city, of which she had been told, were invisible, veiled in dense cloud. Of the city itself, she could see nothing but a chalky white lighthouse on the end of the canal wall, a few grey stone houses and a small, low fort. Charlotte’s heart sank. It was as if all colour had been sucked out of this joyless day. The night of her arrival in Singapore flooded her memory. The moonlight, the forest of masts, the swaying lanterns on the ships like dancing fireflies, the Chinese junk and the man who had called to her. Her heart swelled, and an unbidden tear slid down her cheek.
    Tigran