The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  Lia bit her lip sulkily, staring at the unsatisfactory pulley. “It’s such a small thing. Why can’t I—­”

  “Because men don’t like being made to feel stupid, and there’s no other way to feel when you start talking.” Sara stroked her daughter’s face, wishing she could ease the confusion she saw there. “Cleverness is a type of strength, and they won’t accept a woman who’s stronger than they are. Their pride won’t allow it, and their pride is the thing they hold dearest.” She shook her head, unable to find the right words. “It’s not something to be understood. It’s just the way it is. You were sheltered in the fort, surrounded by people who loved you and feared your father, but there’s no such protection on the Saardam. This is a dangerous place. Now heed me and think before you speak.”

  “Yes, Mama,” said Lia.

  Sara sighed and pulled her close, her heart aching. No mother wanted to tell their child to be less than they were, but what use was encouraging a child into a thornbush. “It won’t be like this for very much longer, I promise. Soon we’ll be safe, and we’ll live our lives as we wish.”

  “My wife!” hollered Haan from the opposite side of the deck. “There’s somebody I wish you to meet.”

  “Come,” she said, linking her arm through Lia’s.

  Her husband was talking to a fleshy, sweating man with a face overrun by veins. His eyes were bloodshot and watering. Evidently, he’d risen late and attended his toilet carelessly. Though dressed to the fashion, his ribbons were disheveled and his cotton shirt only tucked into one side of his belt. He was unpowdered and unperfumed and in dire need of both.

  “This is Chief Merchant Reynier van Schooten, the master of our voyage,” said the governor general.

  Dislike squirmed beneath his words.

  Van Schooten’s glance put Sara on a scale, weighing and evaluating, pinning a price to her ear.

  “I thought the captain was in charge of our ship,” said Lia.

  Van Schooten stuffed his thumbs in his belt and puffed out a perfectly round belly, summoning whatever dregs of pride were left to him. “Not on a merchant vessel, my lady,” he explained. “Our captain’s role is merely to ensure our ship arrives safely in Amsterdam. I’m responsible for all other matters.”

  Merely, thought Sara. As if there could be some grander ambition for a ship than to keep it from sinking.

  But of course, there was.

  This was a merchant vessel flying United East India Company colors, which meant profit went before every other consideration. It wouldn’t matter if the ship made it back to Amsterdam if the cargo had spoiled or if the trade at the Cape had been handled badly. The Saardam could drift into port full of bodies and the Gentlemen 17 would still call it a success so long as the spices weren’t damp.

  “Could I show you around our ship?” asked van Schooten, extending an arm to Lia and making sure every one of his jeweled rings was on display. Unfortunately, they couldn’t distract from the sweat patch under his armpit.

  “Mama, would you like a tour?” Lia asked, turning her back to the merchant and screwing her face up in revulsion.

  “My wife and daughter can acquaint themselves with the vessel later,” interrupted Haan impatiently. “I’d like to see my cargo.”

  “Your cargo?” Confusion became realization. “Ah, yes. I can take you directly.”

  “Good,” said Haan. “My daughter, you’re in cabin three.” He waved vaguely to a small red door behind them. “My wife, you’re in cabin six.”

  “Cabin five, my lord,” corrected van Schooten apologetically. “I had it changed.”

  “Why?”

  “Well…” Van Schooten shifted uncomfortably. The shadow of the rigging made it appear he’d been thrown under a net. “Cabin five is more comfortable.”

  “Nonsense. They’re all identical.” Haan was infuriated that any order of his—­however small—­should be so overruled. “I specified cabin six.”

  “Cabin six is cursed, my lord.” The chief merchant spoke quickly and blushed with embarrassment. “In our eight months from Amsterdam, it had two occupants. The first was found hanging from a hook on the ceiling, and the second died in his sleep, eyes wide with fright. Steps sound from inside at night, even when it’s empty. Please, my lord, it’s—­”

  “I care not!” interrupted Haan. “Take whichever cabin suits you, my wife, and consider yourself at your liberty. I’ll have no further need of you until this evening.”

  “My husband,” acknowledged Sara, inclining her head.

  Sara watched van Schooten lead him down the steps, then she clutched Lia’s hand, dragging her as quickly as their cumbersome skirts would allow toward the passenger cabins.

  “Mama, what’s the rush?” fretted Lia, almost tugged off her feet.

  “We need to get Creesjie and the boys off this ship before it sets sail,” she said.

  “Papa will never allow it,” argued Lia. “Creesjie told me she wasn’t meant to leave Batavia for another three months. Father wanted her here. He demanded it. He even paid for her cabin.”

  “That’s why I’m not going to tell him,” said Sara. “He won’t even know Creesjie’s disembarked until we’ve set sail.”

  Lia planted her feet, clutching her mother’s hand with both of her own, forcing her to stop.

  “He’ll punish you,” said Lia fearfully. “You know what he’ll do. It will be worse than—­”

  “We have to warn Creesjie,” interrupted Sara.

  “You couldn’t walk last time.”

  Sara softened, cupping her daughter’s cheek. “I’m sorry, dear heart. That was… I wish you hadn’t had to see me like that, but I can’t allow our friend to be put in danger because your father is too stubborn to hear reason from a woman.”

  “Mama, please,” pleaded Lia, but Sara was already tearing her ruff off and ducking through the tiny red door.

  On the other side lay a narrow corridor lit by a solitary candle, guttering in an alcove. There were four doors on either wall, each marked by Roman numerals scorched into the wood. Trunks and furniture were being delivered by grunting stevedores, cursing the weight of wealth.

  Sara’s maid, Dorothea, harried them, pointing and arranging on behalf of her mistress.

  “Which cabin is Creesjie in?” asked Sara.

  “Seven. It’s opposite Lia’s,” said Dorothea before stopping Lia to enquire after some small matter, leaving Sara to press on alone.

  A harp twanged under its protective cloth as Sara pushed through the confusion, only to find herself blocked off by a large rug tied with twine, which was being maneuvered into a cabin far too small to house it.

  “It won’t fit, Captain,” whined one of the sailors, who had it on his shoulder and was trying to bend it around the doorframe. “Can’t we put it into the cargo hold?”

  “Viscountess Dalvhain won’t be without her comforts,” came the captain’s vexed voice from inside. “Try standing it up.”

  The sailors strained. There was an audible crack of wood.

  “What in the seven hells have you done?” barked the captain angrily. “Did you break the doorframe?”

  “Wasn’t us, Captain,” protested one of the sailors. A thin rod slid out from the center of the rug, clattering on the floor. One end was snapped.

  The nearest sailor hastily kicked it away with his heel. “It’s only to keep the rug straight,” he explained, a small grimace betraying his uncertainty.

  “Bugger this,” growled the voice inside the cabin. “Just lay it corner to corner. Dalvhain can find a place for it when she comes aboard.”

  As the rug was swallowed by the cabin, a broad-­shouldered, well-­muscled man stepped into the corridor, coming face-­to-­face with Sara. His eyes were ocean blue, his hair lopped short to fend off lice. Ginger whiskers covered his cheeks and chin, leaving a face that was sun br
owned and angular, fadingly handsome, much like the ship he commanded.

  Seeing Sara, he bowed floridly, as if at court. “I apologize for my language, madam,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were out here. I’m Adrian Crauwels, captain of the Saardam.”

  The corridor was narrow and busy, forcing them to stand awkwardly close.

  His pomander draped him in the smell of citrus, and his teeth were unusually white, his breath suggesting he’d been chewing on water mint. Unlike the chief merchant, his clothing was expensive, his doublet dyed rich purple, golden embroidery catching the candlelight. His sleeves were paned, and his trunk hose tied above cannions with silk bows. The buckles of his shoes shone.

  Such fine dress suggested a successful career. Fleet captains earned a percentage of the profits they safely delivered. Even so, Sara wouldn’t have been surprised to discover Crauwels was wearing his entire fortune.

  “Sara Wessel,” she said, introducing herself with a dip of the head. “My husband speaks highly of you, Captain.”

  He beamed in delight. “I’m honored to hear it. We’ve sailed together twice before, and I’ve always enjoyed his company.” He nodded to the ruff clutched in her hand. “The tight quarters of the Saardam aren’t best suited to fashion, are they?” From somewhere outside, a coarse voice hollered for the captain. “I’m afraid my first mate requires my attention. Will you be attending my table tonight, my lady? It’s my understanding the chef has prepared something special.”

  Sara’s smile was a brilliant thing, trained by endless unwanted social engagements.

  “Of course. I’m looking forward to it,” she lied.

  “Excellent.” Raising her hand, he kissed it politely, then took himself into the light.

  Sara rapped on the door to cabin seven. Behind the wood, she could hear her friend’s laughter and the squeals of delight coming from her two sons. The sound was like a breath of wind carving through a pestilent fog, her mood lifting immediately.

  Footsteps approached from within, a young boy opening the door carefully, his face brightening when he realized who it was.

  “Sara!” He threw his spindly arms around her.

  Creesjie Jens was rolling around on the floor with her other son, oblivious to her silk nightgown. Both boys were in their undergarments, their skin clammy and hair wet, their sopping clothing discarded on the floor. Evidently, some mishap had befallen them on the crossing, which didn’t surprise Sara at all.

  Marcus and Osbert were mishap bloodhounds. Marcus was ten, older by two years than his brother, though not nearly so quick witted. It was Marcus who was clinging to Sara, forcing her to shuffle into the cabin.

  “You’ve raised a barnacle,” she said to Creesjie, stroking the boy’s hair affectionately.

  Creesjie pushed Osbert away from her face, examining them from the floor. Her hair formed a messy blond halo on the wood, and her deep blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight, her face soft and round, her pale cheeks blushed with exertion. She was the most beautiful woman Sara had ever seen. It was the only thing she and her husband agreed upon.

  “Hello, Lia,” said Creesjie to the dark-­haired girl as she trailed her mother into the cabin. “Are you keeping Sara out of trouble?”

  “I’m trying, but she seems terribly fond of it.”

  Creesjie tutted at Marcus, who was still pressed to Sara’s skirt. “Leave her be. You’ll soak her through.”

  “We went over a wave,” explained Marcus, ignoring his mother’s instructions as usual. “And then—­”

  “The boys stood up to greet the next one,” supplied Creesjie, sighing at the memory. “They nearly tumbled over the edge of the boat. Thankfully, Vos caught hold of them.”

  Sara raised an eyebrow at the mention of her husband’s chamberlain. “You traveled with Vos?”

  “More like he traveled with us,” said Creesjie, rolling her eyes.

  “He got very upset,” supplied Osbert, who was still lying on his mother, his naked belly rising and falling. “But the wave didn’t hurt, really.”

  “It hurt a bit,” corrected Marcus.

  “A little bit,” recorrected Osbert.

  Sara knelt down, passing her gaze between their earnest faces. Watery blue eyes, guileless and merry, fixed upon her. They were so alike. Sandy hair and red cheeks, their ears waving to the world from either side of their head. Marcus was taller and Osbert broader, but otherwise there was little to separate them. Creesjie said they took after their father, her second husband, Pieter.

  He’d been murdered four years ago, something Creesjie didn’t like to talk about. From the stumbled-­upon stories, Sara knew that he’d been loved dearly and mourned fiercely.

  “Boys, I need to speak with your mama,” said Sara. “Would you go with Lia? She wants to show you her cabin, don’t you, Lia?”

  Irritation wrinkled Lia’s brow. She hated being treated like a child, but her fondness for the boys was enough to drag a smile out of her.

  “More than anything.” She became deadly serious. “I think there’s a shark in there.”

  “No, there isn’t,” protested the boys in unison. “There are no sharks on land.”

  Lia feigned bafflement. “That’s what they told me. Shall we find out?”

  The boys agreed readily enough, dashing out in their undergarments.

  Sara closed the door as Creesjie got to her feet, dusting her nightgown off. “Do you think they’d let me wear this around the ship? I had to put it on after the wave soaked—­”

  “You need to get off the Saardam,” interrupted Sara, tossing her ruff onto the bunk.

  “It usually takes at least a week before people start asking me to leave places,” said Creesjie, frowning at a dirty spot on her sleeve.

  “The ship has been threatened.”

  “By a madman on the docks,” replied Creesjie skeptically, walking over to a rack on the wall that held four clay jugs. “Wine?”

  “There isn’t time, Creesjie,” said Sara, exasperated. “You need to get off the ship before we set sail.”

  “Why are you giving the ravings of a madman any credence?” replied Creesjie, filling two cups and handing one to Sara.

  “Because Samuel Pipps does,” Sara said.

  The cup stopped halfway to Creesjie’s lips, her face showing interest for the first time. “Pipps is on board?” she asked.

  “In manacles.”

  “Do you think he’ll attend dinner?”

  “He’s in manacles,” stressed Sara.

  “He’ll still be better dressed than most of the other guests,” Creesjie said thoughtfully. “Do you think I can visit him? They say he’s exceptionally handsome.”

  “When I saw him, he looked like he’d climbed out of a midden.”

  Creesjie made a disgusted face. “Perhaps they’ll clean him up.”

  “He’s in manacles,” repeated Sara slowly, putting down her untouched cup. “Will you consider departing?”

  “What does Jan say?”

  “He doesn’t believe me.”

  “Then why is he letting me go?”

  “He isn’t,” admitted Sara. “I…wasn’t going to tell him.”

  “Sara!”

  “This ship is in danger,” exclaimed Sara, throwing her hands in the air and smacking them into the beamed ceiling. “For your sake and the boys, please go back to Batavia.” She tried to shake the sting from her pained fingers. “There’ll be another voyage in four months. You’ll be home in plenty of time for your marriage.”

  “Time isn’t the problem,” argued Creesjie. “Jan wanted me on this ship. He bought my berth and had my ticket delivered by household guard. I can’t depart without his blessing.”

  “Then talk to him,” Sara pleaded. “Ask for it.”

  “If he won’t listen to you, why would he listen to me?”

/>   “You’re his mistress,” said Sara. “He favors you.”

  “Only in the bedroom,” replied Creesjie, draining her wine and starting on Sara’s. “It’s the curse of powerful men to heed only their own voices.”

  “Please! At least try!”

  “No, Sara,” Creesjie said softly, dousing Sara’s passion with calm. “And not because of Jan. If there’s danger on this ship, do you truly think I’d abandon you to it?”

  “Creesjie—­”

  “Don’t argue with me. Two husbands and a court full of lovers have taught me stubbornness. Besides, if there’s a threat to the Saardam, surely our duty is to stop it. Have you told the captain?”

  “Arent is doing it.”

  “Arent,” Creesjie cooed lasciviously. Sara suspected that somewhere on the ship, Arent suddenly started sweating. “When did you get on first-­name terms with the brutish Lieutenant Hayes?”

  “On the docks,” said Sara, ignoring her suggestive tone. “How am I supposed to save the Saardam?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not the clever one.”

  Sara scoffed at that, snatching her wine back and taking a big gulp. “You see a great deal more than most.”

  “That’s a polite way of calling me a gossip,” responded Creesjie. “Come now. Stop being a worried friend and play at being Samuel Pipps. I’ve seen you playact his cases with Lia and try to solve them.”

  “They’re games.”

  “And you are very good at them.” Creesjie paused, peering intently at her. “Think, Sara. What do we do?”

  Sara sighed, rubbing her temple with her palm. “Pipps believed the leper was a carpenter,” she said slowly. “Possibly on this ship. Somebody must have known him. If so, they might have more information on this threat we’re facing.”

  “Two ladies won’t be safe tromping into the depths of the Saardam. Besides, the captain’s forbidden any passengers from going beyond the mainmast.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The tallest mast, halfway along the ship.”