The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  Arent grunted, annoyed at being revealed so easily. This constant curiosity was Sammy’s doing. It happened to everybody who spent time with him.

  He changed them.

  He changed the way they thought.

  Arent had been a mercenary for eighteen years before becoming Sammy’s bodyguard. Back then, his only concern had been with saber and shot and whatever was trying to imminently kill him. He wasn’t one to idly fret; he couldn’t afford it. The mercenary who saw the spear, then thought about it too long, ended up with half of it buried in his chest. Nowadays, he’d see the spear, wonder who made it, how it had come to be in the soldier’s hands, who the soldier was, why he was there…on and on and on. It was a wretched gift that had left him neither one thing nor the other.

  Crauwels swept his gaze across the assembled crew, taking in every detail of every man under his scrutiny.

  Rain pattered around them.

  One by one, conversations were snuffed out until there was only the slap of waves and the screech of birds circling above.

  He left it a second more, letting the silence congeal.

  “Every man aboard this ship has cause to see land again,” he said, his voice rich and deep. “Mayhap it’s a waiting family, mayhap it’s a favorite brothel, or just an empty purse as needs filling.”

  Subdued laughter met the declaration.

  “To see our homes, to fill our purses, to draw one more breath, we must keep this ship afloat,” he continued, placing both hands flat on the railing before him. “There’s plenty as would see it otherwise. Pirates will stalk us, storms will lash us, and this damn restless sea will try to deliver us into the rocks.”

  The crew murmured fervently, standing a little straighter.

  “Trust in this, if you trust in nothing else.” Crauwels raised his voice. “Behind every bastard, there’ll always be another bastard, and to get ourselves home, to wrap our hands around whatever’s waiting there, we’ll need to be bigger bastards than they are.” The crew cheered, his words spreading like flame. “If pirates attack us, they’ll live long enough to see their comrades slaughtered and their ship brought under our flag. A storm’s naught but wind in our sails, and we’ll ride whatever waves bear down on us all the way back to Amsterdam.”

  Cheers rang out as the sandglass was tipped and a solitary bell rang, scattering the sailors to their labors. Four burly men began turning the capstan wheel, the mechanism screeching as they hoisted the Saardam’s three anchors off the ocean floor. A course and speed were ordered, the instruction handed down from the captain to the first mate to the helm.

  Finally, the mainsail was unfurled, good cheer turning to shock.

  Rippling in the wind, on the great white expanse, an eye with a tail had been drawn in ash.

  11

  All eyes were on the symbol on the sail, so nobody saw Creesjie Jens grip the railing of the quarterdeck, the color draining out of her cheeks.

  Nobody saw Sander Kers close the huge book held in Isabel’s hands, hiding the picture of the eye drawn there.

  Nobody saw the boatswain, Johannes Wyck, touch his eye patch in memory.

  And nobody saw Arent stare incredulously at the scar on his wrist, which was exactly the same shape as the mark on the sail.

  12

  Captain Crauwels bellowed instructions down to the helmsman, who was sighting their course through a small window in the helm, setting the rudders by adjusting the whipstaffs. Slowly, like an ox dragging a plow across a field, the Saardam picked up speed, bouncing over the waves, sea spray splashing onto the deck.

  The crew had dispersed to their duties, leaving Arent to stare at the symbol already being washed away in the rain.

  The captain had ordered the sail inspected for holes and loose stitching, but nothing had been found, and the sheet had been declared wind worthy. If anybody else was troubled by the symbol, they gave no indication. Most seemed to think it was the result of some strange jest or an accident in storage.

  Arent ran a troubled finger across his scar. He had to stare to see it, as it was hidden beneath a dozen other worse injuries. He’d received it as a boy, not long after the first hairs had sprouted on his chin. He’d gone hunting with his father, the family expecting them back that evening as normal. Three days later, a merchant caravan had found Arent wandering alone on the road. His hand was badly gouged, and he was sodden, as if he’d fallen in a stream, though there were none nearby and it hadn’t rained. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t remember what had become of him or his father.

  He still couldn’t.

  That scar was the only thing that had returned from the forest with him. For years, it had been his shame. His burden. A reminder of unremembered things, including the father who’d disappeared completely.

  How could it be on the sail?

  “Oi, Hayes,” said Drecht.

  Arent turned, blinking at the guard captain, who was pressing his hat onto his head as the wind picked up across the water.

  “If you still want to talk to the captain, he’ll be in the great cabin,” he said, the red feather in his hat twitching like an insect’s antenna. “I’m going over now. I’ll introduce you.”

  Arent dropped his hand self-­consciously behind his back, and followed Drecht across the waist toward the rear of the ship.

  He felt as if he were learning to walk again.

  Even at this slow pace, the Saardam was unsteady underfoot, sending him lurching from side to side. He tried to mimic Drecht, who was on the balls of his feet, anticipating the movement of the ship and balancing himself accordingly.

  That’s how he’ll fight, thought Arent. Light-footed, circling. Never stopping. You’d swing at where he’d been, while he put his sword where you would be.

  Arent was lucky Drecht hadn’t run him through.

  Luck. He hated that word. It was an admission, not an explanation. It was what you depended on when good sense and skill deserted you.

  He’d been lucky a lot recently.

  These last few years, he’d started making mistakes, seeing things too late. As he got older, he was getting slower. For the first time in his life, he felt the weight of his body, like a bag of rocks he couldn’t put down. Near misses were getting nearer, close calls closer. One day soon, he wouldn’t see his killer’s feet, wouldn’t hear their shuffling or catch their shadow drawing up the wall.

  Death kept flipping a coin, and Arent kept taking the odds. Seemed like madness, even to him.

  He should have quit a long time ago, but he didn’t trust anybody else to protect Sammy. That pride seemed ridiculous now. Sammy was in a cell aboard an imperiled ship, and Arent had nearly gotten himself killed before they’d even left Batavia.

  “Shouldn’t have reacted the way I did earlier,” said Arent, catching hold of a rope to steady himself. “Put you in a bad position with your men. I’m sorry for that.”

  Drecht’s eyebrows reached for each other in thought. “You did right by Pipps,” he said at last. “Did what you were paid to do. But it’s my duty to protect the governor general and his family, and I can’t do that without the loyalty of these musketeers. Put me in that position again and I’ll have to kill you. I can’t seem weak, because they won’t follow me. You understand that?”

  “I do.”

  Drecht nodded, the matter settled.

  They passed through a large arch into the compartment under the half deck. It was the width of the ship and ran back like a cave. Hammocks were strung wall to ceiling on the starboard side, curtains hanging between them for privacy.

  Arent had been berthed in the one closest to the helm, a small, gloomy room where the whipstaffs working the rudders finally emerged after their long journey through the ship. Having set their course, the helmsman was now squatting on the floor with his mate, rolling dice for ale rations.

  “How do you know the
captain?” asked Arent.

  “Governor General Haan’s sailed aboard the Saardam a couple of times before,” Drecht said, puffing on his pipe. “Crauwels has a flatterer’s tongue and managed to put himself the right side of him, which ain’t a feat most manage. That’s why he chose this ship to sail home on.”

  Drecht ducked through the door into the great cabin, leaving Arent to stare at it in dismay.

  It was half his size.

  “Should I fetch a saw?” asked Drecht as Arent contorted his huge frame through the gap.

  After the dim helm, it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dazzling glare of the great cabin. It was aptly named, for it was the largest room on the Saardam outside of the cargo hold. The whitewashed walls were bowed and the ceiling beamed, four latticed windows revealing the other six ships in the fleet spread out behind them, sails billowing.

  A huge table took up most of the room, its surface covered in scrolls, ledgers, and manifests. A navigational chart had been unrolled over the top, the four corners pinned down by an astrolabe, a compass, a dagger, and a quadrant.

  Crauwels was using the chart to plot a course. His jacket was folded neatly over the back of a nearby chair, revealing a crisp cotton shirt, clean enough to suggest it was new from the tailor that day. As with the rest of his attire, it was expensive.

  Arent couldn’t make sense of it. Sailing was dirty work. Ships were kept afloat by tar and rust and grime. Clothing was sweated through, then stained, then torn. Most officers wore their clothes to rags, replacing them grudgingly. After all, why waste coin on finery when it wouldn’t survive the voyage? Only nobles were so frivolous, but no noble would ever lower themselves to this profession. Or any profession, come to think of it.

  The dwarf Arent had seen on deck directing the passengers to their berths was now standing on a chair, his hands pressed flat on the table, either side of a ledger that described the state of the ship’s stores. His turned-­down mouth and furrowed brow suggested it made for ill reading. He tapped the captain’s arm, drawing his attention to the source of his displeasure.

  “That’s our first mate, Isaack Larme,” whispered Drecht, following Arent’s stare. “It’s his job to manage the crew, which means he’s got a vile temper, so stay away if you can.”

  Crauwels glanced up from the ledger as they entered, then immediately turned his attention to the chief merchant, Reynier van Schooten, who was slumped in a chair with his feet on another, drinking from a jug of wine. His jeweled hand lay across his round belly, which resembled a rock that had rolled into a ravine.

  “Tell me how I’m feeding three hundred souls when we left port with provisions for one hundred fifty,” demanded Crauwels.

  “The Leeuwarden has taken on extra supplies,” said van Schooten lazily, his voice already slurred with drink. “Once we consume ours, we’ll have space to bring them aboard.”

  “What happens if we lose sight of the Leeuwarden?” asked Larme in a thick Germanic accent that immediately put Arent in mind of cold winters and deep forests.

  “We call out very loudly?” suggested van Schooten.

  “Now’s not the—­”

  “We’ll ration and resupply at the Cape,” interrupted van Schooten, scratching his long nose.

  “Half rations?” asked Crauwels, dragging another ledger in front him, listing the victuals in their hold.

  “Quarter,” said van Schooten, earning a dark look from the captain.

  “Why did we put to sea without sufficient rations for the voyage?” asked Larme angrily.

  “Because we needed space for the governor general’s cargo,” responded van Schooten.

  “That box the musketeers carried aboard?” replied Larme, confused. “Vos ordered us to make room in the gunpowder store.”

  “That box wasn’t his only cargo,” replied Crauwels irritably. “There was something much bigger as well. Van Schooten arranged for it to be brought aboard in the dead of night, and he won’t tell me what it is.”

  Van Schooten took a long, fortifying gulp of his wine. “Ask the governor general if you’re curious. See where it gets you.”

  The two men glared at each other, their dislike warming the air.

  Drecht coughed uncomfortably, gesturing to Arent when the captain raised his eyes.

  “Captain Crauwels, I’d like to introduce—­”

  “I know him well enough. I’ve heard the stories,” interrupted Crauwels, immediately returning his attention to Larme. “Tell me about the cabins. Where am I sleeping now the governor general’s in my quarters?”

  “Port quarter,” said Larme. “Cabin two.”

  “I hate that cabin. It’s beneath the animal pens on the poop deck. Every time anybody goes near it, the sows squeal for an hour to be let out. Put me starboard bow.”

  “I’ve already claimed it,” said van Schooten, shaking his empty jug of wine disappointedly, then peering inside.

  “Aye, because it’s a favorite of mine and you know it,” growled Crauwels, the cords in his thick neck flaring. “You’re a petty bastard, Reynier.”

  “A petty bastard who won’t be kept awake by squealing sows all night long,” agreed van Schooten pleasantly, waving his empty jug in the air. “Somebody summon the steward. I’m out of wine.”

  “Who else has a cabin?” asked Crauwels, ignoring him.

  Larme searched for the passenger manifest on the table, then turned to the page listing the nobility. He read the names with difficulty, running a grubby finger underneath each one. “Cornelius Vos. Creesjie Jens. Her sons Marcus and Osbert. Sara Wessel. Lia Jan and Viscountess Dalvhain.”

  “Anybody we can move?” asked Crauwels.

  “Nobles all,” responded Larme.

  “Like vipers in their damn baskets,” sighed Crauwels, rapping the table with his knuckle. “Sows it is.”

  For the first time, he looked directly at Arent, but his attention was immediately diverted by the clack of a cane hitting wood, followed by hobbling footsteps. Glancing over his shoulder, Arent saw an elderly man in the doorway, surveying them like they were something foul slipping off a wagon wheel. He had gaunt cheeks, gray hair, and yellow, bloodshot eyes. Ragged purple robes hung from his thin body, and a huge cross was dangling around his neck. A splintered wooden cane seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright.

  Arent would have put his age at seventy, but appearances were deceptive this far from Amsterdam. A difficult journey to the East Indies could easily put ten years on a body, which was then assaulted by Batavia’s never-­ending cycle of disease and recovery, each time regaining a little less of what had been lost.

  Before any of them could speak, a young, broad-­shouldered native woman rustled in after him. She was a Mardijker, if Arent had to guess. A slave freed by the Company because she was a Christian. She was dressed for the fields in a loose cotton shirt, her curly brown hair tucked into a white cap, a long hemp skirt trailing along the floor. A large satchel hung across her back, but she seemed untroubled by its weight.

  Her face was round, with heavy cheeks and large, watchful eyes. She offered the assembled company neither deference nor greeting, simply turning her gaze to her companion and waiting for him to begin.

  “May I speak with you, Captain Crauwels?” asked the elderly man.

  “Every other bugger has today,” grunted Crauwels sourly, glancing at the huge, splintered cross. “Who are you?”

  “Sander Kers,” said the stooped man, his firm voice betraying none of the weakness evident in his trembling body. “And this is my ward, Isabel.”

  The sun momentarily dipped behind the clouds, darkening the room.

  From his chair, van Schooten twisted his body toward them, leering suggestively. “Oh aye, your ward, is she? How much does a ward cost these days?”

  Evidently, Isabel didn’t understand the comment, because she wri
nkled her brow and looked to Kers for an explanation. He contemplated van Schooten through narrowed eyes, his gaze as fierce as holy light. “You are so far from God’s sight,” he said at last. “What drove you into the dark, my son?”

  Van Schooten blanched, then became angry, waving him away. “Off with you, old man. There’s no passengers allowed up here.”

  “God brought me here. It isn’t for you to send me away.”

  Such was his conviction, even Arent believed him.

  “You’re a predikant?” interrupted Larme, nodding to the cross.

  “That’s right, dwarf.”

  The first mate stared at him with misgiving, while the captain plucked a small metal disk from the table, flicked it into the air, and caught it in his palm.

  Arent shifted uncomfortably, conflicting urges demanding he hide or flee. His father had also been a predikant, making it a profession he instinctively associated with malevolence.

  “You’ll find precious little welcome here, Sander Kers,” said Crauwels.

  “Because Jonah was cursed by God for sailing against his divine will, and now sailors believe all holy men bring ill fortune,” said Kers, his tone suggesting he’d heard the warning more than once. “I have little patience for superstition, Captain. God’s plan for each of us is writ in the heavens long before we’re born. If this ship flounders, it’s because He has chosen to close His fist around it. I will welcome His will and go before Him with humility.”

  Isabel murmured in agreement, the rapt expression on her face suggested they’d all be lucky to drown so devoutly.

  Crauwels sent the metal disk spinning into the air and caught it again. “Aye, well, if you’ve come to complain about your quarters, then—­”

  “I’ve no quarrel with my accommodations. My needs are few,” said Kers, who’d obviously taken umbrage at the presumption. “I wish to discuss your rule prohibiting me from traveling past the mainmast.”

  Crauwels regarded him warily. “Everything afore the mainmast is the domain of the sailors. Everything aft is kept for the senior officers and passengers unless the crew has duties there,” he explained. “Any sailor crosses the mast without permission gets flogged. Any passenger goes the other way is at the mercy of the crew. It’s that way on every ship in the fleet. Even I don’t often venture down that end of the ship.”