He turned the next page.
The village burned, bodies piled up on the ground. The villagers were attacking one another with hoes and pitchforks, setting fire to their own homes with torches. Lepers circled them, holding hands, watching the carnage in delight. And behind them, the demon prowled, its tongue lolling.
“After the third unholy miracle is performed, anybody who didn’t bargain with Old Tom is slaughtered by those who did,” said Kers. “And those who survive are dispatched to sow the seed of his malevolence elsewhere. This is what awaits the Saardam if we don’t act.”
Sara reached out a hand to touch the drawing. Unbidden, her imagination painted those she loved among the dead. Tears pricked her eyes.
“When will these unholy miracles start?” she demanded, dashing them away.
“I’m not certain,” he said. “That’s why we cannot tarry. Old Tom is on this boat, and the longer he goes undiscovered, the closer to ruin we come.”
26
“Tell me!” Jan Haan banged the table, rattling his plate.
“Uncle—” protested Arent.
“Say it,” demanded Haan, laughing. “Say I was wrong.”
Sitting next to each other, Sara felt Lia lean forward to stare at her father. Confusion was plain on her face. As usual, they had gathered to eat breakfast, it being the one meal of the day they shared. Most mornings, she and Lia talked while her husband ate silently, rushing through his food as quickly as decorum would allow so he could be free of them.
This morning was different. They were the ones who were distracted, their thoughts still trying to make sense of what Sander Kers had told them. In contrast, her husband was full of cheer.
Unlike the dining hall in the fort, which smelled of stone and dust, they were eating in the great cabin, sunlight streaming through the four latticed windows. The ocean was turquoise, the ship’s wake forming a foamy trail all the way back to Batavia—or so Sara liked to imagine.
But the real reason her husband was so cheerful was Arent. He sat on the opposite side of the table, taking up the space of two ordinary-sized people.
Oblivious to family etiquette, he had immediately started joking with her husband, speaking to him in a way she’d never heard anybody else dare. Her husband was typically a distant, formal presence at breakfast, but he had responded in boisterous fashion, reminiscing about Frisia, where he and Arent had grown up. He told stories about fighting the war of independence against the Spanish, then more stories about becoming a merchant, then the governor general of Batavia.
In Arent’s company, he was transformed.
“How would you have handled the dispute differently?” pushed Haan. “Come now, Arent. You’re known as an honorable man. And your grandfather thought you more than passing clever. What would you have done?”
“I don’t want—”
“Husband,” interjected Sara warily.
“Fear not, Arent,” said Haan, flashing Sara an irritated glance. “This is a friendly conversation, and I’m asking you plain.”
“Blood is a poor way to settle a dispute,” said Arent quietly. “Every man has the right to eat what he grows and be paid proper when he barters it. I don’t understand why the Company didn’t honor that.”
Haan took another sip of wine. As promised, he didn’t seem offended. If anything, he seemed contemplative.
“But you’ve killed before,” he said. “Obeyed orders to kill?”
“Aye, men marching under banners,” responded Arent, clearly uncomfortable. “Men who meant to kill me first.”
“Men you were paid to kill. That’s mercenary work, isn’t it? Coin and contract.”
“Yes.”
“The people of the Banda Islands broke the contract,” said Haan, leaning forward and clasping his hands. “We paid them to cultivate and deliver mace. When the boat arrived to collect the cargo, they killed two of our men and drove the boat away.”
Sara’s lips moved in silent argument, her words never touching the air. She knew better than to voice her outrage. Her husband brought up the Banda Islands frequently in conversation. He bullied people into agreeing with what he’d done, horrific as it had been.
For some reason, he seemed to enjoy seeing them buckle.
“Because the contract wasn’t fair,” refuted Arent. “They were being paid poorly and feared for their future under such terms. Your men tried to take the crop by force.”
Haan shrugged. “They signed the same contract I did. They knew the terms.”
“You could have paid them fair,” ventured Sara, appalled by her boldness.
“The Banda Islands are a wretched hovel,” said Haan contemptuously. “What use is wealth if they waste it buying beads from the English? They have no art, they have no culture, no debate. They exist as we must have first existed when God brought us forth from clay.” He shook his head sorrowfully, intent upon Arent, as if it were the mercenary who’d made the point. “Are we to leave them that way? The Company doesn’t simply bring wealth; it brings civilization. It’s a light in the darkness. Society is built upon contracts, upon the promises we make to each other and the coin we pay for them. There are bad ones, of course. But they must be honored and learned from. That’s what I did. It’s what your grandfather did. The people of the Banda Islands met ink with blood, and I could not allow that to stand. If I did, other tribes would have followed. The contract—the Company’s word—would have meant nothing, and its future would have been imperiled.”
“You wiped out an entire island,” stated Arent, clearly unable to comprehend his uncle’s coldness.
“Every man, woman, and child, yes.” He banged a fist on the table at each word. “One slaughter, so there would never be a need for another. And there hasn’t been.”
Arent could only stare at him.
The conversation slipped into a familiar silence, and Sara turned her attention to her plate. She’d been given salted fish and cheese, along with bread and a little wine. She hated the taste of the drink, much preferring the jambu juice they served in Batavia.
Haan shook his head, glancing at Sara.
“My wife, you were correct,” he said graciously. “This was too blighted a topic for such a jolly gathering, but I so rarely get to speak with anybody whose opinion I favor.” He inclined his head. “Nephew, my apologies and my thanks.”
Sara almost choked on her wine. Her husband didn’t apologize. He didn’t praise. He didn’t compliment or acquiesce.
Under the table, she squeezed Lia’s hand. Upon Lieutenant Hayes was lavished the affection her daughter had spent her life craving.
“How goes the investigation?” asked Haan, tearing a piece of chicken from the bone. “Have you learned why a demon stalks this ship?”
“Not yet,” admitted Arent, glancing instinctively at Sara. “We know the leper’s name was Bosey and that he was part of the Saardam’s crew before his tongue was cut out by a boatswain named Johannes Wyck. We know he dealt with Old Tom, who offered a great deal of wealth in return for a dangerous favor. Sammy believes if we make sense of his death, we’ll make sense of everything else.”
“Do not mistake this monster for your typical foes,” warned Haan, watching as a loaf of bread was placed on the table and a huge knife laid beside it. “When it attacked the Provinces, it used people’s desires against them. Anybody who has ever held a grudge or coveted the possessions of another. Anybody who ever believed themselves wronged or overlooked. These people are its prey, which makes this ship a feast.” He chewed chicken as he spoke. “Believe me, Arent, it’s a creature far more subtle and far more cunning than any you’ve faced before.”
Sara exchanged a wary glance with Lia. Were these the words of Old Tom? Was the creature playing with them?
“Then I must plead with you once again to free Sammy from his cell,” said Arent as a bowl of B
atavian fruit banged down in front of him. “I’m not capable of overcoming this threat alone.”
His uncle swallowed his food. “I have no desire to repeat yesterday’s argument,” he warned. “You know my feelings.”
Disquiet settled over the rest of the breakfast, which drifted toward its conclusion. Arent reluctantly agreed to attend again tomorrow, and the governor general departed to his cabin, obviously annoyed at their manner of parting.
No sooner was he out of the room than Sara strode around the table to speak with Arent, who was staring at his uncle’s chair as if it were some impossible riddle.
“He really didn’t care,” said Arent as she arrived at his side. “He slaughtered all those people, and he thinks it was the right thing to do.”
Sara and Lia exchanged a look. Nobody they knew would have been surprised by the governor general’s callousness. “My husband has never been unduly troubled by matters of conscience,” ventured Sara.
“He was when I was a boy,” said Arent, lost in memory. “He was the kindest person in my life. How long has he been like this?”
“From the first day we met fifteen years ago,” said Sara.
“Then something’s changed in him,” replied Arent distantly. “That’s not the man I remember from my childhood.”
27
Arent, Sara, and Lia walked together through the compartment under the half deck and into the sunlight beyond. The heat was a warm, wet blanket, blue sky unfurling in every direction. The Saardam was making fine headway, the wind keeping steady and strong, filling the sails as if it were a pleasure to do so.
Guard Captain Drecht was lining up his musketeers on the waist of the ship and handing out their weapons from straw-filled boxes. He planned to drill them daily, Sara understood. More to keep them occupied than to keep them sharp. Boredom in the tight confines of the ship was a spark that could burn the entire thing down.
“What happened last night?” asked Lia. “Nobody would tell us anything.”
“Another ship appeared,” said Arent, his thoughts obviously still on his uncle. “Then it disappeared again before dawn.”
“Old Tom?” replied Lia.
“Nobody knows. It was too distant to make out what colors it was flying.”
“It would have to be Old Tom,” she murmured, her brow knotted in thought. “The wind was southerly last night, and a fully laden Indiaman weighs—”
“Lia!” warned her mother.
“I just meant there’s no way it could have sailed beyond our sight in the time it had,” said Lia, abashed.
Arent glanced between them, registering the discomfort but politely saying nothing. Sara tried to keep the fear from her face. It was muttered comments like that, betraying the cleverness lurking within, that had caused her husband to trap Lia inside the fort. More than once as a little girl, she’d been accused of witchcraft, an accusation that could easily taint their good name if it was allowed to catch hold.
Sara took the opportunity to change the subject. “Did you tell Pipps what you’d discovered?”
“What we discovered,” corrected Arent. “He has some questions he wants us to find answers to.”
“Us?” she said, surprised.
Arent became flustered. “Sorry, I assumed you wanted to…” He trailed off uncertainly.
“I do,” she interjected quickly, touching his arm reassuringly. “Of course I do. I’m just not used to…” Her green eyes scoured his face, searching for the lie behind it. “Nobody’s trusted me with anything more pressing than small talk for a very long time.”
“I can’t do this alone,” said Arent, unable to meet her gaze. “I don’t know how, and you have a knack for asking the right questions. I’d like your help, if you’ll give it?”
“Most men would say this isn’t women’s work.” There was no mistaking the challenge in her tone.
“My father was one of them,” admitted Arent. “He taught me that women were frail creatures purposely crippled by God that men might prove their virtue by protecting them. Sounded right enough until I went to war and saw men pleading for their lives while women swung hoes at the knights trying to take their land.” His tone hardened. “Strong is strong and weak is weak, and it doesn’t matter if you wear breeches or skirts if you’re the latter. Life will hammer you flat.”
His words fell on Sara like the first touch of sun hitting a plant after a long winter. Her back straightened. She lifted her chin. Her eyes glittered, and her skin flushed with color. So often in the fort, she had had woken up feeling empty, as though she’d left her soul in bed. On days like that, she’d wander the corridors endlessly, peering into rooms and out the windows, yearning desperately for the world beyond the walls.
Usually, she’d find a way to sneak past the guards into town, accepting the inevitable beating from her husband when she returned after dark. But speaking with Arent, she felt the opposite of empty. She had so much life, it was bursting through the seams of her.
“How can I help?” asked Sara.
“A few ways. We need to find out more about Bosey. Where he’s from, who his people are, his friends, and what Old Tom asked of him. Sammy’s treating him as a victim in all this.”
“I’ll talk to the senior officers at dinner,” said Sara. “Their tongues will be loose with wine. Anything else?”
“Sammy wants us to know why so many people connected to Old Tom are on this boat, starting with my uncle. Do you know why he chose to sail aboard the Saardam rather than another ship?”
“He admires Captain Crauwels a great deal.” She fidgeted with her cap, which was being tugged at by the wind. “He mentioned something to Reynier van Schooten about having cargo on board. He went to check on it the moment we boarded.”
“The Folly?”
“Something else. Something bigger.”
“I heard Captain Crauwels grumbling about that. We’re short of food because of the space it’s taken. Do you know what it is?”
“I don’t, but I’ll endeavor to find out. What will you be doing?”
“Trying to find out if Bosey had any friends on board who can tell us about this bargain he struck and who he struck it with. Then I have to find some way of convincing Johannes Wyck to tell me what ‘Laxagarr’ means.”
“You could try bribing him. I have plenty more jewelry to give away.” She smiled at him conspiratorially and he laughed in spite of himself.
“I’ll make sure to mention it. Can you come up to the quarterdeck after dinner again tonight?” He coughed, suddenly realizing the implications of what he was asking. “I meant we can share what we’ve learned.”
“I understood,” she said. “I’ll be there.”
Sara nodded, and Arent departed with the stride of a man chased away by his own embarrassment.
“He doesn’t seem like a devil to me,” said Lia, watching him duck through the arch and disappear down the stairs onto the orlop deck.
“Nor me,” admitted Sara.
“I actually rather like him.”
“Yes,” said Sara. “So do I.”
“Do you think we should tell him about our plan to—”
“No,” snapped Sara. Then, more gently, “No, that’s ours alone. Ours and Creesjie’s.” The sharpness of Sara’s tone rose between them like a mountain range. “I’m sorry, dear heart,” said Sara, putting her head on Lia’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t have barked at you.”
“No, that’s Father’s job.”
Sara smiled at her sadly. “Not for much longer.” The smile fell from her face. “Do you have everything you need?”
“I do. It’s a simple enough task.”
“Only for you.” Sara stroked her daughter’s black hair, her hands strangely cold in the humid air. “We’ll start tonight.”
They climbed onto the quarterdeck where Eggert, the musket
eer guarding the passenger cabins, was busy picking scabs from his scalp. He didn’t notice them until the last minute, almost dropping his pike when he did. He fumbled a clumsy salute while trying to prevent his pike from falling, nearly impaling himself.
From the poop deck, they heard Creesjie and Dorothea talking. By unspoken agreement, they climbed the stairs and found their friends sitting with their backs against the animal pens. Creesjie had a crochet ring on her lap and a parasol over her head, while Dorothea was darning one of Osbert’s jackets.
“Is Arent our demon?” asked Creesjie as they appeared.
“If he is, he’s doing a fine job of hiding it,” said Sara. “Where are the boys?”
“Vos is showing them the cargo hold,” said Creesjie in that dismissive tone of voice she always used for the chamberlain.
“Vos? Does he even like the boys?”
“I don’t think so, but he’s trying to impress me. Anyway, they wanted to go, and it’s funny watching him bark commands at them like they’re dogs.”
“I think Father’s the demon,” decided Lia, who’d clearly carried on their earlier discussion in her head.
“Your father?” said Creesjie, whose surprise at the statement lasted only as long as it took her to consider it.
“It’s not your father,” interrupted Dorothea sagely, sucking a thumb she’d pricked on her needle. “I’ve lived with his malice a long time. It’s his and only his. Believe me.”
“Arent said he’d changed,” said Sara thoughtfully. “Do you remember him being different, Dorothea?”
“Different?”
“Kinder.”
“I was taken on after the boy had already gone to war,” said Dorothea. “If there was kindness in him, it went with Arent.”
“Why couldn’t Father be the devil?” demanded Lia petulantly. “The predikant said Old Tom was malevolent and wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“Truth is, it could be anybody,” said Sara, staring at the water. “Or nobody. For all we know, Sander Kers is lying. If I were Old Tom, I’d be cunning enough to point the finger elsewhere. Or it could all be a deceit in service of some greater evil.”
The Devil and the Dark Water Page 17
