The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  Yours in expectation,

  Casper van den Berg

  Sammy read the missive over Arent’s shoulder, becoming immediately awkward. Compassion wasn’t something he was versed in, being a man who saw bodies as clues and murder as an occupation, but he tapped Arent in a vague approximation of sympathy.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you loved your grandfather. Hearing about this at the same time as—­”

  “He’s not dying,” interrupted Arent.

  Sammy looked down at his impassive face. “It can be difficult—­”

  “This parchment is dated a week before we sailed,” Arent said, pointing to it. “It would have arrived in Batavia at the same time we did. I saw my grandfather a few days before we left Amsterdam. I was worried I might not survive the journey, and I didn’t want him to think…” Arent swallowed. “He was healthy, Sammy. Old, but not dying. He didn’t write this. He didn’t accuse you of being a spy.”

  Sammy snatched the letter from his hand. “Then it was somebody who knew his mind intimately,” said Sammy. “Was your uncle close to Emily de Haviland?”

  “He didn’t mention her, and far as I know, their house fell into ruin long before my uncle’s stock rose far enough for them to have met. My grandfather might have known her. He’s about the right age.”

  “The letter mentions a great undertaking that was done. Any idea what that could be?”

  “My grandfather was friends with Jan Haan for years before I was born. They were even in business together briefly, though I don’t know what they did. They never told me, but it helped make both of them rich.”

  Sammy rolled up the scroll, pressing the broken edges of the seal back together. “This is the official seal of the Gentlemen 17. Only the highest-­ranking officials in the company even know what it looks like, let alone how to forge the stamp. Even then, it has to be delivered by a trusted representative of the Company.”

  “Who could that be?”

  Sammy blew a breath through his lips, throwing the ascension order back on the desk and walking to inspect the wine mugs. “Vos could have done it, I suppose. Captain Crauwels. Reynier van Schooten. Me. They may not even be on the boat any longer.”

  “Could Viscountess Dalvhain have delivered it?” wondered Arent. “We know my uncle went to see her before he died. Maybe she wanted you in a cell, so you couldn’t investigate his murder.”

  “A fine notion,” he agreed. “If she had some connection to the Gentlemen 17, she certainly would have been trusted with the seal.”

  “My uncle was maneuvered here, wasn’t he?” said Arent suddenly. “Like Sander Kers. Old Tom wanted them both aboard.”

  Sammy was sniffing the mugs again. “I doubt you’re here by accident either. Old Tom was your story. The mark is the same as your scar. Your father’s rosary was in the animal pens. The leper left you alive in the cargo hold. Everything that’s happening on this boat keeps coming back to you.”

  “Which brings us back to Dalvhain.”

  Sammy considered that idea while tipping the wine jug back and forth and listening intently to the movement of liquid inside. He then upended the wine into an empty cup, watching the flow of liquid.

  “This is tainted,” he said, peering into the cup. “Come, look.”

  At first, Arent saw nothing, but Sammy drew the candle closer, revealing the viscous sediment that had settled on the bottom.

  Using his fingertip, Sammy tasted it.

  “Can you identify it?” asked Arent.

  “It’s the sleeping draught Sara gave me.”

  “Maybe my uncle took it as well.”

  “And perhaps we should let the lady provide her own explanations,” chided Sammy, opening the door and sauntering back into the great cabin. Everybody remained in the positions where they’d left them. They were each deep in their thoughts, their eyes unfocused. Fingers were tapping and feet jogging.

  Sammy walked over to Sara, Lia, and Creesjie, unobtrusively running his eyes across Larme’s clothes as he went. He stopped abruptly. “You have green paint flakes on your slops,” said Sammy, earning a scowl. “Why is that?”

  “None of your—­”

  “Answer him,” warned van Schooten, who was standing at the window with his hands behind his back.

  Larme’s eyes were daggers. “I’m up and down this ship, aren’t I?”

  “The hull outside the governor general’s cabin is painted green.”

  “Aye, as is the forecastle, which is where I spend most of my time.”

  Sammy watched his face for a moment longer than was comfortable, until Larme swore and stormed out of the room. Once he was gone, Sammy turned his attention to Sara. “Did your husband use a sleeping draught before bed?”

  “No,” said Sara, taking the hands of Lia and Creesjie. “I was drugging my husband’s wine so Creesjie could steal the plans to the Folly.” She spoke as though this was perfectly reasonable. Creesjie picked up the tale.

  “Each night I’d put them in a scroll case attached to the inside of my gown and then deliver them to Lia, who would scribe a copy. I’d return them the next night and do the same again.”

  “Why would Lia—­”

  “I invented the Folly, Mr. Pipps,” said Lia, lowering her eyes, as if ashamed of the fact.

  Van Schooten almost fell over.

  “I invent lots of things,” said Lia with a shrug, glancing at him. “The Folly wasn’t my favorite, but my father seemed to like it.”

  “I intended on selling the plans to the duke Creesjie is going to marry in return for sanctuary in France along with my wealth and freedom,” said Sara, her tone unwavering. “It seemed a small price to pay. I understand that you suspect me, but you see, there was really no reason for me to risk killing my husband.”

  Silence descended on the company.

  “I thought I was marrying a count,” said Creesjie quietly.

  74

  By a single candle in his cabin, Reynier van Schooten inspected the revised list of victuals in the hold. His head was in his hands, his temples throbbing.

  They’d lost most of their supplies to the storm. Even if they could find their way back to charted waters, they wouldn’t have enough to reach the Cape. The best they could hope for would be to turn back for Batavia, wasting an entire shipment of spice.

  The Gentlemen 17 wouldn’t care about the reasons. They cared only for the number in the ledger, and this number would not please them. Chief merchants were responsible for the cargo they delivered, and when it was lost, they were expected to earn back the loss. He was going to spend the rest of his life as an indentured servant to the Gentlemen 17.

  Years of experience had taught him to treat a crossing from Batavia to Amsterdam with the utmost caution. He knew the dangers of the voyage, as he’d known the fleet would scatter, making resupply uncertain. Why had he agreed when the governor general had demanded the extra cargo space?

  Money, he thought with loathing. More than he’d ever seen, with the promise of more to come.

  He’d worked his way from clerk to chief merchant without sponsor or favor, doing the work with a competence that couldn’t be ignored. His superiors had promoted him regretfully over their second cousins and brothers, allowing him to climb by those who sneered at him when he’d stayed in the counting rooms late, tending his accounts, always believing that one day, he’d have his reward.

  The governor general’s offer had seemed like a shortcut to that. One more voyage, and he’d never have to accept another crossing. There would be no more sleepless nights being harried by pirates. No more tropical maladies. No more arguments with greedy fools like Crauwels.

  He’d end his career before a wreck ended it for him.

  But once he’d agreed to that, it had been easy to agree to the rest. That was how the governor general worked. He handed you
a coin covered in honey, and before you knew it, you were stuck. Then he put the coin—­and the greedy merchant—­back in his pocket to be used whenever he needed them.

  Van Schooten thumped the ledger, blotting his hand with ink. He was glad the bastard was dead. He was glad Cornelius Vos was dead. He only wished Emily de Haviland—­whoever she was—­had killed Drecht and completed the set.

  They’d brought nothing but bad fortune to this ship.

  Knocks thudded through his door.

  “Go away,” he hollered.

  “What was the secret cargo the governor general brought aboard?” yelled back Drecht.

  Van Schooten slowly put down his quill. He legs were water.

  “If you make me break down this door, it will go badly for you,” growled Drecht.

  Pushing out his chair, van Schooten went like a condemned man to the door. It had opened a crack when Drecht’s hand shot inside, crushing his throat.

  His blue eyes bored into the helpless merchant, his face savage. He looked like a wolf fallen on a hare.

  “What was the cargo, van Schooten? You helped him bring it aboard, and you know where it’s kept. What is it? Is it important enough for somebody to kill him for?”

  “It was treasure,” gasped van Schooten, trying in vain to peel Drecht’s fingers from his throat. “More treasure…than I’ve ever seen.”

  “Show me,” snarled Drecht.

  They went immediately, stopping only once for Drecht to whisper some instructions to Eggert, the musketeer guarding the door to the passenger cabins. Whatever they were, they sent Eggert scampering off toward the bow of the ship.

  Once they were in the cargo hold, van Schooten took a lantern from the peg at the foot of the staircase and led them through the labyrinth of crates, now almost entirely covered in the marks of Old Tom. It was obvious they weren’t all by the original hand. Many were clumsy, others only half-­finished. Some were large, some tiny. Evidently, carving a mark had become a way of pledging fealty.

  Van Schooten hadn’t been down here since boarding, and he was surprised at the change. Normally, a cargo hold was home to crates, rats, and whatever stowaways had smuggled themselves aboard. It was unpleasant, but unthreatening.

  This place felt damned.

  The oily darkness and the rotten stink of spices made the atmosphere infernal.

  “This entire place has become Old Tom’s church,” growled Drecht. “Four bodies and it’s got a damn religion.”

  By his tone, van Schooten suspected that Drecht had killed a lot more than that and was beginning to wonder where his reward was.

  Reaching the center of the labyrinth, van Schooten pointed to a large crate. “In there,” he said, his voice quivering.

  Slipping loose his dagger, Drecht found the edge of a board and pried it open, discovering dozens of hemp sacks inside.

  “Cut one open,” said van Schooten.

  Drecht did so, his blade shearing through the material, before snagging on something metallic. Sheathing his blade, Drecht tugged at the tear with his hands, causing silver chalices and gold plates to spill out, followed by jewel-­encrusted necklaces and rings.

  “These are the same sorts of objects Vos had in his sack when the leper gutted him,” said Drecht. “The chamberlain must have been stealing pieces from this stash. Didn’t think he had it in him. How much of this is there?”

  “There are hundreds of crates. They take up half the cargo hold,” said van Schooten, sounding sick. “Most of it’s hidden in hemp sacks and disguised as other things.” Something fierce came into his tone. “This is the secret you murdered those sailors to protect.”

  Drecht glanced at him, obviously amused to find a little courage lurking under all that cowardice.

  “I was following orders,” he said, turning one of the chalices over in his hands. “That’s what soldiers do. You’re the one who sent them to the warehouse where I was waiting. You’re the one they trusted, who took the governor general’s coin for doing it.” He picked up a jewel, the sparkle reflected in his eyes. “A man with this wealth would never know want again,” he said in wonder. “He could have servants, a grand house, and a future for his children.”

  His hand slowly began to unsheathe his sword. “Thing is, van Schooten. It wasn’t only those sailors who knew about this cargo.” He advanced on the merchant. “And it wasn’t only them I was supposed to kill.”

  75

  Dorothea was scrubbing clothes on the orlop deck, listening to Isabel sing. All the passengers were listening to her, transfixed by the beauty of her voice.

  It wasn’t a skill she’d mentioned before, nor was it one she seemed to take any great pride in. She just opened her mouth and out it poured. All the games and talk had stopped. The dice had clattered off the wall and lay still. In their hammocks and on their mats, people closed their eyes and savored the only joy they’d known on this voyage.

  “Mistress Dorothea.”

  Dorothea turned to find Eggert the musketeer hurrying toward her. She smiled warmly at him; warmer than she smiled at most.

  “I’m glad to see you, but it’s too early for our evening tea,” she said, confused by his presence.

  “Something’s happening aboard ship, mistress,” he said in a hush, his fear striking at her heart. “You need to put a thick door between you and what’s coming.”

  “What’s coming, Eggert?”

  He shook his scabby head, terrified. “There isn’t time,” he said. “Will your mistress shelter you in her cabin?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good,” he said, grabbing her arm. “Then stay close to me.”

  “And what about these people?” demanded Dorothea, planting her feet and gesturing to the other passengers. “What are they supposed to hide behind?”

  “I’ve got only one sword, mistress,” he apologized.

  “I’ll not leave those who need help.”

  Eggert looked around him desperately, then rushed over to the gunpowder store, hammering on the door.

  The panel slid back, a pair of wild white eyebrows on the other side. “What?” asked the constable. Since his flogging, he’d become surly and short tempered.

  “Mutiny,” declared Eggert. “Can you shelter these passengers in there?”

  The constable glanced around the deck suspiciously. Isabel was still singing, and the passengers were watching her. There was no sign of trouble. He addressed Dorothea, who was standing at Eggert’s shoulder. “He talking truth?” he demanded.

  “Can’t see why he’d lie.”

  “The orders came from Guard Captain Drecht,” said Eggert. “The musketeers are already moving. We need to put these people safe.”

  A bolt slid back, candlelight pouring into the gloom of the orlop deck.

  “Mothers and children,” said the constable. “I can’t fit any more in here, but the rest of the women can barricade themselves in the bread room below. The men better arm themselves. They’ll be fighting soon enough.”

  76

  Twelve bells rang amidships, summoning the entire crew onto the deck. It was a mournful sound, fit for the mood.

  Rain battered down, the cold drops reflecting the change in latitude.

  As sailors struggled to find space, their faces strangely angelic in the warm glow of the running lantern, the sails billowed, carrying them forward at a furious pace.

  On the quarterdeck, Captain Crauwels gripped the railing and examined them, unsure where to start. He knew what had to be said, but he didn’t know how. He’d addressed his crew hundreds of times, but only ever with one speech at the start of the voyage. It was good luck and a blessing, the easiest thing in the world to say. This was different. The words were jagged. They’d draw blood.

  “The Saardam is doomed,” he said when everybody had gathered. “We all know what’s been happening on thi
s ship, what stalks us in the dark water.”

  A rumble of discontent rose up.

  “Have you all heard the whispers?” There were nods and murmurs, only a few blank stares. Most had; a few hadn’t. It didn’t matter. They all knew what was being offered.

  Crauwels shifted uncomfortably. He felt like he was trying to build a vase by spitting out bits of broken pottery.

  “I’ve made some mistakes,” he admitted, the faces blurring before him. “Trusted the wrong people and led you astray, but now we have to make a choice for ourselves. What do we want? Not the nobles we carry or those damnable musketeers. Us, alone. Sailors. We have to choose.”

  The agreement was raucous.

  “Old Tom walks this boat, ain’t no denying that. Three miracles were offered to convince us of his power. That’s what he told us in the dark. Three chances for us to fly his flag and accept his protection.” The crew watched, their breaths held in their throats. “There’s no more miracles left. Next time he comes, it’ll be to sweep away those who didn’t take his bargain.”

  A great cry of fear went up.

  “It’s time we made our choice,” boomed Crauwels, holding up that strange metal disk he liked to flip in the air. “Governor General Jan Haan gave me this for sailing him out to the Banda Islands,” he said. “And you all know what happened there.”

  Butchers, carnage, slaughter, came the cry.

  “We’ve all taken coin for things we ain’t proud of, but that’s the Company, ain’t it? They ask too much for too little. Them nobles in there are getting richer all the time off the back of our labor, and I’m sick of it.”

  Captain, Captain, Captain, they hollered.