The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  “You were a thief?”

  “And a dancer and an acrobat and an alchemist. For the most part, I was a survivor, and I still am, which is why I hired Arent to keep the murderers I investigate from adding me to their tally. He’s good at this labor, Guard Captain, and he won’t stand by if somebody threatens me.” Sammy raised an eyebrow. “You see our dilemma, of course.”

  “Aye,” said Drecht thoughtfully. “That’s why I’m going to guarantee your safety. I’ll put somebody I trust on your door. Anybody who bothers you will answer to me, and everybody on board will know it.” He thrust his arm toward Arent. “On my honor, Lieutenant Hayes. Will you accept it?”

  “I will,” said Arent, shaking his hand.

  “Then it’s past time I showed Pipps into his cell.”

  They exchanged the open air of the ship’s waist for a large, gloomy compartment at the bow, where the thick trunk of the foremast speared through the roof and into the floor. A solitary lantern swayed on the ceiling, momentarily revealing the scattered faces of the sailors sitting in the sawdust before taking its light elsewhere. They were playing dice and complaining.

  “This is where the crew take their recreation when the weather’s bad,” explained Drecht. “Reckon it’s the most dangerous part of the ship, but that’s just me.”

  “Dangerous?” queried Arent.

  Sammy kicked at the sawdust, revealing the bloodstains beneath.

  “Once we’re out to sea, the front half of the ship is given over to the crew, while the rear half is reserved for the passengers and senior officers,” explained Drecht. “Neither will be allowed to cross into the other half unless they have duties there, which means the front half of the ship is basically lawless.” He lifted a hatch to reveal the ladder beneath. “We’re down here.”

  Descending, they arrived in a small room housing great rolls of sailcloth suspended in hooks on the walls. A workbench had been nailed to the floor, behind which a sailmaker was stitching together two pieces of hemp with an iron needle the size of Arent’s hand. He glanced at them without interest, then returned to his work.

  Sammy examined the compartment. “I’ll admit, I expected much worse.”

  A door opened behind them, a tremendous mass of gut and shoulders ducking through. He was bald, with mangled ears and pitted skin that resembled sand crossed by a small animal. A leather patch covered his right eye, but there was nothing to be done about the spiderweb of scars surrounding it.

  He sneered at Sammy’s manacles.

  “You the prisoner?” His tongue roamed his cracked lips. “I heard you were coming aboard. Been looking forward to the company.”

  The sailmaker snickered over his stitching.

  “He’s under my protection, Wyck,” warned Drecht, touching his sword. “There’ll be a musketeer keeping watch. Any harm befalls either of them, I’ll have you flogged. Doesn’t matter if there’s a dozen sailors who’ll vouch you were elsewhere.”

  Wyck stepped forward, his face darkening. “What’s a soldier”—­he almost spat the word—­“doing telling me anything? You don’t have any authority over the crew.”

  “But I have the governor general’s ear, and he’s got the ear of anybody he damn well pleases.”

  Wyck scowled and stomped to the ladder. “Keep him quiet then. I’ll not have him wailing in the night, keeping me awake.”

  With a nimbleness that belied his size, he leaped up the ladder and disappeared through the hatch.

  “What was that?” asked Sammy.

  “The boatswain.” Drecht’s tone was grim. “He keeps the crew in line.”

  “You’re not putting Sammy in with him,” warned Arent.

  “No, that’s Wyck’s cabin in there,” replied Drecht, pointing to the door he’d emerged from. “The cell is beneath it.”

  He heaved open another hatch. This ladder was so narrow, Arent’s shoulders got jammed halfway down, forcing him to wriggle to dislodge himself.

  At the bottom was the sailmaker’s storeroom, offcuts of material piled on the ground, where they’d been dropped from above. It sat at the waterline, the gentle slaps of waves becoming the blows of a battering ram down here. A solitary finger of grubby light poked through the hatch, leaving all else in darkness. It took Arent a moment to realize Drecht was drawing the bolt on a small door at the rear.

  “This is the cell,” he said.

  Arent held Sammy back, then stuck his head inside. It was pitch-­black, windowless and fetid, and cut in half by the trunk of the foremast. The ceiling was barely high enough for Sammy to sit upright.

  “What is this place?” Arent demanded, barely able to hold his temper. Officers captured on the battlefield were entitled to treatment equal to their rank, which meant respectable quarters for the duration of their imprisonment. He’d expected the same for Sammy.

  “I’m sorry, Hayes. These are the governor general’s orders.”

  Sammy’s face fell, panic showing for the first time. He backed away from the door, shaking his head.

  “Guard Captain, please. I can’t…”

  “These are my orders, sir.”

  Sammy turned his wild eyes on Arent. “It’s too small. I’ll…” He eyed the ladder, clearly considering fleeing.

  Drecht tensed and gripped the hilt of his sword. “Calm him down, Lieutenant Hayes,” he warned.

  Arent took his friend by the shoulders, staring him full in the face.

  “I’m going to talk to the governor general,” he said soothingly. “I’ll see you’re moved, but I can’t do that if you’re dead.”

  “Please,” pleaded Sammy, clutching his friend desperately. “Don’t let them leave me here.”

  “I won’t,” said Arent, surprised to discover Sammy’s aversion to small spaces. “I’ll go to the governor general now.”

  Quivering, Sammy nodded, only to shake his head a moment later. “No,” he croaked, then more firmly. “No. You have to save the ship first. Talk to the captain, then the constable. Find out why somebody would threaten us.”

  “That’s your job,” argued Arent. “I save you; you save everybody else. That’s the way it’s always been. I’ll talk to the governor general. He’ll see sense, I’m certain of it.”

  “We don’t have time,” said Sammy as Drecht took hold of his shoulder, walking him toward the cell.

  “I can’t do what you do,” said Arent, almost as panicked as Sammy had been.

  “Then you better find somebody who can,” responded Sammy. “Because I can’t help you anymore.”

  “In you go,” said Drecht firmly.

  “Strike his manacles, for pity’s sake,” demanded Arent. “He’ll not know a moment’s peace with those on.”

  Drecht considered it, staring at the rusted links. “The governor general didn’t give any specific orders regarding the manacles,” he admitted. “I’ll send somebody down first chance I get.”

  “It’s up to you now,” said Sammy to Arent, getting down on his hands and knees and crawling into the cell.

  A moment later, Drecht closed and bolted the door, casting him into absolute darkness.

  9

  Sara paced her cabin from wall to wall, stopping occasionally to stare out the porthole, relieved to find Batavia exactly where she’d left it. The Saardam hadn’t weighed anchor, which meant she still had time to uncover information on the plot threatening the ship. If she could find something solid before they set sail, she might yet be able to convince her thickheaded husband of the danger.

  Unfortunately, the carpenter hadn’t arrived, and she was growing impatient.

  “You’ll sink the ship pacing the way you do,” chided Dorothea, who was kneeling on the floor, arranging Sara’s clothes in drawers.

  The maid was forgiven such bluntness, for she’d been with the family so long, Sara couldn’t remember life before her
. She’d been part of her husband’s household when they wed, a comforting, bickering presence who’d been her only counsel in those vile, early days.

  Gray had overrun her plaited hair, but in every other way, she remained the same. She rarely smiled, never raised her voice, and kept her past under her tongue. Despite this, they had grown close over the years, for she was quick witted, occasionally wise, and unapologetic in her hatred of the governor general.

  Three knocks sounded on the door, causing Dorothea to rise painfully—­her knees were a constant frustration—­and open it with a frown.

  “Who are you?” she demanded through the gap.

  “Henri, the Carpenter,” said a sullen voice. “Your lady wants shelves building.”

  “Shelves?” queried Dorothea over her shoulder.

  “Show him in.”

  Sara felt silly at the grandeur of the proclamation, as there wasn’t a great deal of showing to be done. This cabin would fit inside her changing room in the fort. Under a low-­beamed ceiling, a single bunk had been built into the wall, two drawers beneath it. There was a desk near the porthole, one rack for storing drinks, and a chamberpot pushed discreetly into an alcove built for the purpose. A rug had been thrown down to make it more comfortable, and she’d been allowed to bring two paintings, along with her harp.

  After years of living in the roomy fort, the interior of the Saardam felt like a coffin she’d been cast adrift in.

  She intended on spending as much time as possible outside.

  Henri slouched into the room, carrying a toolbox and several planks of wood under his arm.

  He was terribly thin, his skin pulled taut across his ribs, his arms corded with muscle. Spots crowded around his nose like worshippers at church.

  “Where should the shelves go?” he asked sulkily.

  “There and there,” said Sara, pointing to the space above and below the existing rack. “How long will it take?”

  “Not long.” He ran his hand across the uneven surface of the wall. “Boatswain wants me back to my duties before we cast off.”

  “Fine work deserves reward, Henri,” said Sara. “A guilder for your trouble, if I like what you’ve done.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, perking up slightly.

  “Yes, my lady,” rebuked Dorothea, neatly folding one of Sara’s light dresses.

  Sara considered sitting on her bunk but hated the implication of intimacy and pulled the chair out from under the desk instead, placing herself primly on its edge.

  “You seem young for this work,” she said, watching as he measured the length of the existing rack with his forearm and hand.

  “I’m a carpenter’s mate,” he said distractedly.

  “Are you young for a carpenter’s mate?”

  “No.”

  “No, my lady!” corrected Dorothea angrily, causing the boy to blanch.

  “No, my lady,” he muttered.

  “What does a carpenter’s mate do?” asked Sara pleasantly.

  “All the jobs the master carpenter doesn’t want to.” A hundred grudges peeked out from beneath his words.

  “I think I’ve met the master carpenter,” said Sara, trying to keep her tone bored and distant. “Lame foot, yes? Missing a tongue?”

  Henri shook his head. “That’s Bosey you’re thinking of,” he said, marking a piece of wood with a stick of charcoal.

  “He isn’t the master carpenter?”

  “Can’t get up the masts with a maimed foot,” he scoffed, as if the responsibilities of a master carpenter were common knowledge.

  “I suppose not,” agreed Sara. “Did this Bosey serve aboard this ship, or am I thinking of somebody entirely different?”

  He shifted his weight uncomfortably and flashed her a nervous glance.

  “What’s wrong, young man?” she asked, becoming flint eyed.

  “Boatswain said we shouldn’t talk about him,” he muttered.

  “What’s a boatswain?”

  “He’s in charge of the crew on deck,” he said. “He doesn’t like us talking about ship business with strangers.”

  “And what’s the name of this boatswain?”

  “Johannes Wyck.”

  He spoke it reluctantly, as if the words themselves could summon the man.

  He picked up one of the planks and went into the corridor, where he began sawing it down to size, offcuts clattering onto the ground.

  “Dorothea,” said Sara, her gaze on the carpenter. “Fetch two guilders from my coin purse, will you?”

  Greed dragged Henri’s eyes upward, though he kept on sawing. Sara doubted he earned much more than this a week.

  “Two guilders, plus the one already promised, if you tell me what Wyck doesn’t want me to know about Bosey,” said Sara.

  He fidgeted, his will faltering.

  “Your shipmates will never know,” said Sara. “I’m the governor general’s wife. I likely won’t speak to another sailor for the rest of the voyage.” She gave that a minute to sink in, then held out the coins. “Now, did Bosey serve aboard this ship?”

  He snatched them from her and jerked his head toward her cabin, indicating they should speak privately. She followed him in, closing the door as much as propriety would allow.

  “Aye, he served aboard the Saardam,” said Henri. “Got the maimed foot in a pirate attack, but the captain liked him so kept him on. Said nobody knew the ship like he did.”

  “An innocent story,” said Sara. “Why doesn’t Wyck want me to know it?”

  “Bosey never shut up,” said the carpenter, looking nervously at the slightly open door. “He’d brag about anything. If he beat you at dice, you’d have him in your ear for a week. If there was a whore he’d been”—­he blanched in the face of Dorothea’s glare—­“well, he was always talking. Latest thing was some bargain he’d struck in Batavia that was going to make him rich.”

  “He was always talking?” Sara frowned. “When I met Bosey, he was missing his tongue.”

  For the first time, the sailor appeared ashamed. “Wyck did that,” he said quietly. “Cut it out about a month back. Said he was sick of listening to him squawk. He did it on the waist of the ship. Made us hold him down.”

  Sara felt a great swell of pity. “Did the captain punish him?”

  “Captain didn’t see. Nobody saw. And nobody will say anything against Wyck. Even Bosey wouldn’t.”

  Sara was beginning to get an understanding of how life worked on an Indiaman.

  “If you held him down, I’m assuming he didn’t have leprosy,” she said.

  “Leprosy?” The boy shivered with disgust. “Ain’t no lepers allowed on an Indiaman. Could have got it after we docked. Once we’re in port, the captain lets us come and go as we like. Most of us took our leave in Batavia, but Bosey hid away on the ship after we took his tongue, kept to himself.”

  “Before he lost his tongue, did Bosey say anything else about this bargain he’d struck or who it was with?” asked Sara.

  The carpenter shook his head, obviously desperate to have the questions over with. “Only that it was the easiest coin he ever made,” he said. “Few favors here and there. When we’d ask what they were, he’d smile this horrible little smile and say ‘Laxagarr.’”

  “Laxagarr,” repeated Sara, confounded. She could speak Latin, French, and Flemish fluently, but she’d never heard a word like that one.

  “What does it mean?”

  The carpenter shrugged, clearly disturbed by the memory. “I don’t know. None of us did. Bosey was Nornish, so it was probably something from his own tongue, but the way he said it…it scared us.”

  “Does anybody on the ship speak Nornish?” she asked.

  The carpenter laughed grimly. “Only the boatswain. Only Johannes Wyck, and it’ll take a lot more than three guilders to make him talk to you.
”

  10

  Arent had barely stepped out of the sailmaker’s cabin when a bell rang amidships, the dwarf standing on a stool to work the clapper.

  “Up, you dogs!” he hollered, spittle flying from his lips. “Up on deck, all of you.”

  Hatches burst open, sailors swarming up from belowdecks like rats fleeing a fire. Clogging the waist, they clambered over and atop one another, scurrying up the rigging and sitting on the railings, throwing themselves onto any available lap, bringing laughter and shoving.

  Arent was pushed back toward the bow of the ship until he was jammed against the very door he’d just walked out of, the air growing thick with the smell of sweat and ale and sawdust.

  Drecht flicked the brim of his hat, welcoming him back. He hadn’t moved except to lean himself against the wall, his sole flat against it, foul smoke rising from a carved wooden pipe gripped between his teeth. The saber, which only moments ago had been pressed to Arent’s chest, was propped up beside him, like a friend keeping him company.

  “What’s happening?” asked Arent.

  Drecht removed his pipe, scratching the corner of his lip with his thumb. Between that large hat and the bird’s nest of his blond beard, his squinting eyes were surprisingly blue in the sunlight.

  “This is a ritual of Captain Crauwels’s,” said Drecht, thrusting his chin toward the quarterdeck, where a squat man with square shoulders and thick legs stood with his hands folded behind his back. A turned-­down mouth suggested a grim disposition.

  “That’s the captain?” said Arent, surprised. He was better dressed than many generals Arent had met. “Pretty as a predikant’s wife, isn’t he? What’s he doing sailing an Indiaman? He could sell his wardrobe and retire comfortably.”

  “You always this full of questions?” asked Drecht, looking at him askance.