“He’s got a fine head on his shoulders, has our constable,” said Sammy with admiration. “What else did he say?”
“That the threat could come from the fleet.”
Sammy mulled it over. “Another ship turning its cannon on us perhaps?”
“It’s an idea,” replied Arent.
“A bold one,” agreed Sammy. “And a troubling one.”
“Why’s that?”
Sammy gestured to the lanterns on the water. “Do you remember how many ships left Batavia?” he asked.
Arent shrugged. He hadn’t troubled himself to count.
“Seven,” supplied Sammy.
“Okay, seven,” said Arent, confused. “So what?”
“So why are there eight lights on the water?”
21
Four men stood at the railing, water lapping beneath them. Three of them were staring at the Eighth Lantern in the distance, while Sammy stared down at the first mate. Feeling the itch of scrutiny, Larme peered up at him, that familiar scowl twisting his face.
“What you looking at, prisoner?”
“A dwarf,” replied Sammy bluntly. “I’ve never seen a dwarf in the Company before. Mostly, your kind are—”
“Fools,” finished Larme. “It’s our job to call nobles like you cun—”
“Isaack,” growled Crauwels.
Arent had alerted the first mate to the mysterious light, and he’d fetched the captain in turn. Crauwels was halfway drunk, irritable and missing his bed, but the last thing he wanted was Sammy’s blood on Larme’s dagger, which was usually the way arguments with his first mate finished.
“I’m the first mate of the ship,” spat Larme. “Not amusement for a prisoner.”
“That wasn’t my intent,” said Sammy, as if surprised he’d given offense.
“Isaack’s the best first mate I’ve ever had,” said Crauwels, still staring at the lanterns. “And the only other person I know who can keep our bastard of a boatswain in line,” he added darkly.
“What do you think of the lights, Captain?” asked Arent, hoping to change the topic before Sammy vexed Larme any further.
“Well, it ain’t pirates,” he said, scratching at his ginger whiskers. “Whoever it is wants us to know they’re there. Pirates come quiet, and they don’t attack convoys. They pick off solitary ships.”
“Could be a straggler out of Batavia,” suggested Larme, fingering the half-faced charm around his neck.
“Could be,” said Crauwels, running a hand through his hair, flexing the muscles in his arm.
Crauwels was clearly a man who admired himself a great deal and wanted others to do likewise, thought Arent.
“Keep a watch on the fleet,” continued Crauwels. “Just you, Isaack. I don’t want word of this getting around and spooking the crew. Might be nothing, but if anything changes tonight, I want to know.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“And first thing tomorrow, have a lookout lay eyes on her,” he said. “Let’s see whose colors she’s flying.”
“Captain,” agreed Larme.
The four men dispersed, Arent accompanying Sammy back across the waist, toward the bow of the ship.
Once they were out of earshot, Sammy nudged Arent. “Did you notice the charm Larme wore around his neck?”
“I saw it this afternoon,” said Arent. “Bit of cracked wood on a piece of string, isn’t it?”
“It’s half a face, Arent. The matching half of the piece Bosey clung to for comfort on the docks. The edges married up.”
Sammy couldn’t have caught more than a glimpse of Bosey’s charm, but Arent didn’t doubt his recollection. Never forgetting was another of Sammy’s gifts. Maybe the most unfortunate of them. He could recall every conversation he’d ever had, every mystery he’d solved, every lunch and when he’d eaten it.
Arent would have envied him, except Sammy wasn’t somebody who wanted envying.
The past was filled with sharp things, he’d said.
The pain he’d felt when a thorn scratched him as a child was the same pain he felt remembering it. He couldn’t reach for a memory without drawing blood doing it. No wonder he was the way he was. Never looking back, always running forward.
A shriek came from behind them, and turning around, they saw Isaack Larme trying to drag a young woman out of the shadows. She was broad and strong and taller than the dwarf, who was struggling to hold on to her.
Growling, he punched her in the stomach, ending her resistance, then hurled her gasping onto the ground in front of Crauwels.
Arent moved to help her, but Sammy caught his arm and shook his head in warning.
“You’re the predikant’s ward, aren’t you?” said Crauwels, taken aback. “What are you doing out here after curfew? It’s dangerous.”
“My name’s Isabel,” she snapped, glowering at the dwarf as she tried to draw breath.
“And it’s a fine name, but not an explanation,” said Crauwels, crouching in front of her. “What are you doing lurking in the shadows, Isabel?”
“Was just out walking and got startled,” she gasped, rubbing her stomach. “That was all.”
“Eavesdropping more like,” snarled Larme, earning a filthy glare from Isabel.
Crauwels let out a long breath through his nose. “Ship’s rules are for your safety, and ours.” He smiled a bright, dangerous smile. “Mainly your safety though. This conversation was private, and it needs to be kept that way. If word gets out, I’ll know exactly who needs talking to, understand?”
She nodded, somehow marrying simple acceptance with a burning fury.
“Get away then,” he said. “And don’t let me catch you skulking around the deck anymore.”
Shooting a glance of misgiving at the forecastle, Isabel got to her feet and headed back toward the compartment under the half dark.
In the darkness, a figure slipped away unseen.
22
The Eighth Lantern vanished a few hours before dawn.
Fearing an impending attack, Larme summoned Captain Crauwels, who ordered all hands to battle stations. Signals were passed across the fleet to make ready, while Johannes Wyck kicked the crew out of their hammocks, manhandling them up the stairs in whatever they were wearing.
As the anchors were raised and the sails lowered for maneuvering, hemp was yanked out of the cannon barrels and the wedges pulled from beneath their wheels. The gunpowder store was flung open, sailors rolling dozens of kegs through the ship, then pouring their contents into the cannon and ramming them solid.
Useless among the commotion, the passengers on the orlop deck huddled together, waiting for that first volley of cannon fire. In the cabins, Sara clutched Lia’s shaking body, whispering courage. Creesjie hugged Marcus and Osbert, soothing her two young sons with songs.
The predikant and Isabel prayed together, while Arent watched from the quarterdeck. He wasn’t one to turn his back on the enemy, no matter what size it was.
Governor General Haan woke early, as was his custom, then worked at his desk, issuing instructions to Chamberlain Vos as normal. Only the slight tremble of his hand suggested something was amiss.
In the darkness, the Saardam bristled like a cat. For two hours, they braced themselves, fear becoming confusion, then boredom. Dawn broke, the night turning to ash before crumbling away entirely.
Climbing the rigging, the lookout shaded his eyes and peered at every point on the compass.
“She’s not out there,” he called down to Crauwels and the first mate. “She’s disappeared, Captain.”
23
A knock on her door brought Sara lurching awake, her fingers immediately tightening around the dagger under her hand. She’d fallen asleep in her chair at the writing desk, staring at the porthole, waiting for the leper to reappear. She was in her nightgown, her red hair unpi
nned, curls falling around her shoulders. Freckles blossomed on her nose and cheeks.
Lia was sleeping in her bunk, her breaths whistling ever so slightly.
The knock came again.
“Come,” said Sara.
Holding a cup of berry tea, Dorothea made her way inside, taking in the scene before her with a disapproving glance.
“Odd noises coming from Viscountess Dalvhain’s cabin this morning,” said Dorothea, laying the berry tea before Sara. Red and purple berries bobbed on the surface. They were a particular favorite of the family, so Sara had asked her to bring some for the journey.
“Odd?” asked Sara, her thoughts moving slowly. It wasn’t uncommon for Dorothea to begin a conversation with gossip, but it was rare Sara had to deal with it this early in the morning. Normally, the Devil himself couldn’t have roused her at this hour. Batavia was so hot, nothing could be achieved by day, which left her hosting midnight banquets and balls for the city’s damp nobility. For the last thirteen years, she’d been late to bed and late to rise, considering dawn something that only truly unfortunate people had to suffer through.
Unfortunately, the predikant had decided his sermon should be heard without sailors shouting curses over him.
“Sort of a scraping noise,” continued Dorothea. “Went on for a few seconds, then stopped and started again. I couldn’t quite place it, but it was familiar…” She trailed off.
Sarah took a sip of the sweet tea. It was one of the many things she’d miss in France.
“Did you manage to sleep?” she asked Dorothea.
“Enough,” she replied, obviously still troubled by this strange noise. “You?”
Sara’s eyes were raw, with dark pouches beneath. She didn’t look like she’d ever slept. She didn’t look like she’d ever learned how. “A little,” she replied, still staring at the porthole.
“Should I wake Lia?” asked Dorothea, glancing at the sleeping miss.
“Let her abide awhile. We’ve got time before the sermon begins.” Sara stared at her daughter tenderly, then roused herself. “Did you manage to ask any more of the passengers about that strange word, ‘Laxagarr’?”
Dorothea opened a drawer, removing Sara’s clothes for the day.
Sara was certain this was to hide the disapproval on her face. From past experience, Sara knew that Dorothea had very strong views on what a lady should and shouldn’t do. The “shouldn’t” column was excessively long, and the “should” correspondingly short.
She would be thinking that it was unseemly for a woman of Sara’s position to be playing thief taker, but she would have her way, as always. And as always, her husband would eventually grow tired and put an end to it. Probably violently.
Sara shivered, imagining that day. Dorothea was right. If she carried on like this, her husband would eventually punish her for it, but how could she stop while Lia’s life was in danger?
“Asked everybody, but none knew it,” replied Dorothea. “Might be a few passengers I didn’t get to, so I’ll catch them during midmorning exercise.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Sara finished her tea, and Dorothea helped her dress. Lia woke shortly after, but her toilet was half the work of her mama’s. Her skin was pale and flawless, requiring no powder, and the brush ran through her dark hair like a carp up a stream.
When all was in readiness, the three of them walked into the humid morning air. It was that strange time when the sun and stars tried to bustle by each other, one coming and the other going. Four bells had yet to be rung, announcing dawn, and the Saardam lay at anchor. The ocean was calm and glassy.
Considering the hour, the deck was surprisingly crowded.
The predikant had made it known he would be holding Mass beneath the mainmast shortly before the day’s sailing began. Somehow, he’d wrangled special dispensation for the orlop deck passengers to attend, and they turned out in great numbers.
Captain Crauwels and his officers were speaking in low, concerned voices of last night’s mysterious light. “That lantern belonged to an Indiaman, I’d know it anywhere,” said Larme.
“Then how did it disappear so quickly?” demanded van Schooten. “It was gone a few hours before dawn. Even an Indiaman unladen couldn’t have traveled beyond our sight in that time. There wasn’t the wind. It’s a damn ghost ship, I’m telling you.”
As the ladies approached, the officers fell silent and shuffled aside, allowing them to join the governor general and Chamberlain Vos at the front of the congregation. As in Amsterdam, nobility stood closest to the predikant, hoping to catch his sweeping gaze and, through him, feel God’s own eyes upon them.
Dorothea stayed at the back with the other servants.
Sara knelt beside her husband, who didn’t acknowledge her in any way. As always, she felt that slight trepidation at his presence.
Craning her neck, she saw Creesjie on the other side of him with Marcus and Osbert fidgeting beside her, restless as ever. They were being watched by that Mardijker girl Isabel, who was smiling slightly.
On the far side of the mainmast, around twenty sailors milled around, waiting for the sermon to start. Sara hadn’t expected to see them. She’d heard their language, caught their predatory stares when a woman passed by. If God spoke to them, His was a tiny voice among the catcalls of sin and vice.
“This morning, we celebrate our good fortune,” began Sander Kers in a booming voice. “For aboard this ship, we witness God’s glory firsthand. Take a moment, friends. Look up at the sails, look at the planks, look at the sea beneath. Sailing isn’t a matter of rigging and navigation; it’s divinity itself, a hundred blessings showing us God’s favor. What is wrought here is impossible, unless He makes it possible. The wind is His breath, the waves His hands. Make no mistake, it is He who guides us across the ocean.”
Sara felt her heart lift. At first glance, she’d thought Kers a frail old man, likely to give a sermon covered in dust. But channeling God’s word had transformed him. That stooped back had straightened, and his finger carved through the air energetically, cajoling and invoking.
“Which of you bastards stole the handle of the capstan wheel!”
The sermon stopped, ran aground on the furious figure of Johannes Wyck. He had a dent in his bald head and an eye patch, a spiderweb of scars surrounding it. A gut and broad shoulders sat atop bowed legs, like they could barely support his weight.
He was stomping through the stinking heap of sailors who’d gathered behind the mainmast to hear the predikant talk, yanking men around by their shoulders to glare at their faces.
“Four handles when battle stations were called, but three this morning,” he screamed at them. “That’s ship property. Which one of you’s got it? Tell me now.”
The sailors wore a mixture of fear and bafflement.
“Capstan makes it easier to raise the anchor, right? If we don’t find it, I’m going to pick ten of you every day to haul it up with your bare hands.”
They murmured in dismay, but none dared voice their displeasure.
“Tell me now, or—”
He stopped midthreat, staring at the congregation in astonishment.
Sara tried to follow his glare, but Wyck was already backing away. Catching her staring, his eyes snapped to her. They were dirty things, sparkling with menace. He saluted her mockingly, a strange smirk on his lips.
Kers coughed, regaining their attention.
“As I was saying, we should accuse not, for judgment is the Lord’s work.” He seemed to miss the irony. “Serve Him with compassion. Serve Him with forgiveness, and know that in His love, you are saved! For as surely as timbers nailed together keep this ship afloat, so the bonds of brotherhood will keep us safe against what trials are to come,” he finished.
Sara shuddered as the sermon continued. There’d been something oddly threatening in Kers’s deli
very of that last passage. Others must have felt it too, because they were glancing at each other uncomfortably.
Kers went on for an hour until finally, his voice faded.
The congregation broke apart like lumps of fat in a stew. Sara wanted to speak with the predikant, but he was immediately accosted by Reynier van Schooten, who dragged him off to one side.
“I need to speak with you, privately,” van Schooten said under his breath.
“Of course, of course,” said Kers. “What’s the matter, my son?”
Van Schooten glanced around furtively. His eyes passed across Sara as if she weren’t even there, then snagged on Guard Captain Drecht, widening in alarm. “Can we speak in my quarters?”
“I must offer confession to the passengers and crew, but when my duties are settled, I’ll seek you out.”
“Confession is what I require.”
“For what sin?”
Van Schooten leaned closer, whispering the answer. Alarm showed on the predikant’s face. “How could you not know?” he demanded.
“Just come, please,” replied van Schooten. “As soon as you can.” Before Kers could question him any further, he darted away.
Isabel appeared out of the crowd and handed Kers his cane. He was dabbing sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his tattered robe. He was red faced and breathless, as if the sermon had taken all his strength.
“Fine sermon, Predikant,” said Sara, nodding a greeting.
Her husband and Vos were heading back toward the great cabin, their heads bowed in conversation.
“It was insufficient.” Kers was visibly annoyed at himself. “There are many souls to be saved aboard a ship such as this, and I’m afraid stronger words may be necessary.”
Sara shot Dorothea a meaningful glance, and the maid took Marcus and Osbert to see the sniffling sows on the poop deck.
When they were out of earshot, Sara bluntly asked, “Do you have any knowledge of devils?”
The Devil and the Dark Water Page 15