The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  Sara went to Arent’s berth, as the mercenary descended the staircase. Crauwels hurried back outside in time to see a huge wall of water rear up in front of them, then crash down onto the deck.

  Sailors screamed, disappearing into the maelstrom.

  The sky was ash and fire, green flames shooting off the ends of the yard and masts. Forks of lightning streaked from the sky, sizzling the ocean. Most of the crew were lashing themselves to the masts, bracing themselves for the next wave.

  Keeping tight hold of the railing, Crauwels dragged himself up the stairs and took his usual position on the poop deck, finding Governor General Haan exactly where he’d left him. He’d appeared shortly after the first great swell, taking his place silently, offering neither comment nor explanation for his presence.

  Water ran down his face, dripping off that long nose and chin. Blinking furiously, he’d watched the black and purple storm clouds swirling overhead with a half smile on his lips.

  Crauwels had seen the look before. The sea had him.

  It splashed behind his eyes and carried sour on his breath. Every man on the ship knew that look, when the cold emptiness of the ocean filled you up. There wasn’t any rest once the sea got inside you.

  People drowned standing up.

  One of the other ships had capsized off the port side, her crew spilt into the water. They were waving their arms, crying out for help, but Crauwels couldn’t hear them over the wail of the storm.

  He briefly considered putting a yawl in the water, but it wouldn’t last a minute in these waves. Those lads were dead, but the sea was going to play with them first.

  Haan tapped his shoulder, pointing upward. Following his finger, Crauwels saw another ship riding the crest of a towering wave. She was being delivered directly onto the stricken vessel.

  Crauwels turned his head away, unable to watch, but Haan’s face told the story well enough. The second ship had been hurled into the capsized vessel, plowing straight through her hull, ripping her in half.

  Why would he want to see that? wondered Crauwels. It was as if the storm were an enemy he couldn’t turn his back on.

  By his calculation, aside from the Saardam, only one ship now remained from the fleet that had departed Batavia. Crauwels cast about for her desperately, hoping to see her well, but she was floundering distant. Her colors told him it was the Leeuwarden. He didn’t give her any greater chance of survival than the Saardam.

  Confronted by waves tall as the mainmast, Crauwels hollered for the Saardam to steer directly at them, the ship climbing sheer walls of water before plummeting into the steep valleys on the other side.

  Sailors were lashed to the rigging and rails. They survived each assault spluttering, fighting to keep their footing, ever more convinced that the storm had been brought upon them.

  Crauwels gave no more orders. There was no need. Everything that could be done had been done. If the Saardam was strong enough, she’d see them safe. If one of her ribs was bent or the hull had rotted without them noticing, she’d crack open like an egg. Every storm was the same. You lived or died depending on how much care some stranger had taken making her in Amsterdam.

  As forks of lightning struck the deck, Crauwels prayed for God to see them through this. And when that got no response, he prayed to Old Tom.

  So this is how men go to the devil, he thought bitterly. Cap in hand and short of hope, all their prayers gone unanswered.

  50

  Flung from wall to wall, Arent made his way slowly down to the orlop deck. Deadlights had been smashed loose by the waves, seawater pouring through the portholes, soaking those sitting beneath them. Dazed sailors coated in blood and vomit clung to pillars as the world upended itself.

  Passengers bunched together, cocooning the children or screaming in fear. Away in the corner was Isabel. She was terrified, panting. Sara knelt by her side, comforting her.

  The storm had kept them from organizing a thorough search for Kers, and Arent knew Sara had become her solace.

  Even so, he was surprised by their closeness.

  “You carry God’s word, Isabel,” Sara was saying. “These people need to hear it. Bring them the comfort Kers would have.”

  Isabel obviously wanted to, but the ship heaved, and she screamed, clutching her knees to her chest.

  “Courage isn’t an absence of fear,” cried out Sara. “It’s the light we find when fear is all there is. You’re needed now, so find your courage.”

  Hesitantly, Isabel stumbled across the deck, sinking down into the group of passengers, their arms reaching and enveloping her.

  As Sara and Lia went to the sick berth on the opposite side of the deck, Arent half fell, half staggered past the wooden divide between the two halves of the ship, making his way across the sailors’ mats into the sailmaker’s cabin. Rolls of sail had tumbled free of the walls, dressing the cabin in white. Heaving up the hatch, he descended the ladder into the storeroom below and hammered the door to Sammy’s cell.

  No reply came.

  “Sammy!”

  In a panic, Arent tried to rip the locking peg from its hole, but his hands were wet, and the rocking of the ship made it hard to get ahold of.

  “Sammy!” he hollered, the silence terrifying.

  When he finally ripped the peg open, he was confronted by the pitch-­black cabin. He tried to squeeze inside, but the hole was much too small, accommodating only his shoulders and head. “Sammy!”

  Nothing.

  “Sammy!”

  Arent tried to catch his breath and slow his thoughts. He was being overcome by the terror of loss, trying to imagine what he’d do if Sammy were dead inside. Protecting his friend had been the only worthwhile pursuit of his entire life. It had filled him with pride to be associated with Sammy’s deeds. For the first time since he’d left his grandfather’s side, Arent had felt himself doing good works, rather than killing for coin or marching into some foreign land to die badly for ignoble purpose. That’s why the accusation that Sammy was a spy rung so hollow. Sammy knew the cost of power and was therefore suspicious of it. Sammy had been baffled at the charge when Arent put it to him, though he didn’t find it quite so funny as his friend. Being English had always brought complications while working for the Company, but he’d never expected to end up in a cell for it.

  “Arent,” groaned Sammy, stretching a hand into the light.

  Arent could have cried in relief. Instead, he grabbed Sammy and dragged him outside, noting the blood trickling from his forehead.

  “Are you well?”

  “Dazed but breathing,” said Sammy groggily. “Is this Old Tom?”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in demons,” Arent replied, placing Sammy’s hands on the ladder.

  “It whispered to me last night, Arent.” Sammy sounded horrified. “It knew things, secret things. It wanted me to—­”

  “Kill the governor general,” guessed Arent, pushing him up the ladder. “It asked the same of Sara and Creesjie.”

  “It offered to free me and restore my name. What did it offer you?”

  “I haven’t heard anything. Seems I’m the only one, way the crew are talking.”

  From above him on the ladder, Sammy managed to crack a weak smile. “Being a dull conversationalist has some perks then.”

  Emerging through the hatch, they heard a howl of misery. The barber-­surgeon was sawing off Henri the carpenter’s broken leg, while Sara and Lia tended patients in the sick bay. Surrounded by a curtain, there wasn’t much to mark this compartment as special, except for two operating slabs and the oddly shaped drills and blades hanging from pegs on the walls.

  “Sara!” Arent called out.

  Seeing Sammy, she rushed over. “It’s nothing,” she said, inspecting the injury. “A bump. Lay him down there. I’ll see he’s cared for.”

  “No need,” said Sammy,
making an effort to hold himself upright. “I have some skills in this area myself. I can be of assistance if you’ll have me?”

  “Mr. Pipps,” said Lia, rushing forward excitedly. “I’m a huge admirer…”

  Sammy stared past her at his supplies, lying open on the table. “That’s my alchemy kit,” he said, a touch of anger in his voice.

  “And we’d be glad of your help making use of it,” said Sara. “Many of these compounds are lost on me.”

  Sammy was still staring.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” said Sara, confounded. “Arent suggested the kit might be some help in aiding the injured and—­”

  “Yes, of course,” interrupted Sammy, abashed. “Please forgive me. Those compounds represent my life’s work. They’ve helped solve more cases than I can count, and I’ve held their secrets close. My selfish desire to keep my tricks to myself momentarily overwhelmed me. Here, let me show you what will be of practical benefit.”

  Arent exchanged an amused glance with Sara, then descended into the cargo hold, where four feet of water was sloshing through the alleys of crates, drowned rats bobbing on the surface. Carpenters were frantically nailing fresh planks over the leaks in the hull, while sailors and musketeers pumped the bilges, their backbreaking work having little effect on the steadily rising water. Drecht was among them, stripped to the waist.

  The ship lurched violently, crates tearing free of their netting and falling onto the sailors working below.

  Howls of pain were lost to the din of waves smashing into the hull.

  Blood blossomed in the water.

  “Drecht!” Arent called out, wading toward the bilges. The guard captain looked up in relief. “You see to them,” said Arent, pointing to the bodies. “I’ll work the bilge.”

  Three men were usually needed to pump the long levers, but Arent pushed them away, ordering them to tend their mates.

  From somewhere distant, guns fired in distress.

  One of the fleet must have been in even worse trouble than the Saardam, but it was a futile gesture. They couldn’t be helped, not in this storm. And every person on that ship would know it.

  He pumped faster, trying to lose himself in the work.

  Hour after hour, he kept on, ripping the flesh from his palms. Drecht tried to convince him to rest, but if he stopped, he would never be able to start again.

  It wasn’t until dusk that exhaustion overcame him, and he fell to his knees.

  The Saardam had stopped heaving, water no longer rushing through cracks in the hull. Carpenters were slumped against the wall, their hammers clutched by clawlike hands they could no longer unclench.

  Most of the water had been pumped out, so now it was only ankle deep rather than waist deep.

  A hand touched his shoulder, a mug of barley stew and a hunk of bread appearing before his tired eyes. Raising his heavy head, he found Sara in front of him.

  “We’re safe,” she said. Anticipating his next question, she added, “Everybody’s safe. Sammy, Lia, Creesjie, Dorothea, and Isabel. Our friends survived.”

  A bruise marred her forehead, her curly red hair sprung loose of its pins, falling across her face and shoulders. Her sleeves were rolled up, her dress and forearms covered in blood.

  “Is any of this blood yours?” he asked, taking her hand, too tired to care about the propriety of it.

  “Only a little,” she said, smiling at his concern.

  “You continue to rise in my esteem, Sara Wessel.”

  She laughed, then noticed his palms, made ragged by the hours of working the bilge pumps. “If you come up to the sick bay, I can treat those,” she said.

  “They look worse than they are,” he said.

  Drecht dropped down beside Arent, clapping his shoulder. “You should have seen him,” he said to Sara in awe. “He worked the bilge pump single-­handedly for the entire night without rest. I’ve never seen its like. It was as if he were heaven sent.”

  Arent was too busy inhaling the sour aroma of the stew to heed the compliment.

  “What is that?” asked Sara. “The cook’s handing it out.”

  “It’s barley stew,” said Drecht, wrinkling his nose. “It’s the vilest substance you’ll ever put in your body.”

  “It’s what being alive tastes like,” corrected Arent, smiling in happiness.

  Barley stew was what they gave you when you came back from battle, shivering cold, covered in mud and blood, short a friend or two. It was hot and salty and cheering, but more importantly, it was cheap. Cauldrons of it bubbled in every camp across Company territory. Cooks kept them going day and night, throwing bits of old meat in, turnip ends and chicken bones, anything foul and unwanted. Everything in that cauldron would likely be rotten, waking a dragon in the guts of anybody brave enough to try it.

  Beaming, he took a huge gulp, wiping the oily liquid from his lips. “Do you want to try it?” he asked Sara.

  She took it gingerly, tipping it to her lips. Revulsion overcame her, and she immediately spat it out, snatching the jug of wine from his hands to wash it down.

  “It’s awful,” she spluttered.

  “Yes,” said Arent happily. “But you can only know that if you’re alive.”

  51

  The sea had settled and the sky had broken into two ragged halves: black behind them, blue in front. Rain swirled, but it was soft and warm, no longer filled with thorns. Snapped rigging dangled like vines, slapping the shredded sails. Cracks riddled the decking, but nobody was repairing them. Everybody was slumped on the floor exhausted, their faces blank with shock.

  There wasn’t a word being spoken.

  Crauwels was leaning over the side of the ship, inspecting the damage. His expensive shirt was torn, revealing the dark chest hair beneath. He was shivering and bleeding from a gash on his arm, barely able to stand.

  “What’s the damage?” asked the governor general, striding toward him. Somehow, he’d come through the experience with barely a scratch. Chamberlain Vos followed at his master’s heel once again.

  “We might as well be a raft,” said Crauwels, gesturing toward the useless sails. “Sailmaker reckons he’ll have them patched in two days. About the same for buckled decking. Hull appears to be intact, mercifully.”

  “We survived though.”

  “Aye, but the storm blew us beyond the wagon lines.” He winced as he touched the wound on his arm. “I have no damn idea where we are, and there isn’t a single other ship out there. We’re alone now.”

  “Last I saw, the Leeuwarden was still afloat,” said Haan, staring at the empty sea. “If we can find her, she may be able to render assistance.”

  “The lookout hasn’t spied her,” argued Crauwels, irritated by such unfounded hope. “Some of the men say they saw her capsize. Even if she survived, she’ll be as badly damaged as us and equally lost. We won’t find her, not with our luck.”

  Haan considered him. “I sense you have a favor to ask of me.”

  “We need the Folly.”

  “That’s more than a favor, Captain.”

  “I know its power. I tested it for you,” he replied. “Without it, I’ve got the stars and nothing else. We’ll end up sailing loops searching for land so we can take a bearing. And between you and me, we don’t have the supplies for this delay, especially now the rest of the fleet is out of sight.”

  A trickle of blood ran from Haan’s nose. Vos immediately handed him a handkerchief to wipe it with.

  “I’ll take you myself,” said Haan.

  The three of them headed for the gunpowder store, meeting Drecht coming up the staircase.

  “How goes it, Guard Captain?” asked Haan.

  “We lost four musketeers in the storm,” he said.

  Haan considered this as they emerged onto the orlop deck, the severity of the damage bringing them to a shocke
d halt. Water dripped from the ceiling into puddles of blood and vomit. Cannons lay on their sides, possessions scattered across the deck, including a small boot dangling from a peg on the ceiling—­like the storm had come across it during its rampage, then put it out of harm’s way.

  Bedraggled sailors and passengers hacked and coughed, bringing up seawater. They were sprawled on the floor, cradling broken arms and legs as they waited to be tended by the barber-­surgeon, Sara, Lia, or Sammy. Arent was talking to his friends.

  Crauwels had spotted the two ladies and the prisoner dart out of sight behind the sick bay’s curtain when they descended. No doubt they feared Haan’s reaction should he discover them down here. Thankfully, he was fixated on a bone-­weary cabin boy, who was laying sheets of hemp across the dead. Crauwels wondered if he’d been ordered to do so, or simply taken it upon himself. Either way, he was going to get an extra ration of ale tonight.

  There was a body at the bottom of the staircase.

  Drecht stepped over it and rapped smartly on the gunpowder store. “You alive in there, Constable?” he demanded.

  The panel slid open, revealing wild white eyebrows. “The bits I can feel, which isn’t all,” he complained. “Who are you?”

  Haan stepped in front of Drecht. “He’s with me. Open up. We’re here to collect the Folly.”

  Fear flashed across the constable’s face, but he did as he was asked, slowly withdrawing the bolt and standing aside.

  “I don’t understand,” said Drecht. “How does a bloody big box help us?”

  “The Folly lets us accurately fix our position while at sea,” explained Crauwels. “That thing will tell me where Batavia is and what bearing I need to go directly there.”

  “I thought it was a weapon,” sniffed Drecht, unimpressed.

  “With the Folly, Company ships will be able to sail beyond the wagon lines without fear, exploring the unmapped ocean,” explained Vos.

  If anything, the unimpressed silence only deepened.

  “Don’t you see, Guard Captain?” continued Vos. “With the Folly, our fleets will be able to outmaneuver their enemies with ease. They’ll be able to accurately chart unmapped oceans and discover people and places nobody’s ever set eyes on. The Folly is how the Gentlemen 17 will put their hands around the world.”