The Devil and the Dark Water

by Stuart Turton

  He tossed the disk into the crowd, sailors clambering over one another to claim it. In the disk’s place, he held up his dagger and his palm.

  “Old Tom asks a favor and blood to show our devotion,” he said, drawing his blade across his palm. “The favor is our service. Hold up your daggers if you’re ready to become crew to a new master, lads. A master who’ll see us clear of all this, who’ll ask us to do awful things but at least reward us for their doing.”

  Hundreds of daggers were lifted into the air, slicing hundreds of palms.

  Blood ran freely.

  “That’s it then,” cried Crauwels. “We fly under Old Tom’s banner now, and it’s his voice we’ll heed.”

  His back arched, blood spurting out of his mouth as a sword emerged through his chest.

  Howls of rage rose from the deck, the crew unsheathing their daggers and surging toward the quarterdeck as Crauwels’s body slumped to the ground, revealing Jacobi Drecht behind him.

  “Musketeers, fire,” hollered Drecht.

  Chaos erupted. Gunfire rang out across the deck, sailors screaming and collapsing.

  From the corner of his eye, Drecht saw Larme charging toward him with his knife in his hand.

  He thrust his sword toward Larme’s chest, only for Arent to pull the dwarf backward, away from the blade. Pipps was sheltered behind him, the problematary tiny in his friend’s shadow.

  “What are you doing, Drecht?” shouted Arent over the noise of the battle.

  “I can’t give this ship to Old Tom!”

  “Those musketeers were in position long before the captain’s speech started, before you knew what he was going to do,” spat Arent, seeing him truly for the first time. “This is a mutiny.”

  “I want the fortune that was promised to me by the governor general,” said Drecht. “I slaughtered children in their beds so my children could have a better future. I don’t sleep anymore, Arent. I can’t. And now I want what I paid so dearly to have.”

  “And who’s going to sail the ship when you have it?” demanded Sammy, covering his ears against the clash of metal.

  “We’ll keep enough sailors alive to take us home.”

  “If they let you,” said Sammy, watching the musketeers slashing at their massed ranks below.

  Drecht stared at Arent, smearing Crauwels’s blood across his face as he tried to wipe it away.

  “Do you stand with us, Arent? Tell me now.”

  “I stand with the passengers,” hollered Arent. “Keep your men away from them.”

  Arent hauled Sammy off his feet and dropped him onto the deck below before leaping over the railing after him. Musketeers had taken position near the bottom of the staircase, where they were battling wave after wave of enraged sailors. For the moment, the sailors seemed to have the best of it, but it wouldn’t last. The musketeers were capable of fighting two of them at once, and the sailors’ strength had been sapped trying to outrun the storm. They would be exhausted long before they ran out of enemies.

  The ship lurched, sending them staggering.

  The Saardam was charging through the water without anybody to guide her. Darting between the empty spaces in the fighting, Arent and Sammy found Larme pressed against the railing, jabbing at the thighs of musketeers with his knife.

  Knocking the blade away, Arent grabbed the dwarf’s hand and stared at his palm. It was unmarked.

  “You’re not with Old Tom?” he hollered over the fighting.

  “I’m with the Saardam,” he said. “Everything else can go to buggery.”

  A musketeer charged toward them, screaming. Almost effortlessly, Arent hurled him into the water.

  “If we get control of this ship, can you talk this crew back around and get us to Batavia?” demanded Sammy, crouched before him.

  “Depends how many sailors are left alive,” replied Larme. “But there ain’t a better plan I’m considering. Where are your people?”

  “Not sure, but I’m heading down to the orlop deck,” said Arent.

  He didn’t say more, but he didn’t need to. Everybody understood what battle meant for those without the strength to defend themselves. Once blood was spilt, there were no more sins left. It was likely some of these men were already on their way down there, seeking a different sort of entertainment.

  A sailor tried climbing over the railing onto the quarterdeck, but Drecht put his saber through his eye, pushing him back into the throng below.

  “You won’t have a chance of taking the ship while he’s still breathing,” said Larme, nodding toward Drecht.

  “He’ll see reason,” said Arent, “but—­”

  Wood shrieked, and the deck exploded, a spear of rock shooting upward, toppling the mainmast and pulverizing everybody in its path. Diamonds flew into the air, gold chains and chalices raining down around them.

  Dark water surged upward like a great hand, dragging Arent, Sammy, and Larme into the cold sea.

  77

  The roar of the ocean filled Arent’s ears.

  Something nudged him, and he groaned, his eyes flickering open. It was dawn, the sky a gray slab above him. He tried to move, but his body was made of driftwood. He was dripping wet, crusted with salt.

  The musketeers Eggert and Thyman were silhouetted by the glare. One was standing, the other kneeling, rocking him by the shoulder.

  “Well?” asked Thyman, who was standing.

  “He’s breathing,” said Eggert.

  Arent lurched onto his side, heaving up seawater until his throat was raw.

  Wiping his mouth, he looked around fuzzily.

  He’d washed up on a pebble beach strewn with seaweed, white surf advancing and retreating, tugging at his ankles. Fingers of purple and orange coral stretched away into a bay of jagged rocks, the water thrashing between them, throwing up huge plumes of spray.

  The Saardam was across the bay, run aground on a small island. A pointed rock had speared her underside, ripping through her decks and erupting through the waist.

  “Have you seen Sara Wessel?” he asked, knocking the seawater from his ears. “Or Sammy Pipps?”

  He snapped his head left and right desperately, trying to spot them on the shoal. There must have been thirty survivors scattered along the coast, and many more dead floating in the shallow water. They’d been hacked apart by the rocks, red patches showing where they’d been skewered and bludgeoned.

  Mothers cradled children, wailing for those they’d lost or hollering for those they hoped to find, while men hurled themselves after the supplies bobbing in the water, grabbing anything they could, scuffling with others for what they couldn’t.

  Three musketeers held down a struggling sailor while a fourth jabbed a dagger into his belly. More were prowling the beach, putting their swords through the bodies of any sailors that had washed up, whether they were breathing or not.

  Cliffs reared up to his right, the curve of the bay disguising whatever was to his left. The center of the island appeared to be jungle, a skirting of scraggly red shrub separating it from the shoal.

  Of his friends, he could see no sign.

  “Ain’t seen Pipps. If he’s alive, he’ll be at the camp with Drecht,” said Thyman.

  “So Drecht is alive,” said Arent, staggering to his feet. “Course he is.”

  “He gave the order to abandon the Saardam and put Sara and her family on the first yawl to the island,” said Eggert. “They’re all up at the camp.”

  “Don’t expect to see Pipps there,” warned Eggert darkly. “Old Tom brought his fist down on us. Most everybody is dead.”

  This must have been the island that was drawn into Emily de Haviland’s daemonologica, thought Arent. The island that was the basis for the mark of Old Tom scarred onto his wrist. The passengers and crew of the Saardam had been slaughtered and delivered here, exactly as she’d promise
d.

  Weak as old bones, he swayed back and forth as his legs reacquainted themselves with dry land after three weeks at sea.

  Until now, he thought he’d taken every sort of beating life could mete out, but fate had made a fool of him again. Ragged gashes covered his body, and his ribs ached so badly, he couldn’t straighten up. Teeth wobbled in his jaw.

  He felt as if he’d been stamped on by a hundred men and somehow fought his way free.

  Water rushed through the rocks and sharp coral, covering and uncovering the dead and dying. He’d always believed miracles were what happened when you finally ran out of hope. They were bits of luck, polished until they gleamed, delivered exactly as you needed them.

  This wasn’t a miracle. He felt like a pig that had survived the slaughterhouse only to run straight into the kitchen.

  “You really can’t be killed, can you?” said Thyman suspiciously. “All them songs were right.”

  “Where’s the camp?” Arent asked hoarsely.

  Eggert pointed up the shoal to the left.

  Clutching his aching ribs, Arent followed his directions. A gray sky pressed against the gray ocean, the temperature rising steadily, warming the ever-­present rain, which hit him like a windborne stream of piss.

  At each body, he bent down to examine the face, living in terror of seeing his friend. He found an unconscious Sammy in the shadow of some cliffs covered in white scat, with long-­beaked seabirds darting in and out of nests built into holes in the rock. He was lying on his side, with his back to Arent. He drew breath yet, though it rattled. Those fine clothes he’d put on last night were tatters, his thin body showing through. Blood oozed from dozens of gashes, the color alarmingly bright against his pale, quivering skin.

  Two musketeers circled him, withdrawing their blades.

  Wincing in pain, Arent drew himself upright.

  “Away you go, lads,” he called out.

  After searching for help and finding none, they slunk off. Arent watched them until they were out of sight, then allowed himself to sag again, moving as quickly as he could to Sammy’s side, groaning when he saw him.

  Half of his face had been shredded by coral, taking his right eye with it.

  Grimacing, Arent reached down and heaved him off the shoal. Pain coursed down from his ribs, almost driving him to his knees. For a minute, he fought for each breath, before he finally gritted his teeth and started walking.

  Each step was an agony, but what use was his pain to those who needed his help? Sammy was badly injured, and he had to find Sara and Lia. Barely able to stand, he pressed forward.

  A screaming sailor came running toward them, chased by two musketeers who fell on him like wolves, stabbing him a dozen times until he was dead. Bloodied but laughing, the musketeers got to their feet, eyeing Arent hungrily before moving off to find more prey.

  They’d struggle, thought Arent.

  The shoal was littered with sailors they’d already bludgeoned, beaten, and slaughtered.

  Sammy stirred in Arent’s arms, swallowing. His solitary eye focused on his friend. “You look like you spent the night with an ox,” he rasped weakly, bringing a burst of painful laughter from Arent.

  “I didn’t want your mama to be the only one,” he responded. “We’re going to get you help.”

  “What—­” Sammy coughed. “What happened?”

  “We ran aground on an island while everybody was fighting.”

  Sammy clutched Arent’s shirt. “Is it a—­” He struggled for every word. “Is it a nice island at least?”

  “No,” said Arent. “I think it’s where Old Tom lives.”

  “Ah.” Sammy nodded in satisfaction. “At least we won’t have to look for him anymore.”

  Sammy’s eye closed, his head falling limp. Arent inspected him fearfully, but he was still breathing.

  They came upon a makeshift camp not a minute too quick. Arent’s arms were trembling and breaths were getting more difficult to come by.

  To Arent’s relief, the first thing he saw was Marcus and Osbert skimming stones off the shore, watched by Dorothea. Aside from their ruffled hair, they seemed no worse for wear from the crossing.

  Larme was slumped on a cask, scowling at the supplies bobbing in the water as if they were insults flung at him by his own treacherous ship. Drecht was pointing and barking orders at his musketeers, who were splashing in the surf, trying to collect the crates and casks before stacking them under the trees to keep the rain off. Nearby were dozens of cases, overflowing with treasure.

  Upon seeing Arent, Larme stomped over. “Hundreds dead, and here you are, barely a mark on you. Seems God isn’t done with you yet.”

  “Sammy got my share of hurt,” he replied.

  Drecht tipped his head in greeting. The beard had survived, and so had his hat, though the red feather was lost. A chunk was missing from his right ear, and one of his fingers sat at an unnatural angle. Unfortunately, it wasn’t on his fighting hand.

  “I’m glad to see you well. I feared the worst,” he said.

  Arent looked between Drecht and Larme. “Surprised you two aren’t trying to kill each other.”

  “After we wrecked, I called a truce in order to get as many of the passengers into yawls as I could,” said Drecht.

  “What about the sailors your men are slaughtering on the beach?” snarled Larme.

  “Only the injured ones,” he said candidly. “We discussed this. I don’t have enough supplies for the living. I’ll not waste any on the almost dead.” Those blue eyes found Sammy in Arent’s arms. “Does he draw breath?”

  “Yes, and you’re not having him,” grunted Arent. “Have you seen Sara?”

  “Put her in the boat myself,” said Drecht. “She’s helping the injured. Come, I’ll take you.”

  Drecht drew him farther down the shingle, following the curve of the coast. Larme trailed behind.

  “What happened after we ran aground?” asked Arent.

  “God took a side,” said Drecht, his lips tightening. He turned toward the wreck of the Saardam, speared by the rock. A huge crack was widening down her middle, her timbers shuddering under the sea’s endless assault. Arent had watched men suffer the same way, torn open and breathing still, shivering as the heat deserted their bodies. It was an ignoble end, especially for something once so grand.

  “Most of the sailors were still on the waist and orlop decks,” continued Drecht. “The rock that skewered us killed nearly all of them, leaving my men untouched. Old Tom’s disciples are decimated.”

  “And a lot of good men alongside them,” said Larme, seething at Drecht’s victorious tone.

  Drecht led them into a large cave, filled with groaning, half-­shattered bodies. It ran deep into the island and was surprisingly cool, a salty breeze coming out of the darkness like the breath of a slumbering beast.

  There were around twenty people inside, and none of them had survived easily. They cradled broken arms and hobbled on broken legs. They were gashed, gaunt, and pale, their faces obscured by dried blood, their eyes misty with confusion and pain.

  Arent found a patch of space and laid Sammy down, gentle as a babe, then sought out Sara. She was moving among the injured with a pocketknife, digging wooden shards out of their bodies with no more fuss than if she were picking worms from a bushel of apples.

  “I’m going to organize a rescue boat,” said Drecht. “We’re only three weeks out of Batavia. The storm’s blown us badly off course, but I’m optimistic we’ll be able to find a friendly ship.”

  Larme snorted his derision for this plan, but Drecht ignored him and carried on talking.

  “We’re forming a council to make decisions about our survival once we know who’s survived. I’d like you two to be part of it.”

  “Aye, sounds like a good idea,” said Arent.

  “Then come fi
nd me when you’re finished here.”

  “Arent!” He turned into a flurry of arms, legs, and red hair as Sara pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. It was desperate and passionate, enough to make a man forget he’d ever been kissed before.

  Sammy had once told him that love was the easiest thing to spot, because it didn’t look like anything else. It couldn’t hide itself, it couldn’t disguise itself, it couldn’t go unnoticed for very long. Arent had never really understood what that meant until now.

  She caressed his cheek. “I thought you were dead.”

  He pulled her close, relieved and ecstatic, feeling the warmth of her body against his own.

  “Did Lia and Creesjie… Are they…” he asked tentatively, searching the cave for them.

  “Both came over by boat. They’re tending to the injured,” said Sara, pointing to a gloomy corner where they were tearing strips of clothing into bandages with Isabel.

  She clutched him tighter. How long they stayed like that, neither knew, but eventually, Sara pulled away, placing both hands flat against his chest, searching his face tenderly before alighting on Sammy. Kneeling down, she began to examine his eye and other injuries.

  “Will he be okay, Sara?”

  “I’ll do what I can, but I don’t think the wounds are your problem. Drecht is killing the injured to save supplies.”

  “He swore to let Sammy be.”

  “Aye, and he swore not to jam a sword through Crauwels’s chest, but he did it anyway,” said Larme, squinting at the distant figure of the guard captain. “And don’t think he’ll stop at the injured. Once he can’t feed the living, he’ll start killing anybody he thinks isn’t useful to him, and I know where a dwarf sits in that pecking order.”

  Arent felt a tiredness building inside him.

  It was never going to end, was it? They were never going to stop butchering each other. Drecht hadn’t even paused to wipe the blood off his hands after the mutiny. That first night on the Saardam, the guard captain had told them he didn’t believe in devils because men didn’t need an excuse to commit evil. Arent had thought it was a lament, but now he realized it was a confession.