The Devil and the Dark Water

13

The governor general had taken the captain’s cabin. It was twice as large as the others, with its own privy. Furs were piled on the bunk and a rug laid on the floor. Hanging on the walls were oil paintings of famous scenes from the governor general’s personal history, including the siege at Breda.

Arent was in that one. He was the giant covered in blood, carrying his injured uncle over his shoulder, while single-handedly fighting hordes of Spanish soldiers. It hadn’t happened that way, but it was close enough to make him feel sick with the memory. Truth was, they’d hidden under bodies and clambered through middens, holding their breath all the way through the enemy line. He could understand why his uncle hadn’t commissioned that for his wall, though. It was a difficult thing to capture magnificently in oil.

A harried clerk was transferring clothes from a sea chest into drawers, while Cornelius Vos, the governor general’s chamberlain, was arranging scroll cases very precisely on a shelf. It took Arent a couple of glances to really notice him. With his muddy hair and brown clothes, it was difficult to distinguish him from the pillars supporting the roof.

‘I appreciate your intervention, but I can fight my own battles, Uncle,’ said Arent, closing the door behind him.

‘This battle was beneath you,’ responded Jan Haan, waving an agitated hand in the direction of the great cabin. ‘Reynier van Schooten is weak and venal and grasping. That there’s any place for him in this Company I love makes me love this Company a little less.’

Arent examined his uncle. They’d last seen each other a month ago, when he and Sammy had first arrived in Batavia. They’d eaten a large dinner and drunk a great quantity of wine, then reminisced, for it had been eleven years since they’d met last.

He hadn’t changed a great deal. Over the years, that hawk-like face had become more hawkish, perhaps, and there was now an island of sunburnt baldness on top of his head. About the only significant change was his weight. He’d lost the coating of fat that was the privilege of wealth, growing thin as any beggar on the street.

Eerily thin, thought Arent. The way a sword was thin. Sharp, rather than frail, as if age were a whetstone. Could it be worry that had remoulded him? A breastplate sat snugly atop his clothes, the metal gleaming. Despite its obvious quality, it must have been uncomfortable. Even generals at war took their armour off once they returned to their tents, but his uncle showed no such inclination.

The governor general peered around his nephew’s body, finding Guard Captain Drecht waiting patiently behind him, his hat pressed respectfully to his chest.

‘You look like you’re attending my funeral, Drecht. What do you want from me?’

‘To request permission to offload some of our musketeers to another ship, sir. We’ve got them crammed into every empty space we can find, but there just isn’t enough room on the Saardam.’

‘How many did we bring aboard?’

‘Seventy.’

‘And how many do you want to offload?’

‘Thirty.’

‘What do you make of it, Vos?’ the governor general asked his chamberlain.

Vos glanced over his shoulder, his ink-stained fingers twitching as he considered the details. ‘Your protection would be adequately served by the number we’d retain, and the extra rations would be welcome. I can see nothing against it,’ he declared, before returning to his work.

‘Then you have your permission, Guard Captain,’ said the governor general. ‘Now if you gentlemen would excuse me, I’d like some time alone with my nephew. We have much to discuss.’

With a regretful glance at his pile of unordered scrolls, Cornelius Vos followed Jacobi Drecht into the great cabin, shutting the door behind him.

‘Curious fellow,’ said Arent.

‘None finer with figures, but you’d have more fun talking to the figurehead,’ he said, running his fingers along the jugs in his wine rack. ‘He’s loyal, though. As is Drecht, and that counts for a great deal these days. Do you want a drink?’

‘Is that your famous wine cupboard?’

‘As much as would fit,’ said Jan. ‘I have something French that I’d be glad to waste on those wretched taste buds of yours.’

‘I’d be glad to have it wasted on me.’

Jan took down a jug, blowing the dust away. Tearing the cork loose, he poured out two mugs, handing Arent one. ‘To family,’ he said, raising his mug.

Arent clinked it and they drank heartily, savouring the taste.

‘I tried to see you after your soldiers took Sammy, but I wasn’t even allowed into the fort,’ said Arent, trying to keep the hurt from his voice. ‘They said you’d summon me when you had a free moment, but I didn’t hear anything.’

‘That was cowardice on my part.’ The governor general lowered his eyes, shamefaced. ‘I’ve been avoiding you.’

‘Why?’

‘I was afraid if I saw you … I was afraid of what I might be forced to do.’

‘Uncle?’

The governor general rolled the wine around his mug, staring deeply into the red liquid as if some great truth would shortly reveal itself.

Sighing, he stared at Arent.

‘Now you’re standing in front of me, I realise my oath to the Company is not greater than my oath to your family,’ he said quietly. ‘So tell me, without fear, did you know what Samuel Pipps was doing?’

Arent opened his mouth, but the governor general silenced him with a hand.

‘Before you answer, understand fully there will be no recrimination from me,’ he said, his eyes scouring Arent’s features. ‘I will do everything in my considerable power to shield you, but I must know if Samuel Pipps intends to name you as a’ – he searched for the word – ‘conspirator when he goes before the Gentlemen 17.’ His face darkened. ‘If that’s the case, additional measures must be taken.’

Arent had no idea what ‘additional measures’ meant specifically, but he could hear the blood dripping from them.

‘I never saw him do anything underhand, Uncle,’ he said stridently. ‘I never have. He doesn’t even know what he’s accused of.’

‘He knows,’ scoffed the governor general.

‘Are you certain? He’s a better man than you give him credit for.’

The governor general went to the porthole, his back to his nephew. Only an hour at sea and the fleet was already beginning to disperse, the white sails leaving the black monsoon clouds behind.

‘Do I strike you as a stupid man?’ asked the governor general, an edge in his voice.

‘No.’

‘Reckless, then? Cavalier, perhaps?’

‘No.’

‘Pipps is a a hero to this noble Company we all serve. He’s a favourite of the Gentlemen 17. I would not manacle him, nor treat him with such disregard if I had any other choice. Believe me, the punishment befits the crime.’

‘And what is that crime?’ asked Arent, vexed. ‘Why keep it a secret?’

‘Because when you face the Gentlemen 17, this bafflement will be your greatest defence,’ said the governor general. ‘They’ll believe you were involved. How could they not? They know how close you and Pipps are. They know how he leans on you. They will not believe you were ignorant. Your outrage, your confusion; this is how we’ll sway them.’

Arent picked up the wine jug, refilling his mug and his uncle’s.

‘His trial is eight months away, Uncle,’ he said, joining him at the porthole. ‘But while we’re worrying about the sword, we may miss the spear. Sammy believes there’s some threat to this boat.’

‘Of course he does. He thinks he can use it to parlay his freedom.’

‘The leper had no tongue, yet he spoke. He had a maimed foot, yet he climbed a tower of crates. These peculiarities alone are worth Pipps’s attention. And then there’s the symbol that appeared on the sail.’

‘What symbol?’

‘An eye with a tail. It was exactly the same as the scar on my wrist. The one I got after my father disappeared.’

Suddenly, Arent had his uncle’s full attention. Going to his desk, Jan Haan plucked a quill from its well, drawing the symbol on to a sheet of parchment and holding it in front of Arent’s face.

‘This one?’ he demanded, the ink dripping down the sheet. ‘You’re sure?’

Arent’s heart hammered. ‘I’m sure. How could it be here?’

‘How much do you remember of that period after your father disappeared? Do you remember why your grandfather came for you?’

Arent nodded. After he’d returned alone from the hunting trip, he’d been shunned. His sisters had treated him with scorn and his mother had kept her distance, leaving his care to the servants. Everybody had hated his father, but nobody seemed glad he was gone. Nor were they happy that Arent had come back. It was never spoken aloud, but their accusation was obvious. They thought he’d put an arrow in his father’s back, then feigned memory loss.

Soon enough, the rumour was the truth, spreading amid his father’s congregation, poisoning them against him.

At first, they accused him quietly, the other children whispering vile insults whenever they saw him on the road. Then one of the villagers had cursed him after Mass, screaming that the devil danced behind him.

Trembling with fear, Arent had clutched his mother for protection, only to find her staring at him with the same loathing.

That night he’d crept out of their home in the dead of night and carved the shape of his scar on to the villager’s door. He couldn’t remember why he’d done it, or what dark impulse had inspired him. Nobody would have recognised the mark, but there was something malevolent about it, he’d thought. It frightened him, so he assumed it would frighten others.

The next morning it was the marked villager who was being shunned, his denials for naught. The devil came to the door of those who invited him, they claimed.

Thrilled by his victory, Arent crept out the next night, and the next, carving the symbol on the door of anybody who’d ever offended him, watching as they became the targets of suspicion and fear. It was such a small thing, the only power he had, the only revenge he could summon.

The symbol was a jest, but the villagers poured their terror into it, giving it life. Before long they burnt any house branded by the mark, driving its occupants out of the village. Terrified of what he’d created, Arent stopped his nocturnal visits, but the mark kept appearing, settling old feuds and inspiring new ones. For months, the village tore itself apart under the weight of its grudges, people accusing and being accused until, finally, they found somebody to blame.

Old Tom.

Arent’s thoughts strained. Was Old Tom a leper? Was that why they all had hated him?

He couldn’t remember.

It didn’t matter. Unlike Arent, Old Tom was a poor man without powerful kin, or walls to hide behind. He certainly wasn’t a demon, though he’d always been strange, sitting in the same spot in the market, come rain, sun or snow, begging for alms. Nothing he said made sense, but most had thought him harmless.

One day a mob circled him. A little boy had disappeared, and his friends claimed Old Tom had led him away. The villagers hurled accusations and demanded a confession. When he didn’t provide it – when he couldn’t – they beat him to death.

Even the children joined in.

The next day, the symbols stopped appearing.

The villagers congratulated themselves on driving the devil from their homes and went back to smiling and laughing with their neighbours, as if nothing had happened.

Arent’s grandfather, Casper van den Berg, had arrived in his carriage a week later. He removed Arent from his mother’s care, taking him back to his estate in Frisia on the other side of the Provinces. Casper claimed it was because his five sons had all disappointed him and he needed an heir. They both knew it was because Arent’s mother had summoned him. She knew the truth about the scar and the marks he’d drawn on the doors.

She was afraid of him.

‘After you were taken to Frisia, we heard tales of that mark spreading across the Provinces.’ The governor general touched the parchment to the candle flame and watched the foul thing burn. ‘Woodcutters noticed it first, etched in the trees they were felling. Then it began appearing in villages and, finally, carved into the bodies of dead rabbits and pigs. Wherever it appeared, some calamity followed. Crops were blighted, calves delivered stillborn. Children disappeared, never to be seen again. It went on for almost a year, until mobs started attacking the houses of the noble families who owned the land, accusing them of conspiring with dark forces.’

As the flame reached his fingertips, the governor general threw the scrap of parchment out of the porthole and into the sea.

‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this?’ demanded Arent, staring at his scar. It was barely visible, but he could feel it underneath, trying to dig its way out.

‘You were young.’ There was a shine to his face, an old fear taking hold again. ‘It wasn’t your burden to carry. We assumed one of the mark’s foul servants had come upon you in the woods, killed your father and branded you in some perverse ritual, but you showed no ill effects. Then we heard a witchfinder had chased the mark over from England, where his order had been battling it for years. He claimed it was a devil’s work and set to scouring the land of its followers, slaughtering the lepers and burning the witches who’d appeared in its wake.’

Lepers, thought Arent. Like Bosey.

‘The pyres burnt across Frisia for months, until it was finally banished,’ continued his uncle. ‘Your grandfather was worried the witchfinder would mistake you for one of its servants, so he hid you away.’ A dark shadow passed across his face, the wine trembling in his hand. ‘That was a terrible time. The devil twisted itself tight around the great and powerful, leading them into perversity. A few of the old families couldn’t be saved. They were already too enthralled by its evil.’

Lost in thought, the governor general’s fingernails rapped the side of his mug. They were buffed to points, a style long out of fashion and somehow unsettling. They looked like talons, thought Arent. As if his uncle were slowly transforming into the bird of prey he’d always resembled.

‘Arent, there’s something else you should know. According to the witchfinder, the devil called itself Old Tom.’

Arent’s legs felt weak beneath him, and he had to steady himself against the desk.

‘Old Tom was a beggar,’ he protested. ‘The villagers murdered him.’

‘Or maybe they found the right creature by accident. If you throw enough stones, occasionally you hit somebody deserving.’ The governor general shook his head. ‘Whatever the truth, those events were almost thirty years ago, why would the mark appear again now? Half a world away?’ He turned his dark eyes upon Arent. ‘Do you know my mistress, Creesjie Jens?’

Arent shook his head, confused at this new line of questioning.

‘Her last husband was the witchfinder who saved the Provinces. The man we hid you from. It’s through him I came to know Creesjie. If he confided in her about his work, she may know more about Old Tom, why it threatens this ship and what that mark on your wrist represents.’

‘If you believe there’s some threat, wouldn’t it be wisest to return to Batavia?’

‘Retreat, you mean?’ The governor general snorted his contempt for the idea. ‘There are almost three thousand souls in Batavia and fewer than three hundred aboard this ship. If Old Tom is here, it will be trapped. Do this for me, Arent. Any resource’ – he spotted Arent’s objection – ‘aside from Pipps shall be yours.’

‘I can’t do what he does.’

‘You stormed a stronghold to save me from the Spanish army,’ balked the governor general.

‘I didn’t go there expecting to succeed; I went there knowing I would die.’

‘Then why go at all?’

‘Because I couldn’t have lived with the guilt of not having tried.’

Overcome by the weight of love he bore his nephew, the governor general turned away to disguise it. ‘I never should have taught you about Charlemagne when you were a boy,’ he said. ‘It’s rotted your mind.’

Uncomfortable around any feeling that didn’t end in profit, he went to his table and sifted through some papers. ‘You’ve served Pipps for five years,’ he said, once his documents were thoroughly reordered. ‘Surely, you’ve observed his method.’

‘Aye, and I’ve observed squirrels running up trees, but I can’t do that either. If you want to save this ship, you need to free Sammy.’

‘I know I’m not your uncle by blood, but I feel our kinship keenly. I’ve watched you grow up, and I know your capabilities. You were your grandfather’s heir, chosen above his own five sons and seven grandsons. He did not offer you that honour because you were stupid.’

‘Sammy Pipps isn’t simply clever,’ argued Arent. ‘He can lift up the edges of the world and peek beneath. He has a gift I’ll never understand. Believe me, I’ve tried.’

The face of poor Edward Coil flitted through his thoughts, followed by the usual shame.

‘I can’t free him, Arent.’ There was a strange expression on the governor general’s face. ‘I won’t free him. I’d rather let this ship sink and know he drowned in that cell.’ Draining his mug, he thumped it back on to the table. ‘If Old Tom’s on this boat, then you’re the best person to hunt it down. The safety of the Saardam is in your hands.’