The Devil and the Dark Water

14

Arent stared at his uncle, feeling queasy. He’d not truly reckoned with the idea that this task would fall to him – alone. He’d been convinced that his uncle’s affection for him would sway the matter, but it was the same affection that now doomed them.

Jan Haan’s faith in him was absolute and it always had been. As a boy, he’d taught him swordplay by pitting him against full-grown men. First one, then two, then three and four, until servants would stop in their duties to watch him practise.

In his teenage years, when the clinking of the abacus replaced the clanking of swords, Jan had convinced Casper to send Arent to negotiate contracts with merchants so cunning they would have had the hands off Arent’s arms if he hadn’t been careful.

Emboldened by those distant successes, his uncle now courted failure, because there could be nobody less capable of protecting the Saardam than Arent.

‘If I’m to do as you ask, I’ll require Sammy’s counsel,’ he said desperately.

‘Talk to him through the door.’

‘Can we not move him to a cabin, at very least?’ pleaded Arent, hating how weak he sounded. ‘Does he not deserve that for the service –’

‘My family is in those cabins,’ said the governor general tightly, on the verge of insult.

‘If we don’t give him air and exercise, disease will ravage him,’ said Arent, changing the point of attack. ‘He’ll be dead long before we reach Amsterdam.’

‘No more than he deserves.’

Arent gritted his teeth, his temper rising at his uncle’s stubbornness. ‘Will the Gentlemen 17 not object?’ he demanded. ‘Will they not want to hear the accusations first-hand and render their judgement?’

The governor general’s certainty wavered.

‘If I’m not allowed to free him, then at least allow me to exercise him,’ said Arent, sensing a crack in his uncle’s fortitude. ‘Even the passengers on the orlop deck walk the deck twice a day. He could join them.’

‘No, I’ll not have his taint spreading any further than it already has.’

‘Uncle –’

‘Midnight,’ he countered. ‘You may walk him at midnight.’ Before Arent could press, he swept on sternly. ‘Don’t test my patience any further; I’ve already given more ground than I expected to, and it’s only because you’re the one asking.’

‘Then I take it gratefully.’

The governor general slapped the back of his hand into his other palm, obviously annoyed at himself. ‘Will you breakfast with me tomorrow?’

‘Are you not attending the captain’s table tonight?’

‘I prefer to be asleep before dusk and awake before dawn. By the time the captain hosts the simpering idiots and bellicose fools sailing aboard this ship, I will be abed.’

‘Breakfast it is,’ agreed Arent. ‘Though I’d appreciate it if we could keep my family name secret.’

‘You walk around in rags and yet it’s your name that shames you?’

‘It isn’t shame, Uncle,’ disagreed Arent. ‘That name runs ahead of me. It straightens crooked paths, and it’s the crooked paths I wish to walk.’

The governor general examined him admiringly. ‘You were a strange boy and you’ve grown into a stranger man, but a unique one, I think.’ He blew out a breath. ‘Have it your way, your true name will not pass my lips. As your past should not pass yours. Does Pipps know about your scar and your father’s disappearance?’

‘No. Grandfather made me keep what happened in those woods a secret, and the lesson stuck. I don’t speak about it. I rarely even think about it.’

‘Good. Keep it that way, even from Creesjie Jens when you meet her. She’s a fine woman, but still a woman. She’d believe the worst.’ He rapped the desk with his finger. ‘Now, as much as it pains me, I have duties to attend.’ He opened the door, revealing Cornelius Vos and Guard Captain Drecht talking on the other side.

‘Vos, escort my nephew to Creesjie Jens. Tell her that despite appearances he’s a fine fellow, and he comes under my instruction.’

‘I’d like to start with the gunpowder store first,’ countered Arent. ‘We need to know how this leper’s master intends to attack us.’

‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘Take my nephew down to the gunpowder store and see the constable answers his questions.’ He leant close, whispering into the chamberlain’s ear, ‘And then send Creesjie Jens to me.’

‘Thank you, Uncle,’ said Arent, inclining his head respectfully.

Jan Haan held out his arms, drawing him into an embrace. ‘Don’t trust Pipps,’ he whispered. ‘He’s not the man you think he is.’

Cornelius Vos led Arent out of the great cabin and back through the helm into the compartment under the half deck. Every stride was perfectly equal, his arms held close to his sides, as if he were wary of taking up more space than he had to.

‘I’ll confess I thought I knew every root and branch of my master’s genealogy, back to its ancestry.’ Vos spoke slowly, blowing the dust off each word before it passed his lips. ‘I apologise for not recognising you as family immediately.’

He sounded genuinely regretful, thought Arent. His grandfather’s older servants had been the same way. The family was their life and being in service was their pride. His grandfather could have put collars around their necks and they would have polished them to a shine.

‘I’m not related to the Haans; the governor general calls me nephew as a mark of affection,’ explained Arent. ‘His lands are next to my grandfather’s in Frisia. They’re great friends and raised me between them.’

‘Then who are your people?’

‘That’s a matter I prefer not to speak on,’ said Arent, making sure nobody was listening. ‘And I’d take it as a kindness if you didn’t mention my connection to the governor general to anybody else.’

‘Of course,’ said Vos frostily. ‘I would not have this position if I struggled for discretion.’

Arent smiled at Vos’s disgruntlement. Clearly, it vexed him that anybody should wish to distance themselves from the privilege of the governor general’s friendship.

‘Tell me of yourself, Vos,’ he said. ‘How did you come to be in service to my uncle?’

‘He ruined me,’ said Vos, without ire. ‘I was a merchant once, but my company came into competition with the governor general. He spread scurrilous rumours about me to my customers, putting my business to the sword, then offered me a job as his chamberlain.’

He spoke in the fond tones of somebody recounting their Christmas feast.

‘And you accepted?’ said Arent, aghast.

‘Of course,’ said Vos, frowning at Arent’s confusion. ‘It was a great honour. If it hadn’t been him, it would have been somebody else. I had no talent for business, but your uncle recognised my talent for figures. I’m exactly where I belong, and I thank God for His wisdom each night.’

Arent studied his bland face for some suggestion of wounded pride or repressed resentment, but there was nothing. He seemed grateful to have been crushed and added to his uncle’s collection.

Vos took a small lemon from his pocket and dug his sharp fingers into the peel, spraying zest into the air. The mercenary watched him a moment, the boat rocking beneath them.

‘Do you know why Sammy Pipps is imprisoned?’ he asked abruptly, hoping to catch him off guard.

Vos’s body stiffened. ‘No.’

‘Yes, you do,’ disagreed Arent. ‘Is it as bad as my uncle says?’

‘Yes,’ said Vos, biting into the lemon, bringing tears to his eyes.

The word was dropped across the conversation like a rock in front of a cave mouth.

The staircase down to the orlop deck was located opposite Arent’s berth, and an almighty commotion was rising up the steps.

Descending into the gloom, Arent felt like he was being swallowed whole.

A ribcage of thick beams held up the low ceiling, drops of humidity falling like bile. Six cannons were spaced at regular intervals along the bowed walls and the centre of the deck was taken up by the huge capstan wheel, its four long handles used to hoist the anchors off the seabed.

It was swelteringly hot, with passengers expected to bed down wherever they could find space. At a guess, Arent suspected there were around fifty people down here. A few experienced travellers were stringing their hammocks between the gun ports, where they’d at least have a breeze, but the rest would have to settle for mats on the floor, and the feel of rats scurrying by their bodies in the night.

Arguments raged, sickly passengers coughing, snorting, spitting and vomiting, as they complained about their berths. Sander Kers and his ward, Isabel, were standing at the centre of them, listening sympathetically and offering God’s blessings.

‘The gunpowder store is this way,’ said Vos, nodding towards the aft of the ship.

They hadn’t gone three steps when they were thronged by passengers hurling complaints over each other. An irate man tried to prod Arent in the chest, then realised how far he’d have to reach, so prodded Vos instead.

‘I sold everything to buy this’ – he pointed at his hammock disgustedly – ‘berth. There isn’t even room for my possessions.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Vos, plucking the offending finger away like a piece of dirt. ‘But I have no say over your accommodations. I had very little say over my own …’

He trailed off, distracted by something.

Following his gaze, Arent saw two sandy-haired boys with prominent ears darting across the deck, trying to tag each other. They were dressed identically in yellow hose and brown breeches, pressed tunics and short capes.

This was noble attire. Compared to the worn-out boots and faded clothes the rest of the passengers wore, it was painfully conspicuous. Their pearl buttons alone would have paid for one of these families to take quarters upstairs.

‘Boys!’ hollered Vos, bringing the two young nobles to an immediate halt. ‘I’m certain your mother doesn’t know where you are, and I’m certain she wouldn’t approve. Up to the cabins with you.’

The boys muttered, but trudged up the stairs as ordered.

‘They’re the sons of Creesjie Jens,’ explained Vos. He spoke her name with such yearning, he was momentarily rendered human. At short acquaintance, Arent had assumed Vos’s heart was a ball of parchment, but evidently there was warm blood in there somewhere.

A weeping woman broke through the crowd, tugging Arent’s sleeve.

‘I’ve two children,’ she complained, sniffling into a handkerchief. ‘There’s no light, no air. How will they endure eight months of this?’

‘I’ll talk to –’

Vos slapped her hand away, earning an annoyed glance from Arent. ‘Lieutenant Hayes cannot help you any more than I can,’ he said officiously. ‘We’re passengers like you. Harangue the first mate, or the chief merchant.’

‘I want to talk to the captain,’ demanded the irate man, pushing the woman out of the way.

‘And I’m certain he’d like to talk to you,’ said Vos blandly. ‘Perhaps you should try hollering to him.’

Rather than wait for a response, he strode purposefully towards the gunpowder store and rapped on the door with the authority of a man for whom doors were always opened. Steps thudded on the other side, a panel sliding open, revealing suspicious blue eyes under wild white eyebrows.

‘Who’s that?’ rasped an old voice.

‘Chamberlain Vos, representing Governor General Jan Haan. This is Arent Hayes, the companion of Samuel Pipps.’ He gestured for the metal disc Crauwels had given Arent in the great cabin, which Arent handed to him. He held it up to the slot. ‘We’re here with the blessings of your captain.’

Something scraped, the door swinging open, revealing a weathered sailor with only one arm, bent double like an overdrawn bow. He was shirtless, in slops that reached his knees. A twisted lock of blond hair hung from a cord around his neck, his own hair springing off his head like sparks from a grey bonfire.

‘Come in, then,’ he said, gesturing them inside. ‘But bar the door after you, if you please.’

The gunpowder store was a windowless compartment with tin plates nailed to the walls and dozens of small casks of gunpowder laid flat in racks. There was a hammock in the corner and a privy pail beneath it that, thankfully, was empty.

A thick wooden beam scraped back and forth above Arent’s ducked head.

‘Connects the rudder to the whipstaff in the helm,’ said the constable, who’d noticed Arent noticing. ‘You get used to the squeaking after a while.’

At the centre of the room was the huge box containing The Folly. It was being used as a table by the constable, who sat down and swung his feet on top of it, sending a pair of dice skittering to the floor.

He was barefoot, like every other sailor Arent had seen.

Arent stared at the box in bafflement, wondering how something so precious had ended up being treated so carelessly. The Folly was the reason they’d been called to Batavia all those months ago. Only a handful of people knew what it was, and even Sammy wasn’t one of them. It had been quietly built, quietly tested, quietly stolen, then quietly retrieved. They’d spent an hour in its company after recovering it and had examined it from top to bottom.

Even so, they couldn’t make head nor tail of its purpose.

It came in three pieces which locked together. Once assembled, a brass globe lay inside a circle of wood, surrounded by rings of stars, a moon and a sun. Whenever you tilted it, cogs spun and everything shifted, such that trying to keep track of even one piece had given Arent a headache.

Whatever it was, it was important enough for the Gentlemen 17 to send their most valuable agent to find it, knowing full well the journey from Amsterdam might kill him first.

Fortunately, Sammy had not only survived, but succeeded in his errand, uncovering four Portuguese spies. Arent had been tasked with bringing them before the governor general’s wrath, but two had taken their lives before he laid hands on them and two had spotted his approach and escaped.

The failure still embarrassed him.

‘What brings fine sirs like yourselves down to the arse end of the ship?’ asked the constable, putting a dried piece of fish into his mouth. Far as Arent could tell there wasn’t a single tooth waiting for it.

‘Has anybody approached you about putting spark to this room?’ replied Arent, finding no better way to frame the question.

The constable’s old face collapsed in confusion, like an orange that had just had all the juice sucked out of it.

‘Why would anybody want to do that?’ he asked.

‘A threat’s been made against the ship.’

‘By me?’

‘No, by –’ Arent faltered, aware of how ridiculous the answer was. ‘By a leper.’

‘A leper,’ repeated the constable, looking to Vos for confirmation of this foolishness.

The chamberlain bit a chunk out of his lemon, but said nothing.

‘You think a leper’s convinced me to take part in a plot that drowns me along with everybody else?’ The constable munched his fish noisily. ‘Well, let me think on that a minute. I get so many lepers down here, it’s difficult to keep them straight.’

Arent kicked at the floor.

Investigation wasn’t his work, and he wasn’t comfortable doing it. They’d tried once before. Sammy thought he saw the sparkle of some talent in Arent, and a quick way to retire. He’d trained him, then given him a case. It went well enough until they nearly hanged the wrong man on Arent’s good word. Only caught the mistake because Sammy put his bottle down long enough to peer hard at the facts, spotting something Arent had missed.

Until then, Arent had been arrogant. He’d seen Sammy’s talents and thought them magnificent, but only in the way a fine display of horsemanship was magnificent. They were something admirable, but learnable.

He was wrong.

What Sammy did couldn’t be trained or taught. His gifts were his alone.

Sensing Arent’s discomfort, Vos took pity on him and turned his hard gaze on the constable.

‘Know that Arent Hayes comes at the behest of Governor General Jan Haan himself,’ he said. ‘Whatever his questions, you will answer them thoroughly and with courtesy, or we’ll see you flogged. Do you understand?’

The old man blanched.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he stumbled. ‘I didn’t mean no offence.’

‘Answer the question.’

‘No lepers, sir. No plots, neither. And I’ll tell you this, if I wanted to kill myself, I’d spend a night whoring and drinking with the bastards out there,’ he continued, pointing past the barred door. ‘I don’t because I’ve got coin enough and family waiting; plenty of reasons to go home.’

Arent had none of Sammy’s gifts, but he had his own talent for spotting lies. People had been trying to deceive him his entire life, whether to persuade him into a bad deal when working for his grandfather, or to convince him that the dagger held behind their back wasn’t meant for him. Upon the old man’s wrinkled face, he saw hope and nervousness, but nothing to suggest he was lying.

‘Who else can get in this room?’ asked Arent.

‘Nobody most days; everybody when battle stations are called. Crew would be in and out collecting gunpowder for their cannons. Only folks with a key are myself, Captain Crauwels and the first mate, though,’ he said, wriggling his toes.

‘Do you know a carpenter called Bosey. Had a lame foot? Might have a grudge against the Saardam?’

‘Can’t say I do, but I’m new to the crew. Only joined in Batavia.’ The constable chewed more fish, saliva running down his chin. ‘You worried somebody wants to sink the ship?’

‘Aye.’

‘Then you’re seeing this all wrong,’ he said. ‘This room’s got bread either side, and tin all around.’

‘I don’t –’

‘Bread is packed in the compartments either side,’ he clarified. ‘Even if a spark did ignite it, the explosion would be snuffed out by the tin and the bread. Wouldn’t put a hole in the hull. The fire wouldn’t be a charm, but we’d have time to douse it before it ate us up. That’s why they build them this way.’

‘You understand I’ll be putting this same question to Captain Crauwels?’ asked Vos sternly.

‘And he’ll say the same, sir,’ replied the constable.

Arent murmured. ‘Can you think of a better way of sinking the Saardam?’

‘Few ways,’ said the constable, fingering the dirty twist of hair around his neck. ‘Another ship could turn cannon on us, sink us the honest way.’ He mulled it over. ‘Could leave us be and trust pirates, storms or pox to finish us. That happens more often than not, or …’ He became troubled.

‘Or?’ prompted Vos.

‘Or … well, if it were me, and it aint me, I’m just talking.’ He looked up at them for acceptance that he was ‘just talking’.

‘Tell us your idea,’ demanded Vos.

‘Well, if it were me, I’d try and put the captain out of the way.’

‘Crauwels?’ said Arent, surprised.

The old man picked at a splinter on the table. ‘How much do you know about him?’

‘Only that he dresses like he’s at court and hates the chief merchant,’ responded Vos.

The constable slapped his thigh in mirth, stopping when he noticed that Vos’s blunt assessment hadn’t meant to be humorous.

‘True words all, sir, but Captain Crauwels is the finest sailor in the fleet, and everybody knows it, including that whore’s son of a chief merchant, Reynier van Schooten. Could sail a longboat back to Amsterdam and arrive safe with his cargo, could Crauwels.’ There was awe in his voice, but it was gone when he spoke again. ‘Company pays poorly, which means the Saardam crew is comprised of malcontents, murderers and thieves to a man.’

‘Which are you?’ asked Vos.

‘Thief.’ He tapped his stump. ‘Once. But here’s what matters. Bad as this crew are, every one of them respects Captain Crauwels. They’ll grumble, they’ll plot, but they’ll never move against him. He’s fierce, but he’s fair with the whip hand, and we know he’ll get us home, so these animals bow their heads and accept the leash.’

‘What would happen if he died?’ asked Arent. ‘Could the first mate keep this crew together?’

‘The dwarf?’ spat the constable scornfully. ‘Not likely. If the captain dies, this boat burns, you mark me.’