The Devil and the Dark Water

22

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 unpinned, 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 tea before Sara. Red and purple berries bobbed on the surface. They were a particular favourite of the family, so Sara had asked her to bring some for the journey.

‘Odd?’ said 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.

Sara 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 the 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, sorting out her mistress’s clothes for the day.

Sara was certain this was to hide the disapproval on her face. From past experience, she 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, eventually her husband would 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 mid-morning 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 another, one coming and the other going. Four bells had yet to be rung for 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 had 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 Isaack 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 travelled beyond our sight in that time. There wasn’t the wind. It’s a damn ghost ship, I’m telling you.’

As Sara and Lia 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 in 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 first-hand. 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 favour. 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 the predikant a frail old man, likely to give a sermon covered in dust. But channelling 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, run aground on the furious figure of Johannes Wyck. Sara had never seen the man before, but Arent had described him well enough. He had a dent in his bald head and an eyepatch, 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 and 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 too loudly.

‘Tell me now, or –’

He stopped mid-threat, 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.

The predikant coughed, regaining their attention.

‘As I was saying, we should accuse not, for judgement 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 this passage. Others must have felt it too, because they were glancing at each other uncomfortably.

He 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,’ he said, under his breath.

‘Of course, of course,’ said the predikant. ‘What’s the matter, my son?’

Van Schooten glanced around furtively. His eyes passed across Sara as if she wasn’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?’

He leant closer, whispering the answer. Alarm showed on the predikant’s face. ‘How could you not know?’ he demanded.

‘Just come, please. As soon as you can.’ Before Sander could question him any further, he darted away.

Isabel appeared out of the crowd and handed Sander 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 towards the great cabin, their heads bowed in conversation.

‘It was insufficient.’ Sander 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?’

Sander cast an anxious glance at Isabel, who tightened her hands around her satchel. ‘What specifically do you speak of?’ he asked.

‘A leper cursed the ship in Batavia, claiming his master would bring us all to ruin. The same leper appeared at my porthole last night. We think he is connected to the symbol that was drawn on the sail yesterday. This symbol first appeared in the Provinces thirty years ago, and carnage followed in its wake. It’s said to herald the arrival of a demon called Old Tom.’

‘No, no, I’ve no knowledge of that,’ said Sander, waving his hand, as though Sara were a smudge he was trying to wipe away.

Sara couldn’t remember having met a worse liar.

‘Please, Predikant,’ interjected Creesjie. ‘My husband battled this creature and lost his life doing so. Now I think it’s come for my family.’

Recognition flickered on the predikant’s face. He took a painful step towards her. ‘Who was your husband?’

‘Pieter Fletcher.’

Sander touched his hand to his mouth, his eyes brimming over. Blinking the tears away, he looked to the heavens, then Isabel. ‘Did I not tell you our faith would be rewarded?’ he said jubilantly. ‘Did I not say that our mission was divine?’

Creesjie peered at him inquisitively. ‘Did you know my husband, Predikant?’

‘Oh, yes, we were great friends once. He’s the reason I’m aboard this ship.’ Sander became suddenly fretful, casting around for danger. ‘Is there somewhere we might speak privately. I have much to tell you, much that can’t be said openly.’

‘I’m supposed to breakfast with my husband,’ said Sara, gritting her teeth. ‘If I’m not there, he’ll send Guard Captain Drecht to fetch me. If you tell Creesjie –’

‘I’ll not do this without you,’ said Creesjie, clinging to her arm.

Sara stared at her friend. She was deathly afraid. ‘Very well,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘But we’ll have to be quick.’ Sara sought Dorothea. ‘Would you take a message to Arent Hayes –’

‘No!’ cried out the predikant. He flushed, embarrassed by his outburst, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘There are matters here you do not fully understand. Let me explain, then you may decide whether to deliver the information to Lieutenant Hayes.’