The Devil and the Dark Water

28

Arent was still preoccupied by breakfast when he descended the staircase into the humid gloom of the orlop deck. For years, his uncle had raised him with as much tenderness as he could manage. He’d taught him how to hunt, to ride, and even how to bargain. He was quick to temper, it was true, but he calmed quickly and rarely raised his hand.

The man he’d known could never have murdered an island full of people, then boasted of the good that would come of it. Arent had seen slaughter like that at war. He knew those who did it, what overcame them and what they became. It was a poison in the soul that ate them hollow.

That couldn’t be his uncle. His wise, kind uncle. The man who’d taught him of Charlemagne, and who he’d run to when his grandfather was too demanding, or too cruel.

Empty hammocks swung gently with the motion of the boat, while shoes, needles and thread, ripped clothes, jugs and wooden toys lay discarded on the floor. Most of the passengers were on deck for their morning exercise. In their absence, two toy dancers the size of an adult’s finger whirled back and forth across the floor, their wooden skirts spinning. They were impressive creations, perfectly balanced and still moving, despite being abandoned by Marcus and Osbert.

Marcus had a splinter in his finger, which his brother was now clumsily trying to remove.

The younger boy was whimpering and close to tears, his brother shushing him lest Vos should discover where they’d slunk off to.

Seeing the boys by the boxes, Arent called them over. Osbert came brightly, while Marcus trudged over, holding his injured finger. Their likeness was remarkable, thought Arent. Sandy hair fell across large, round ears, their eyes blue as the ocean outside.

‘Let me see your hand,’ said Arent, kneeling down to inspect the splinter in Marcus’s finger.

Arent felt around gently, wincing in sympathy at his discomfort.

‘I think we can save it,’ he said earnestly. ‘You’ll need to be strong for a minute. Can you do that?’

The boy nodded, his brother leaning closer to better see the gruesome work.

Very carefully, Arent squeezed the splinter between his thick fingers, forcing it up through the skin. The hardest part was tempering his strength, so as not to hurt him. The splinter came loose in a few seconds and Arent handed it to Marcus as a trophy.

‘I thought there’d be blood,’ complained Osbert grumpily.

‘If I remove a splinter from your hand, I’ll make sure there is,’ warned Arent, standing with a groan. There was a lot of him to lift and most of it ached.

‘Are those yours?’ he said, nodding to the toy dancers, still whirling back and forth across the floor. ‘They’re clever little things.’

‘Yes, Lia made –’ Marcus was cut off by his brother nudging him in the ribs. ‘We’re not allowed to say,’ he finished.

‘Why?’

‘It’s a secret.’

‘Then keep it under your tongue,’ responded Arent, who had enough questions to answer without adding unnecessary ones to the pile. ‘Reckon you boys best be off now. I’m about to do something foolish, and it might get sharp quicker than I can control it.’

The boys’ faces immediately lit up with the thought of a grand adventure, but the grim, scarred expression of Arent Hayes was enough to change their minds.

Hunching under the low roof, Arent went to the folding wooden screen dividing the deck in two and pushed it aside, entering the crew’s side of the ship. It had been partitioned down the middle by a piece of sailcloth strung on rope, with musketeers on one side and sailors on the other. Mats had been slid beneath hammocks to provide additional berths for everybody, their possessions kept in sacks that hung from the ceiling like spider nests.

The half of the deck belonging to the musketeers was empty. They were training on the waist with Drecht, slashing at the air and firing rounds at the horizon. There weren’t many sailors to be seen, as they were scattered between the weather decks and workshops. What few men remained were playing dice or talking with their mates. Others snored on their mats. The air was thick with the stench of their unwashed bodies. Somebody was trying to wring a tune from a fiddle with only three strings.

They stopped everything as Arent approached, narrowing their eyes.

Arent raised his coin purse and his voice. ‘Anybody know Bosey?’ he asked. ‘There’s a chance he, or somebody he knew, is running around this ship dressed like a leper. Apparently, he struck a bargain with somebody called Old Tom in Batavia to do a few favours.’ Arent jangled his coin purse. ‘Anybody hear him say anything about that? Anybody mates with him?’

The sailors stared, their lips clamped shut.

The galley fire crackled and popped; steps thudded back and forth across the deck above them, dust falling from the ceiling.

Somewhere distant a drumbeat kept time.

‘Does anybody know where he was from, or what brought him aboard the Saardam?’ pressed Arent, looking from stony face to stony face. ‘I’ll pay well for gossip.’

One of the sailors stood up. ‘We’ll have no words with a pig-groping soldier like you,’ he spat.

The others muttered their agreement.

From the portside, somebody hurled a jug, forcing Arent to duck. A second narrowly missed him, shattering against the wall.

Strong fingers clamped themselves around his arm. Arent spun to hit whoever had grabbed him, but it was the one-armed constable from the gunpowder store. As yesterday, he was bent almost double, his legs bowed, like God had brought a cannon to life.

He raised his stump in supplication.

‘Come away now, before there’s blood on the floor,’ he said, trying to tug Arent out of the compartment.

Sailors advanced on him with their fists clenched.

Seeing the futility of staying, he allowed himself to be led back beyond the wooden divide, which shook as the sailors beat their hands against it, hurling insults after him.

‘You’re a silly bastard and no mistake,’ said the constable, somehow making it sound like a compliment. Without another word, he crossed the deck to the gunpowder store, which he unlocked with a key kept around his neck.

Dozens of kegs of gunpowder were stacked on the floor, leaving almost no room to walk. The old constable snorted at them in disgust. ‘Hundred men carried them out of here when the captain called battle stations last night, and now they expect me to put them back by myself.’ He gestured to the empty racks on the walls with the stump of his arm. ‘Isn’t a damn sensible thought anywhere on this boat.’

He waited, then sighed meaningfully when Arent didn’t catch the hint. ‘Lot of work for an old man with one arm,’ he said slyly.

Arent picked up two kegs effortlessly, slinging them into their racks. ‘Is this why you dragged me out of there?’

‘Partly,’ said the constable, dropping heavily on to his stool. ‘But I saw something last night I thought you’d want to hear about, being as how the ship’s in danger. Not a leper or nothing, so don’t go thinking –’

‘Just tell me,’ said Arent, heaving another two kegs into their racks.

‘Well, it was after the two bells, before Captain sounded battle stations. I went down to the cargo hold for my piss. Always do it down there, near the bottom of the staircase, you know, where there’s still some light. Don’t like going –’

‘Constable!’ said Arent. ‘What did you see?’

‘All right, all right, I was just trying to offer a little extra colour,’ he protested. ‘A woman came creeping down. Broad-shouldered and curly-haired. Mistook me for somebody else in the shadows, because she dashed down, saying she’d almost got them caught.’ The constable chewed the inside of his lip thoughtfully. ‘Gave me a bit of a fright, so I popped my carrot back in the sack and stepped into the light. That was that. She took off like a rabbit seen a fox.’

Broad-shouldered and curly-haired sounded like the predikant’s ward, Isabel. She must have come down to the cargo hold after Larme spied her eavesdropping on their conversation last night. Evidently, she had a knack for showing up where she wasn’t supposed to.

‘I’ll ask around,’ said Arent, as he pushed a few kegs across the rack to make space. ‘Thank you, Constable.’

The constable nodded, clearly happy to have made this somebody else’s problem.

Feeling a twinge in his back, Arent wrapped his arms around another keg. It came off the ground effortlessly.

‘This is empty,’ he said.

‘Toss it over there,’ said the constable, waving towards the corner where three others had been discarded. ‘Likely, one of the boys panicked and packed his cannon before the order came to make ready.’ He chortled. ‘Would have been up at first light, trying to tip the gunpowder into the sea before anybody realised. Worth a flogging, if he’s caught.’

Arent threw the keg away, as the constable swung his bare feet on to the box containing The Folly, causing two dice to jump into the air.

’Know what it is?’ asked the constable. ‘Didn’t feel as I could ask yesterday with that Vos in the room. Makes me think of something dead and dug up, he does.’

Arent eyed it, then nodded knowledgeably.

‘It’s a box,’ he concluded.

‘A box that Chamberlain Vos has made excuses to visit twice,’ said the constable shrewdly. ‘Reckon whatever’s inside must be important.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘And valuable.’

‘You telling me you haven’t tried to open it,’ said Arent, the ship tilting ever so slightly as they changed course.

‘It’s locked, and my lock-picking days are long behind me,’ said the constable, scratching his stump.

Arent shrugged. ‘You’re asking the wrong man. Nobody ever told me what it was, and I never asked. I’ll tell you this, though, the governor general thought it important enough to call Sammy Pipps all the way from Amsterdam when it was stolen.’

‘Aren’t you curious what’s inside?’

‘Curiosity’s Sammy’s job,’ replied Arent. ‘Up until yesterday, I just punched the things he was curious about. Speaking of which, have you ever heard the word Laxagarr?’

‘Nope.’

‘In that case, do you know what it means when two sailors carry two halves of the same charm?’ he asked, recalling how Sammy had noticed that Isaack Larme’s half-face charm fitted perfectly into Bosey’s.

‘Oh, aye,’ he said. ‘Means they’re married.’

‘Married?’ exclaimed Arent, his eyebrows shooting up.

‘Not land married, sailor married,’ he said. ‘If one dies on the voyage, the other gets his pay, any booty he’s earned and his death pouch. Doesn’t mean they share a hammock or anything, though I dare say it’s happened.’

‘Then they’d be close.’

‘Have to be,’ he agreed. ‘You don’t make that sort of pledge without being certain. Get it wrong, and you’re liable to end up with your blood on their hands and your coin in their pocket.’

Arent paused in his work to wipe the sweat from his forehead. ‘Why are you so loose-lipped? The rest of the crew would rather spit in my face than talk to me.’

‘Good question, that.’ He grinned toothlessly. ‘Seems like you’re getting the hang of being on an Indiaman. Soldiers and sailors are fire and fuses. Been that way since the first boat, and it aint going to change on this voyage. These boys hate you, Hayes.’ He touched the twist of hair he kept on a string around his neck. ‘Now me, I’m old. Too old to be told who to hate. I just want to get home to my daughters, play with my grandchildren and live with the dirt under my feet a little while. If some bastard’s trying to sink this boat, then I’m with the man who’s trying to stop them, whether he’s a sailor or a damn soldier.’

‘Then tell me how I get Wyck to talk. He knows what Laxagarr means, and he cut out Bosey’s tongue for some reason.’

‘Wyck.’ The constable clicked his tongue in thought. ‘Funnily enough, Wyck I might be able to help you with. Open that door for me.’

Arent pulled it open, and the constable leant his head forward.

‘Is there a cabin boy out there?’ he hollered, tipping his ear, listening for a response. None came. ‘I know there is. There’s always one of you little bastards shirking your duty in the gloom. Get in here now.’

Tentative footsteps sounded on the wood, a young, nervous face appearing at the door.

‘Go fetch Wyck for me,’ commanded the constable. ‘He’ll be in his cabin. Tell him the constable needs him, urgent business.’

‘What’s your notion?’ asked Arent, while they waited, but the constable shook his head, practising what he was going to say when Wyck arrived.

They didn’t have to wait long.

‘What do you think you’re doing,’ screamed Wyck, from halfway along the orlop deck, his steps thudding through the wood. ‘You don’t ever summon me! You don’t –’

Wyck stormed into the gunpowder store in a towering fury, his fists clenched and shoulders heaving. When Arent had confronted Wyck last night, the gloom had helped conceal his size, but in the light of the orlop deck, he was enormous. While not Arent’s height, he was about his width, with thick arms and legs, a bald head and round body. He was a rockslide in piss-stained slops.

Taking fright, the constable leapt up from his stool and scrambled backwards into the wall, holding his hands up defensively.

Before Wyck could wring the poor man’s throat, Arent slammed the door shut behind him.

‘He didn’t summon you,’ he said. ‘I did.’

Wyck spun, withdrawing a dagger quicker than a wolf could bare its teeth.

‘There’s no need of that, Johannes,’ implored the constable, who was still trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and the enraged boatswain.

Arent’s eyes travelled from Wyck’s pitted face, down to the dagger, then back again. ‘What does Laxagarr mean?’ he asked. ‘And why did you cut out Bosey’s tongue?’

Wyck blinked at him, then at the constable in confusion. ‘You woke me up for this?’

‘I woke you up, because I’ve got an idea,’ said the constable.

‘You’re wasting my time.’

‘You’re going to fight and Arent’s going to lose.’

Arent’s eyes narrowed in surprise. The constable finally came away from the wall, trying to soothe Wyck like he was a bull gone mad in the field.

‘Boatswain’s a position you take by force, not promotion and I’ve heard there’s a couple of lads with an eye on your throat.’ The constable licked his lips nervously. ‘What you need is a show of force. Lay Arent low in a fight, and everybody will fall in line, you know they will.’

Wyck’s expression flickered. He was tempted, it was obvious.

‘This is your last voyage, you said it yourself,’ pressed the constable. ‘You’ve got a family depending on you, and not enough money to keep them.’

‘Spill more of my business and your blood will follow,’ growled Wyck but it was obvious some internal scale was tilting.

Arent knew the effect his size had on people, and had learned to spot whether somebody would be cowed, or become belligerent, as if offended by his refusal to shrink in their presence.

Wyck’s calculating eyes were running him up and down, noticing how he had to hunch to even fit in the room, and how he was so wide, he blocked the door entirely. ‘In return for losing our fight, I assume you want your questions answered,’ he asked, scratching his ear with a grubby finger.

Arent nodded.

‘And what else?’

‘Nothing else,’ said Arent. ‘I’ll pay for answers in humiliation.’

Wyck turned his glare on the constable. ‘And what do you get out of this, you greedy old sod?’

‘I’m going to bet against Arent,’ he laughed. ‘I guarantee, nobody else will be doing that.’

Wyck grunted, nodding slyly. ‘Aint no fights on this ship allowed without a grievance,’ he said. ‘Otherwise it’s a flogging. Give me a few hours and I’ll come up with something you can take to Isaack Larme.’ He withdrew a blob of wax from his ear and flicked it away. ‘If either of you bastards tries to betray me, I’ll gut you.’

Wyck stomped out of the store, almost colliding with Dorothea, who was looking around frantically. Upon seeing Arent in the gunpowder store, relief washed over her face. ‘Lieutenant Hayes, I’ve been searching for you. My mistress has news about the leper.’