The Devil and the Dark Water

47

‘Two weeks like a damn fish on a hook and now we’re being reeled in,’ hollered Crauwels, as the storm finally fell upon them.

His crew were exhausted. The fight was over. They’d tried everything, strained every muscle and sinew, but the storm had been unrelenting. He was proud of them, could ask no more. He wanted to say as much, but he couldn’t raise his voice above the wind.

Emerging on to the quarterdeck, Crauwels tipped his head to the sky. You’d be hard pressed to tell whether it was day or night. Gusts swirled and the rain battered down, bouncing ankle-high off the decking.

‘Can’t see a damn thing,’ he complained to Larme, squinting through the sheets of rain at the blurred sails of the other ships in the fleet. Only three had managed to stay close to them during their manoeuvres. Now he wished they hadn’t.

‘Get down to the helm and point us wherever they aint,’ he hollered. ‘If we hug each other in this storm, the wind’s going to smash us together.’

Larme took off like a fox, but as Crauwels tried to follow, the ship bucked beneath him, snatching the ground away. Flinging himself at a nearby railing, he managed to wrap his arms around it, watching as two sailors were tossed into the air, then slammed into the deck.

From amidships the bell rang desperately.

Stumbling forward, Crauwels hauled a scared cabin boy from the nook he’d wedged himself into.

‘Get that bell muffled,’ he screamed at him, over the crashing waves. It was bad luck to let a bell ring by itself, everybody knew that. Should have been the first thing tended to when the sea got wild.

‘Boatswain!’ Crauwels yelled over the howling wind.

Johannes Wyck staggered on to the waist, clinging tight to a rope. ‘Captain?’

Crauwels put his mouth to his ear. ‘Any sailors not on duty are restricted to the orlop deck,’ he ordered, wiping away the rain lashing his face.

Nodding, Wyck grabbed the two nearest sailors by the neck, shouting commands at them, then pushing them towards the hatches.

As white-tipped waves pummelled the deck with foamy water, Crauwels staggered into the great cabin where Arent was securing a deadlight that had come loose, revealing the churning water pressed flat against the glass outside. Every other passenger had been confined to their quarters these last two weeks, but that was no use with Hayes. He came and went regardless of what was said. Crauwels knew for a fact he’d been between Sammy’s cell and Sara Wessel’s cabin with fair regularity, though he didn’t have much to say on either matter.

The ship tilted precipitously, crockery smashing.

‘Hayes, I’ve a use for you,’ said Crauwels, bracing himself against the wall. ‘I need strong arms on the bilge pumps. We’re taking on water quicker than we can rid ourselves of it.’

‘I have to fetch Sammy first,’ he hollered.

‘The governor general said –’

‘If he stays in that cell during the storm, he’ll be pulverised and you know it.’

Crauwels tried to stare him down, but there was no use in that.

‘He can wait on the orlop deck,’ conceded Crauwels grudgingly. ‘Keep him out of the governor general’s sight. After that, the bilges.’

They departed the great cabin together. They’d only made it into the compartment under the half deck when the ship nearly toppled them. Using a workbench to get back on his feet, Crauwels saw Sara Wessel stagger through the archway that led outside, with Lia close behind.

He blinked, words deserting him. Sara had changed into peasant’s garb, her usual finery hacked away, replaced with a simple brown skirt, an apron, linen shirt and waistcoat. A cotton bonnet covered her head, and there was a dagger hanging at her waist. Lia was dressed in similar clothes.

She was soaked through.

For the beautifully attired Crauwels, there could be no greater act of self-harm than dressing like a peasant.

‘It’s too dangerous for you to be out of your quarters, my lady,’ he yelled, having to shout it twice to be heard above the waves pounding against the deadlight.

‘It’s dangerous everywhere, Captain, and I can help,’ said Sara, bracing herself against the archway. ‘I’m a skilled healer and people will need that skill before the day’s out. I’m going down to the sickbay.’

Arent stumbled towards Sara and handed her the key to his trunk. ‘Sammy’s alchemy supplies are inside. There’s a salve that smells of piss that’s good for healing.’

She touched his arm affectionately, tipping her mouth towards his ear. ‘Put Pipps in my cabin, if you wish.’

He met her green eyes.

‘How did you know I was going for Pipps?’

‘Because he’s in danger,’ she said simply. ‘Where else would you be going?’

‘Keep your dagger in your hand,’ warned Arent, holding her gaze. ‘There’s always somebody ready to take advantage of confusion.’

‘I’ll be safe,’ she said. ‘You try doing the same.’

As Sara went to Arent’s berth and the mercenary descended the staircase, Crauwels hurried back outside in time to see a huge wall of water rear up in front of him, then crash down on to the deck.

Sailors screamed, disappearing into the maelstrom.

The sky was ash and fire, green flames shooting off the ends of the yard and masts. Forks of lighting streaked from the sky, sizzling the ocean. Most of the crew were lashing themselves to the masts, bracing themselves for the next wave.

Keeping tight hold of the railing, Crauwels dragged himself up the stairs and took his usual position on the poop deck, finding Governor General Haan exactly where he’d left him. He’d appeared shortly after the first great swell, taking his place silently, offering neither comment nor explanation for his presence.

Water ran down his face, dripping off that long nose and chin. Blinking furiously, he’d watched the black and purple storm clouds swirling overheard with a half-smile on his lips.

Crauwels had seen the look before. The sea had him.

It splashed behind his eyes and carried sour on his breath. Every man on the ship knew that look, when the cold emptiness of the ocean filled you up. There wasn’t any rest once the sea got inside you.

People drowned standing up.

One of the ships had capsized off the portside, her crew spilt into the water. They were waving their arms, crying out for help, but Crauwels couldn’t hear them over the wail of the storm.

He didn’t even consider trying to rescue them; a yawl wouldn’t last a minute in these waves. Those lads were dead, but the sea was going to play with them first.

The governor general tapped his shoulder, pointing upwards. Following his finger, Crauwels saw another ship riding the crest of a towering wave. She was being delivered directly on to the stricken vessel.

Crauwels turned his head, unable to watch, but the governor general’s face told the story well enough. The second ship had been hurled into the capsized vessel, ploughing straight through her hull, ripping her in half.

Why would he want to see that? wondered Crauwels. It was as if the storm were an enemy he couldn’t turn his back upon.

By his calculation, aside from the Saardam, only one ship now remained from the fleet that had departed Batavia. Crauwels cast about for her desperately, hoping to see her well, but she was floundering in the distance. Her colours told him it was the Leeuwarden. He didn’t give her any greater chance of survival than the Saardam.

Confronted by waves tall as the mainmast, Crauwels hollered for the Saardam to steer directly into them, the ship climbing sheer walls of water before plummeting into the steep valleys on the other side.

Sailors were lashed to the rigging and rails. They survived each assault spluttering, fighting to keep their footing, ever more convinced that the storm had been brought upon them by Old Tom.

Crauwels gave no further orders. Everything that could be done had been done. If the Saardam was strong enough, she’d see them safe. If one of her ribs was bent, or the hull had rotted without them noticing, she’d crack open like an egg. Every storm was the same. You lived or died depending on how much care some stranger had taken building her in Amsterdam.

As forks of lightning struck the deck, Crauwels prayed for God to see them through this. And when that got no response, he prayed to Old Tom.

So this is how men go to the devil, he thought bitterly. Cap in hand and short of hope, all their prayers gone unanswered.