The Devil and the Dark Water

48

Flung from handhold to handhold, Arent made his way slowly down to the orlop deck. Deadlights had been smashed loose by the waves, seawater pouring through the portholes, soaking those beneath them. Dazed sailors coated in blood and vomit clung to pillars, as the world upended itself.

Passengers bunched together, cocooning the children or screaming in fear. Away in the corner was Isabel. She was terrified, panting. Sara knelt by her side, comforting her.

The storm had kept them from organising a thorough search for Sander, and Arent knew Sara had become her solace.

Even so, he was surprised by their closeness.

‘You carry God’s word, Isabel,’ Sara was saying ‘These people need to hear it. Bring them the comfort Sander would have done.’

Isabel obviously wanted to, but the ship heaved and she screamed, clutching her knees to her chest.

‘Courage isn’t an absence of fear,’ cried out Sara. ‘It’s the light we find when fear is all there is. You’re needed now, so find your courage.’

Hesitantly, Isabel stumbled across the deck, sinking down into a group of passengers, their arms reaching and enveloping her.

As Sara went to the sickberth on the opposite side of the deck, Arent half fell, half staggered past the wooden divide between the two sections of the ship, making his way across the sailors’ mats into the sailmaker’s cabin. Rolls of sail had tumbled free of the walls, dressing the cabin in white. Heaving up the hatch, he descended the ladder into the storeroom below and hammered the door to the Sammy’s cell.

No reply came.

‘Sammy!’

In a panic, he tried to rip the locking peg from its hole, but his hands were wet and the rocking of the ship made it hard to get a hold on it.

‘Sammy!’ he hollered, the silence terrifying.

When he finally ripped the peg out, he was confronted by the pitch-black cabin.

He tried to squeeze inside, but the hole was much too small, accommodating only his shoulders and head. ‘Sammy!’

Nothing.

‘Sammy!’

He tried to catch his breath and slow his thoughts. He was being overcome by the terror of loss, trying to imagine what he’d do if Sammy were dead inside. Protecting his friend had been the only worthwhile pursuit of his entire life. It had filled him with pride to be associated with Sammy’s deeds. For the first time since he’d left his grandfather’s side, Arent had felt himself doing good works, rather than killing for coin, or marching into some foreign land to die badly for ignoble purpose. That’s why the accusation that Sammy was a spy rang so hollow. Sammy knew the cost of power, and was therefore suspicious of it. Sammy had been baffled at the charge when Arent put it to him, though he didn’t find it quite so funny as his friend. Being English had always brought complications while working for the Company, but he’d never expected to end up in a cell for it.

‘Arent,’ groaned Sammy, stretching a hand into the light.

Arent could have cried in relief. Instead, he grabbed Sammy and dragged him outside, noting the blood trickling from his forehead.

‘Are you well?’

‘Dazed, but breathing,’ said Sammy groggily. ‘Is this Old Tom?’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in demons,’ he replied, placing Sammy’s hands on the ladder.

‘It whispered to me last night, Arent.’ He sounded horrified. ‘It knew things, secret things. It wanted me to –’

‘Kill the governor general?’ guessed Arent, pushing him up the ladder. ‘It asked the same of Sara and Creesjie.’

‘It offered to free me and restore my name. What did it offer you?’

‘I haven’t heard anything. Seems I’m the only one, the way the crew are talking.’

From above him on the ladder, Sammy managed to crack a weak smile. ‘Being a dull conversationalist has some perks then.’

Emerging through the hatch, they heard a howl of misery. The barber-surgeon was sawing off Henri the carpenter’s broken leg, while Sara and Lia tended patients in the sickbay. Surrounded by a curtain, there wasn’t much to mark this compartment as special, except for two operating slabs and the oddly shaped drills and blades hanging from pegs on the walls.

‘Sara!’ Arent called out.

Seeing Sammy, she rushed over. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, inspecting the injury. ‘A bump. Lay him down there, I’ll see he’s cared for.’

‘No need,’ said Sammy, making an effort to hold himself upright. ‘I have some skills in this area myself. I can be of assistance, if you’ll have me?’

‘Mr Pipps,’ said Lia, rushing forward excitedly. ‘I’m a huge admirer –’

Sammy stared past her at his supplies, lying open on the table. ‘That’s my alchemy kit,’ he said, a touch of anger in his voice.

‘And we’d be glad of your help making use of it,’ said Sara. ‘Many of these compounds are lost on me.’

Sammy was still staring.

‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ said Sara, confounded. ‘Arent suggested the kit might be some help in aiding the injured and –’

‘Yes, of course,’ interrupted Sammy, abashed. ‘Please forgive me. Those compounds represent my life’s work. They’ve helped solve more cases than I can count, and I’ve held their secrets close. My selfish desire to keep my tricks to myself momentarily overwhelmed me. Here, let me show you what will be of practical benefit.’

Arent exchanged an amused glance with Sara, then descended into the cargo hold, where four feet of water was sloshing through the alleys of crates, drowned rats bobbing on the surface. Carpenters were frantically nailing fresh planks over the leaks in the hull, while sailors and musketeers pumped the bilges, their back-breaking work having little effect on the steadily rising water. Drecht was among them, stripped to the waist.

The ship lurched violently, crates tearing free of their netting and falling on to the sailors working below.

Howls of pain were lost to the din of waves smashing into the hull.

Blood blossomed in the water.

‘Drecht!’ Arent called out, wading towards the bilges. The guard captain looked up in relief. ‘You see to them,’ said Arent, pointing to the bodies. ‘I’ll work the bilge.’

Three men were usually needed to pump the long levers, but Arent pushed them away, ordering them to tend their mates.

From somewhere distant, guns fired in distress.

One of the fleet must have been in even worse trouble than the Saardam, but it was a futile gesture. They couldn’t be helped, not in this storm. And every person on that ship would know it.

He pumped faster, trying to lose himself in the work.

Hour after hour, he kept on, ripping the flesh from his palms. Drecht tried to convince him to rest, but if he stopped, he would never be able to start again.

It wasn’t until dusk that exhaustion overcame him, and he fell to his knees.

The Saardam had stopped heaving, water no longer rushing through cracks in the hull. Carpenters were slumped against the wall, their hammers clutched by claw-like hands they could no longer unclench.

Most of the water had been pumped out, so now it was only ankle-deep rather than waist-deep.

A hand touched his shoulder, a mug of barley stew and a hunk of bread appearing before his tired eyes. Raising his heavy head, he found Sara in front of him.

‘We’re safe,’ she said. Anticipating his next question, she added. ‘Everybody’s safe. Sammy, Lia, Creesjie, Dorothea and Isabel. Our friends survived.’

A bruise marred her forehead, her curly red hair sprung loose of its pins, falling across her face and shoulders. Her sleeves were rolled up, her dress and forearms covered in blood.

‘Is any of this blood yours?’ he asked, taking her hand, too tired to care about the propriety of it.

‘Only a little,’ she said, smiling at his concern.

‘You continue to rise in my esteem, Sara Wessel.’

She laughed, then noticed his palms, made ragged by the hours of working the bilge pumps. ‘If you come up to the sickbay, I can treat those,’ she said.

‘They look worse than they are,’ he said.

Guard Captain Drecht dropped down beside Arent, clapping his shoulder.

‘You should have seen him,’ he said to Sara in awe. ‘He worked the bilge pump single-handedly for the entire night without rest. I’ve never seen its like. It was as if he were heaven-sent.’

Arent was too busy inhaling the sour aroma of the stew to heed the compliment.

‘What is that?’ asked Sara. ‘The cook’s handing it out.’

‘It’s barley stew,’ said Drecht, wrinkling his nose. ‘It’s the vilest substance you’ll ever put in your body.’

‘It’s what being alive tastes like,’ corrected Arent, smiling in happiness.

Barley stew was what they gave you when you came back from battle, shivering cold, covered in mud and blood, short a friend or two. It was hot and salty and cheering, but, more importantly, it was cheap. Cauldrons of it bubbled in every camp across Company territory. Cooks kept them going day and night, throwing bits of old meat inside, turnip ends and chicken bones; anything foul and unwanted. Everything in that cauldron would likely be rotten, waking a dragon in the guts of anybody brave enough to try it.

Beaming, he took a huge gulp, wiping the oily liquid from his lips.

‘Do you want to try it?’ he asked Sara.

She took it gingerly, tipping it to her lips. Revulsion overcame her and she immediately spat it out, snatching the jug of wine from his hands to wash it down.

‘It’s awful,’ she spluttered.

‘Yes,’ said Arent happily. ‘But you can only know that if you’re alive.’