The Devil and the Dark Water

50

Arent took a bottle of wine from his trunk and walked through the compartment under the half deck, shielding his eyes against the sun’s glare.

Lia and Sara were still tending the injured on the orlop deck, and Sammy had returned to his cell, fearful of being noticed now the commotion was at an end. Arent had wanted to escort him, but he couldn’t let the constable suffer alone. For some reason, he felt responsible for what was happening to the old man.

The crew were packed tight on the waist, waiting silently. Dressed in slops, their torsos bare, it was difficult to pick one sailor from the next. Some were tall, others short, but life at sea had whittled them all down into the same malnourished shape, strong-shouldered and bow-legged, ruined for any other task.

The constable was having the shirt torn from his back, while Drecht waited nearby with the lash coiled in his hand. Evidently, the governor general had decided to give this job to somebody he trusted.

‘Please, sirs,’ the constable cried out. ‘I swear by my five daughters I didn’t do this, I didn’t –’

Voices urged him to be quiet, worried that his flailing tongue would earn him another dozen lashes.

Arent pushed towards him, whispered threats rising out of the crowd.

This wasn’t me, he wanted to tell them. I objected to this. But he knew it wouldn’t make a difference. By the crew’s reckoning, there was only them and us. Passengers and crew. Rich and poor. Officers and common sailors.

Didn’t matter how he dressed or how he spoke, Arent was one of them.

The only difference was that the others were gathered on the quarterdeck above, watching the performance below like they were in their boxes at the damn theatre.

His uncle was standing next to Vos, who was watching proceedings without emotion. It would be better if he was malevolent, Arent thought. Better if there were some enjoyment. Hate, malice, anything. But there was none of that. His face was passive. Those luminous green eyes were devoid of any feeling.

Captain Crauwels and the rest of the officers were standing behind, their postures suggesting in the strongest possible terms that they had nothing to do with any of this.

Only Van Schooten was missing. Apparently, the chief merchant had chosen to seclude himself in his cabin with a bottle of wine until it was over.

Emerging from the crowd, Isaack Larme whispered to the constable. ‘Courage,’ he said. ‘I’ll see that you get double rations when you’re done.’

The constable’s eyes caught Arent’s approach and became wild with panic.

‘Hayes!’ pleaded the constable, tears running down his grizzled cheeks. ‘Please, sir, don’t let ’em do this. I’ve not the strength.’

‘There’s nothing I can do,’ said Arent gently. He turned around, then lifted the hem of his shirt so the constable could see the scars on his back. ‘There’s fifty lashes on there and I screamed from the first to the last. You should do the same. Scream as loud as you can, else the pain’s got nowhere to go.’

He uncorked the wine and tipped it to the constable’s lips, only pulling the jug away when the man spluttered for breath. ‘Comes a day for bastards like the governor general and Vos,’ said Arent. ‘But it isn’t today. Today you have to endure them, understand? You’ve got the strength and you’ve got five daughters to get home for.’

The constable nodded, seeming to take courage from the thought.

Because of the constable’s missing arm, the sailors were unable to tie his hands around the mast, so they were using his waist instead, his belly sagging over the ropes. With each pass around, they apologised under their breath to the helpless old man.

Arent placed the jug of wine on the deck where the constable’s eyes could cling to it. ‘Rest of this bottle’s yours when this is over.’

Arent stepped away, watching as Drecht stuffed the constable’s mouth with a mound of dirty hemp. Whatever he thought about this, he didn’t let it show. He was just a soldier going about his duty.

Wind snapped the sails. The waves slapped the hull. Everybody was staring at the governor general, waiting for this sharp, thin creature to pass his sentence.

‘A heinous crime has been committed,’ he said, once the constable was gagged. ‘Something of great value has been stolen.’ He gave the accusation time to settle. ‘I believe the constable to be the culprit, but I do not believe he acted alone. Until the stolen object is returned, a random member of the crew will be lashed every morning, every day.’

The sailors howled in protest.

The governor general has just set fire to the Saardam, thought Arent.

‘Twenty hard lashes whenever you’re ready, Guard Captain,’ demanded the governor general, nodding to the drummer to begin again.

Drecht uncoiled the lash and drew back his arm.

He timed his strike to match the beat of the drum. It was a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. Knowing when the pain was coming would help the constable brace himself for it.

The whip cracked, ripping into the constable’s flesh, bringing a scream of agony and groans of disgust as blood splattered the faces of the nearby sailors.

‘Does anybody wish to confess or admit knowledge of this crime?’ said the governor general, making the offer of a drawn-out, painful, death sound benevolent.

Meeting no response, Drecht raised the whip again.

Twenty were ordered and twenty were given, despite the constable collapsing unconscious after twelve.

It was a mercy.

When all was done, Drecht dropped the lash on the ground.

A cold breeze was swirling, raising goosebumps on the constable’s skin, which was now slick with sweat.

Arent took out his dagger and sawed through the ropes binding the old man to the mast, catching his limp body before it fell. Gentle as he could, he carried him through the crowd and towards the sickberth.

The drumbeat stopped, the crew dispersing back to their duties, carrying their hatred with them.

High up on the quarterdeck, Vos watched them go with his hands clasped behind his back, his face a veil, his thoughts shifting darkly behind it.