The Devil and the Dark Water

64

Under the great cabin’s swaying lantern, the diners prodded listlessly at their food.

Many of the seats were empty. The governor general had barely been seen out of his cabin since Vos’s death. They’d heard him holler for Drecht as they took their places, but he’d gone quiet now.

The guard captain was stationed outside his door, as usual at this time. He was smoking a pipe, his face obscured by the miasma.

On the deck below, Arent Hayes tossed and turned in his hammock. Sara Wessel had spent every hour at his bedside, leaving only to complete her obligations to her husband. She was treating Arent with strange things she burnt in trays.

Viscountess Dalvhain remained secreted in her cabin. Captain Crauwels had checked on her after the storm, earning the same barked dismissal as Sara and Arent.

That only left Crauwels, Reynier van Schooten, Lia, Creesjie and Isabel to push around the meagre fare on their plates. They’d left Batavia with barely enough supplies to reach the Cape, and that had been assuming they could resupply from the fleet. But they’d been alone since the storm.

Van Schooten had ordered quarter rations for everybody, leaving them with a few hard bits of tack, a sliver of meat, and a gulp of wine or whiskey.

Unsurprisingly, given everything that had happened, conversation was muted, petering out quickly as it was sucked into the whirlpools of their thoughts. Even Creesjie was quiet, that twinkle of mischievous humour entirely absent from her tired face. The silence was so thick that a few people started in surprise when Isabel coughed her way into a question.

By rights, she shouldn’t have been at the table at all, but she’d taken up some of Sander’s duties, even offering sermons at the mainmast. Fewer and fewer people came, but it wasn’t for a lack of zeal. God burnt in this child brighter than He’d ever burnt in Sander Kers.

‘Captain, can you help me with something?’ she asked.

Crauwels was midway through chewing a hunk of bread and made no attempt to hide his irritation at suddenly having all eyes upon him. He dabbed crumbs from his lips and reached for his wine.

‘I’m at your service,’ he said.

‘What’s the dark water?’ she asked. ‘I heard the men talking about it on deck.’

The captain grunted, putting his wine down again. ‘What were they saying?’

‘That Old Tom was swimming in the dark water.’

Crauwels picked up his metal disc from the table, and rolled it around under his hand. ‘Did he mention if Old Tom had been whispering to him in the night?’

As one, the passengers gasped, exchanging frightened glances. Everybody had kept the whispers to themselves, treating them as their own secret. Whether invited or not, Old Tom was a devil. Its presence alone suggested some prior taint, some inclination towards depravity. The whisper exposed the sin they each felt within themselves.

Crauwels looked from face to face, nodding in satisfaction. ‘Thought so,’ he said. ‘That’s all of us then. Maybe everybody on this ship.’

‘What do you yearn for?’ repeated Drecht from the governor general’s doorway.

‘That was it,’ agreed Reynier van Schooten, sounding sick to his stomach. Since the rationing had been put in place, he’d managed to keep himself almost sober, though everybody agreed he remained a haunted man. His eyes were empty, red raw from a lack of sleep.

‘Captain,’ persisted Isabel. ‘What’s the dark water?’

‘It’s what old sailors call the soul,’ answered Van Schooten, from the opposite end of the table. ‘They reckon our sins lie beneath it like wrecks on the ocean bed. Dark water is our soul, and Old Tom is swimming within it.’

As if summoned, out to sea the Eighth Lantern sprang into life, its light splashing through the windows on to their horrified faces.

It was so much closer than it had ever been before.

And it burnt red.