The Devil and the Dark Water

67

Captain Crauwels took the steps two at a time, running towards the panic below decks.

The Saardam was paralysed, his orders for naught. The Eighth Lantern had been near enough to board, but it had crippled them without firing a shot. Now it had sailed away, its infernal work at an end.

Arriving at the compartment under the half deck, he found the staircase into the orlop deck jammed tight with bodies, as sailors and passengers fought each other to get out.

White smoke billowed past them and up through the grates.

Those who’d escaped were on their knees coughing.

Isaack Larme was helping the crew at the other end of the ship, while Arent Hayes pulled the passengers from the crush. A sickly gleam of sweat still shone on his pallid skin, but it didn’t appear to have diminished his strength.

‘We need to get down there and put the fire out,’ cried Crauwels over the din, eyeing the passengers spilling up the staircase, like ants from a kicked-over nest.

‘Aint fire,’ yelled back Hayes, tugging another passenger free. ‘Aint no flames, aint no heat. Don’t know what it is, but only danger down there is the panic.’

Seeing a small child in the crowd, Arent reached through the press of bodies and scooped him into his arms, delivering him safely on to the deck. His mother leapt forward and clutched the boy tightly, weeping.

‘If it isn’t fire, what is it?’ demanded Crauwels.

‘Was the leper,’ coughed the constable, battling his way up the staircase.

His eyes were raw with smoke, tears running freely. He was still weak from his flogging, but he’d resumed his duties in the gunpowder store. ‘I saw it in the smoke … it killed Wyck and …’ He rushed to the railing, vomiting into the ocean.

Arent immediately began pushing past people, heading down the steps.

Seeing a path emerge, Crauwels followed him down. The smoke was already clearing, swirling tendrils snaking out of the portholes.

A few bodies lay on the ground. Some were unconscious, others groaning, clutching bloodied limbs.

‘These people need tending,’ Crauwels yelled up the stairs, as he pressed further into the chaos.

It didn’t take long to spot Johannes Wyck sprawled backwards over a slab, his face contorted into the last expression it would ever have. He’d been gutted, like the animals in the pen.

‘Heaven on fire, what is Old Tom doing to my ship?’ the captain said, his stomach turning.

He’d seen plenty of dead bodies in the course of his career, but none that had been put to the sword with such relish.

Arent was kneeling by the body, inspecting it thoroughly. He grunted in satisfaction, then got to his feet.

‘Have somebody bring Isabel down here,’ he ordered.

‘Why?’

‘Because Wyck smells of paprika.’

Crauwels couldn’t imagine a more confounding answer, but Arent obviously wasn’t in the mood to explain. He was already stalking across the deck to the far door

‘Where are you going?’ Crauwels called after him.

‘To let Sammy out of his cell. This has gone on long enough. He’s needed.’