The Devil and the Dark Water

74

The roar of the ocean filled Arent’s ears.

Something nudged him and he groaned, his eyes flickering open. It was dawn, the sky a grey slab above him. He tried to move, but his body was made of driftwood. He was dripping wet, crusted with salt.

The musketeers Eggert and Thyman were silhouetted by the glare. One was standing, the other kneeling, rocking him by the shoulder.

‘Well?’ asked Thyman, who was standing.

‘He’s breathing,’ came Eggert.

Arent lurched on to his side, heaving up seawater until his throat was raw.

Wiping his mouth, he looked around fuzzily.

He’d washed up on a pebble beach strewn with seaweed, white surf advancing and retreating, tugging at his ankles. Fingers of purple and orange coral stretched away into a bay of jagged rocks, the water thrashing between them, throwing up huge plumes of spray.

The Saardam was across the bay, run aground on a small island. A pointed rock had speared her underside, ripping through her decks and erupting through the waist.

‘Have you seen Sara Wessel?’ he asked, knocking the seawater from his ears. ‘Or Sammy Pipps?’

He snapped his head left and right desperately, trying to spot them on the shoal. There must have been thirty survivors scattered along the coast, and many more dead floating in the shallow water. They’d been hacked apart by the rocks, red patches showing where they’d been skewered and bludgeoned.

Mothers cradled children, wailing for those they’d lost or hollering for those they hoped to find, while men hurled themselves after the supplies bobbing in the water, grabbing anything they could, scuffling with others for what they couldn’t.

Three musketeers held down a struggling sailor, while a fourth jabbed a dagger into his belly. More were prowling the beach, putting their swords through the bodies of any sailors that had washed up, whether they were breathing or not.

Cliffs reared up to Arent’s right, the curve of the bay disguising whatever was to his left. The centre of the island appeared to be jungle, a skirting of scraggly red shrub separating it from the shoal.

Of his friends, he could see no sign.

‘Aint seen Pipps. If he’s alive, he’ll be at the camp with Guard Captain Drecht,’ said Thyman.

‘So Drecht is alive,’ said Arent, staggering to his feet. ‘Course he is.’

‘He gave the order to abandon the Saardam and put Sara and her family on the first yawl to the island,’ said Eggert. ‘They’re all up at the camp.’

‘Don’t expect to see Pipps there,’ warned Eggert darkly. ‘Old Tom brought his fist down on us. Most everybody is dead.’

This must have been the island that was drawn into Emily de Haviland’s daemonologica, thought Arent. The island that was the basis for the Mark of Old Tom scarred on to his wrist. The passengers and crew of the Saardam had been slaughtered and delivered here, exactly as she’d promised.

Weak as old bones, he swayed back and forth as his legs reacquainted themselves with dry land after three weeks at sea.

Until now, he thought he’d taken every sort of beating life could mete out, but fate had made a fool of him again. Ragged gashes covered his body and his ribs ached so badly he couldn’t straighten up. Teeth wobbled in his jaw.

He felt as if he’d been stamped on by a hundred men and somehow fought his way free.

Water rushed through the rocks, covering and uncovering the sharp coral, the dead and dying. He’d always believed miracles were what happened when you finally ran out of hope. They were bits of luck, polished until they gleamed, delivered exactly as you needed them.

This wasn’t a miracle. He felt like a pig that had survived the slaughterhouse only to run straight into the kitchen.

‘You really can’t be killed, can you?’ said Thyman suspiciously. ‘All them songs were right.’

‘Where’s the camp?’ he asked hoarsely.

Eggert pointed up the shoal to the left.

Clutching his aching ribs, Arent followed his directions. A grey sky pressed against the grey ocean, the temperature rising steadily, warming the ever-present rain, which hit him like a windborne stream of piss.

At each body, he bent down to examine the face, always in terror of seeing Sara’s red curls. He found an unconscious Sammy in the shadow of some cliffs covered in white scat, with long-beaked seabirds darting in and out of nests built into holes in the rock. He was lying on his side, with his back to Arent. He drew breath yet, though it rattled. Those fine clothes he’d put on last night were tatters, his thin body showing through. Blood oozed from dozens of gashes, the colour alarmingly bright against his pale, quivering skin.

Two musketeers circled him, unsheathing their blades.

Wincing in pain, Arent drew himself upright.

‘Away you go, lads,’ he called out.

After searching around for help, and finding none, they slunk off. Arent watched them until they were out of sight, then allowed himself to sag again, moving as quickly as he could to Sammy’s side, groaning when he saw him.

Half of his face had been shredded by coral, taking his right eye with it.

Grimacing, Arent reached down and heaved him off the shoal. Pain coursed down from his ribs, almost driving him to his knees. For a minute, he fought for each breath, before he finally gritted his teeth and started to walk.

Each step was an agony, but what use was his pain to those who needed his help. Sammy was badly injured, and he had to find Sara and Lia. Barely able to lift his feet, he pressed forward.

A screaming sailor came running towards them, chased by two musketeers who fell on him like wolves, stabbing him a dozen times until he was dead. Bloodied, but laughing, the musketeers got to their feet, eyeing Arent hungrily, before moving off to find more prey.

They’d struggle, thought Arent. The shoal was littered with sailors they’d already bludgeoned, beaten and slaughtered.

Sammy stirred in Arent’s arms, swallowing. His solitary eye focused on his friend. ‘You look like you spent the night with an ox,’ he rasped weakly, bringing a burst of painful laughter from Arent.

‘I didn’t want your mama to be the only one,’ he responded. ‘We’re going to get you help.’

‘What’ – he coughed – ‘what happened?’

‘We ran aground on an island, while everybody was fighting.’

Sammy clutched Arent’s shirt. ‘Is it a –’ he struggled for every word ‘– is it a nice island, at least?’

‘No,’ said Arent. ‘I think it’s where Old Tom lives.’

‘Ah,’ nodded Sammy in satisfaction. ‘At least we won’t have to look for him any more.’

Sammy’s eye closed, his head falling limp. Arent inspected him fearfully, but he was still breathing.

They came upon a makeshift camp not a minute too soon. Arent’s arms were trembling and breaths were getting more difficult to come by.

To his relief, the first thing he saw was Marcus and Osbert skimming stones off the shore, watched by Dorothea. Aside from their ruffled hair, they seemed no worse for wear from the crossing.

Isaack Larme was slumped on a cask, scowling at the supplies bobbing in the water, as if they were insults flung at him by his own treacherous ship. Jacobi Drecht was pointing and barking orders at his musketeers, who were splashing in the surf trying to collect the crates and casks before stacking them under the trees to keep the rain off. Nearby were dozens of cases, overflowing with treasure.

Upon seeing Arent, Isaack Larme stomped over. ‘Hundreds dead, and here you are, barely a mark on you. Seems God isn’t done with you yet.’

‘Sammy got my share of hurt,’ he replied.

Drecht tipped his head in greeting. The beard had survived, and so had his hat, though the red feather was lost. A chunk was missing from his right ear and one of his fingers was set an unnatural angle. Unfortunately, it wasn’t on his fighting hand.

‘I’m glad to see you well, I feared the worst,’ he said.

Arent looked between Drecht and Larme. ‘Surprised you two aren’t trying to kill each other.’

‘After we wrecked I called a truce in order to get as many of the passengers into yawls as I could,’ said Drecht.

‘What about the sailors your men are slaughtering on the beach?’ snarled Larme.

‘Only the injured ones,’ Drecht said candidly. ‘We discussed this. I don’t have enough supplies for the living. I’ll not waste any on the almost dead.’ Those blue eyes found Sammy in Arent’s arms. ‘Does he draw breath?’

‘Yes, and you’re not having him,’ grunted Arent. ‘Have you seen Sara?’

‘Put her in the boat myself,’ said Drecht. ‘She’s helping the injured. Come, I’ll take you.’

Drecht drew him further down the shingle, following the curve of the coast. Larme trailed behind.

‘What happened after we ran aground?’ asked Arent.

‘God took a side,’ said Drecht, his lips tightening. He turned towards the wreck of the Saardam, speared by the rock. A huge crack was widening down her middle, her timbers shuddering under the sea’s endless assault. Arent had watched men suffer the same way, torn open and breathing still, shivering as the heat deserted their bodies. It was an ignoble end, especially for something once so grand.

‘Most of the sailors were still on the waist and orlop decks,’ continued Drecht. ‘The rock that skewered us killed nearly all of them, leaving my men untouched. Old Tom’s disciples are decimated.’

‘And a lot of good men alongside them,’ said Larme, seething at Drecht’s victorious tone.

Drecht led them into a large cave, filled with groaning, half-shattered bodies. It ran deep into the island and was surprisingly cool, a salty breeze coming out of the darkness like the breath of a slumbering beast.

There were around twenty people inside, and none of them had survived easy. They cradled broken arms and hobbled on broken legs. They were gashed, gaunt and pale, their faces obscured by dried blood, their eyes misty with confusion and pain.

Arent found a patch of space and laid Sammy down, gently as a babe in its crib, then sought out Sara. She was moving among the injured with a pocketknife, digging wooden shards out of their bodies with no more fuss than if she were picking worms from a bushel of apples.

‘I’m going to organise a rescue boat,’ said Drecht. ‘We’re only three weeks out of Batavia. The storm’s blown us badly off course, but I’m optimistic we’ll be able to find a friendly ship.’ Larme snorted his derision for this plan, but Drecht ignored him and carried on talking. ‘We’re forming a council to make decisions about our survival once we know who’s survived. I’d like you two to be part of it.’

‘Aye, sounds like a good idea,’ said Arent.

‘Then come find me when you’re finished here.’

‘Arent!’ He turned into a flurry of arms, legs and red hair, as Sara pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. It was desperate and passionate, and enough to make a man forget he’d ever been kissed before.

Sammy had once told him that love was the easiest thing to spot, because it didn’t look like anything else. It couldn’t hide itself, it couldn’t disguise itself, it couldn’t go unnoticed for very long. Arent had never really understood what that had meant until now.

She caressed his cheek. ‘I thought you were dead.’

He pulled her close, relieved and ecstatic, feeling the warmth of her body against his own. His ribs screamed, but he cared not.

‘Did Lia and Creesjie … are they …’ he asked tentatively, searching the cave for them.

‘Both came over by boat. They’re tending to the injured,’ said Sara, pointing to a gloomy corner where they were tearing strips of clothing into bandages with Isabel.

She clutched him tighter.

How long they stayed like that, neither knew, but eventually Sara pulled away, placing both hands flat against his chest, searching his face tenderly, before alighting on Sammy.

Kneeling down, she began to examine his eye and other injuries.

‘Will he be okay, Sara?’

‘I’ll do what I can, but I don’t think the wounds are your problem. Drecht is killing the injured to save supplies.’

‘He swore to let Sammy be.’

‘Aye, and he swore not to jam a sword through Crauwels’s chest, but he did it anyway,’ said Larme, squinting at the distant figure of the guard captain. ‘And don’t think he’ll stop at the injured. Once he can’t feed the living, he’ll start killing anybody he thinks isn’t useful to him, and I know where a dwarf sits in that pecking order.’

Arent felt a tiredness building inside of him. It was never going to end, was it? They were never going to stop butchering each other. Jacobi Drecht hadn’t even paused to wipe the blood off his hands after the mutiny. That first night on the Saardam, the guard captain had told them he didn’t believe in devils because men didn’t need to an excuse to commit evil. Arent had thought it was a lament, but now he realised it was a confession. He’d simply looked inside and told them what he’d found.

Arent could almost laugh. If Old Tom had brought them here to suffer, it need only let them alone. They’d do the work for no pay, and with twice the glee of any other devils.

He sighed. ‘What do you want from me, Larme?’

‘I want you to kill Drecht, you daft bastard. And I want you to do it quickly.’

‘It won’t work,’ said Arent. ‘Drecht’s the only one keeping the musketeers from running wild. If he dies, the rest of us won’t be long after him.’

‘Then we need to get control of his men,’ said Sara.

‘Aye,’ said Arent, staring at the musketeers gathering supplies near the water. ‘How hard can that be?’