Wishing Eggert and Thyman good fortune, he gripped the bow of the boat with both hands and single-handedly pushed it into the rough ocean.
Creesjie watched the rescue boat disappear over the horizon, overwhelmed by concern.
Marcus and Osbert were skipping rocks beside her. Being boys, they had recovered quickly from the shock of the mutiny and the wreck, and now believed themselves engaged on some grand adventure. She hoped she could always keep them so sheltered from fear.
Away to her left, she noticed Isabel walking towards her, a vacant expression on her face. She didn’t know the girl very well, but she liked her. Since Sander’s death she’d taken on many of his duties, showing a zeal that would have put her master to shame.
Crossing the slippery shoal, Isabel arrived at her side. She’d been speaking with Sara earlier on, and whatever she’d said had sent Sara away dismayed.
‘Are you well, Isabel?’ she asked, when the young girl didn’t immediately acknowledge her presence. She was simply standing there, staring at the
‘Do you think Emily de Haviland died on that ship?’ asked Isabel.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Creesjie, unnerved by the flatness of her voice.
‘Sander took me in when nobody else would,’ said Isabel. ‘He gave me a craft, he taught me how to battle evil, but I’ve failed him. I allowed him to be murdered, then Old Tom slaughtered everybody, just as Sander said he would.’
‘Most of the passengers died in the wreck,’ said Creesjie, unsure how to console her. ‘I’m certain Emily must have been among them. We certainly haven’t seen any old woman with long grey hair among the living.’
‘Then Old Tom has found another host.’
‘Isabel –’
‘Who knows which of these men pledged themselves to its service before we ran aground,’ she said ferociously. ‘It could be curled up in any of their rotten souls.’ Her eyes were wild, frightening. Her voice shook with righteous anger. Staring at her, Creesjie wondered if the wreck had shaken something adrift within the girl.
‘I failed Sander on the
‘What are you planning?’ said Creesjie fretfully, casting around for Sara.
‘I won’t let anybody else be hurt. Whatever I have to do, I won’t let Old Tom leave this island.’
81
By the time evening threw its cape across the island, two camps had been established.
Jacobi Drecht and the musketeers surrounded a huge pyre, jesting and drinking jugs of wine they’d looted from the huts Arent had found. The passengers had been invited to join them, but Sara had spread word of Drecht’s plan, hardening most of their hearts. As she had predicted, though, a few of the passengers had joined Drecht anyway, and were happily carousing.
The rest of the passengers had built a much smaller campfire next to the treeline, sharing ale and roasted fish they’d caught earlier in the day. A ragged bit of sailcloth kept the swirling rain off their backs, but there was no disguising their misery. Chatter was muted, each person looking fearfully at the drunken musketeers, whose desires were revealed by the firelight.
The passengers knew what was coming – what was always coming when the strong were given free rein over the weak.
Only Isabel seemed oblivious.
Much to Creesjie’s chagrin, the young woman was singing, dancing and making merry amongst the musketeers, pouring their wine and letting herself be ogled.
Since their talk this afternoon, something had shifted within her. There was a desperation to her actions that struck Creesjie as reckless, but Isabel wouldn’t hear her pleas, or allow herself to be tugged away.
She was having fun, she claimed. More fun than she’d had in a long time.
Hugging Marcus, Osbert and Lia by their small fire, Creesjie could only pray she came to her senses soon.
Her eyes caught movement. Dorothea was going to see if Sara wanted any food or ale. Her friend was standing at the water’s edge with Arent, her head against his arm. They were staring at the wreckage of the
A series of thuds came from the other camp, followed by groans and cries of alarm. Musketeers stumbled drunkenly, trying to catch hold of Isabel, who skipped away nimbly.
One by one, they began collapsing.
Drecht staggered forward, trying to draw his sword, but he sagged to his knees in front of her, then fell over.
Arent reached the musketeer camp at the same time as Sara and the rest of the survivors. Around the roaring fire lay dozens of unconscious bodies, their mugs spilled from their hands.
‘Are they dead?’ asked Sara.
‘No,’ said Isabel, nudging the body of Jacobi Drecht with her foot. ‘I poured a vial of Sara’s sleeping draught into their wine. Could somebody fetch some rope, so we can tie them up.’
Creesjie hugged Isabel fiercely. ‘I thought you’d lost your mind,’ she admitted giddily. ‘But this is … you’ve saved us all.’