The Devil and the Dark Water полностью

‘If Old Tom feeds on suffering, why would it leave Batavia?’ interrupted Vos in his usual monotone. ‘There’s thousands of souls in the city, and only a few hundred aboard the Saardam. Why trade a banquet for a snack?’

‘It’s here for me,’ said Creesjie, her voice frail. ‘Don’t you see? Pieter freed its followers and banished it from the Provinces. Old Tom butchered him in revenge but I fled before it could finish its work. I kept moving, so it would never find us, but I thought we’d be safe this far from the Provinces. I became complacent, but now it’s come for the rest of his family.’ Her desperate gaze found Sara. ‘It’s here for me.’

16

As the day drew to a close, sailors sang, danced and played their fiddles on the waist, heeding the occasional barked order from the quarterdeck. Up in the rigging, they laughed at ribald jokes and called down insults to those below. They were so boisterous that their sudden silence was louder than a thunderclap.

Arent was striding past the mainmast.

Up on the quarterdeck, Captain Crauwels cursed under his breath and considered calling out a warning, immediately realising it would be no use. Even on short acquaintance, it was obvious Arent Hayes went where he wished.

Sailors stopped fast in their labours, watching him pass. Once out to sea, everything afore the mainmast belonged to them. Any passengers who ventured into their half of the Saardam surrendered themselves to whatever torments the sailors devised. That was the way it had always been, but Arent showed nary a concern. Even so, nobody moved. A few crew members squinted at him as he passed, weighing the chances of theft or intimidation, but his size swiftly put aside any uncharitable ideas. Cowed, they returned to their duties, leaving Arent to climb the stairs on to the forecastle at the bow of the ship.

The foremast towered above him, the sails casting everything in shade. The beakhead stretched out over the sea, the golden lion figurehead seeming to leap from wave to wave.

He was momentarily blinded by the molten orange sun. Its light was drawing across the white sails of the fleet, setting fire to them.

Blinking, he heard cheers, then the soft, wet slaps of a fist fight. Peering through a crowd of sailors and musketeers, he caught sight of two shirtless bodies circling each other. They were bruised and bloodied, swinging wild, tired punches. Most missed, a few landed. The loser would be whichever one of them fell down first from exhaustion.

Peering over the heads of the crowd, Arent sought out Isaack Larme.

The first mate was sitting nearby on the railing overlooking the beakhead, his short legs swinging as he whittled a piece of wood with his knife. Occasionally, he’d glance up, eyeing the proceedings with the scowl of a professional fighter watching a very unprofessional fight.

Arent hadn’t taken two paces towards him, when Larme shook his head.

‘Cark off,’ he warned, still intent on his whittling.

‘Captain told me you might know something about a carpenter called Bosey. Who his friends were? What he did before joining the Company?’

‘Cark off,’ repeated Larme.

‘I saw your reaction in the great cabin when I mentioned Bosey. You flinched. You know something.’

‘Cark off.’

‘The Saardam’s in danger.’

‘Cark. Off.’

Laughter rang out from the surrounding sailors. The fight had stopped and everybody was watching them instead.

Arent balled his fists, his heart a jackrabbit. Ever since he was a boy, he’d hated being the centre of attention. Most of the time he walked with his shoulders slouched and his back bent, but he was much too large to go unremarked. That was why he enjoyed working with Sammy. When the sparrow was in the room, nobody paid attention to anything else.

‘I come with the governor general’s authority,’ tried Arent, hating himself for having to invoke his uncle’s name.

‘And I come with the authority of being the only man keeping this rabble from slitting your throat in the night,’ said Larme, flashing Arent a vicious grin.

The sailors jeered. This was clearly a much better fight than the one they’d been watching.

‘We think Bosey has a master called Old Tom who’s trying to sink this boat.’

‘And you think he needs some clever scheme to do it?’ retorted Larme. ‘Best way to sink an Indiaman is to leave her be. If a storm doesn’t get us, pirates will. If it aint pirates, it’ll be disease. This ship’s damned, leper or no.’

The crew murmured their agreement, their hands instinctively reaching for their good-luck charms. Each one was as distinct as the soul that owned it. Glancing around, Arent saw a burnt statue and a curiously knotted length of rope. There was a twist of bloodied hair and a strange vial of dark liquid; a melted scrap of iron and a colourful chunk of mica, the edges seared by flame.

Larme’s was a strange thing. Half a leering face, carved out of wood.

‘Will you answer my questions?’ flailed Arent.

‘No.’

‘Why?’