‘Quarter,’ said Van Schooten, earning a dark look from the captain.
‘Why did we put to sea without sufficient rations for the voyage?’ asked the first mate angrily.
‘Because we needed space for the governor general’s cargo,’ responded Van Schooten.
‘That box the musketeers carried aboard?’ replied Larme, confused. ‘Vos ordered us to make room in the gunpowder store.’
‘That box wasn’t his only cargo,’ replied Crauwels irritably. ‘There was something much bigger, as well. Van Schooten organised for it to be brought aboard in the dead of night and he won’t tell me what it is.’
Van Schooten took a long, fortifying gulp of his wine. ‘Ask the governor general if you’re curious, see where it gets you.’
The two men glared at each other, their dislike warming the air.
Jacobi Drecht coughed uncomfortably, gesturing to Arent when the captain raised his eyes.
‘Captain Crauwels, I’d like to introduce –’
‘I know him well enough, I’ve heard the stories,’ interrupted Crauwels, immediately returning his attention to Isaack Larme. ‘Tell me about the cabins? Where am I sleeping now the governor general’s in my quarters?’
‘Port quarter,’ said the first mate. ‘Cabin two.’
‘I hate that cabin, it’s beneath the animal pens on the poop deck. Every time anybody goes near it, the sows squeal for an hour to be let out. Put me starboard bow.’
‘I’ve already claimed it,’ said the chief merchant, shaking his empty jug of wine disappointedly, then peering inside.
‘Aye, because it’s a favourite of mine and you know it,’ growled Crauwels, the cords in his thick neck flaring. ‘You’re a petty bastard, Reynier.’
‘A petty bastard who won’t be kept awake by squealing sows all night long,’ agreed the chief merchant pleasantly, waving his empty jug in the air. ‘Somebody summon the steward, I’m out of wine.’
‘Who else has a cabin?’ asked the captain, ignoring him.
The first mate searched for the passenger manifest on the table, then turned to the page listing the nobility. He read the names with difficulty, running a grubby finger underneath each one. ‘Cornelius Vos. Creesjie Jens. Her sons Marcus and Osbert. Sara Wessel. Lia Jan. Viscountess Dalvhain.’
‘Anybody we can move?’ asked the captain.
‘Nobles all,’ responded the first mate.
‘Like vipers in their damn baskets,’ sighed Crauwels, rapping the table with his knuckle. ‘Sows it is.’
For the first time, he looked directly at Arent, but his attention was immediately diverted by the clack of a cane hitting wood, followed by hobbling footsteps. Glancing over his shoulder, Arent saw an elderly man in the doorway, surveying them like they were something foul slipping off a wagon wheel. He had gaunt cheeks, grey hair and yellow bloodshot eyes. Ragged purple robes hung from his thin body and a huge cross was dangling around his neck. A splintered wooden cane seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright.
Arent would have put his age at seventy, but appearances were deceptive this far from Amsterdam. A difficult journey to the East Indies could easily put ten years on a body, which was then assaulted by Batavia’s never-ending cycle of disease and recovery, each time regaining a little less of what had been lost.
Before any of them could speak, a young, broad-shouldered native woman rustled in after him. She was a mardijker, if Arent had to guess. A slave freed by the Company because she was a Christian. She was dressed for the fields in a loose cotton shirt, her curly brown hair tucked into a white cap, a long hemp skirt trailing along the floor. She wore a sodden apron and a large satchel hung across her back, but she seemed untroubled by its weight.
Her face was round, with heavy cheeks and large, watchful eyes. She offered the assembled company neither deference nor greeting, simply turning her gaze to her companion and waiting for him to begin.
‘May I speak with you, Captain Crauwels?’ asked the elderly man.
‘Every other bugger has today,’ grunted Crauwels sourly, glancing at the splintered cross. ‘Who are you?’
‘Sander Kers,’ said the stooped man, his firm voice betraying none of the weakness evident in his trembling body. ‘And this is my ward Isabel.’
The sun momentarily dipped behind the clouds, darkening the room.
From his chair, Van Schooten twisted his body towards them, leering suggestively. ‘Oh, aye, your ward, is she? How much does a ward cost these days?’
Evidently Isabel didn’t understand the comment because she wrinkled her brow and looked to Sander for an explanation. He contemplated Van Schooten through narrowed eyes, his gaze as fierce as holy light. ‘You are so far from God’s sight,’ he said, at last. ‘What drove you into the dark, my son?’
Van Schooten blanched, then became angry, waving him away. ‘Off with you, old man, there’s no passengers allowed up here.’
‘God brought me here; it isn’t for you to send me away.’
Such was his conviction, even Arent believed him.
‘You’re a predikant?’ interrupted Isaack Larme, nodding to the cross.
‘That’s right, dwarf.’
The first mate stared at him with misgiving, while the captain plucked a small metal disc from the table, flicked it into the air and caught in his palm.
Arent shifted uncomfortably, conflicting urges demanding he hide or flee. His father had also been a predikant, making it a profession he instinctively associated with malevolence.
‘You’ll find precious little welcome here, Sander Kers,’ said Captain Crauwels.
‘Because Jonah was cursed by God for sailing against his divine will, and now sailors believe all holy men bring ill fortune,’ said Sander, his tone suggesting he’d heard the warning more than once. ‘I have little patience for superstition, Captain. God’s plan for each of us is writ in the heavens long before we’re born. If this ship flounders, it’s because He has chosen to close His fist around it. I will welcome His will and go before Him with humility.’
Isabel murmured in agreement; the rapt expression on her face suggested they’d all be lucky to drown so devoutly.
Crauwels sent the metal disc spinning into the air and caught it again. ‘Aye, well, if you’ve come to complain about your quarters, then –’
‘I’ve no quarrel with my accommodations, my needs are few,’ said the predikant, who’d obviously taken umbrage at the presumption. ‘I wish to discuss your rule prohibiting me from travelling past the mainmast.’
Crauwels regarded him warily. ‘Everything afore the mainmast is the domain of the sailors, everything aft is kept for the senior officers and passengers unless the crew have duties there,’ he explained. ‘Any sailor crosses the mast without permission gets flogged. Any passenger goes the other way is at the mercy of the crew. It’s that way on every ship in the fleet. Even I don’t often venture down that end of the ship.’
The predikant raised an eyebrow. ‘You fear these men?’
‘Isn’t one of them who wouldn’t slit your throat for a free drink, then rape your ward while your blood was still warm,’ interrupted Reynier van Schooten.
His tone was meant to shock, but the predikant gazed at him levelly, while Isabel’s hand tightened around the strap of her satchel. Whatever she thought of the declaration, it didn’t show on her face.
‘Fear is the curse of the faithless,’ said Sander. ‘Upon my brow, a sacred duty has been placed. I mean to fulfil it and I will trust God to protect me while I do so.’
‘You mean to go amongst the crew?’ asked Isaack Larme.
‘Yes, dwarf, and deliver God’s word.’
Larme bridled. ‘They’ll kill you.’