‘It’s too dangerous for you to be out of your quarters, my lady,’ he yelled, having to shout it twice to be heard above the waves pounding against the deadlight.
‘It’s dangerous everywhere, Captain, and I can help,’ said Sara, bracing herself against the archway. ‘I’m a skilled healer and people will need that skill before the day’s out. I’m going down to the sickbay.’
Arent stumbled towards Sara and handed her the key to his trunk. ‘Sammy’s alchemy supplies are inside. There’s a salve that smells of piss that’s good for healing.’
She touched his arm affectionately, tipping her mouth towards his ear. ‘Put Pipps in my cabin, if you wish.’
He met her green eyes.
‘How did you know I was going for Pipps?’
‘Because he’s in danger,’ she said simply. ‘Where else would you be going?’
‘Keep your dagger in your hand,’ warned Arent, holding her gaze. ‘There’s always somebody ready to take advantage of confusion.’
‘I’ll be safe,’ she said. ‘You try doing the same.’
As Sara went to Arent’s berth and the mercenary descended the staircase, Crauwels hurried back outside in time to see a huge wall of water rear up in front of him, then crash down on to the deck.
Sailors screamed, disappearing into the maelstrom.
The sky was ash and fire, green flames shooting off the ends of the yard and masts. Forks of lighting streaked from the sky, sizzling the ocean. Most of the crew were lashing themselves to the masts, bracing themselves for the next wave.
Keeping tight hold of the railing, Crauwels dragged himself up the stairs and took his usual position on the poop deck, finding Governor General Haan exactly where he’d left him. He’d appeared shortly after the first great swell, taking his place silently, offering neither comment nor explanation for his presence.
Water ran down his face, dripping off that long nose and chin. Blinking furiously, he’d watched the black and purple storm clouds swirling overheard with a half-smile on his lips.
Crauwels had seen the look before. The sea had him.
It splashed behind his eyes and carried sour on his breath. Every man on the ship knew that look, when the cold emptiness of the ocean filled you up. There wasn’t any rest once the sea got inside you.
People drowned standing up.
One of the ships had capsized off the portside, her crew spilt into the water. They were waving their arms, crying out for help, but Crauwels couldn’t hear them over the wail of the storm.
He didn’t even consider trying to rescue them; a yawl wouldn’t last a minute in these waves. Those lads were dead, but the sea was going to play with them first.
The governor general tapped his shoulder, pointing upwards. Following his finger, Crauwels saw another ship riding the crest of a towering wave. She was being delivered directly on to the stricken vessel.
Crauwels turned his head, unable to watch, but the governor general’s face told the story well enough. The second ship had been hurled into the capsized vessel, ploughing straight through her hull, ripping her in half.
Why would he want to see that? wondered Crauwels. It was as if the storm were an enemy he couldn’t turn his back upon.
By his calculation, aside from the Saardam, only one ship now remained from the fleet that had departed Batavia. Crauwels cast about for her desperately, hoping to see her well, but she was floundering in the distance. Her colours told him it was the Leeuwarden. He didn’t give her any greater chance of survival than the Saardam.
Confronted by waves tall as the mainmast, Crauwels hollered for the Saardam to steer directly into them, the ship climbing sheer walls of water before plummeting into the steep valleys on the other side.
Sailors were lashed to the rigging and rails. They survived each assault spluttering, fighting to keep their footing, ever more convinced that the storm had been brought upon them by Old Tom.
Crauwels gave no further orders. Everything that could be done had been done. If the Saardam was strong enough, she’d see them safe. If one of her ribs was bent, or the hull had rotted without them noticing, she’d crack open like an egg. Every storm was the same. You lived or died depending on how much care some stranger had taken building her in Amsterdam.
As forks of lightning struck the deck, Crauwels prayed for God to see them through this. And when that got no response, he prayed to Old Tom.
So this is how men go to the devil, he thought bitterly. Cap in hand and short of hope, all their prayers gone unanswered.
48
Flung from handhold to handhold, Arent made his way slowly down to the orlop deck. Deadlights had been smashed loose by the waves, seawater pouring through the portholes, soaking those beneath them. Dazed sailors coated in blood and vomit clung to pillars, as the world upended itself.
Passengers bunched together, cocooning the children or screaming in fear. Away in the corner was Isabel. She was terrified, panting. Sara knelt by her side, comforting her.
The storm had kept them from organising a thorough search for Sander, and Arent knew Sara had become her solace.
Even so, he was surprised by their closeness.
‘You carry God’s word, Isabel,’ Sara was saying ‘These people need to hear it. Bring them the comfort Sander would have done.’
Isabel obviously wanted to, but the ship heaved and she screamed, clutching her knees to her chest.
‘Courage isn’t an absence of fear,’ cried out Sara. ‘It’s the light we find when fear is all there is. You’re needed now, so find your courage.’
Hesitantly, Isabel stumbled across the deck, sinking down into a group of passengers, their arms reaching and enveloping her.
As Sara went to the sickberth on the opposite side of the deck, Arent half fell, half staggered past the wooden divide between the two sections of the ship, making his way across the sailors’ mats into the sailmaker’s cabin. Rolls of sail had tumbled free of the walls, dressing the cabin in white. Heaving up the hatch, he descended the ladder into the storeroom below and hammered the door to the Sammy’s cell.
No reply came.
‘Sammy!’
In a panic, he tried to rip the locking peg from its hole, but his hands were wet and the rocking of the ship made it hard to get a hold on it.
‘Sammy!’ he hollered, the silence terrifying.
When he finally ripped the peg out, he was confronted by the pitch-black cabin.
He tried to squeeze inside, but the hole was much too small, accommodating only his shoulders and head. ‘Sammy!’
Nothing.
‘Sammy!’
He tried to catch his breath and slow his thoughts. He was being overcome by the terror of loss, trying to imagine what he’d do if Sammy were dead inside. Protecting his friend had been the only worthwhile pursuit of his entire life. It had filled him with pride to be associated with Sammy’s deeds. For the first time since he’d left his grandfather’s side, Arent had felt himself doing good works, rather than killing for coin, or marching into some foreign land to die badly for ignoble purpose. That’s why the accusation that Sammy was a spy rang so hollow. Sammy knew the cost of power, and was therefore suspicious of it. Sammy had been baffled at the charge when Arent put it to him, though he didn’t find it quite so funny as his friend. Being English had always brought complications while working for the Company, but he’d never expected to end up in a cell for it.
‘Arent,’ groaned Sammy, stretching a hand into the light.
Arent could have cried in relief. Instead, he grabbed Sammy and dragged him outside, noting the blood trickling from his forehead.