Dark water surged upwards like a great hand, dragging Arent, Sammy and Larme into the cold sea.
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.’