‘Sammy got my share of hurt,’ he replied.
Drecht tipped his head in greeting. The beard had survived, and so had his hat, though the red feather was lost. A chunk was missing from his right ear and one of his fingers was set an unnatural angle. Unfortunately, it wasn’t on his fighting hand.
‘I’m glad to see you well, I feared the worst,’ he said.
Arent looked between Drecht and Larme. ‘Surprised you two aren’t trying to kill each other.’
‘After we wrecked I called a truce in order to get as many of the passengers into yawls as I could,’ said Drecht.
‘What about the sailors your men are slaughtering on the beach?’ snarled Larme.
‘Only the injured ones,’ Drecht said candidly. ‘We discussed this. I don’t have enough supplies for the living. I’ll not waste any on the almost dead.’ Those blue eyes found Sammy in Arent’s arms. ‘Does he draw breath?’
‘Yes, and you’re not having him,’ grunted Arent. ‘Have you seen Sara?’
‘Put her in the boat myself,’ said Drecht. ‘She’s helping the injured. Come, I’ll take you.’
Drecht drew him further down the shingle, following the curve of the coast. Larme trailed behind.
‘What happened after we ran aground?’ asked Arent.
‘God took a side,’ said Drecht, his lips tightening. He turned towards the wreck of the Saardam, speared by the rock. A huge crack was widening down her middle, her timbers shuddering under the sea’s endless assault. Arent had watched men suffer the same way, torn open and breathing still, shivering as the heat deserted their bodies. It was an ignoble end, especially for something once so grand.
‘Most of the sailors were still on the waist and orlop decks,’ continued Drecht. ‘The rock that skewered us killed nearly all of them, leaving my men untouched. Old Tom’s disciples are decimated.’
‘And a lot of good men alongside them,’ said Larme, seething at Drecht’s victorious tone.
Drecht led them into a large cave, filled with groaning, half-shattered bodies. It ran deep into the island and was surprisingly cool, a salty breeze coming out of the darkness like the breath of a slumbering beast.
There were around twenty people inside, and none of them had survived easy. They cradled broken arms and hobbled on broken legs. They were gashed, gaunt and pale, their faces obscured by dried blood, their eyes misty with confusion and pain.
Arent found a patch of space and laid Sammy down, gently as a babe in its crib, then sought out Sara. She was moving among the injured with a pocketknife, digging wooden shards out of their bodies with no more fuss than if she were picking worms from a bushel of apples.
‘I’m going to organise a rescue boat,’ said Drecht. ‘We’re only three weeks out of Batavia. The storm’s blown us badly off course, but I’m optimistic we’ll be able to find a friendly ship.’ Larme snorted his derision for this plan, but Drecht ignored him and carried on talking. ‘We’re forming a council to make decisions about our survival once we know who’s survived. I’d like you two to be part of it.’
‘Aye, sounds like a good idea,’ said Arent.
‘Then come find me when you’re finished here.’
‘Arent!’ He turned into a flurry of arms, legs and red hair, as Sara pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. It was desperate and passionate, and enough to make a man forget he’d ever been kissed before.
Sammy had once told him that love was the easiest thing to spot, because it didn’t look like anything else. It couldn’t hide itself, it couldn’t disguise itself, it couldn’t go unnoticed for very long. Arent had never really understood what that had meant until now.
She caressed his cheek. ‘I thought you were dead.’
He pulled her close, relieved and ecstatic, feeling the warmth of her body against his own. His ribs screamed, but he cared not.
‘Did Lia and Creesjie … are they …’ he asked tentatively, searching the cave for them.
‘Both came over by boat. They’re tending to the injured,’ said Sara, pointing to a gloomy corner where they were tearing strips of clothing into bandages with Isabel.
She clutched him tighter.
How long they stayed like that, neither knew, but eventually Sara pulled away, placing both hands flat against his chest, searching his face tenderly, before alighting on Sammy.
Kneeling down, she began to examine his eye and other injuries.
‘Will he be okay, Sara?’
‘I’ll do what I can, but I don’t think the wounds are your problem. Drecht is killing the injured to save supplies.’
‘He swore to let Sammy be.’
‘Aye, and he swore not to jam a sword through Crauwels’s chest, but he did it anyway,’ said Larme, squinting at the distant figure of the guard captain. ‘And don’t think he’ll stop at the injured. Once he can’t feed the living, he’ll start killing anybody he thinks isn’t useful to him, and I know where a dwarf sits in that pecking order.’
Arent felt a tiredness building inside of him. It was never going to end, was it? They were never going to stop butchering each other. Jacobi Drecht hadn’t even paused to wipe the blood off his hands after the mutiny. That first night on the Saardam, the guard captain had told them he didn’t believe in devils because men didn’t need to an excuse to commit evil. Arent had thought it was a lament, but now he realised it was a confession. He’d simply looked inside and told them what he’d found.
Arent could almost laugh. If Old Tom had brought them here to suffer, it need only let them alone. They’d do the work for no pay, and with twice the glee of any other devils.
He sighed. ‘What do you want from me, Larme?’
‘I want you to kill Drecht, you daft bastard. And I want you to do it quickly.’
‘It won’t work,’ said Arent. ‘Drecht’s the only one keeping the musketeers from running wild. If he dies, the rest of us won’t be long after him.’
‘Then we need to get control of his men,’ said Sara.
‘Aye,’ said Arent, staring at the musketeers gathering supplies near the water. ‘How hard can that be?’
75
Arent left the cave and returned to the makeshift camp. Small fires had been lit under the tree canopy, surrounded by passengers trying to dry off. The rain was almost mist, but a few minutes in its company was enough to make everything dripping wet.
Musketeers were dragging bodies into piles, while others pried the lids off the salvaged casks and crates to make an inventory of their supplies. They called out what they found to the constable, who was adding it to a tally. Seeing Arent, the constable threw him a small salute.
‘A crate of cured lamb.’
‘Two crates of tack.’
‘Three barrels of ale.’
‘Four jugs of brandy.’
‘Two jars of wine.’
‘Tallow wax and twine.’
‘Hatchets, hammers and long nails.’
It was a pauper’s load, thought Arent. Enough to sustain them for days, not weeks.
Two yawls were crossing the rough water, returning from the wreck. Evidently Drecht had sent men out to claim the last of the Saardam’s supplies and whatever treasure was left.
Arent and Larme found Drecht sitting on a piece of driftwood, rain tapping on his hat, his legs crossed at the ankles.
‘Where’s your council?’ Arent asked Drecht.
‘We’re it, and now you’re here, I’ll call it convened,’ said Drecht, tipping the brim of his hat to dislodge the rain that had built up.
‘We should convene everybody,’ said Arent, frowning. ‘There’s few of us left and these matters effect everybody.’
Larme coughed. ‘You’ll want to hear what he has to say before you decide that.’