Beneath Ceaseless Skies #58 Read online

  His nostrils flared. He switched from French to English. “The knowledge to protect oneself from the shadows is readily available, heer Kapitein, as many of your sailors have already discovered.”

  “This is an insult to my crew, to me, personally, and to France,” I declared, in the same language. The Commissaire’s French was execrable and my Dutch non-existent. It was to our mutual chagrin that we were compelled to conduct our business in the language of our common enemy.

  His eyebrows rose. “Now, Kapitein Bruni, let us not say anything we might later regret.”

  “Be assured, monsieur, I do not bluster,” I said. “If Dutchmen will not deal honestly with honest travellers, then I will not hesitate to recommend to His Majesty that France assume this burden.”

  Whether the French Navy could capture and hold Zwaanstadje against the V.O.C. fleet was debatable, but La Recherche alone possessed sufficient firepower to devastate the town. While to do so would considerably complicate our mission, there was even less profit for the V.O.C. in such an outcome.

  Unfortunately, the Dutchman called my bluff. “I will not be threatened, heer Kapitein.” He leaned back in his seat and looked us over. “Are your dreams troubled, heeren?”

  Our expressions were evidently answer enough. He offered a miniscule smile. “You are not thinking clearly, Kapitein Bruni. You share the dreams of the land, this place that declines to wear our label of ‘Nieuw Holland’.”

  “We dream of red earth, Monsieur Commissionaire,” said Rossel, “when there is nothing underfoot here but sand.”

  The Commissaire raised his arm to point, eastward. “The red is in the centre. It begins beyond the escarpment, thirty miles inland.”

  “How do you endure it?” asked Piron.

  The Commissaire flicked his sleeve, causing his badges to jingle. “At root the dreams and the shadows are one and the same. But you have timed your arrival poorly. The kaffirs are calling the shadows to them, before their Vuurnacht.”

  “Fire night,” murmured Bertrandt.

  “Have the fires not already begun?” exclaimed Huon.

  The Commissaire chuckled. “What you have seen already is merely normal, heer Luitenant.” He raised a palm. “The fires pose no threat. But you may wish to follow the example of most of your crew and protect yourselves from the shadows.” He pushed back his chair and lifted his foot onto the desk so that we could see the sole of his shoe. The leather was inlaid with curling silver wire. “Personally, I recommend the Arab silversmith on Nieuwmarktstraat.”

  Huon asked, “And when you sleep, do you leave your boots on?”

  The Commissaire lowered his foot. He unbuttoned his cuff and rolled it back to reveal the rune-sign tattooed on the inside of his wrist. “Paint or ink will do, for the duration of your stay.”

  I said, “Monsieur, we are officers of France, defender of the Catholic faith. We cannot adorn ourselves with heterodox symbols.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps, Kapitein, if you are concerned for your faith, you might try Latin signs, although I could not speak for their effectiveness.”

  I glanced at Bertrand. He seemed bemused.

  “Now, if you will forgive me, Kapitein, heeren,” the Commissaire continued. “I have work to which I must attend. If I can assume that you will now agree to pay the necessary... surcharge, I will send a clerk with prices for the inventory you requested.”

  Thus dismissed, we were herded outside by the Commissaire’s secretary. I found myself hurrying through the shadowed entry alcove, like a man with vertigo flinging himself across a deep fissure.

  “That went well,” said Huon, once we stood on the shadeless pan the plaza.

  I could have strangled him for his lack of discretion.

  Piron’s eyes narrowed. “Surely Batavia has become an option,” he said. “For the good of the crew...”

  I rounded on him. “Do not question my decision, monsieur! We will reprovision here.” I stamped my foot for emphasis. “Perhaps you should have considered the good of the crew at Isle de France.”

  Piron’s gaze flickered to Huon and Bertrand. He moistened his lips. “If that is your wish, Monsieur Capitaine,” he said. “In that case, I, for one, will be making a visit to this Arab. I trust the Lord will forgive me for placing heathen symbols between my Christian soul and this un-Christian soil.”

  Bertrand regarded him with contempt. “I will put my faith in the true word of Our Saviour.”

  Piron was already walking away. Rossel, arms folded, shook his head at the naturalist’s retreating back.

  Huon frowned. I guessed that his instinct was as pragmatic as Piron’s, but he felt constrained from following suit when I had already expressed my opposition. I was strongly tempted to recant but, as Captain, felt obliged to set a resolute example.

  “Will you pay the man his bribe now?” he asked.

  It was certainly the prudent course, particularly given the urgency of our mission, and Huon’s opinion was plain enough. But I was still too furious, the wound to my pride still too fresh, to consider submitting to the Commissaire’s machinations.

  “You should never have allowed them shore leave,

  Jean-Michel,” I snapped. Huon straightened sharply, his cheeks flushing with resentment.

  I composed myself. Bertrand looked at us with raised eyebrows. Rossel at least had the grace to pretend not to listen.

  “Monsieur Bertrand,” I said, “Perhaps you could examine how Catholic wards might protect us from these dreams.”

  He responded with a grunt and a terse nod, I presumed by way of acquiescence to my request.

  I said, “Messieurs, I think we will sleep aboard the ship tonight.”

  * * *

  I sent Huon and Rossel to fetch some men from the ship, while Bertrand and I returned to the inn to pack our belongings. I fought the urge to run the entire way, my eyes roving for hunting shadows among those of the other pedestrians and in the dark nooks of the walls. I was drenched in sweat beneath my jacket by the time we crossed the inn’s rune-carved threshold.

  Rossel arrived a short time later with both ensigns and a party of sailors. I noticed the slightly cringing posture of the ensign who had found Marchant.

  “There is a problem?” I asked.

  Rossel leaned close to murmur. “Monsieur Capitaine, he had them leave Marchant’s body on deck. Wrapped, but in full view of the crew. The Lieutenant had it removed to the infirmary, but the crew are agitated. He had some pointed words to say to the boy.”

  “And Monsieur Piron?”

  “Still with the silversmith, I presume, 'sieur.”

  “A temporary blessing, at best.” I sighed, puffing my cheeks. “It was unfair of Lieutenant Huon to blame the young man. The responsibility is mine for delegating the task while I vented my pique on the Commissaire. Let us ensure that Piron’s belongings are returned to the ship with ours. Better to avoid any more perceived insults, no matter how petty.”

  I left the ensigns to organise the rest of the packing and took Rossel to knock on Monsieur Bertrand’s door.

  He opened it only a crack. I saw he had covered his hand and part of his face in inked Latin script. Disconcerted, I said, “Monsieur, we are retiring to the ship now. The men are ready for your luggage.”

  “Thank you, no, Capitaine,” he replied. “I will remain here to test my hypothesis. Good day.”

  He closed the door. Rossel said, “Should we remove him, 'sieur?”

  Yes! I was tempted to reply. I glared at the door in exasperation, then threw up my hands. “Let him do as he pleases.”

  * * *

  Piron was on deck when we returned to the ship. As he turned, the activities of the crew subsided. I felt a thrill of fear. Had I so underestimated him?

  Huon was on the quarterdeck. He was plainly as startled as me, for all that he had been present aboard the ship while Piron rabble-roused. A swift glance from me was enough to send the nearest ensign scuttling belowdecks.

  “Well?” I said
to Piron, concealing my alarm behind a facade of dignified authority.

  He responded with a sardonic smile. “The crew have requested that I present their demands...”

  “Be careful in your choice of words, monsieur,” I said. “To demand of a captain on the deck of his ship is mutiny.”

  “...for your consideration.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw the marines stationed by the gangplank lift their muskets from their sides. The sailors standing near them who’d followed me onboard still stood uncertainly with our cases in their arms, Rossel at their head. The look he fixed on Piron was murderous.

  I sensed an inkling of possibility.

  “Say on,” I told Piron.

  “The crew request that you consider diverting to a more hospitable port, such as Batavia.”

  I looked around at the nearest sailors. None would meet my gaze, except for Rossel, who returned my stare intently. Perhaps the miscalculation was not mine, after all.

  “Batavia, you say? Why not to Ville La Perouse in Tasmanie? It is a French port, after all, monsieur, and we are all loyal servants of France, are we not?”

  Piron was silent as I stalked around him. “The defences you have acquired against the malaise of this place, are they so ineffective?”

  “A man has died!” he exclaimed, turning to face me. “Killed by the shadows that haunt this place.”

  “Killed by the treachery of our hosts,” I said. “Batavia is also a V.O.C. port. I would not expect to be dealt with more generously there.” Some of the sailors exchanged doubtful looks.

  Footsteps clattered. Marines formed up across the deck. I motioned for them to stand at ease. I stared at Piron. The stillness of the moment extended.

  My mouth was dry as I looked around at the crew. “As you were.”

  They hesitated. My heart thudded.

  “As you were!” Huon bellowed. The sailors moved.

  I maintained my bearing, although I wanted nothing so much as to sag with relief. I indicated the pile of cases beside the gangplank and said to Piron, “Monsieur, you may transfer your belongings to the brig, or remove them from my ship.”

  He sputtered, scarlet-cheeked, before regaining control of himself. “I will take my leave, Capitaine.”

  To Huon, I said, “Ensure that Monsieur Piron has sufficient funds for passage to French territory.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Capitaine.” I fancied I could hear the smirk in his voice. The closest French territories were Isle de France and Tasmanie, not France itself.

  I stayed where I was on deck until Piron had clomped down the gangplank with his trunk and easel. Rossel accosted him as he went, to snarl some insult too low for me to hear.

  Huon rejoined me. “He is a threat as long as we remain here,” he said. “Mutiny is a hanging offence.”

  “And if we tried to string him from the yards we’d be lynched,” I replied. “He misjudged his moment, and was ill-prepared for the confrontation. With luck, my leniency will not be lost on the crew.”

  “I fear they will see it as weakness.”

  “I trust they will be encouraged to remain loyal,” I said.

  He held my stare, further argument apparently on the tip of his tongue. His expression disturbed me.

  “Have you an alternative solution?” I said. “A palatable solution?”

  Huon lowered his gaze, his jaw clenching.

  “Round up those of the crew who are still ashore, and send someone to fetch Bertrand.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Capitaine.” He strode away, barking instructions.

  * * *

  Sleeping aboard the ship served us not at all.

  I found myself once again upon the red dirt plain. This time I stood at the foot of the massif. The face of the nearest giant stone rose, sheer, just beyond the reach of my fingertips. At such proximity, I could see that it was layered in subtle shades of red: rust, blood, ember and brick. Its voice vibrated through my ribs, overwhelming the laboured beat of my heart.

  Although the sun beat down from directly overhead, my shadow stood against the red stone wall. The shadows that had bled and herded me stood with it, in a ring, upon the cliff face, their heads turned inward. They began to dance. My shadow danced with them and I, a hollow puppet drained of strength and will, followed suit.

  * * *

  In the morning I awoke to parched eyes and a tickle in my throat. A haze of smoke hung in the copper light streaming in through my stateroom window.

  One glance at my haggard visage in my shaving mirror and I threw down the razor as a futile cause. Hatless and in shirtsleeves, I presented my dishevelled face on deck.

  A dark pall of smoke arose inland, dense enough to redden the light of the sun.

  Huon stood at the rail with Sergeant Delahaye. Their backs were to the deck, heads close together, the sergeant nodding vigorously to whatever Huon was telling him. As I watched, their conference concluded and they turned.

  Both men started when they discovered me watching. Delahaye recovered himself enough to execute an awkward salute. I held him a moment, examining his face, before responding. He fled below decks.

  I beckoned to Huon and made my way up to the quarterdeck.

  “What was that about?”

  “We have a few strays left to round up,” he said.

  “They have followed Piron?”

  “Perhaps. I was impressing on the sergeant the importance of finding them.” It was a plausible explanation and Huon’s bland expression offered me nothing. But Sergeant Delahaye’s reaction did not seem quite that of a man who had received a simple dressing-down.

  Huon handed me a telescope and pointed to the south-east. “The hill a short distance inland.”

  I put the scope to my eye.

  A modest butte rose above the riverside treetops. Smoke ascended from the woods all around it, but none from the summit.

  Several male indigenes stood on a bare rock shelf. I could make out little detail, save that they were dark-skinned. About their heads, they whirled weighted ropes. As one of them slowed, I saw that the weights consisted of leaf-shaped boards that sawed the air as they spun.

  “Do you hear it?” Huon asked.

  I had dismissed the faint sound as either the noise of the wind in the rigging, or some industrious activity from the town. It was reminiscent of the throb of a windmill’s sails, if one could isolate that noise from squealing screws and cogs, but irregular, rising and falling, speeding and slowing with the overlapping rhythms of the whirling boards.

  “It is the voice from the dream,” Huon said.

  The nape of my neck prickled. The collective growl of the spinning weights mimicked the song that had invaded our sleep. Calling the shadows, the Commissaire had said.

  Rossel presented himself. His salute exposed a neat row of ideograms painted inside his forearm. He handed me a leather document wallet. “Monsieur Capitaine,” he said, “a gentleman of the V.O.C. has delivered this. Their prices for the inventory you requested.”

  The clerk in question loitered by the gangplank. I opened the wallet and glanced at the documents within. I kept my expression neutral as I strode down the steps and across the deck, then tore the papers in half and handed them back to him.

  “These prices are piracy,” I said.

  The Dutchman’s eyes bulged. I stepped aside, extending my hand towards the gangplank. His posture was much like Piron’s had been as he left the ship.

  * * *

  Glowing motes drifted through the air like snow. I set the crew to dousing the decks and rigging, as much to keep them occupied as because of the threat the hot ash posed.

  The V.O.C. merchantman, Enkhuizen, cast moorings and was towed from her berth by longshore boats. La Recherche was left alone at the wharf.

  Upon the hill, around the Church of the Green Christ, the townsfolk lit bonfires of their own. Even through a telescope I could perceive little with clarity, but I judged that much of the population had gathered there. The church bells ran
g in relentless peals. In the town, fireworks crackled and fizzed near the Chinese temple. A reedy wail could just be heard from the minaret of its Mohammedan counterpart.

  In the ears of every man on board rang the song of the red dirt plain, no longer the faint imitation of the indigenes and their whirling boards.

  Sergeant Delahaye was among the last to return to the ship, hurrying up alone after a mixed party of sailors and marines. I noted the terse nod he gave to Huon in the act of saluting us both. As he lowered his hand I saw that his knuckles were skinned and raw.

  Huon met my incredulous stare squarely, daring me to put the question. Did I really want to know?

  I moistened my lips. “How is Monsieur Bertrand?” I asked. I had sent Huon with some marines to fetch him from the inn. They had discovered Bertand kneeling at a makeshift altar in the middle of his room, surrounded by a ring of Latin wards he had chalked on the floor. He was unable to stand because he had been in that position all night while shadows prowled the walls.

  He sniffed and looked away. “Writing, “he said. “Furiously.”

  I released my breath slowly. At least Bertrand was secure aboard.

  Rossel approached.

  “How many unaccounted for?” I said.

  “Two, Monsieur Capitaine.”

  “They will be at the church, or one of the temples,” said Huon.

  “At least Piron has suborned only two,” I said, sarcastically.

  Huon did not deign to reply. Rossel’s expression was studiously bland.

  I tapped the telescope against my chin while I gazed at the row of warehouses on the far side of the Commissariat. “Lieutenant,” I said. “Find me a volunteer to go ashore at sunset. I want to know whether those warehouses are guarded tonight.”

  His eyes widened. “You intend to rob them?”

  I corrected him, pleased to have caught him off-guard, “I intend to negotiate our terms of trade from a position of strength.”

  * * *

  Rossel volunteered. When he returned, he was in such haste that for a moment I thought him pursued. But no cry arose from the waterfront.

  He gathered his composure and saluted. “Deserted, Monsieur Capitaine.” He hesitated, plainly having more to say.