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Prologue
April 11, 1815
Off the coast of Sumbawa, the Dutch East Indies
From the bow of the HMSTenebrae, Commander Leland Macklin stared into the fiery mouth of Hell.
Already it was high onto midday, but there was no sun. A low layer of ash and smoke fully cloaked the skies. The reek of sulfurous brimstone stung his eyes and burned his lungs. The only light came from the fiery island of Sumbawa. The coastline lay a half-mile off, but it remained indiscernible, except for the rivers of lava flowing down the blasted slopes of Mount Tambora.
The silence of the grave hung heavy over the surrounding seas—what little could be seen of them. The waves around the ship were covered solidly in a foot of ash, interspersed with floating reefs of pumice rock. Still, it couldn’t hide the dead. Shoals of fish bloated in the hot ash, along with countless bodies. Hundreds of souls. Most were so burned and blackened that they were indistinguishable from the dark seas.
“Best we retreat, Commander,” Lieutenant Hemple recommended with clear trepidation.
Seven years his junior, the lieutenant had been Macklin’s second-in-command for more than a decade. Hemple was an abrupt, hard man with dark blond hair and beard, one seldom taken to histrionics. Presently, due to the stifling heat, he had shed his uniform jacket. He wore only his waistcoat, a white shirt, and blue breeches. Like all the crew, his nose and mouth were hidden behind a wrap of damp cloth.
“We’ve taken on a tonnage of ash already, sir,” Hemple warned. “Some of it growing quite hot.”
“We have indeed.”
Macklin wiped a wet cloth across his steamy brow. He was similarly garbed to his lieutenant, except that he had kept on his blue jacket withits simple gold piping and gilt-brass buttons. He knocked ash from his black hat before replacing it over the salt and pepper of his hair.
Macklin turned to evaluate the state of theTenebrae. His ship appeared to be as petrified as the seas themselves, a dark hillock rising out of these cursed waters. Ash covered all her decks and riggings and blackened the sails of her three standing masts. Masked members of the crew set about sweeping, brushing, and shoveling the hot ash away, only to be confounded by showers of powder and feathery flakes that continued to fall.
“Sir?” Hemple pressed him.
“Turn us about,” Macklin ordered. “Back to Java. Lieutenant-Governor Raffles will be anxiously awaiting our evaluation. Still, keep theTenebraeat half sail in these treacherous waters.”
“Aye, Commander.”
Hemple left to pass down his orders to the helm. Within minutes, the ship slowly swung away from the fiery island. As she did, the coarse pumice in the water scraped along her hull, sounding like the claws of the dead scratching to board the ship. A low hissing could also be heard in the distance, whispering eerily across the sea’s stillness, coming from where the volcano’s lava poured into the water.
Macklin was cheered to see the fiery glow of Mount Tambora slowly disappear behind him. The first eruption had occurred six days before. The blasts had traveled the eight hundred miles to the island of Java, sounding like distant cannon fire. Many believed it marked a fierce pirate attack on a merchant vessel, but when black thunderheads of ash swept across the islands, followed by a swamping wave, all knew it for what it was: a volcanic eruption of Biblical might.
At the time, theTenebraehad been docked at Batavia, the capital of the Dutch East Indies on the island of Java. Two days after the eruption, the ship had been commissioned by the lieutenant-governor to sail off and determine the source and the extent of the regional damage.
TheTenebraehad been a good choice for such an excursion. She was a collier-class vessel, used for hauling cargo. She had a square stern, a broad bow, and a flat bottom perfect for sailing through shallow waters. The ship also had a wide main deck running from forecastle to quarterdeck, stretching to a total length of ninety-seven feet with a beam of thirty. And as these were pirate-infested waters, she sailed with six 24-pounder carronades on her deck and two 6-pounder guns on her forecastle.
Macklin rested a hand on one of the latter, appreciating the cool iron and its strength. He was glad to be heading back to port, filled with an uneasy dread, which was only heightened by the stillness of these seas and the continual scraping of stones against the hull.
Footsteps drew him back around as a tall, skeletal figure approached. Though the man’s face was covered in a wet rag, it was easy to recognize Johannes Stoepker, a naturalist with the Batavian Society. He had shed both his jacket and waistcoat, wearing only black trousers and a white shirt, which by now was nearly as dark as his pants. The man had been assigned to the ship by Lieutenant-Governor Raffles, who was president of the same learned organization, whose goal was to study, preserve, and foster interest in the historical and scientific significance of the East Indies. So, for such an undertaking of exploration as this, the Batavian Society had wanted a member on board theTenebrae.
Stoepker was shadowed by the ship’s cabin boy, Matthew. The twelve-year-old was an Aboriginal lad—dark of hair and skin and admirable of spirit—who also served as powder monkey whenever they employed the ship’s cannon, but during the past days, the boy had acted as the naturalist’s aide. Clearly happy with the assignment, Matthew grinned and hefted a heavy leather satchel over one shoulder, laden with pumice stones that the crew had netted from the water.
“What is it, Mister Stoepker?” Macklin asked.
The naturalist pushed his mask down to his bearded chin. “Commander, as we’re turning about, would it be possible to retrieve one of the bodies from the sea? Back in Java, there is an anatomist and surgeon with the Society who would be intrigued in the state of the dead.”
Macklin grimaced at such a thought. “I won’t have it aboard my ship, Mister Stoepker. The ill luck of it all will have the men in revolt.”
Stoepker frowned and bunched a brow. He spun a gold ring absentlyaround a finger, in deep thought. The ring was adorned with a garnet stone, carved deeply with the letters BG, an abbreviation forBataviaasch Genootschap, the Dutch name for the Batavian Society.
Stoepker finished his contemplation and cleared his throat. “Commander Macklin, theTenebraehas an iron-hulled tender for coursing over rocks and reefs. Could we lower it down, load a body into it, and have your ship drag both to Java?”
Macklin considered this request, appreciating its cleverness. “It is a reasonable accommodation. I’ll allow it.” He turned to Matthew. “Boy, grab Landsman Perry and see about freeing the tender.”
The lad nodded, set his bag down, and sped off.
As they waited, Stoepker joined him at the rail and stared back toward the island’s glow as it faded behind the ship’s stern. “I never would’ve expected Mount Tambora to be the culprit, here. Maybe Mount Merapi or Klut. And if I were a betting man, I would’ve wagered Bromo, a peak that has been regularly smoking.”
