1637: No Peace Beyond the Line

by Eric Flint

  Those nineteen ships of the convoy that had collected in and sailed from Amsterdam were mostly moored in the northern extents of the anchorage after unloading. The larger ships had been serviced there by lighters, but the fluyts had shallow enough drafts to spend a few days bellied up to the new wooden pier that extended into the bay.

  That still-fresh structure was currently swarmed by those same lighters, but they were now off-loading the last general cargos of the prizes Tromp’s fleet had taken off Dominica. Although still referred to by some as the New World Dunkirk, the seamen who’d been there had, with the sardonic wit of their tribe, shortened it to the Battle of Dominikirk. Which, although pooh-poohed by officers and gentlefolk alike as undignified, was rapidly becoming the engagement’s de facto label. Because, hell, it wasn’t a mouthful like the stuffy official-sounding names, none of which seemed to stick.

  The dark-hulled Spanish ships were clustered in the southern extents of the anchorage, their battle damage still plain to see. There were, in fact, two less than had sailed away from the seaways where they’d been seized. After putting the Spanish prisoners ashore at Petite-Terre and scuttling the mortally wounded ships in the shallows, Tromp’s fleet and the prize hulls had reconsolidated in Guadeloupe’s Petit Cul-de-Sac Marin. Once sorted out, they had sailed to leeward, rounding the island’s western lobe, known as Basse-Terre, and setting course for St. Eustatia.

  However, the brisk eastern winds that had continued to grow since the battle proved to be the harbinger of a storm. It ran in just after the ponderous collection of almost seventy ships made a few miles across the Guadeloupe passage toward Montserrat. Seeing its approach, Tromp and the other captains who’d spent their earliest years at sea assessed the situation and came to unanimous conclusions: the storm would be upon them before they made Montserrat, and it might prove too fierce to ride out.

  So Tromp came about and made for the northern bay of Guadeloupe, the Grand Cul-de-Sac Marin. Which sounded a lot more simple than it was, since the shallows of that refuge extended irregularly into its expanse. And without any bar pilots to show the way, it became a matter of ships playing follow-the-leader behind those few hulls which had been furnished with up-time depth charts—such as they were.

  Since the wind was still abeam, the Dutch ships made the bay in plenty of time and in good order. The Spanish hulls, on the other hand, once again demonstrated their far more limited ability to use a reaching wind and were badly buffeted by the first savage squall that preceded the actual storm front. Most made it past the northern headland of Grand-Terre, but half a dozen were caught in the open.

  One of the badly damaged and more lightly built war galleons had her jury-rigged rudder go loose under the constant pounding, and her under-experienced and overanxious prize pilot never got the feel for correcting her aggravated tendency to yaw. Between the two, she wound up on the rocks. Her keel cracked and hull began buckling beneath the waterline as the high swells pounded her down into the volcanic molars lining that part of Guadeloupe’s shore. The one redeeming consequence was that she was also stuck fast and was sturdy enough to hold together throughout the remainder of the storm.

  The other casualty was one of the oldest naos. She had been sailing crank when she was taken, despite taking only modest damage during the engagement. But as if warning of hidden infirmities, she groaned piteously whenever the seas were high or contrary. When the teeth of the storm set into her, she shuddered, lost way, struggled to regain it. That was when her foremast went, taking many of the main’s spars and shrouds with it. Not surprisingly, the prize pilot lost control of her, and the current and wind pushed her bow around until they were directly upon her beam. As if waiting for that moment, the greatest wave of the squall mounted up and crashed down upon the nao’s listing deck. Her planks and frame cracked so loudly that, for a moment, nearby crews thought that the storm had brought thunder with it, as well. As the rain and spray all but hid her, there came a sound like a full forest of trees being ripped asunder. The watery veils of rain and spray parted long enough to show the decrepit nao breaking in two, the water rushing in and taking her down in less than ten seconds.

  Most of her crew, seeing land so close, had taken their chances in the waves. Half of them made it to shore, a handful of others washed up lifeless the next day. The rest, and all who had still been aboard, were swallowed by the sea without a trace. And although the other ships had reached safe harbor, two more days were spent kedging Prins Hendrik and three of the prize hulls off the sandy shoals of the Grand Cul-de-Sac Marin.

  Now, with all the ships of that fleet in Oranjestad Bay and the sea and skies so bright and clear, it was difficult to believe that the weather had ever been otherwise. But the storm made a deep impression upon Eddie. He had often sailed through high risers and rainstorms, but never a squall so wild and fierce. Now he was part of that ancient fraternity of mariners who had seen the face of the sea and knew, or at least suspected, that its patron deity was either monstrously capricious or cruelly malign.

  He arrived dockside just as the day’s bartering and bickering were gathering momentum. Thirteen small ships from St. Christopher’s, escorted by the French brig taken last year at Bloody Point, had made their way across the channel early in the morning and were now unloading their wares and passengers. Mostly pinnaces and pinks, half of which were Bermudan-built, their crews were busy setting up stalls from which to sell what they’d freighted over: soursop, squashes, papaya, coconuts, bananas, wood for sturdy spars and, of course, goats. Eddie caught a glimpse of that island’s two most important personages, Governor Thomas Warner and Lieutenant Governor Jeafferson debarking with their retinue. Footmen were present to lead them to Oranjestad’s newest construction: the Admiral’s Repose, a sprawling complex that included rooms, a large tavern, apartments, and even stables. As such, it was more like a caravansary than a typical seaside inn, and this, its first major event, had filled it to capacity.

  Eddie had explored the possibility of extending invitations to some of St. Christopher’s much-diminished French community, including Jacques Dyel du Parque. It was neither wise nor safe to allow appearances to lead anyone, most importantly the French themselves, to conclude that they were permanent pariahs. But although Eddie’s friend and governor of Oranjestad, Jan van Walbeeck, agreed with him, he had also pointed out that the people of both islands—and most especially, Governor Warren—would certainly look askance at it. Although none of the French who had taken part in last November’s attack remained on St. Christopher’s, du Parque’s uncle, Pierre Bélain d’Esnambuc, had been the architect of all that death, misery, and destruction. The likelihood that his guilt would rub off on his countrymen, and especially his nephew, was high and so, no invitation had been made.

  As Eddie slipped sideways into the narrower lane that paralleled the western, sea-facing wall of the fortress, he watched flat-bottomed lighters hurriedly beaching on the strand yards away. They were bringing in goods from yesterday’s arrivals: the returned ships of Admiral Joost Banckert’s visit to Bermuda. He slowed as he saw the others waiting for him just ahead, remembered the last time he had walked this narrow, packed-sand lane: following behind the crudely made casket of the original Danish admiral of Task Force X-Ray, Pros Mund. One of the relatively few allied dead at last year’s Battle of Grenada, he had been a casualty of his overconfident handling of Resolve and an intent desire to please his sovereign. The latter was a pressure that Eddie understood all too well, since that same ambitious and larger-than-life king was also Eddie’s father-in-law: King Christian IV of Denmark.

  As Eddie drew near the two men he was meeting, the one with a flushed face and broad smile waved toward the bay. “Enjoying that fine view, Commodore Cantrell?”

  Eddie smiled back, adopted the same mock formality. “It’s passable, Governor van Walbeeck.”

  The other man—composed and quiet, with broad shoulders but small features—smiled faintly at van Walbeeck. “It seems that Eddie will no
t be so easily baited to gush over your achievement, Jan.”

  “Ah, Maarten Tromp, you are delighting in his torment of me,” van Walbeeck lamented histrionically. “Soldiers, particularly jongeren like this Cantrell fellow, have little appreciation of the trials and tribulations that an administrator must endure to produce such a grand spectacle.” He waved a hand at the ship-crowded harbor. “Why, there must be well over one hundred ships, out there!”

  “Only if you count the boats from St. Kitts,” Eddie needled, barely able to repress a smile.

  “I do count them!” van Walbeeck exclaimed. “Why should I not?”

  “Well . . . they’re small. And they’re loaded with goats.”

  “Exactly why they figure in my totals, you young ingrate! Those goats are the future of this island.”

  “Well,” Tromp temporized, “their temperaments do resemble those of some of your councilors, Jan.”

  Who feigned horror. “My councilors? Bite your tongue, Admiral! I inherited half of them—and would have been glad to be denied that inheritance. And as far as their resemblance to goats, it might go beyond temperament. Musen, for instance—”

  Eddie gulped back a guffaw; Hans Musen did resemble a goat. Sort of. His face was certainly narrow and expressionless.

  His incompletely stifled laugh broke the parody of pomposity; the two older men chuckled as well. Even Tromp, whose smile persisted faintly.

  Eddie matched it with one of his own. “You seem pretty cheery, Admiral.”

  Tromp shrugged, nodded toward the ships. “There are enough guns afloat out there to fight off any Spanish fleet that might happen to sail at us from over the horizon today. We haven’t been able to say that since coming to the New World. So today—and just today—I shall breathe easy.”

  Jan van Walbeeck nodded. The three spent a few moments watching as lighters ran in, and others struggled out against the wind for their next load, relying on the slow process of back and fill to push beyond the breakers. No less than a dozen skiffs and skerries were making courier runs between ships, then ship to shore and back again. On the horizon, the cerulean sky met the sapphire sea and above the sun shined and smiled upon the busy labors of both seamen and landsmen as they brought their wares together. “It’s like a spring fair,” Eddie murmured.

  “It is,” van Walbeeck nodded in agreement. “And a market day, the first of the season. The first anyone has seen since leaving Recife. Or home.”

  “Yeah,” Eddie agreed, “It’s kinda hard to believe.”

  The other two looked at him.

  “All the changes, I mean.” He swept a hand toward the bright new roofs of Oranjestad. “Maybe you gu—fellows don’t see it as clearly because you’ve been here, watching it grow through all its stages. But when I got here last year . . . ” Eddie shook his head. “It was a tent city with a few buildings and a fort. One store, no trade, water rationing, barely enough food to survive. And you were burning dung instead of wood for everything except cooking. And now look at it.”

  They did. Two church steeples, one in the last phases of completion, were tall above dozens of wood-frame homes. Privies had replaced rudimentary waste disposal, a great deal of which had involved using the bay and other beaches as the primary means of public sanitation. The people in the streets were no longer pale or burned, but copper-bronze and, while lean, were no longer gaunt. Children had the energy to play again. Laughing, they were weaving in and out of the stalls where the adults, who had clustered together to sell and buy, sent imprecations and shaken fists in their chaotic wake.

  It was tiny and plain, compared to the great Spanish cities of the New World—Havana, Cartagena, Santo Domingo, Vera Cruz—but conversely, it had none of their oppressive edifices and immense populations of impoverished, despised, and resentful mestizo and zambo shack dwellers. Instead, this day had brought out its growing pulse of optimism and energy, of new possibilities and expansion.

  “It’s been transformed,” Eddie said, turning back to face the two Dutchmen. Who were smiling at him. “What?” he asked.

  “Oranjestad isn’t the only thing that’s been transformed,” van Walbeeck observed with a wink. “It often happens to happy husbands, I’ve been told.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eddie said. His denial didn’t sound convincing, not even to himself.

  Tromp studied the edge of the shade in which they all stood. “While not as precise as your up-time wristwatches, my years at sea have given me much occasion to refine my ability to tell the time by the angle of the sun’s rays. Consider the crisp shadows of the battlements projected just beyond our feet. I am quite certain that it shows me the time to within ten minutes of what I would see on the face of a clock. And that is close enough to know that you, Commodore Cantrell, were five minutes late. At least. And that is certainly a transformation.”

  “Oh, indeed!” van Walbeeck added, eyes sparkling. “I remember a time—perhaps as little as a year ago?—when Eddie was never tardy for anything, for any reason! And when we asked him about that almost painful punctuality, Maarten, he said . . . Now, what did he say, again?”

  Now Maarten was smiling. “I believe it was a phrase he had picked up from his commander, the redoubtable Admiral Simpson, who advised him to make it the basis of his life in the Navy. Specifically, that being on time means arriving ‘thirty minutes before thirty minutes before’ the appointed time. And so the commodore was. Unfailingly. It was most impressive.”

  “Insufferable, even,” interjected van Walbeeck.

  “But now?” concluded Tromp. “Five minutes late. At least. And no longer an entirely uncommon occurrence. As I said, a transformation.”

  “But—” Eddie tried to object.

  “Now what could cause such a transformation, Maarten?”

  “I cannot imagine.”

  “Well, let’s see: it might be a life of boredom. But trifling recent events such as surviving battles and tempests seem to belie that hypothesis. Reduced responsibilities? Heavens, no: anything but that, as I’m sure the commodore himself would be the first to confirm. The ocean air? But from what I can discern, the surroundings and climate seem to invigorate our young friend, rather than inducing torpor. For do we not often see him bathing in the ocean, Maarten?”

  “I go swimming. Swimming,” Eddie objected. To no effect.

  “Maybe,” van Walbeeck pseudo-mused, “it is because he rarely bathes alone. Inconceivably, he usually takes his wife with him. Or so I’m told. Is that true, Maarten?”

  Tromp shrugged. “I have heard it mentioned. But only when he goes to one of the northern beaches. For modesty’s sake, I imagine.”

  “Oh, for modesty’s sake, yes. Certainly,” van Walbeeck nodded vigorously. “But he always seems particularly susceptible to tardiness after those outings. Probably from the exertion of swimming in the windward surf.” Van Walbeeck’s impish grin looked incongruous on a man of his considerable proportions. “Because I’m certain it would not have anything to do with his wife, now, would it? Not then . . . or now?”

  Tromp glanced over at his young friend. “Commodore, either you are getting sunburned standing in the shade, or you are flushed.”

  Eddie held up his hands. “All right, all right. Target practice is over. Yes, I’m a young husband. Yes, I have a beautiful wife. Yes, she’s smart, and funny, and kind, and . . . ”

  Van Walbeeck put his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “And she has deep and powerful feelings.” His voice had grown suddenly and genuinely serious. “I have seen her helping Dr. Brandão with his youngest patients. I saw her fighting in the trenches last year, as much a leader to the women as O’Rourke and Michael McCarthy were to the men. She is a wonderful, splendid being: an improbable combination of angel and Valkyrie. So you must forgive the teasing of two older men who can only look on in admiration, wonder, and perhaps some small measure of envy. Because we know why you are late in the mornings,” he smiled, almost fatherly, “and we would be baffled if you
were not.”

  Tromp, laconic as usual, merely nodded. “It is a good transformation, Eddie. Now, here comes Jol, so let’s to business, shall we?”

  Chapter 19

  Oranjestad, St. Eustatia

  Cornelis Jol began stumping along rapidly on his peg leg when he caught sight of the three of them in the far shadows of Fort Oranjestad’s seaward wall. He waved to two others behind him, who had become ensnared in the growing tumult of trade and acquaintance-making in the street.

  “Keep up, you malingerers!” he shouted over his shoulder. “I’ve a wooden leg and I move twice as fast as you do!” He grinned at van Walbeeck, clapped a hand down on Tromp’s shoulder, and exhaled a rum-scented greeting toward Eddie. “Of course,” he muttered conspiratorially, “I had to be sure to push off so that the striplings I have in tow would have a chance with all the young ladies back there. Wouldn’t do to have a fine, mature specimen of a man like myself attracting all the female attention and interest, now would it?” He smiled in amusement, thereby revealing that he retained approximately half his very stained teeth. The crow’s lines that extended far from his eyes blended with and helped hide the various scars that almost two decades of privateering had left on his well-weathered face. Houtebeen, or “Peg Leg,” Jol was at least as famous for his self-deprecating wit as his devilish skill at raiding.

  “And do you have any of your equally prepossessing piratical friends in tow?” asked Tromp, folding his hands like a mild-mannered school master.

  “Sadly, no,” Jol answered. “Moses went his own way again, right after he came to report what he’d encountered in the seas around Dominica just before you clipped Philip’s beard, there. He and Calabar are still raiding down along the Main, and they were eager to get back to it. The others?” Jol flipped a palm at the cloudless sky. “Reliability is not what freebooters are known for, as I’m sure you know.”