by Eric Flint
“There’s a secret, Mike, which I’ll share only with you and Kees,” Kortenaer explained, ending on a conspiratorial whisper. But when they leaned close he roared, “Don’t look at them, you idiots!” He laughed loudly, as did the other four men working with him, all leased laborers.
Mike jerked a head at them. “How goes the off-site revolution?”
“Just fine,” Bert grinned as he adjusted the reflectors of the central solar boiler. “All of them are taking the basic military skills instruction that the Wild Geese started teaching a few weeks ago. And we’ve been talking strategies for reducing the time to buy their way out of being bondsmen. They had some ideas about collective work that were very impressive.”
“Such as?” asked Kees.
“Well, if they are all working for themselves, each winds up going slowly, as slowly as their respective masters can finagle. But if they designate one as having a skill that will pay significantly more money, it may speed things up if they pool their resources and buy out his bond all at once. Then most of his money goes to buying the next one out, and so forth and so on.”
“And they trust each other that much?” Kees wondered.
“Ja, right? We Dutch could learn a thing or two from them just about now.”
Mike smiled, nodded at the solar boiler. “And how are these coming along?”
“Mike, they are wonderful. Yes, the reflectors are very expensive. And yes they need constant tending to keep the reflectors focused enough to boil water, but come look.” He walked them around the back of the unit and pointed: a hillbilly-style still.
“Really?” laughed Mike. “It works?”
By way of answer, Bert handed him a small jug. “Try.”
Mike did, sputtered. “Damn, that is some strong moonshine, Bert my boy!”
“I don’t know what moonshine is, but yes, that is strong. Ninety percent pure. And we can do better. And at these temperatures, we can use this for working with light metals, such as tin and pewter. And if we can find a way to build it so that we can combine its heat with that of a small wood furnace, we should be able to work copper and still save immense amounts of wood.”
Which was, of course, the whole point of the solar boilers. If they were going to bring even light industries to these islands in the next year or two, they had to make sure that they didn’t wind up consuming all their trees for fuel. He clapped a hand on Kortenaer’s shoulder. “Bert, I could almost be convinced to stay awhile. But I have to get back in time to send a telegraph for relay from The Quill Array.”
“Report on the progress here?”
“No, another attempt to reach my wife. Been too silent back there. I need to make sure everything’s all right. And Bert?”
“Yes, Mike?”
“You leave some of that hooch for me!”
* * *
Three hours later, Eddie was startled by a knock on his door—the first all afternoon. But evidently someone he knew, since the guard was allowing the intrusion. “Come in, Mike!”
The older up-timer entered, shaking his head. “Staying in these islands is giving you a voodoo vibe, Eddie.”
“Yeah, sure. How’d it go?”
“Good, but we gotta prop up the Christian Valley water project.”
Eddie nodded. “Saw the report on Carver an hour ago; got buried in other stuff. We’ll work that out tomorrow morning first thing. Why don’t you call it a day, Mike. You look beat.”
“I am. By the way, the radio to Vlissingen is up again.”
“Didn’t know it was down.”
“Yeah, a few days.”
“Was the problem on their end?”
Mike shook his head. “Nope. Weather or atmospherics. Or both. At any rate, I sent another message to Susan.”
“Did you get an answer to the first, yet?”
“No, but I sent that one so close to when the signals started dropping that the wifely unit may never have received it. So I resent it just half an hour ago. Added a few homey details. Should be hearing back any day, now.”
“How long since you sent home, Mike? I mean, the first one weeks ago?”
He considered. “Jeez. Probably seven weeks?”
If Eddie didn’t trade telegrams with Anne Cathrine every seven days, he felt like part of him had died. “Well, hopefully, you’ll get an answer soon. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going over to the comms shack and send a few words to someone on St. Eustatia.”
Mike smiled. “Color me shocked. Say hi to the missus.”
Eddied nodded, picked up a message pad as the door closed behind Mike, thought about what to write, but stopped. Seven weeks? Damn, I know the personal sends to Europe are pricey, but . . . seven weeks? Damn.
Eddie started writing but it was difficult, because the only thing in his head were memories of how Anne Cathrine looked, and sounded, and felt, and smelled. But every so often, the thought came back:
Seven weeks?
Damn.
"p4"
Chapter 43
Oranjestad, St. Eustatia
“So,” finished Maarten Tromp, “as I understand it, you refuse to allow your charges to fulfill the leased-labor contracts you signed with the government of this colony.”
Of the three men standing before him, only Jehan de Bruyne had spoken so far. “Until the government rescinds the stipulation that the five-year tariff exemption only applies to persons who do not own slaves, yes. We must. It is the only way we may resist this change, which is clearly designed to make it more costly for us to honor those leased-labor contracts.”
Van Walbeeck, who occupied one of the only two chairs in the room, shook his head. “That is incorrect. You signed those contracts well over a month before the tariff exemption was announced. So it was neither explicitly in existence at the time you signed the contracts, nor implicit in any other transactions or announcements.”
“But you knew about it!” Haet shouted, finally losing his obvious struggle to control himself. “You baited us into taking those contracts! And now, even if we wanted to take advantage of the exemption, we can’t! We have to keep our slaves so long as they are working for you!” De Bruyne’s jaw worked in impatience and frustration at his fellow councilor’s outburst. “By God, we’re members of the Politieke Raad! If anyone was told ahead of time, it should have been us!”
Van Walbeeck sighed. “In the first place, all the current labor contracts will be over long before the exemption is put into effect. Secondly, the exemption is not just at the order of the Stadtholder, but is a joint decree by leaders of those nations that are not only our allies, but our business partners on Trinidad. Our little colony hasn’t the power to promulgate or alter such policy, only to enforce it.”
“‘Allies’? Who are these ‘allies’?” demanded Musen.
Van Walbeeck made an exasperated gesture, as if he were swatting away an annoying insect. “It’s an informal term. Although the Netherlands and the United States of Europe have no official alliance, our relations are cordial and sometimes quite closely aligned—nowhere more so than here in the New World. And one of the issues on which the two nations are firmly agreed is the need to eliminate slavery and the slave trade. The slave trade, immediately, and slavery as soon as possible.”
“Hah!” barked Haet. “I wonder what the new king in the Lowlands’ brother—Philip IV of Spain, you might recall—thinks of that arrangement! To say nothing of Olivares!”
Tromp shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what either of them thinks. At this moment, they have no more desire to go to war with the Netherlands than we have to go to war with them. They will continue to look the other way so long as the pact remains informal and commercial.” He indulged in a sly smile. “‘No peace beyond the line,’ is their watchword, you may recall. They will ignore any violence so long as it stays on this side of the Line of Tordesillas.”
He looked to van Walbeeck. “Continue, if you would.”
The governor nodded. “Lastly, while we were aware of
the possibility that the leaders of the allies were considering such a measure, we did not have advance knowledge of the exact shape it would take, nor that they would later add the stipulation that it could not be enjoyed by slaveholders or those trading their goods.”
Tromp made sure his face remained immobile, but he appreciated van Walbeeck’s ability to tread so close to the limit of what might be called “the truth.” No, they hadn’t known the exact shape the policy would take, but there was every reason to suspect that the allies would agree to the detailed program that he and van Walbeeck had proposed. The same went for the tariff exemption and the exception pertaining to slaveholders. In fact, the leaders of the various nations had actually introduced two changes that made the exemption even more attractive to the slaveholders than the initial model he and the governor had set forth.
But the admiral and the governor were not the only crafty gamesmen in the room. De Bruyne smiled slowly. “You didn’t know in advance? Of course you didn’t know; kings are fickle. Sometimes they even make a few changes to documents, even those pushed under their noses by trusted advisors. But did you have reasonable expectations, I wonder?”
Van Walbeeck shrugged. “You may wonder all you like. We have told no lies.”
“I suppose misrepresenting the truth can’t be called a lie, then, can it?” Musen snapped.
Tromp glared at the man. “You would speak to us of misrepresenting the truth? The architect of that threadbare charade in the square? Asserting that you could not clear it because your . . . your charges refused your orders to move?”
Musen’s chin came up. “I do not have mastery over any ‘charges,’ and so your statement is meaningless.” De Bruyne seemed ready to intervene, but stopped himself with an annoyed wince. “If you are speaking of my property,” Musen finished with a smile, “say so plainly. If these are to be legally admissible proceedings, you may not use euphemisms.”
Tromp thought he might be ill if the word “property” came out of his mouth. No, his years of slavery among the Berber pirates of Salé had not in the least resembled the soul- and body-shredding labor of plantation work. He had been more of a hostage, mostly held for ransom but also put to work imparting knowledge of the sea to his captors. But this—what he saw every day on this very island, and what he had seen two days ago—this was . . .
Maarten stopped the thought. If he continued down that path, he was not entirely sure he could refrain from throwing the men before him into the windowless cells of the fort to which they had been summoned. Or he might shoot them all where they stood; his new Hockenjoss & Klott percussion cap revolver had not yet been removed from its small but sturdy shipping crate. It was therefore untried, yes, but this seemed a particularly fitting test of its potentials . . .
The men in front of him had leaned away slightly, their eyes wide and fixed on his face. Haet had gone pale. Even van Walbeeck was looking at him, alarmed.
De Bruyne, however, leaned forward. But cautiously, as if approaching a wild animal that might suddenly attack. “Maarten, are you quite well—?”
“I am Admiral van Tromp to you, mijn Heer de Bruyne!” he barked “Christian names are for those on cordial terms. We no longer are. Your companions wish legal precision? Then here it is.
“By your own admission, you are in breach of contract. You are legally bound to ensure that your . . . your property completes the labor contracts for which you have already been paid. You have refused to comply. As that labor involves projects directly related to the military security of this colony, I am empowered, by the Stadtholder Prince Hendrik Fredrik, to unilaterally determine and enforce any penalties and punishments I deem suitable.
“Firstly, no slave owners, nor any of their family, workers, or . . . or property, are now allowed to enter Oranjestad.”
Haet gaped. “But how will we—?”
“Furthermore, if our inspectors remove any slaves from your oversight to protect them from suspected abuse, they shall remain in our care until you have convinced us that they are no longer at risk. This you were told. However, the standard of proof for their return is now even higher than it was after your shameful display at the square. Additionally, as long as those slaves are in our care, we are crediting them with wages.
“Furthermore, I am convening a legal tribunal comprised of military, political, religious, and freeborn representatives to determine what damages you will be expected to pay in recompense for your breach of contract.”
“How dare y—!”
“Compensation must be paid in currency if you lack sufficient credits with which to offset what you owe in damages.”
“Credits?” Haet seemed lost.
“Credits,” repeated van Walbeeck. “The admiral just mentioned that any of your property which is working for us while in our protective custody accrues wage credits. Those can become the earner’s money at such time as they may have possessions of their own. Or they may confer it to you as a credit for the payment of the damages, but also the redemption of their bond price.”
“For what?” Even Musen wasn’t picking up on it just yet. But De Bruyne’s mirthless smile was the facial equivalent of him saying, Yes, of course you would do that.
Van Walbeeck spread his hands out. “Let us review what has been set forth. The tribunal will assess damages for your breach of contract. However, we do not wish to take money from you—well, more accurately, from your ability to care for your dependents.
“So we will consider the value of other items: namely, and preferably, your slaves. We shall value them at their purchase price. Happily, we have those records, both from here and from Recife. For any slave you fully release, we will credit their original purchase price as payment toward the damages you owe. Similarly, for any contract labor done while a slave is in our protective custody, the credits that slave accrues in the place of actual wages are extra credits you may add to his or her value when paying the damages.
“Now, do you have any other questions, mijn Heeren?”
The two behind de Bruyne both had their mouths open to speak, but he stilled them with a raised palm.
Tromp suppressed a bitter smile. Until now, the pack leader has stayed well back from the rabid beasts in his pack. Now, he stalks forward as the ostensible voice of reason. Yes, you always were the smartest—and most dangerous—of your breed, Jehan de Bruyne.
Van Walbeeck nodded at the senior of the three councilors. “Yes?”
De Bruyne didn’t even look at him. Instead, he faced Tromp. “Maarten, it is not like you to overlook the terrible pain you will be causing women and children.”
“You will address me as Admiral Tromp. And you must be more specific; what terrible pain will I be causing, exactly?”
“You decree that our families and our slaves may not go to the cisterns in Oranjestad. All the other fresh water flows down from The Quill along narrow ghuts that are now on tracts reserved for military use. So, how shall our families, slave and owner alike, not die of thirst?”
Tromp shrugged. “If they do, that will be your doing, mijn Heer. Because you can prevent it merely by honoring the contracts you signed, all of you. Once your slaves return to the work for which we hired them, and for which you have been paid, you may have full access to the town and its cisterns once again.”
De Bruyne heard the grumbles rising behind him, waved a palm at the floor. Silence. “It seems we have little choice but to submit to this extortion. Which we shall protest at the highest levels and in the town, as well.”
“You are welcome to try your luck with any of the allies’ leaders. As far as protesting in the town, you may do so peacefully. But I cannot answer for your safety.”
De Bruyne’s frown told Tromp the ringleader had not been expecting that. “Our safety?”
Van Walbeeck’s drawl forced De Bruyne to look at him. “The nature of Edel Mund’s death has spawned a great deal of speculation, particularly since it is quite clear that she did not even have any kindling in her h
ome. In fact, neighbors attempted to press some firewood upon her just a week earlier. She refused.”
De Bruyne raised his chin indignantly. “And so you leap to the conclusion—without any evidence—that one of our workers was moved to commit arson.”
“One of your workers . . . or one of you. As for who is leaping to conclusions, you will have to look beyond these walls.”
Haet sneered. “Leave it to townfolk. Always have to have something to gossip about, no matter how outlandish it is!”
Van Walbeeck regarded him with a quizzical stare. “Outlandish? Really? Would you care to guess how many people heard you and Musen say, loudly, that you intended to beat that poor slave to death only because it was illegal for you to visit that fate upon Lady Edel Mund?”
De Bruyne turned to look at his two fellow councilors. His glower was a mix of disbelief and withering contempt.
“Ah,” van Walbeeck said to the back of his head, “I see the other councilors’ report of the incident may have been less than complete.”
Squirming under de Bruyne’s glare, Haet shouted at van Walbeeck. “You cannot prove—uh, know that it was one of us! That fire could have been started by one of those bastard townsmen, trying to make us look bad! Or one of them might have come to their senses and thrown that brick through Mund’s pretty glass window to remind her she’d best mind her own business and let Dutchmen take care of Dutch affairs!”
But van Walbeeck was smiling. “Mijn Heer Haet, what causes you to believe that a brick was thrown through Lady Mund’s glass window?”
Haet went whiter than usual. “I . . . I heard it. From someone. I can’t remember who.”
“Well, you must think hard: who told you?”
De Bruyne did not look back at Haet, but his upper lip twitched.
“A townsman. I overheard it,” Haet said in a rush.
“Really?” van Walbeeck pressed. “Are you sure?”
“I—I don’t know. All I can think of these days is how you’re trying to ruin us!”
“Right now, mijn Heer Haet, we are talking about Lady Mund, and how her life was not merely ruined, but ended. Now, I ask again, do you remember who told you that a brick went through her window?”