1637: No Peace Beyond the Line

by Eric Flint

  De Bruyne, who drank from a glass, swirled his Spanish brandy around, letting the centrifugal force raise it halfway to the rim. He looked up at Haet. “Do you know,” he said calmly, “that the townspeople now call it The Whipping Square? Hundreds—literally hundreds—saw what you did. Both of you. And with those hundreds telling and retelling the story and making it even worse than it was, no one is going to forget what went on there anytime soon.” He tossed back the brandy. “We are done here, thanks to you two. The entire colony’s opinion has sharpened against us. Those who had been undecided are so no longer.”

  Musen had fully intended on waiting until Haet had received the greater measure of de Bruyne’s icy ire. “Right now, my worry is about the inspectors,” he said. “They are all over us. And the Politieke Raad’s public tribunal will soon be convening to determine the damages we owe for holding our slaves back from fulfilling the labor contracts.”

  De Bruyne nodded. “You—just you, Musen—will approach van Walbeeck and negotiate for us. We want him and his inner circle to forgive the damages and cancel the tribunal. In exchange, we shall immediately convert our slaves into bondsmen, but only on the further condition that half of them will be hired at the highest rate for five-year labor contracts.”

  “And if they refuse?”

  “They will not. They will take this bait without question. It frees all the slaves and puts half of ours in their hands, both to work on their projects and train as militia. And the government can worry about their productivity, and their sustenance, too, if they are not pleased with the minimum that we will provide.

  “The half of our slaves who shall remain as our bondsmen must be the best workers and most docile. We shall reduce the price of their bond by one third, if they are able to pay it all off in two years’ time. They will work like dogs, and we will have full advantage of selling their output without tariffs.”

  “And then?” asked Haet.

  “And then we leave. If we have not already. Because by then, many things will have changed for the worse, if we stay here. Those changes have already begun, as I’m sure Hans has informed you. Our last means of maintaining surreptitious contact with potential allies—the seamstress—has disappeared. I suspect we would find it nearly impossible to recruit an adequate replacement. Besides, with the business that you shall be concluding soon, we will cease to have need of such services.”

  Haet shook his head. “I do not hear how this is anything but surrender. Once our slaves are bondsmen, it is only a matter of time until we become poor farmers again. Yes, there will be a nice flow of currency until they are all free, but there is no way to turn that into new land, new slaves, new profits.”

  “Ah,” said de Bruyne, with a didactic lift of his index finger, “that is precisely where you are in error. Currency is the key, you see. It is the only thing we can take away from this disaster, and right now, we can convert our present weakness—the government’s proven determination to take away our slaves, and so, our livelihood—into a strength. If we act quickly enough, that is. And if you are able to perceive the sudden surge of currency we will realize through our ‘compliance’ as seed funds for a new project that will bring us greater wealth than we ever dreamed.”

  “To start plantations someplace new, and on our own, we will need a lot more than money.”

  “I am not speaking of plantations, mijn Heer Haet. Oh, yes, we shall have those, too. But what I am really talking about is slaves. Not as labor, but as our commodity.”

  He leaned over to read a passage from a book laying open on his desk. “This is from an up-time book. ‘In 1637, a Dutch fleet also captured the Portuguese fort at Elmina on Africa’s west coast, known as the Gold Coast. From there, Africans were enslaved and transported to work on Brazil’s sugar plantations.’”

  Haet shrugged. “And what good does that do us, anymore?”

  Musen and de Bruyne looked at each other. Hans tried a simpler approach. “Jan, the slaves aren’t going to be the source of our commodities. They will be our commodities.”

  Haet blinked. “You mean, that we should become slavers? What do we know about that, other than how to control them? We are not sailors or soldiers!”

  “No,” de Bruyne almost purred, “we are much more important than that. We will be the source of funds and connections, including many within both the East and West India Companies, that will make it possible to create the first New World slave market that serves all buyers equally. We pass no judgments, ask no questions, because—again—our only concern is currency. And as the history in this book and others show, to make the New World pay immense dividends and quickly, slaves were essential. There will be buyers. And given the whispers I have heard about French interests on the mainland, I suspect those buyers will be arriving soon.”

  “So where would this market be, then?” Haet looked concerned. “Jamaica? If we can make it more productive and agree to lease our land there, the Spanish may give it to us.”

  Musen wondered how long it would take for Jan to remember that he had to think like a slave trader now, not a slaveholder.

  De Bruyne was shaking his head. “Jamaica is too close to Dutch territory and colonies. Having our operations near those could complicate and jeopardize some of our most important contacts. But no more of this. You gentlemen have a long voyage ahead of you.”

  “What?” Musen said, along with Haet.

  “You will find a ship in the harbor,” Jehan went on. “It is a heavily modified and armed Bermudan sloop. Its master will be flying no colors and his accent will be a strange mixture of Dutch and Spanish, I am told. He will take you to St. Maarten by early evening, assuming the wind holds.”

  “And once there, what are we to do? Where are we to go?”

  “You will not need to go anywhere. The ship will deposit you exactly where you are supposed to be. As for what you will do? You will make arrangements.”

  “What kind?”

  “For travel, first for these slaveholders who have been our loyal allies.” He handed Musen a list. “Then for their foremen. Then for yourselves and all our foremen.”

  “And you? And our families?”

  “I must stay here to make sure that the government is not delinquent in paying what it owes us and that van Walbeeck does not discover some legalistic obstruction to delay or deny fulfilling its obligations. Your families will come later. I shall follow soon after.”

  Haet looked nervously from Musen and back to de Bruyne. “Shouldn’t you be there to work out the details of so sweeping a relocation?” Musen smiled and nodded supportively while he considered how long he was willing to wait before punishing Jan—perhaps mortally—for that implied slight.

  De Bruyne’s eyes looked as bored as his voice sounded. “You two are traveling all the time. To St. Christopher, Nevis, Montserrat, even Saba occasionally. Also, you lost men and slaves on St. Maarten. So no one will think twice if you are seen traveling yet again, or if you are seen in the vicinity of St. Maarten. However, if I were to journey there, it might invite all manner of questions and speculations. We do not want that. Do we?”

  “No,” the two muttered.

  “Good. Thank you for visiting. Your wives may stay on if they wish, but you must not keep our new contact waiting. The boy will see you out.”

  Oranjestad, St. Eustatia

  It took Eddie and Anne Cathrine almost an hour to get through the well-wishers and then the onrushing wave of people who were streaming down every street toward the docks, most in the hope of seeing the face of a loved one, a friend, a son, a father.

  They walked to Danish House, arm in arm, Anne Cathrine’s gait more relaxed than it had been in almost half a year, her body swaying easily against his the way it always had before.

  As they went up its steps, she pointed out the new crop of windmills going up. She told him about how their mechanisms had come from Holland, the timber from St. Kitts, and the foremen from Nevis, where they had built so many before. She was t
alking about everything they saw, everything that had happened, and not all of it made sense, and he didn’t care a bit, and didn’t stop her. Because she was Cat, and he loved the sound of her voice, no matter what it was saying.

  When they got inside, she listened, shushed him, took one step further in. That was when Eddie heard it: male murmuring in the kitchen, followed by a female giggle. “Leonora?” Eddie whispered, forgetting to remain silent. “She really does giggle?”

  Anne Cathrine frowned, swatted his arm in playful remonstrance, and then pulled him by the hand toward the stairs.

  When they got to their room she pulled him down to sit beside her and began firing nonstop questions about—well, about everything.

  It had been a long time . . . a long, long time since Anne Cathrine had eagerly sought every detail of his travels. This time she even called them “adventures,” which struck him as really weird since he didn’t think of them that way at all. But she was particularly interested in the hurricane and what happened after. It was like she wanted to live the story—and the present, flesh-and-blood reality—of his survival. Of how he had come back to her, now, here, today. So he told her.

  After three weeks of repairs and kedging their ships off the sands onto which they had been pushed, the fleet returned to sea. But rather than taking a slightly faster route home, they elected to remain north of the Greater Antilles and set course for Anguilla as the point at which to enter the Leeward Islands. In the wake of a hurricane, the pirates of Tortuga much reduced, and the Spanish in much the same condition, all the senior officers deemed that they were very unlikely to meet ships in those open waters.

  Halfway into that homebound cruise, much slowed by Neptunus and Omlandia, they reached radio range of St. Eustatia and learned that the surrounding seas had been clear of the Spanish and pirates since the fleet had sailed for Santo Domingo. They also learned that while not given up for dead, the ferocity of the hurricane left many fearing for the fate of the entire fleet, and that after the New Year, those dire anticipations had grown more widespread and grim.

  “But now, here we are! Ta-da!” Eddie cried.

  “Yes! Here you are!” Her brows fell. “But there is something serious we must settle.”

  Okay, well I got here as quick as I could to talk about whatever was bothering her, so this is good. A little scary when she starts a relationship talk, but good. Better, even. “I’m ready. Tell me what we need to settle,” he said, prepared for anything.

  Except what she did next. She playacted deep thought. “Well, I’m not sure how we should arrange your titles.”

  “My . . . my what?”

  “Well, there are all sorts of protocols when one is presented to a room, you see. I am just wondering if it is best that you are first presented as the duke of a little island in the Orkneys . . . or as the duke of St. Maarten.”

  “What?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what?’ The guns have not deafened you yet, have they? Papa was so pleased to hear about all your exploits on the island, and that you remembered to claim it for Denmark, that he made you its hereditary duke!”

  “My exploits? Look, Cat, I didn’t perform any ‘exploits.’ In fact, I barely—” He forgot what he was saying; that look was in her eyes. Yeah, that look. The one that said, stop talking. Now.

  She grabbed him and kissed him and pushed into him. Not hard and determined like most recently, but like she wasn’t even thinking, like it was second nature, like it was something rising up out of her that was only about joy and want and lust and love and she wasn’t about to break it down.

  Just like it had always been before.

  * * *

  When Eddie woke up, it was dusk. He drew in a great breath, started letting it out, then controlled it, so it wouldn’t wake his darling, darling wife. He turned, looked at her, discovered that she was sleeping half on her side, facing away from him. She did not move. She hardly seemed to be breathing.

  He wanted to touch her, but he also just wanted to watch her for a moment. So he did, noticing and trying to make sure he would remember for all time, just how her shoulders moved, just how her hair fell, just how it shone so softly and so red and so gold when touched by the light of a sunset. And he took a moment to feel just how glad he was that she seemed so happy, so exuberant, so like the way he had always known her.

  But whatever solemn focus and restraint had dominated her demeanor during the months leading up to St. Maarten wasn’t something to be left unremarked. Something had really eaten at her and he would let her know, first thing tomorrow, that he was ready and even eager to talk about it. And there’d never be a better time because now, at last, there would be time enough to work it all out, to help her deal with any shadows that might still be lurking behind the return of the easy laughter and passionate joy. Yes, tomorrow. At last. He rolled over, shut his eyes, was asleep in a minute.

  About a minute after that, Anne Cathrine turned, alert, eyes focused on the back of his head.

  Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow, at last I can tell him.

  Chapter 70

  Tintamarre Island, St. Maarten

  “I don’t like this,” Jan Haet complained as they waded ashore on Tintamarre, a long island one mile off the northeast coast of St. Maarten. Its terrain was as much naked rock as it was moss and wiry vegetation.

  Musen rolled his eyes. “Exactly what don’t you like about it, Jan? That this island is remote? That no one lives or even visits here? That no one saw us arrive?”

  “I don’t like this place . . . and I don’t like this business!” Haet said, voice rising above the soft creaks and rush of the sloop leaving to stand offshore. “I don’t like selling all my slaves and other property. I don’t like moving to a place I’ve never seen—twice in just five years, now! And I don’t like having de Bruyne treat me like a child.” They moved up off the sand and into the low, rolling mix of rocks, grass, and small cliffs.

  “Or is it that you don’t like that he’s usually right?”

  “And I don’t like your constant criticism. You aren’t so smart, either.” Haet spat into the shadows that were growing darker as the sun sank behind the low peaks of St. Maarten to the west. “And another thing: I don’t like—”

  A new voice interrupted from the shadows. “And I don’t like it when a man almost spits on me. Or is making so much noise that his Dutch countrymen are likely to come see what all the commotion is about.”

  A slightly darker patch in the shadows rose. “I have the pleasure of meeting mijn Heeren Haet and Musen, yes?”

  Haet, annoyed that he had jumped at the sound of the new voice, barked, “How—how do you know?”

  The voice’s French accent did nothing to disguise the droll tone. “Your reputation for dazzling repartee precedes you. Now come, be seated. Yes, those rocks behind you will do admirably. I tested them myself earlier, just to make sure they did not conceal any unseen dangers.”

  Musen managed not to snicker. “It is rather barren, here. Didn’t see you.”

  “That was manifestly obvious, yes. And as for it being a barren place? Well, that is part of what makes it eminently safe. Certainly more so than any spot we might have chosen over there.” He waved a dark hand at the silhouette of St. Maarten, framed against a burning bronze sky. “The last few Spanish are no doubt hiding in whatever dens they may, with troops roving after them. And although Dutchmen such as yourselves may be presumed to journey here on legitimate business, you would still be questioned and quite probably have your presence reported. And lastly, I may assure you that after Admiral Tromp’s allies destroyed Tortuga, there are no pirates anywhere within five hundred miles of here. Quite possibly further. So we are quite safe.”

  Haet grumbled. “Well, I guess. At least we won’t wind up like my foreman Claus and the workers and slaves who were with him.”

  “Ah, yes, that.” The voice dipped toward what sounded like sympathy. “I regret that I had no more knowledge than you regarding the sudden Sp
anish interest in St. Maarten. Until this past fall, it had been a wonderful meeting place: a convenient way station made more useful by its almost unexceptioned history of benign neglect. Even so, the death of your employees and chattels was in fact a fortuitous tragedy.”

  “Fortuitous?” Musen echoed. “How so?”

  “My dear Hans, imagine what would have happened if your foreman had returned with my details for a rendezvous. The timing was such that we would have been attempting to have this conversation in the midst of the battles which raged here late last year. It is impossible to foresee what losses might have been incurred by both of us, or the many ways in which it could have led to the discovery of the careful plans you are cultivating on St. Eustatia. So yes, I consider it good fortune that our original plans for this meeting were disrupted and delayed until now.”

  Haet squinted. “I don’t trust talking to a man whose face I can’t see.”

  “Well, I can understand that, I suppose.” The shadow moved forward.

  This time it was Musen who started. “You! You were the French governor on St. Christopher. I remember meeting you just after we landed on St. Eustatia.”

  Pierre Bélain d’Esnambuc stepped into the failing light. “In the flesh,” he said.

  Haet glared suspiciously. “What happened to your left eye?”

  D’Esnambuc grinned. “The eye patch suits me, do not you think?”

  “But they said you were dead!” Musen persisted. “Twice, now. First they said you were killed during or after the Kalinago raid. And then again earlier this year, off Guadeloupe.”

  The Frenchman sighed. “It is a strange tendency of otherwise intelligent men to presume, simply because a person has disappeared during battle, that they must, perforce, be dead. It is stranger still when some must surely have known that the missing man is a very strong swimmer.”