1637: No Peace Beyond the Line

by Eric Flint

  Jan scowled. “Or maybe you just have more than your share of luck.”

  “Luck?” d’Esnambuc scoffed. “Luck is what superstitious men call outcomes for which they do not see ready, rational reasons.”

  “And what was the ready, rational reason that preserved you when your entire crew died or became the up-timer commodore’s prisoners?”

  “There is a trick to seeming lucky,” d’Esnambuc mused with a small smile as he rubbed lightly at the eye patch. “That trick, which I learned at an early age, is to travel faster and farther than word of your deeds. So it was with me.

  “I regained consciousness on a patch of land called Îlet Cochon: a strange name, since I saw no pigs there. I discovered that, besides the loss of this eye, my injuries were otherwise superficial.” He indicated still-pink scars consistent with wounds far more grievous than his words suggested. “Fortunately, I was well fed and in excellent shape, and so, was able to hide and wait, recuperating and formulating plans.

  “While I did, the natives came and went in great number and with great agitation. At first, I felt it might indicate that the young up-timer had misstepped. So easy to do with such temperamental savages! But soon enough, it became apparent that he had found some means of causing them to have a very high opinion of himself. The activity was therefore a celebration, not a crucifixion. Such revels are part of their penchant for collective witness: in short, that for the tribe to embrace a promising new ally, the mighty among them must satisfy a social and hierarchical requirement by coming to see this person for themselves.

  “In so doing, they confer their inchoate imprimatur upon this new ally by partaking in a great deal of jabbering and no small amount of feasting. So they mark their great events, or at least that is how it seems to me.

  “I had much opportunity to observe their comings and goings. More narrowly, I was able to observe and determine those among them who arrived by boat and were most incautious. One such never returned to the festivities, which persisted even after the victorious ships departed. I gather that the Kalinago presumed the missing fellow had celebrated too much and had been lost at sea with his boat.

  “I paddled it to Martinique. It is not a hard journey, and it is one that I knew would reward me well.”

  “Why would the natives of Martinique have rewarded you with anything but death?” Musen wondered. “We heard that the Kalinago of that island spared none of your countrymen after the failed attack on St. Eustatia.”

  “You heard correctly. But I did not go to Martinique to find either allies or companions, but equipment and provisions I had hidden in a remote place against the possibility of being in a situation such as the one in which I now found myself.

  “After burning away any flesh in my eye socket that threatened to become black with gangrene, I spent two days recuperating and then began my slow journey back north along the leeward side of the Lesser Antilles. And, because I knew how and where to look, I found a ship of adventurers with whom I had mutual acquaintances amongst others of their calling. And so, here I stand before you! Now come, we must be about our business, . . . as soon as you satisfy my one requirement.”

  Haet almost snarled. “You’ll not have our money until after we—”

  “Blast you and your precious money, you gin-swilling pig! It is useful, but it is not my master. My interest is upon news.”

  Musen frowned. “What news?”

  “My nephew: Jacques Dyel du Parque . . . Does he live?”

  The two Dutchmen stared. “Yes, he was returned from Guadeloupe with many women and became the administrator among the French who risked remaining on St. Christopher after your attack.”

  “How many took that risk?”

  “About half.”

  “And the rest?”

  Musen shrugged. “They fled to Guadeloupe. In small boats. Not all made it. And those who did . . . well, you know.”

  D’Esnambuc’s eyes dimmed. “How well I know, indeed. Ah, well: it was too much to hope for any other outcome. But . . . Jacques: the boy lives!” Musen tried not to stare: was there a tear at the corner of the ruthless adventurer’s remaining eye?

  Before it could be ascertained if the well-bred monster actually had human emotions, the Frenchman slapped his thigh. “So, let us plan to make the first voyage to this well-situated harbor, while the wind favors our journey.” He unfurled a map, laid it out in the dim light.

  The two Dutchmen squinted at it. “This is the same place that is labeled ‘Charleston’ on up-time maps, I believe?” Musen asked.

  “You are well informed. It is the very same, mijn Heer Musen. The very same.”

  “And how will we get there safely?” Haet complained. “The seas are thick with the Spanish between here and there.”

  “Well, not so thick as they were, but thick enough. And that is happy news for us.”

  “In God’s name, why?”

  “Though I suspect God would not wish his name to be invoked in projects such as this one, it is happy news because it is the Spanish themselves who have a vested interest in ensuring that we reach our destination. And after that, they will protect us so long as they need the services I have arranged to provide for them.”

  Haet frowned. “And what ‘services’ would compel them to even conceive of doing such things?”

  “Why, that they might have access to these.” The Frenchman opened a small chest beside him, moved it into the failing light: four radios, copies of up-time-designed models currently being manufactured in the United States of Europe. “At first, we shall arrange leases between ships of my adventurer friends and the Spanish. Each ship retained shall be at the Spaniards’ disposal and shall include an operator for this equipment. Once we are firmly established in our new colony and well reinforced there, we shall be free to sell these devices to the Spanish, if they still want them. Which I rather presume they will.”

  Haet kept trying to find flaws. “And what surety will we have that they will not eliminate us once they have the radios themselves and have learned how to use them?”

  D’Esnambuc seemed to gather his reserves of patience before responding. “Firstly, when I stipulated that our colony would be well reinforced before we sold any of the radios, I mean a level of defense that even the Spanish would find very costly to overcome.”

  Musen waited. “You said that point was your first. Is there another?”

  The Frenchman nodded. “The Spanish will not be able to attack us without inciting sustained reprisals from our new adventurer friends.”

  “And how is it that you know they will flock to our defense?”

  D’Esnambuc nodded, made a dismissive gesture. “Because this new colony shall be their new, but much safer, Tortuga. Some weeks from the seaways upon which they prefer to prey, yes, but that also puts it well beyond the reach of any great power. So they will return to the Caribbean and Bahamas to hunt, but retire to this Charleston to restore both their ships and themselves. And of course, to spend their hard-earned gains.” He became contemplative. “There is also the matter of the adventurers’ personal regard. For me.”

  Again, Haet jumped in. “And what have you done to instill such love in their black hearts?”

  He shrugged. “I correctly warned them what would become of their alliance with the Spanish. You see, since receiving their letters of marque, they have collaborated with their new sponsors three times over the past two years: at Trinidad, Vieques, and Curaçao. The first two were unmitigated disasters. The last was a success only because it was carried out without any regard for Spanish leadership or planning. Overall, my adventurer friends felt ill used and that the relationship was not profitable for them. At least not beyond the initial silver that they were paid and have since lost in lives and hulls. So now, they think me something of a savant.”

  Musen nodded. “Because of your warning.”

  “Yes, but I suspect it is also because I repeatedly urged them to be on their guard at Tortuga. But alas, their leader
s were proud. They thought they knew better. Now they are dead. And through the very agency I predicted, no less.”

  Musen smiled. “So you are Nostradamus reborn, then?”

  D’Esnambuc smiled back. “If only that were true. But in this case, prophesy was not required. Only clear sight.

  “As the Spanish increasingly relied upon the pirates, the allies realized that by eliminating the latter, the former would have far fewer well-placed agents with ready eyes, fewer ships that could sail swiftly against prevailing currents, and almost no commanders with sufficient versatility and inventiveness to perceive and seize opportunities. But initially, Tromp and his lackeys despaired of eliminating the pirates since, whenever confronted strongly, they could simply fade away.”

  Musen nodded. “Until they began concentrating at Tortuga.”

  “Exactly. And not just concentrating. Once the Spanish gave them letters of marque, they began to become more predictable. Artisans converged on Tortuga for a share of that silver, as did captains—both known and aspirant—looking for crews. The buccaneers’ great guarantee of invulnerability—no point of origin, so no point of weakness—slipped away from them without their realizing it.

  “But the up-timers knew the greater history of the place, knew that Tortuga was already in the process of becoming a regular port and community. They saw or reasoned that once the buccaneers made a formal agreement with the Spanish, it would accelerate that transformation. And so, once enough of their organization was there, the allies struck. Unexpected and almost unopposed, until their troops went ashore.”

  “Were many of the pirates killed?”

  “A good number, although I very much doubt that was the primary object of the attack. But the facilities are ruined and the allies have sent a clear message: do this again and we will hunt you again.”

  “And so . . . ?”

  “And so, you and those now homeless gentlemen of fortune have common interests.”

  “Common interests?” Haet almost screamed. “With dogs such as those? Never! We—”

  Musen waved him down. “Yes. I see. We are outlaws too, now. As are you. As are all who will bring slaves into the New World. And your pirates need a safe harbor, far beyond the easy reach of either the Spanish or the allies.”

  “Precisely. This location, Charleston, is not a particularly difficult or long journey from here at the northern extent of the Leeward Islands. The winds are favorable all the way to, and then up along, the North American coast. Most of my new associates say it is about two and a half weeks.

  “Once it is well established, adventurers throughout the region will see this colony—or perhaps, city-state?—as a safe harbor, a place to refit, and a thriving market which accepts them and their trade without prejudice. I suspect they would even welcome proposals for mutually profitable endeavors.” His voice lowered. “For although the Spanish did not know how to make use of the skills and inventiveness of pirates, you, mijn Heeren, certainly will. That, too, is revealed in the histories the up-timers brought with them. Not all of you Dutchmen are so encumbered by the impossible and unrealistic moral niceties of Admiral Tromp and his new friends.”

  D’Esnambuc looked into Haet’s face and then Musen’s. “No further questions? Excellent! Then let us lay out a schedule for conveying the first of your number to the place we shall call Charleston, at least for now. The sooner we finish, the sooner you may return to your ravishing Dutch wives!”

  Chapter 71

  Oranjestad, St. Eustatia

  Eddie flinched awake. Someone was knocking. At the front door. He sat up, rubbing his face. Low voices, then a heavy tread on the stairs. A pause, followed by a light tapping at the bedroom door. Cuthbert Pudsey’s voice as an almost inaudible whisper: “Commodore, begging your pardon, your many pardons. But Don Michael is here. Says it’s urgent.”

  What the—? “Tell him I’m coming.” Eddie pulled on a pair of trousers and a nightshirt, slipped out the door, hoping that Cat hadn’t awakened.

  Cuthbert was there with a lamp, handed it over silently, and followed at a discreet distance as Eddie thumped down the stairs.

  Mike was in the foyer, standing like a graven image. Eddie couldn’t hold back a yawn. “It’s two in the morning, Mike. What’s—?” And then he saw the look on Mike’s face, a face he’d known for as long as he could remember, and so could read like a book. He swallowed. “Priority from The Quill?”

  Mike nodded. “‘Need to know’ only, Eddie. You can’t share the actual content, but we’ll come up with a cover story.” He handed Eddie a flimsy. “At the fort. Thirty minutes. Sorry, son.”

  The young up-timer was already reading the telegram as Mike jogged out the door and into the dark. Shortly after the door closed, Eddie exhaled a whispered, “My God.” He went up the stairs as quickly as he could, slipped back into his room, grabbed his ready uniform—set aside for emergencies like this one—and then slipped out again.

  * * *

  Anne Cathrine lay facing the window so that her face was turned away from the door. So that Eddie would think she was still asleep and not see the tears running down her face.

  Hadn’t they done almost exactly this, half a year ago? Was it so much to expect, so much to ask, that she would have him back for long enough to sit down with him, with everything just right, and tell him the news that way? It wasn’t fair; it just wasn’t fair.

  She refused to succumb to the sobs until she heard Danish House’s front door close, for fear that Eddie might hear her.

  * * *

  It was dawn when Tromp and the others emerged into the small parade ground of Fort Oranje. Joost Banckert, who’d stormed out before the meeting was properly over, was already barking for the guards at the main gate to open that portal and get out of his way. Dirck Simonszoon glared after him.

  “Well, I guess he’s pretty pissed off,” observed Eddie. “Not like that wasn’t clear from the briefing.”

  Van Walbeeck shrugged. “Give him time. It is a shock. And while this portends a serious challenge for you, it does for us as well.”

  Tromp looked at the still-lightening sky. “Yes, it will be a challenge. But most of our advantages remain. I suspect half of Joost’s anger is about not being able to gripe about this with anyone. But he is professional; he understands the need for absolute secrecy.”

  Eddie sighed. “I sure hope he does, because if anyone lets this cat out of the bag, the USE’s chief spook—Estuban Miro—will probably send assassins after me.”

  “Well, then he’d better hurry up about it,” Mike McCarthy said, “because you’re going to be pretty hard to find by this time tomorrow.”

  Eddie nodded wearily. “Isn’t that the truth. And speaking of secrets, I’ve got to chase down Hugh and Rik and get them moving.” He glanced at Maarten. “Are you sure you can spare Evertsen?”

  “Yes, Eddie, but it is ironic, don’t you think?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tromp smiled. “Do you remember why I sent him to Antigua with you?”

  Eddie’s face was momentarily blank before a crooked grin grew at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. You wanted to make sure you had a replacement for me.”

  “And now both of you will be gone. But it is just as I predicted: it is not God who is calling you from us, but John Simpson.”

  McCarthy frowned. “Except that Simpson isn’t calling us.”

  Eddie shrugged. “He doesn’t have to. There’s only one possible response to this situation.”

  Mike sighed. “Wish I could disagree with you.”

  Tromp shook his head. “Let us not waste time with regret. We have made the only sensible decision. And Eddie, I will inform Kees. As it is, you already have too much running around to do before you depart.” To say nothing of bidding farewell to a wife you returned to less than twenty-four hours ago.

  Eddie nodded and headed for the outer gate.

  Mike blew his cheeks out with a powerful exhalation. “Well, I guess we’ve go
t our work cut out for us. We’ve got to turn those ships around in a day. Finding the crewmen that are on liberty, and then telling them they’ve got to report immediately, is going to be a bitch in all sorts of ways. We may need to send two-man teams out on those details.”

  Van Walbeeck nodded. “There is also the matter of the cover story. I will need to go over that with you gentlemen. We must be certain it does not immediately or eventually become self-contradictory, and there are so many details to consider, no one of us can be trusted to see them all.” He stared at the closing gate. “I hoped Joost would help us, as well. I just wish he had not had such a falling out with Eddie. I understand his resentment, of course—”

  “I don’t,” said Simonszoon flatly. “It is as Maarten said: Eddie and Mike are doing the only thing they can do. We in the Caribbean may think we have the luxury to be unconcerned, being far away. But we are so distant only because we are at the end of a very long branch, and if the tree dies, it won’t be too long before we do, too.”

  Mike patted the previously untouchable Dirck on the shoulder. “It’ll be all right. Joost will come around. Now, what about some schnapps, everyone?”

  Van Walbeeck started, glanced at Tromp. “Eh, the admiral never drinks before three in the afternoon.” He glanced at his friend. “But perhaps he will make an exception and maybe have a drink with us? Just one?”

  “No,” Tromp said, trying to smile. “I will have two.”

  God knows I need them, now.

  * * *

  Anne Cathrine leaned her head against the back of Danish House’s front door. There were too many comings and goings today. Particularly goings.

  It had started with Eddie’s departure in the middle of the night, but when the sun came up, it got worse. Much worse.

  First Eddie had come back. She had hoped that maybe the news that had called him away in the middle of the night would not ultimately call him away for longer. It had been a narrow hope, she’d known that, but when he walked in the front door, she knew. He was leaving. Immediately.