Rising Tides: Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  “Why, what’s the matter?”

  “Well, I’ve been away from home a long time, and certainly by now my wife has learned of my return....”

  “Oh ...” Matt said, his face reddening. He’d been around bachelors for so long it had completely slipped his mind that Jenks was married. “Harvey, I’m sorry,” he said. “Of course you need to see her. Ah, give her my best.”

  Jenks chuckled. “She has an unwed sister, you know.”

  Matt shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks.” His voice was hard.

  Jenks was seared with regret. “Of course. How ridiculous of me.”

  “Skip it. You run along, though. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Almost as soon as Jenks veered away, walking briskly, a man in an elegant frock coat and a large, wide hat appeared in the gloom ahead, forcing the escort to pause. One of the Marines, a corporal, spoke to him and then turned to Matt.

  “This villain of a Spaniard asks if you’d join his master for dinner,” the Marine said.

  “Who is his ‘master’?”

  “Which it’s that slicky-fish Dom ambassador, Hernan the Happy. His residence is in the Dom embassy.”

  Matt turned to Courtney, frowning thoughtfully. “Well, Governor-Emperor McDonald did say we ought to get to know him, but I wasn’t expecting the ... opportunity so soon. Are you up to it?”

  Courtney grinned gamely.

  “What about you, Marine?” Matt asked.

  “Which I’m at yer disposal ’til yer back on yer skinny ship, Your Honor.”

  Matt considered. “Very well. We won’t dine, not tonight, but we’ll meet him briefly. It’s been a long day. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a rest either.”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Please send a man to my ship, if you please, and tell them where we’re going and who we’ll see.” He made sure to speak loudly enough for the messenger to hear. “We should be along shortly.”

  The corporal—who didn’t look much different from the “villainous Spaniard”—and his squad led them through a seedier part of the city. “Professional” ladies lewdly entreated them to join them in a guttural English-Spanish mix that Matt would once have considered a type of “Tex-Mex,” but this he could barely understand. Courtney beamed at them and tipped his hat as they passed. They pressed on into the gathering gloom.

  “Which here it is,” the corporal said.

  The building looked like a smaller version of Government House, but it didn’t stand independently. Other, somewhat dingy white structures butted right up to it. The Dominion embassy, or whatever it was, had fresher paint, and flew an odd red flag. Embroidered upon it was a large golden cross with some kind of weird bird perched on top.

  “Fascinating symbolism,” Courtney muttered. Matt was an historian of sorts, having received his degree in history at the Academy, but it didn’t mean anything to him. The “messenger” with the big hat who’d led them there told the Marines to wait, then stepped forward and knocked sharply on the large, iron-reinforced doors. A small window slid aside, revealing a peephole, and muted words were exchanged.

  “The Imperial heretics will await you here,” the man said, speaking to Matt for the first time. “Since you will not dine, your visit will be brief. Follow me, please.” The door creaked inward.

  Matt looked at Courtney and, somewhat ostentatiously, waved him forward. “After you, Mr. Ambassador.”

  Inside, the reception area was gloomy, all red and gold, with baroque iron lamps adorning the walls. Busy tapestries hung between them with far too much detail to absorb as the visitors were led past. The “messenger” preceded them up a winding staircase to an upper floor that opened into a broad, uninterrupted audience chamber. At the far end of the room, suffused in an orangish light, rested a dark-skinned, silver-haired man dressed entirely in red, except for the frilly gold shirt peeking from beneath his crimson robe. Beyond him on the red wall was a huge gilded cross with crude golden spikes jutting from the areas where Jesus had traditionally been nailed to his. The man stood to meet them as Matt and Courtney were presented to him—by name. Obviously, the ambassador had spies—and didn’t care if they knew. They’d have to be careful.

  Thank God The Bosun isn’T here, Matt thought. Gray was Catholic, but he just couldn’t have stopped himself from making cracks about “popes and witch doctors.” It was his way. The man before them clearly took his position very seriously, and if Matt had burst out laughing this time, they probably would have wound up impaled or burnt at the stake—assuming everything he’d heard about the Dominion was true.

  “My friends.” The man greeted them in a strangely silky-gentle, cordial voice, “I am Father Don Hernan DeDivino Dicha, Blood Cardinal to His Supreme Holiness, Messiah of Mexico, and by the Grace of God, Emperor of the World.”

  “The entire world! How impressive,” Courtney blurted out. Matt could have kicked him. Apparently he didn’t need Gray to get him killed—and at least Gray could fight.

  “Oh, how charming!” said Don Hernan, with evident pleasure. “You truly are from an unknown land! Your manner of speech is most refreshingly odd. Perhaps the rumors that you come to us from the Old World are true as well!”

  “Rumors spread fast,” Matt commented. To his surprise, their host chuckled and touched a golden goblet. Wordlessly, a beautiful, unadorned, and entirely naked girl—who might have been fourteen, Matt realized in horror—raced in and filled three goblets, then virtually sprang from the room. Somehow, she hadn’t spilled a drop—Matt watched their host actually check to see if she had. He shuddered, wondering what the penalty would have been.

  “Indeed,” the man continued in that disconcertingly soft voice. “Quite ‘fast’ indeed. Almost as quickly as your extraordinary ship!” He paused. “And never doubt that all of this world will one day beg for the benevolent rule of His Holiness! It was given unto him and his order by the very breath of God!” He shook his head, still smiling. “Of course, spreading the Word and Intent of God is a tedious process. The world is filled with unbelievers and heretics who must be forced to come to His understanding.” The ambassador performed a slight, modest bow. “I merely state the fact of the matter. Time and perseverance alone will make that fact clear to all.” He paused and smiled more broadly. “Call me Don Hernan. Wine?”

  Courtney began to accept, but Matt held him back. “Thank you, no. Spirits aren’t allowed on United States ships, and while I may not be aboard right now, I am on duty. As is Ambassador Bradford. Perhaps another time.”

  “Perhaps,” Don Hernan answered pleasantly. “Tell me, how stands the Faith on the Old World?”

  Matt shrugged. “Pretty well, I guess. Lots of people believe in God. I do.”

  Don Hernan’s lip twitched. “I mean the Roman Faith. Is it universal?”

  Matt looked at Courtney. “Ah, no. It’s spread all over the place, but it’s not universal.”

  Don Hernan’s smile faded slightly. “As I feared,” he said. “Too weak. Force is the key. They must have forgotten that. All will be heretics now, to one degree or another.” He looked at Matt. “Tell me of your faith.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about yours first?” Matt replied, hedging. “We’re new here, and everything we’ve heard comes from the Brits—I mean Imperials.”

  “Yes,” agreed Courtney enthusiastically. “We know almost nothing about your ... crossover experience. We’ve heard tell of an Acapulco galleon, but that’s about the size of it.”

  “Ah, so you know some small part, even if it has been ... corrupted.” He sipped his wine. “Nuestra Senora de La Quezon was indeed a Galeon de Manila y Acapulco.” Don Hernan warmed to his subject. “She was a noble ark, gentlemen, made of teak, mahogany, and lanang wood, almost as if her builders were divinely inspired to prepare her for the Holy Pilgrimage she would make. She departed Manila to serve God on this world in July of 1681. Her logs still exist, and are as revered as the Book of Exodus!”

  “Oh, how marvelous!” C
ourtney gushed. “Such a tale they must tell!”

  “Well,” Don Hernan said, his smile growing again, “I am always pleased to tell how God took messengers from one imperfect world and placed them here to make a better one. Perhaps a longer ... interview might be arranged.” He focused on Courtney. “With you, at least.” He closed his eyes in sadness. “In sum, mistakes had already been made, you see, terrible mistakes. The conquerors of New Espana conquered too well, destroying the fiercer, purer words of God already known by the native peoples. Things may still have been salvaged, but the Church was weak and did not press its victory. Here, we rediscovered those crucial instructions God had left for us, and added them to the ones we knew. After that, we ... resolutely advanced the true, complete Word and never looked back. This will be our world, in His name.”

  “So your Founders encountered natives who’d crossed as well—earlier!” Bradford said eagerly. “What were they? Inca? Maya? Tol ...”

  “What they were is unimportant,” Don Hernan interrupted, with a first trace of annoyance. “What we are now, all of my people, are children of God, and subjects of the Holy Dominion!”

  “But ... Well, what was gleaned from them? What ‘Word’ was rediscovered?”

  Don Hernan smiled, pleased by Courtney’s interest. “Simply that as Jesus Christ suffered for us, we must suffer for Him. Pain alone is the purifier of sin, and the blood, the Precious Water, He sacrificed on our behalf must be returned manyfold. That is the Word that awaited those who came to this world! That to be truly holy in the eyes of God, one must emulate his Son in all things, but most particularly, one must ultimately die in pain at the hands of another!”

  Bradford could only gape, stunned by such profound perversity.

  “Dear God,” Matt murmured aside to him, “Jenks was right. These guys are crazier than bilge rats!”

  Don Hernan was pleased as he watched the visitors leave. He thought the interview had gone quite well. Captain Reddy was doubtless an unrepentant heretic. The man had disrespectfully called directly upon God several times—such impudence!—but at least he did believe. Bradford displayed genuine fascination, perhaps even an attraction to the True Faith. At least he’d been eager to learn more about it. Don Hernan cared little exactly where the strangers were from, or what their situation was; he already knew much, and his spies would discover the rest. He’d wanted to learn about the men themselves and thought he had. Their animalistic “allies” never entered his thoughts. He’d determined, despite their advanced ship, that they couldn’t pose much of a threat. They were clearly somewhat tentative—understandable in this new setting. They would move slowly, feel their way, try to be “friends” with everyone. They shouldn’t be a factor, particularly after they were conveniently dead. A waste, it was true; he would have liked to explore further possibilities with the curious one, but that would only have edified him, and such deep curiosity was a mortal sin in any case. He sighed.

  “Tea?” he asked aloud after a long moment.

  Prime Proprietor Reed entered the room, huffy. “Your Holiness, you simply must not summon me here like a wayward child,” he insisted. His wispy voice was adamant but querulous. “It grows more difficult to move about unobserved, and at this late date I cannot be thought to be closely associated with you! Not just yet.”

  Don Hernan understood Reed’s concern and realized, with a bit of surprise, that his admonishment had required a measure of real courage. Despite Reed’s nervous tone, Don Hernan knew the man wasn’t a complete coward; he couldn’t be to have facilitated such a lengthy and risky scheme, but his voice and demeanor were incapable of conveying forceful resolve. He was perceived as timid, which was possibly appealing to his ever-fearful constituents, but not very inspiring to others. It was just as well. That very demeanor allowed him to be profoundly underestimated by his opponents.

  “I apologize, my son,” Don Hernan said smoothly, calmingly. “So tedious. Our ‘association’ will be apparent soon enough, and we no longer need pretend. In any event, I thought you should like to hear my interview with the heretics. The sea captain, particularly.”

  “Well ... yes, of course.”

  “You spent some time with him today. What do you think?”

  Reed sighed and sat, uninvited, then poured a cup of tea from the pot just brought by the naked girl. “Dangerous, unpredictable. A complication we did not need.”

  Don Hernan was surprised. He considered himself a good judge of character, but he knew Reed was better. The man was a “politician,” after all. “Well, then, if you’re sure ...”

  “I am.”

  “... perhaps I shall order them killed as they return to their ship. I can easily arrange an attack on the Marine escort by the ‘disaffected mob.’ ” He chuckled. “Regrettably, the strangers would die in the scuffle.”

  Reed shook his head, horrified. “No, Holiness! That won’t do at all! My spies have been badgering the crew of the iron steamer all day, and have learned little except that their Captain Reddy is a most formidable man. Simple street thugs would likely not succeed, and he might suspect the true motive for the attack and become remarkably vengeful! Apparently, he has a towering temper.” Reed paused. “Perhaps worse, Jenks and His Majesty would surely suspect, and they might well take precipitous steps.”

  Don Hernan tugged at his sculpted chin whiskers. “Interesting. Very well. There will be no ... covert assassins. You say Captain Reddy has a temper?”

  “That is what I understand. I have begun to learn a few things that provoke it. ...”

  “Excellent.” Don Hernan sipped the wine still before him on the table, then looked at Reed and smiled. “As you know, my first inclination has always been to destroy the enemies of God, but I can be patient when I sense opportunity. Perhaps the arrival of Jenks and these ‘Americans’ is heaven-sent.”

  “How so?”

  “It could provide just the right distraction. We are not quite ready—another month would have been ideal—but the ‘complication,’ as you put it, of their arrival and the approach of Achilles makes that month uncertain. You agree there is more to their story than we know?”

  Reed nodded. “There’s been nothing out of Respite in weeks. That is the course they would have taken. I fear, if nothing else, they know that Agamemnon did return and the Company sent ships to intercept the princess.”

  “But they said nothing of it ... to you. I would warrant they shared considerably more with His Majesty. Achilles must bear proof, and they are awaiting her before the Empire goes on the rampage, leveling accusations against the Company. Achilles has an escort?”

  “American ships of unknown power, but if their iron steamer is any indication ...”

  “Certainly faster than anything we might confront them with. If we attempted another interception, even if we succeeded, they wouldn’t have to fight—they could just outrun our ships ... and arrive here with even further proof.” Don Hernan tapped the goblet with his fingers. “As I said, we are not quite ready, but with a distraction ... we are surely ready enough.” He stood, decisive. “We cannot wait until the planned ‘Founders’ Day’ date for the operation. I will have to send dispatches, speed things along, but the gift of the moment must not be ignored. You say this Captain Reddy has a temper? What makes it burn most bright?”

  “I do not know, but I provoked him several times ... as I do ... and in our brief exchange, I learned he takes especial offense to slanders against his ape-like crew! He protects them vigorously and they are one weak spot, at least.”

  “Would he rise to a challenge over them?”

  Reed smiled. “I should think so. I didn’t even press him. He seems quite fond of the creatures. I suspect that if any were present when offense was given, he would be even more likely to rise.”

  Don Hernan chuckled. “The Pre-Passage Ball is in three days. I think we should arrange an ... entertainment that should quite consume Imperial attention while we implement our plan. Commodore Jenks will be there, of co
urse. Ensure that Captain Reddy is invited—make it impossible for him to refuse—and do invite at least one of his ... animals.”

  “You are most wise, Holiness,” Reed said, bending to kiss the offered ring.

  The music was Vivaldi and Courtney Bradford was entranced by the unexpectedly familiar melody of the “Spring (La primavera)” concerto from The Four Seasons, played by an excellent violin quartet. “Unbelievable,” he muttered over and over when not distracted by the apparently endless stream of people trying to meet him. Matt was at least as overwhelmed by guests and dignitaries, many in Imperial Navy uniforms. Jenks and his wife stood near Matt, and Jenks did most of the talking, while Matt tried to be engagingly distant to the horde of young ladies fluttering around him in their colorful, cloudlike gowns. The Bosun stood off a little, virtually alone, toying with a glass of something and generally grimacing all around.

  The fish-flesh clouds were bright pink overhead as the sun vanished in the gap between the high, distant mountains. The Governor-Emperor spoke to the attendees with his wife, a frail-looking thing, smiling bravely, beside him. He said something about Jenks’s miraculous return, and welcomed their distinguished guests from another land. Courtney didn’t catch it all. Lanterns and torches sprang to life, dancers orbited one another on the close-cropped Government House lawn, and the music became increasingly difficult to hear as the Pre-Passage Ball commenced in full force. Jenks had told them that the festivities commemorated a ball (or it might have been a small dinner party) that occurred a week or so before the three ancient Indiamen departed some East Indian Island (Bradford couldn’t remember which, and it hardly mattered now) bound for India. The Founders’ Day celebration, barely a month away, took note of the survivors’ arrival here, thirteen months later. It was a kind of “before and after” observance. Over the years, the Founders’ Day event had become more a time of remembrance and thanksgiving, while the Pre-Passage Ball evolved into a party.