by Eric Flint
Stirke turned his hat slowly in his hands; one full, fretful revolution. “With all respect, Admiral, it’s hard to put faith in so sweeping an oath as that. It’s the kind that only God Hisself could make.”
Tromp’s eyes were calm, almost detached. “Reason with me, Master Stirke. Why would I mislead you regarding your safety? For what possible reason, malign or malfeasant, would I want your destruction?”
“None. Unless you fear you’ll lose this battle. Then ye might want to keep me from spreading word of such a defeat.”
Tromp’s eyebrow raised. “I had not considered that.” He smiled. “I am doubly glad to have you here, then.”
“But . . . why, M’lord?”
“I am not your lord. I hold a rank I earned, not a title I was born to. It should be thus with all men, I think. But, to resolve this matter: I am especially glad for your presence because you think quickly and accurately. And I will want that quality in one who makes report to Bermuda and the Bahamas.”
“What is it you wish me to report, then, sir?”
“Everything you shall presently observe in the coming battle, so that you may relate it to your people, your community, your leaders.”
“With all due respect, we’ve heard tell of the fine qualities of these ships of yours, Admiral.”
“Yes. You’ve heard about outcomes. Fine outcomes. Improbable outcomes, actually . . . unless you see these ships in action. Then you will not only be able to tell the story of this battle, but it will become clear, in hindsight, just how all the others were won so decisively.
“You must see this so that your people understand. In the New World, we are not and never will be so numerous as the Spanish. They hold much territory and we hold little. They have many ships; we have few.
“But their size has made them both complacent and reluctant to change, whereas we are bold and innovative. Today, you shall have a chance to observe Spain’s quantities confronted by our qualities. Knowing not just the outcome, but how it was attained, assures that your leaders will be better able to decide if it is truly in their best interests to remain evasive when it comes to making firm agreements and even alliances with us here in the Leeward Islands.”
Stirke crumpled his hat in his hands. “Admiral, I’m a mastern of a ship, ’at’s true enough. But it’s a little ship and, as captains go, I’m littler still. As even a blind man can see.” He cracked a smile. “But little or no, I’ve a wife and children to feed. So if I fail to leave this place now, and so, never do, it’s them that would be suffering, not me. And it’s that suffering which is on me mind, what with a great battle looming before me eyes.”
Tromp softened his tone. “I’m sorry not to have asked after your circumstances, Captain. You must do as you think right. However, I must also point out that, by staying safe in the shadows of greater ships, quite distant from where the guns will thunder, you may also discover the means to accrue great wealth this day. Wealth so great that you and your family will never know want again.”
The man’s eyes lit as if kindled. Tromp was glad to see the fear in them replaced by eagerness, but that did not make Stirke’s suddenly predatory expression pleasant to see. “I beg your pardon, Admiral?”
Tromp gestured toward the east. “Today’s battle will have more ships in it than any since Dunkirk, three and a half years ago. I was the loser that day. If I am right, we shall not lose today. Indeed, I suspect there will be so many spoils that my forces shall not be able to secure them all.” He regarded the man levelly. “And there is no reason to abandon to the deep that which men might salvage for their benefit.”
“And we’d have yer leave to take what you haven’t the time or burthen to carry off?”
“To know I made my allies that much stronger would be a comfort to me and a blessing to our common cause. I bid you ‘fare well’—whatever you choose to do in the coming hours.” He glanced over the Bermudan’s shoulder and his eyes twinkled. “Oh, and by the way, that’s how we knew the Spanish were coming so many hours before they arrived.” He pointed back over the stern. Stirke turned to look.
The great ball of an observation balloon rose slowly up from the deck of a large ship, well abaft Resolve and the other warships waiting in two groups: one large and to the north, the other small and to the south. Stirke’s mouth was as round as the sphere, but reshaped into a half-toothed grin as he turned back toward Tromp. “So it’s true! Ye’ve flying machines! Ye smite them from the air like God’s own angels!”
Simonszoon rolled his eyes, but before the captain’s trademark sardonicism could rattle the Bermudan again, Sehested leaned forward. “Master Stirke, this balloon serves as an eye, not a weapon. The observer in it can tell us, almost instantly, the location of all our enemies, their respective courses, and their current conditions.”
Stirke nodded, turned haltingly back toward Tromp. “I can’t say until I speak to me lads, but, if ’t still please yeh, sahr, I think we might tarry to witness your great battle.”
Tromp nodded, allowed a faint smile to bend his lips before turning back to the binnacle.
Once he heard Stirke heading down the stairs, the admiral leaned toward Evertsen. “Send word back to Tower: the observer is to use the gas burner to reach two hundred feet with all speed.”
“Tower?” Sehested repeated uncertainly, frowning.
Tromp, still facing the plot instead of the Dane, indulged in a brief rueful smile. On the one hand, it was an annoyance having a civilian official—and a diplomat, no less!—on his bridge. On the other hand, Sehested was the direct conduit back to King Christian IV, who followed their progress in the New World with unusual avidity. So keeping Sehested well informed—and impressed—was worth the minor nuisance of explaining the occasional operational detail to him. Although it didn’t particularly feel that way right now, with the Spanish ships so close.
Tromp gestured behind at the balloon and then to the western edge of the tactical plot. “We have designated the balloon and the ships dedicated to its operation ‘Tower.’ For obvious reasons, I trust.”
Sehested nodded, pointed at the two groups of blue marks that were arrayed between it and the oncoming red icons of the Spanish. “And they are?”
“The larger, northern squadron is ‘Anvil.’ We are in this much smaller southern group ‘Hammer.’ Again, I presume those labels are also self-defining.”
“Within certain broad margins of meaning, yes. I see that Hammer’s complement—this ship, Amelia, Salamander, Prins Hendrik, and Crown of Waves—is comprised of unusually fine sailers. Although I do not recognize this craft: SP One?”
“One of our steam pinnaces,” Kees explained. “For towing. There to ensure that Prins Hendrik keeps up with the others.”
“And now, Lord Sehested,” said Tromp, turning to face the Dane, “I must turn my full attention to the matter at hand. You are welcome, however, to stay and observe.”
Sehested inclined his head, took a step back, did not make for the stairs.
He is brave, curious, or both, Tromp decided as he compared the plot with the unfolding scene upon the sea.
Before he could even ask for the latest range estimate to the closest war galleon, Bjelke delivered it as he lowered his telescope. “The Spanish vanguard is nearing fourteen hundred yards.”
When Tromp did not speak immediately, Simonszoon glanced at him. “Maarten, are we still following Plan Alpha?”
Tromp, studying the sea, hardly heard the question. “We are.”
Simonszoon turned toward Bjelke and nodded.
Rik leaned toward his speaking tubes. “Engineering, raise steam. Master Gunner, prepare to acquire targets and—”
“Belay those orders,” Tromp instructed quietly.
“Sir?” Bjelke asked, confused.
“New orders, Rik.”
“Maarten—” began Simonszoon.
“Yes, Dirck, I know the clock. The war galleons will be at fair range for ten minutes, alongside in eleven.”
&
nbsp; “Not a lot of time to shift to a different plan.”
“We’re not doing so. I’m making just one adjustment: we shall no longer commence firing at thirteen hundred fifty yards.”
“What’s the new range, then?”
“One thousand yards. Lieutenant Bjelke, raise steam.”
Simonszoon sidled closer. His voice had none of its usual dark jocularity. “Maarten, reducing the range to one thousand yards means we’ll have them under our guns for only seven and a half minutes, not eleven. We won’t even put two thirds of the rounds we planned on into the Spanish.”
“Actually, barely half, since I am no longer presuming forty seconds between each pull of the lanyard but forty-five.” Seeing that Simonszoon was about to object yet again, he cut to the heart of the matter: “Captain, the sea is slightly choppy and we shall be firing into the wind. In these conditions, we will be fortunate to hit the enemy ten percent of the time at thirteen hundred fifty yards. At one thousand, we will surely miss, too, but we shall correct more quickly and with less wasted ammunition. And if you have been counting the rounds left in your magazine, you will surely understand why that concerns me. Particularly now.”
He pointed at the Spanish. “We know there are at least fifty galleons and naos in this treasure fleet. Probably more, given reports from some of our other ships. That means we will be relying on these two naval rifles more than we planned. More than we ever imagined.”
“We needn’t take them all, sir,” Bjelke murmured.
“Probably not, but we are going to try, Lieutenant. That is how we’re going to send the Spanish a message that they cannot fail to understand.”
“And that is?” Simonszoon asked through a sigh.
“That their dominance in the New World is at an end.”
Dirck’s smile was part dark mirth and part rue. “And maybe that Maarten Tromp is returning the favor for Dunkirk?”
Tromp looked past his old friend and straight at Bjelke. “Send to the Master Gunner: commence acquiring targets. Prepare to open fire at one thousand yards. Mr. Evertsen, pass the word to the fleet: follow orders for engagement plan Alpha at the sound of our guns. And God be with us all.”
Chapter 6
East of Dominica
“Captain Simonszoon,” Rik Bjelke said sharply, “lead war galleon now approaching one thousand yards.”
“Forward mount reconfirm: target acquired and tracking?”
A pause as the signal went down the wires to the turrets and the reply sped back. “Aye, and aye, sir.”
Simonszoon glanced at Tromp.
Maarten relented and this time raised the binoculars to his eyes. “At your leisure, Capt—”
“Watch the rise and fire!” Simonszoon shouted, so loud that the forward mount heard him.
The master gunner, seated in what looked like an armor-plated pulpit mounted on the side of the eight-incher’s gunshield, hunched over the inclinometer that tracked the pitch and the yaw of the hull, a position that also gave him a good view of the water. A tense moment elapsed—
The naval rifle sounded like a lightning-throated lion: a report that was both a roar and a sharp crack. Tromp felt as much as heard the weapon slam back in its recoil carriage. A blink later, a tall jet of water appeared twenty yards abeam the lead galleon’s waist.
At a nod from Dirck, Bjelke sent the planned order to Mount One. “Load, adjust, fire when ready.” As the weapon drifted back from its recoil and the crew began unspinning the breech, the intraship signalman howled up through the tube from the pilothouse: “Mount Two confirms target acquired, but could lose it behind the funnel.”
“Duivels kont!” Simonszoon snapped, turned to his runner: “Send word: trim the main, and let ’er drift a point to starboard.” Back down the tube: “Mount Two, reacquire.”
Bjelke, in addition to everything else, was watching a timepiece. Sehested made to ask him what he was doing, but Kees leaned over. “He’s timing the rounds.”
The Dane frowned. “You mean, how fast they are reloading?” He gestured beyond the mainmast. Half-concealed by the low ring-shaped wall, or “tub,” that screened them from small arms and splinters, the crew of Mount One was swabbing the open breech as four men approached with the next round. Almost thirty-two inches long and weighing over one hundred fifty pounds, the perversely delicate job of manhandling such shells into the weapon was not a job for scrawny men.
But Kees was shaking his head. “Nee, he is timing how fast they are firing.”
Sehested’s glance seemed to take in the oncoming ships, the water, the slight bob of the bowsprit all at once. “But given the conditions, how can one accurately predict those intervals?”
“How, indeed?” Simonszoon muttered. “We planned on firing twenty rounds per gun. Now, we’ll be lucky to get off ten before they come alongsi—”
Bjelke’s shout ended his sentence. “Mount Two reports target acquired and—”
Simonszoon chopped his hand downward.
“Fire!” Bjelke howled to the rear as he made a matching hand signal to the comms rating in the pilothouse.
As the breech of Mount One was being spun tight, Mount Two flung thunder downrange, the trailing jet of smoke slowing as it stretched toward the northernmost of the three galleons. Water gouted fifteen yards off the Spaniards’ port bow.
“Is this . . . typical?” Sehested asked in a low voice.
Tromp was about to reply—uncharitably—when Mount One fired again. Only when the round went through the rigging and put a hole in the mainsail did he realize that he had been holding his breath. “Typical for this weather, yes,” he murmured.
“Time?” Simonszoon asked, not taking his eyes away from his telescope.
“Forty-three seconds,” Bjelke answered. “Nine of which were for aiming,” he added as Simonszoon prepared to ask another question.
Simonszoon smiled at the young Norwegian’s anticipation of his request. No wonder Eddie was so disappointed to lose him as his executive officer, Tromp thought, and not for the first time.
“Closing on eight hundred yards,” Kees said calmly—right before both guns tore at their ears in back-to-back discharges that sent a tremor under their feet.
Mount One had evidently been a bit eager; its round was not quite so high, but did little more than punch a gap into the galleon’s starboard gunwale.
But Mount Two’s shot raised a spurt of dust, planks, and rigging from its target. When the cloud of debris cleared, the Spaniard’s waist had a chunk torn out of its weather deck and nearby bulwark, the mainsail’s starboard shrouds swinging free and ratlines shredded.
Some cheers started in the two mounts, but each gun crew’s chief barked ferociously to still it: merely getting on target was not a cause for celebration.
As reloading commenced, Tromp glanced toward Rik, wondering if the young Norwegian had any revised gunnery estimates, yet . . .
Simonszoon’s XO was not just highly intelligent and swift with numbers, but apparently read minds, as well. “We are sustaining the projected rate of fire. Barely. The aiming interval will probably diminish as the range closes and target profile grows.” He glanced at Tromp and Simonszoon. “It is my duty to point out that, if we were to shift to explosive shell, we would inflict heavier damage and hasten our defeat of these first three ships.”
Tromp felt as much as saw Simonszoon’s quick sideways glance; Resolve was his ship, but the outcome of this first engagement would ultimately determine when and where the whole fleet began to move, and so, determine the course of the battle. Tromp shook his head. “One more round of solid shot. Have them load explosive after. Kees, distance to the rest of the Spanish van?”
“The closest of the eight following war galleons is five hundred yards behind these three, which look to be the largest of their kind. The rearmost is at seven hundred yards.”
Tromp nodded. “We continue with Plan Alpha: cripple these three if possible, and be sure to make one an example to the rest.”
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Simonszoon curled an eyebrow. “Maarten, at four knots, that second pack of Spanish wolfhounds will be on us in eleven minutes. Maybe ten, since they’ve started crowding sail, now.”
Tromp nodded. “By which time we will be moving faster than they could reasonably expect. And if they decide to veer after us, as they must if they wish to keep us from getting among their cargo-carrying sheep, they’ll be turning out of the wind and the current.”
“Very well, so they’ll be at three knots then. Still, that’s only thirteen minutes.”
Tromp inspected the northernmost galleon; although the damage had looked superficial, she was listing. The eight-inch shells penetrated deep into ships; sometimes, they came out the other side. “Captain, let us assume the gods of the sea are blowing in our enemies’ sails to get them here in twelve minutes. Even then, we can still travel more than three times as far as they, a bit more with sail.” He allowed a small smile to emerge. “Assuming your engineers have not broken our engines.”
Simonszoon rolled his eyes but also returned the smile. “I’ll check.”
The next two discharges from Resolve’s naval rifles came about four seconds apart; the forward mount had taken a few seconds longer to aim, this time.
Dust and debris vomited up from both galleons. The one that had already been hit showed a slight list. Tromp pointed at her. “Captain Simonszoon, I believe the next round is likely to put that Spaniard out of the fight. If it does, the aft mount is to acquire the third target.”
Simonszoon was already shouting those orders as Tromp lifted his glasses again. The second hit on the northernmost galleon had struck her low in the bows, near the stem of the prow, but her list was to the other, starboard side. Probably went through down near the waterline, he surmised. It was a wound she could probably control, given calm and time. But she would have neither.
