by Eric Flint
“I’m sure I do,” Tromp said, “since I know you.”
“Maarten Tromp, I’m a privateer. Why do you lump me in with those bandits?”
“As I said, because I know you. And because if you weren’t halfway to living the life they do, they’d never meet with you except over crossed cutlasses.”
Jol scratched his furry ear. “Well, I suppose there’s some truth to that.”
A new voice: “Well, here’s a conspiratorial trio if I’ve ever laid eyes on one!”
Eddie knew the source, was smiling before he turned. “Hugh O’Donnell, it’s good to see you again.”
“You as well, Eddie.” The Irish earl nodded all around as his aide-de-camp Aodh O’Rourke slipped up behind him. “Governor, Admiral. ’Tis a fine show you’re putting on here, today.”
Tromp looked meaningfully at van Walbeeck, who asked the Irish earl, “Is it truly that obvious, Lord O’Donnell?”
Hugh squinted, assessing the ware-lined roads that ran away from the head of the dock. “Depends upon the eye of the beholder, I’m thinking. For the people who’ve not been working toward this end, either as confidencers or soldiers, it’s merely an overdue turn o’ the wheel. Fortune has been frowning, but now fortune smiles again: the seasons of fate, you might say. But for those of us who have been seizing islands for oil, making alliances with England’s abandoned colonies, or most recently, making off with the entirety of this year’s Flota . . . well, I’ve come to wonder: does anything look like happenstance to us anymore?”
Van Walbeeck smiled. “I doubt it. A fair answer for a fair day.”
“Aye, and it’s a fair all right,” added O’Rourke from over Hugh’s shoulder. “Maybe not as big as the May market in Brussels or Antwerp, but it’s none the less ’t any other. It’ll bring fair coin to Montserrat, right enough.”
Van Walbeeck glanced eagerly at Jol. “So, you ported there on your way up from Trinidad?”
“We did. As luck had it, we saw that nasty squall that caught you as we were crossing the stretch between Carriacou and Union Island. We crowded sail and got into the lee of the southern bay there, just in time to watch the storm slow and move northward. If we’d gone on, we might have lost all the bitumen we’re carrying, and the oil itself. Although there’s much less of that.”
“How much of each?” Eddie asked.
Jol shook his head. “Your up-time friend, Mistress Koudsi, will be able to tell you that when we are all . . . er, gathered. When we got underway again, we were low on water and decided that was a fine excuse to make port at Montserrat, which was what Lord O’Donnell had been angling for since the beginning.”
“New recruits for the Wild Geese,” Hugh explained as eyes turned to him. “Also, some hands for the Eire, the French bark we took off Bloody Point. And the island needs the trade, so a few of them came along to sell their vegetables, fruit, chickens, and goats.”
“More goats?” Eddie asked.
Jol laughed. “These are the Caribbees, Commodore. There are always more goats.”
O’Rourke, who had not moved forward into the conversational ring, muttered something about how long they’d been tarrying in the shadows and that others were waiting on them. Van Walbeeck spotted Joost Banckert making his way up the dock to the shore, suggested they all join the general movement in that direction: after all, he and Tromp had to put in at least a brief appearance in the thick of the activity.
As the six of them began heading back along the narrow track while staying in the shadow of the fort’s wall, Eddie found himself distracted from the frenetic market activity by something that had changed in Aodh O’Rourke’s posture since last he’d seen him. The senior sergeant of the Wild Geese glimpsed his attention, nodded and flashed a smile. And he saw my attention because he’s always looking around, Eddie realized.
He hadn’t seen O’Rourke since late January, when the Irish veteran had preceded the still-recuperating Hugh back to Trinidad. “Just to mind the shop,” as he put it with the other most senior of the Irish mercenaries, Kevin O’Bannon. When Hugh had returned there, he’d announced the need for more officers. There were more Wild Geese coming over aboard the first convoy—the one in port now—and coin-strapped men from Montserrat had been sending him entreaties that he consider their pleas to join the unit. O’Bannon was glad for the promotion to major, but O’Rourke staunchly and repeatedly refused to become an officer.
The reason had never been made clear to Eddie; it was a private matter without appreciable operational consequences, so inquiries would have been essentially nosiness, not need-to-know. But whatever his reasons, O’Rourke showed neither animus nor resentment toward those who were promoted over him, several of whom were more than a decade his junior. Rather, as senior sergeant and aide-de-camp, he helped the other sergeants who could read and do sums to prepare for life as officers. At the same time, he cheerfully brutalized and buoyed up (in that order) new potential to ready them for the demands of that job. Rumor had it that he wanted nothing to do with the life and society of officers, preferring the gritty tasks and earthy pleasures of his long-held rank.
But in becoming the Wild Geese’s de facto head of training, he also seemed to have slowly and subtly moved away from the day-to-day field operations of the Wild Geese. It was unclear to Eddie if he even remained in the unit’s table of organization, or if he’d been shifted sideways into something more akin to a staff assistant to O’Donnell.
But even that didn’t quite explain the changes. The number of Irish who’d been educated at Leuven meant that Hugh also had a growing cluster of staff officers or “ensigns” who’d also proven themselves in the field. O’Rourke did not have their technical skills and so, was clearly not being retained for that purpose.
Eddie frowned, watching the Irish veteran’s behavior as they passed the beach where the lighters were still coming and going so rapidly that near-collisions seemed to be the rule rather than the exception. O’Rourke was looking everywhere and at everything except at his commander. It tweaked at a dim memory, at similar behavior that Eddie had noticed before but couldn’t remember where or when. But given the way that O’Rourke always had his “head on a swivel,” to use Larry Quinn’s expression, made Eddie feel that the bluff sergeant should have been wearing sunglasses and an earpiece.
Eddie almost snapped his fingers: the Secret Service! That’s what O’Rourke’s attentive hover looked like. Eddie paused, reflected. Of course, maybe it looks like that because that’s exactly what it is.
But that wasn’t the way bodyguards typically worked in this day and age. They came as a large group, often in formation, and with bright uniforms that sent a clear message to all who saw: “Get too close, and you’ll get run through.” But maybe it was different with Hugh. After all, even though he was the last prince of Ireland—a quixotic concept if there had ever been one—he certainly didn’t act like it.
Eddie felt his frown come back. Okay, so Hugh’s demeanor and interactions didn’t resemble those of an heir apparent to a throne that the English would never let him have. That didn’t make it any less likely that any number of English—or other—leaders might want him dead. And maybe now more than ever.
Hugh had grown up in the down-time equivalent of the English crown’s crosshairs, as had the only other Irish earl, the late John O’Neill. But now that there was only one left, it was probably more tempting than ever to reduce that number to zero, thereby eliminating the only figurehead around which a rebellion might readily coalesce. That was why Hugh had been subtly maneuvered into his New World sojourn by his aunt, the Archduchess Isabella of the Spanish Lowlands: to put distance between her nephew and potential assassins. But that was at best a temporary expedient, which Aodh O’Rourke had apparently realized.
As they reached the head of the dock, Hugh scanned the street leading into the center of Oranjestad. “And there are our new recruits, looking more like lost sheep than men-at-arms.” He turned, smiled. “Maarten, Eddie, I want to thank
you for making good on the promise I made to Hyarima. I’d not have made it alone, but lives were in the balance.”
The admiral inclined his head. “It was the right decision, morally and strategically.” Eddie just grinned and nodded.
Smiling, Hugh shook their hands and then made to step away. “After our new boyos have their heads on straight, I’ve a promise to keep: that this mortal wound shall be tended to one more time.” He held up and wiggled his left small finger. What was left of it was well bandaged.
Van Walbeeck leaned in, concern spiking in his tone. “Is it not healing?”
Hugh laughed. “Quite the contrary; nary a problem, now. Why so concerned, Governor?”
Van Walbeeck was frowning, staring at the mauled pinky as if it might leap free of the earl’s hand and begin attacking them. “My first employ was with the Dutch East India Company. In those jungles, an almost-mended wound may yet fester and take not just a limb, but a life.”
Hugh nodded. “I appreciate your concern, but no open flesh remains. The scar tissue is complete and no longer tender.”
Van Walbeeck’s frown changed to one of mere puzzlement. “Then I find it hard to understand why Dr. Brandão would wish you to return.”
Hugh chuckled. “Oh, it is not Dr. Brandão that I must see. It did not warrant his expertise. I am under the care of one of his volunteers.”
Van Walbeeck’s frown was replaced by a round-mouthed, “Ohhh. Yes. I see now.” As the earl nodded his farewell and turned to leave, Jan sent an assurance after him: “I’m sure you are in excellent hands.” If Hugh heard van Walbeeck’s shift to a mischievous drawl, he gave no sign of it. After a moment, van Walbeeck and Jol exchanged winks and grins. Tromp sighed but couldn’t hold back a small smile when Peg Leg added, “I am told that Lady Sophie Rantzau was his dedicated nurse. Excellent hands, indeed!”
Eddie stared at the three of them. For one bizarre moment, he felt like he was eight again, watching the old ladies who sat around after Sunday service, furtively inspecting the “young people” and scheming to make matches between their preferred pairings. Which they never did.
And damn it if the three redoubtable Dutch sea captains weren’t standing at the intersection of the dock and the main street, staring about them with the same insufferably self-satisfied smiles on their faces. But maybe, Eddie relented, there was cause for that. Spirits were high and competition over merely speaking to a young woman no longer threatened to devolve into rutting combats that he mostly associated with National Geographic documentaries. Between the young ladies who’d come by boat from St. Christopher’s and the mass of colonists which had arrived with the convoy, the ratio was no longer dangerously lopsided.
“Would you say that the timing of tomorrow night’s dance was also another stroke of extraordinary ‘luck’?” van Walbeeck asked over Eddie’s shoulder. “Look at them, men and women alike, running their fingers over those fine fabrics. The best Seville had to offer. All ‘diverted’ here at the most propitious moment!” Eddie managed not to roll his eyes. “Why,” concluded van Walbeeck, “it’s as if someone had planned it all!”
Tromp sighed. “Careful, Jan. You might break your arm, trying to pat yourself on the back.” Jol chuckled.
Van Walbeeck effected umbrage. “Laugh if you must, but ask yourselves: why is this glorious bedlam occurring now? Ships have been off-loading for a week.” He shook his finger at them. “Because the colony’s government prohibited open sales until this day. To ensure a fair opportunity for all potential customers to inspect all the goods, all at once. And so, all the merchants would have equal access to the equally full purses of their clientele.” He had to pause his self-praise for a moment; musicians strolled past, lutes, recorders, and mandolas weaving melodies and harmonies together like closely stitched seams that parted again.
“So,” he resumed, “with buyers and sellers all champing at the bit, we have maximum bartering”—he gestured outward with both arms—“which drives up the amount of trade, which drives up tariffs on the sales. However, steps were taken to offset that bite from everyone’s purse.”
Eddie nodded, frowning: he’d been too busy with strategic and technology matters to follow the market arrangements. “That’s why you waived customs and port taxes for this week: that way, anyone selling is only paying what we used to call sales tax. Which they must declare as such to their customers.”
Jol frowned. “All very well, but then what keeps the vendors from increasing the sales tax and gouging the customers?”
“Nothing,” replied van Walbeeck with a beatific smile.
“But then how can these people afford those prices?”
“Because we, the government of St. Eustatia, are paying their sales taxes for them, this week.”
Eddie felt like the lobes of his brain had just hit each other in a high-speed collision. “Wait. But that’s a loop. You would have received the taxes from the people. But now you’re paying it for them. To yourselves? So . . . are you writing it off?”
“Not at all, because it is not quite a loop, my innocent young friend. You see, we are repaying ourselves . . . from the most useful items taken from La Flota.”
Jol sputtered before he could get out any words. “And you call me cunning and a pirate! So while you’ve used one hand to wave away the taxes and make everybody happy, you’ve used the other to dip into all the gold, silver, gems, and coin from La Flota to ‘repay’ the government for the taxes it agreed to pay for the purchases made this week.”
Van Walbeeck grinned. “As I said, it is as if someone had been planning it all from the beginning.”
“Planning what from the beginning?” The new voice from behind sounded suspicious. “When van Walbeeck is muttering about careful planning, I clap my hand over my purse.”
Chapter 20
Oranjestad, St. Eustatia
Eddie turned, discovered the source of the tongue-in-cheek comments: Joost Banckert. The vice admiral had finally made his way up the dock to them, but the man who’d been walking with him earlier was still on the dock, haggling with a ship’s master over an untapped tun of wine.
“I have a similar reaction to Jan’s ‘careful planning,’ Joost,” Tromp said mildly. “Welcome home.”
“Good to be here,” Banckert replied, glancing over their heads at Oranjestad’s roofs. “Eight weeks and I hardly recognize this place. And barely enough room in the bay to fit my ships back in.”
Van Walbeeck nodded down the dock, toward the man who’d debarked with him. “Did he come aboard your ship or—?”
“No, but he sailed along with us, though. And on the biggest Bermudan sloop I’ve ever seen. When I told them about this market day, everyone in Somers Isles started falling over each other, trying to get their cargos taken on consignment. Fish in Bahamian salt, cedar, pitch, and pork—both smoked and live. Those pigs made an unholy mess and stink when we had to take them below decks during the high weather just past.” He glanced back at his guest. “He’s a good fellow, but shrewd. Hard-nosed. If it wasn’t for that thick accent of his, he could have been a Dutchman.”
“Oh, and where’s he from?”
“Scotland.”
Eddie almost laughed out loud. If any other group was in a position to teach the Dutch about being hard-nosed and shrewd businessmen, it was probably the Scots.
Banckert was studying the Dutch hulls in the anchorage. “So I am wondering why the standards of each ship’s province no longer have the pride of place at the stern. And they’re not flying the Company’s pennant at all. On the other hand, I see more of the ‘national’ colors. A great deal more.” He smiled, but it was not all mirth. “So, are we all sailing under your flag now, eh, Maarten?”
Tromp shook his head slightly. “Never mine. The banner of Hendrik of the Netherlands.”
Banckert smiled. “I see. So has he even bought up the husk of the Companies, then? Has so much changed since I sailed to the Somers Isles?”
Van Walbeeck smiled, but
shook his head more vigorously than Tromp had. “You will not bait us with your grinning nonsense, Joost—though it is good to see you, regardless of your so-called sense of humor. In answer: to the best of my knowledge, the Prince of Orange has not changed his position in regard to the Companies. But they are broken, my friend, not just in the Caribbean and the East Indies. Almost all their possessions, at least here in the West Indies—we’ve had no news from the East Indies in quite some time—are in Spanish or native hands, now. So whose flag should we fly? Ours is better than Spain’s, ja?”
Banckert smiled back. “Now, Jan: if I couldn’t bait my colleagues, where would be the joy in this life? In the main I agree with what I’ve heard of the changes. But how do we make profit now, hey? Our way has always been to fight for shares, with our own ships and crews, and full freedom in how we went about our missions. Now, we have become like the Spanish, all saluting one flag, all taking orders from one man.”
Tromp had less patience for the friendly jousting than van Walbeeck. “Joost, you know perfectly well that the Companies always acted with oversight from the government.”
“Some, yes, but they always had a great deal of freedom. They—and we—did better when both the Raad and the Stadtholder watched from afar and interfered infrequently.”
The Bermudan, his negotiations over, had approached as Banckert completed his riposte. Tromp held up a hand to pause the discussion, turned to the newcomer, led the others in that fusion of bow and shallow nod that was the common greeting among those making a first acquaintance. “Sir, do I have the honor of addressing Councilor Patrick Coapland of the Somers Isles?”
